The Andrean 2025

The Andrean 2025

Table of Contents 4 6 8 11 13 14 20 22 26 28 30 31 35 39 41 46 48 51 55 56 58 61 62 67 68 74

Words I Thought of While Staring at an Intersection Kayden Murrell ’26 I Cannot Tell Chris Onsomu ’25 Liar, Liar Josie Denny ’26 The Writer’s Cave Chris Onsomu ’25 Function of Beauty Jayda Badoo ’25 Kaleidoscope Eyes Lindy Black ’25 Old Roads Grey Durham ’25 Labels Kaz Yamada ’26 The Bullpen Poet Anonymous Inconveniences Chris Hunter ’25 Ode to Tyrants Charlotte Green ’26 The Concrete Gymnastics Club Gloria Oladejo ’25 Why Worry?

Willakenzie Archer ’26 Exhale Madeleine Lasell ’25 Fluorescent Lights and Waffle House Nights Jayda Badoo ’25 Athens Emma Hunter ’25 Playing with Cigarettes Abe Perry ’26 Sonder Natasha Hearder ’26 Words Mekaila Gallimore ’28 Walking Grace Anne Doyle ’25 Agitation Kaspian Ruff ’26 The Grandfather Clock Bixby Hanrahan ’26 Warm-Blooded Creatures Daphne Banfield ’26 The Weight I Hold Enid Appiah ’25 The Three Phases of Change Connie Kang ’26 driving as she sleeps Yeabi Kehm ’25

NOTE

The clock tower painting on the front cover of this year’s Andrean was created for Ms. Chesa Profaci ’80, St. Andrew’s Director of Alumni Engagement, in honor of her thirty-five years of service and commitment to our school.

Art Cover 5 6 10 11 12 17 21 24 26 30 34 37 38 40 45 47 53 54 57 59 61 65 66 72 75 76 Back

Kayley Rivera ’26 Katherine Meers ’25 Daisy Wang ’25 Josie Denny ’26 Ethan Williams ’26 Vanity, Frank Cadogan Cowper Willakenzie Archer ’26 Grey Durham ’25 Elijah Proctor-Moore ’25 Jayda Badoo ’25 Grey Durham ’25 Quinn Ferguson ’25 Catherine Foster ’25 Daisy Wang ’25 Daisy Wang ’25 Ellis Rattray ’28 Grey Durham ’25 Grey Durham ’25 Grey Stewart ’28 Lindy Black ’25 Ellis Rattray ’28 Yeabi Kehm ’25 Serenity Davis ’25 Quinn Ferguson ’25 Willakenzie Archer ’26 Bridget Daly ’25 Elijah Proctor-Moore ’25 Willakenzie Archer ’26

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Contributors Enid Appiah is a junior from Hoboken, New Jersey. She loves sharing her bond with music and writing, especially with family and friends.

Willakenzie Archer is a junior from Hudson, Ohio. She enjoys playing on the field hockey team and spending time outside with her friends.

Jayda Badoo is a senior from Irvington, New Jersey. She enjoys reading, writing, and knitting whenever she decides sleeping isn’t the better option. (Oftentimes, it is!)

Daphne Banfield is a junior from Fairfield, Connecticut. She enjoys making art, playing with her dog, Fergus, and teaching sailing during the summer.

Lindy Black is a senior from Frederick, Maryland. She enjoys staying busy and spending time on the Front Lawn and the lacrosse field.

Bridget Daly is a senior who grew up on the St. Andrew’s campus but now lives in Chagrin Falls, Ohio. Outside of the arts, she spends her time playing soccer, serving on form council, and spending time with friends.

Josie Denny is a junior from Princeton, New Jersey. She enjoys competing on the soccer team and playing spike ball with her friends on the Front Lawn.

Grey Durham is a senior from Charlotte, North Carolina. He can usually be found studying Latin or Greek in the library, or hanging out on Schmolze with his friends.

Mekaila Gallimore is a freshman from the Bronx, New York. On a typical day, she can be found working on artwork in her room or sketching outside of Pell.

Charlotte Green is a sophomore from Penn Valley, Pennsylvania. She enjoys playing spikeball with friends on the Front Lawn and competing with the squash team.

Bixby Hanrahan is a junior from St. Louis, Missouri. He can be found on the Front Lawn enjoying the fresh air with friends.

Natasha Hearder is a junior from the city of Hong Kong. She is usually out and about chatting with friends outside or seeking a trip for food from a faculty member.

Emma Hunter is a senior from Easton, Maryland. When not writing she is busy with painting or being on the Front Lawn.

Connie Kang is a chaos connoisseur who writes with the energy of a double espresso and the unpredictability of a raccoon in a library. She’s 73% mysterious genius, 27% glitter accident, and entirely unstoppable.

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Yeabi Kehm is a senior out of Church Hill, Maryland. He defines himself as a creative who spends most of the time in the vast expanses of art, literature, and music. He is also a strong advocate of the burrito’s supremacy.

Madeleine Lasell is a senior from Annapolis, Maryland. She loves dancing, writing, and spending time outside, especially on Noxontown Pond.

Kayden Murrell is a junior from Irvington, New Jersey. She loves making Spotify playlists for everything and staring off into space thinking of a good story.

Gloria Oladejo is a senior from Coopersburg, Pennsylvania. You can find her having solo dance parties in her room, working out, or studying in the Library Reference room.

Chris Onsomu is a senior from Townsend, Delaware. He can be found running anywhere around the 2,200-acre campus, juggling on the Front Lawn, or talking music with his friends.

Abraham Perry is a junior from Middletown, Delaware. He can usually be found playing spikeball on the Front Lawn, or skateboarding around campus.

Ellis Rattray is a freshman from East Hampton, New York. He’s usually spending time with friends outdoors, or asking them to go outside.

Kayley Rivera is a junior from Middletown, Delaware. Her usual hobbies include painting, crochet, reading, taking a nap, or engaging in a good debate over dinner.

Liam Robinson is a V Former and proud Middletown resident. An athlete and lover of the outdoors, he is everywhere, all at once, all the time.

Kaspian Ruff is a junior from downtown Manhattan, New York City. He can usually be found practicing piano in Engelhard, or playing with friends on the Front Lawn.

Daisy Wang is a senior from Beijing, China. She enjoys reading on the green leather couches in the library or taking a walk in nature.

Ethan Williams is a junior from Brooklyn, New York. He can be found on the track in the Field House, or playing spike ball on the Front Lawn with friends.

Kaz Yamada is a junior from Princeton, New Jersey. He is most likely rowing, studying, or singing, but if he isn’t then he’s with his friends on the Front Lawn.

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The Words I Thought of While Staring at an Intersection KAYDEN MURRELL ’26

Let’s take five minutes of silence I thought about laughing, I didn’t couldn’t feel the need to I worried about how I was going to pass the time Until I stared out at the horizon and thought about infinity, about poetry, things to be written down and spoken aloud I thought the sky felt limitless, pulled taut and brittle How if I were to taste it, it would melt under the love of a tongue like cotton candy, only sweeter I wanted to taste it, badly.

It was a yearning for knowledge not even I understood, not fully.

Wondering if the sky and the lake would stretch out before me without the barrier of the trees surrounding us.

It really did look like teeth.

Like we were caught in the maw of the world.

Ready to swallow us alive, giving us one last look at freedom before pulling us back Down.

I traced my teeth following the tree-line, wondering what it would feel like to have the lake and sky inside of me my jaw gaping.

I look up and down, and for a moment I see the lake breathe up down A part of me understood it was a matter of perspective And then the better part of me took it for what it meant: It’s alive, It is large, alive, and we rest inside of its mouth preparing to be eaten.

And yet, We stare unseeingly at freedom.

I turned my head, to watch the rest of the trees I felt a crick in my neck that I didn’t regret because I had one of my best friend’s hands cradling my face for my comfort

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I watched the moon twinkle through the branches of trees Let’s have a few more seconds of silence, here I felt a profound gratitude for that For I felt if I did not hear another voice, I would surely lose my own.

I planned out everything I was going to write down here, mapping things out leaning on one of my best friends, her hand was rubbing my arm Rough, piano-playing fingers trying to warm me up.

I hadn’t felt cold though.

Her warmth was enough.

She offers to carry me away from the docks, through the grass because of my allergies.

I refused and we walked side-by-side.

Remembering has never been my strong suit, the words fell like sand through my curled fingers Then, one of my best friends leans down and murmurs Imagine all the people that fucked on that dock.

I stare up at her, and then I laugh Mostly because I did not know what else to do And then because I realized I couldn’t possibly forget the night, not after this

KATHERINE MEERS '25 THE ANDREAN 2025 v 5

I Cannot Tell CHRIS ONSOMU ’25

I cannot tell, through lush blue leaves— That split our gaze in two— If your eyes still glow, like moonlight, Or died behind leaf’s blue.

The pit between our hearts once held A seed that grew and grew.

The tree that rose wore a frail green That livened, just, our view.

But night by night, they dimmed and aged Into a thick, dark blue.

The leaves began to veil the moon, And you—this broken hue.

The wall of leaves, draped blue, did die– They never fell or blew.

I wish your eyes were solid like The Moon. The Dead. The Blue.

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DAISY WANG '25

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Liar, Liar JOSIE DENNY ’26

When I was younger, I was a liar. I liked to make up stories and pass them off as true. Some were believable: “I was born in Canada, so when global warming gets bad we’ll move up there.”

Some were more fantastic: “I have a secret spy base underneath my backyard but I’m not allowed to tell anyone, so you have to keep it a secret.”

My lies were told in the wood chips beneath the slides, whispered during read aloud, and discussed over American Girl dolls. My lies were intricate, thoughtconsuming, calculated, and I found them all one day digging through my room.

As is my usual first night routine when I come home from St. Andrew’s, I was feeling nostalgic. On the dark-stained wood flooring of my childhood bedroom, covered in nicks and paint splatters, I sat tucked in between boxes of old hand-me-downs and worn-out stuffed animals with missing eyes. While going through my elementary school yearbooks and camp photo albums, I found two diaries pressed against the bottom shelf of my bookcase, forgotten. The first, pink with graphic pop art on the front and a little sparkly lock, I had begged my mom to buy me and proceeded to never use. I think it might have been one of the ones that came wrapped in plastic with a toy on the cover, which was probably the reason I wanted it so much. That, and my mom bought me a lot of Diary of a Wimpy Kid when I was young.

The first page of the diary said, “I swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” and had you sign at the bottom. Because, apparently, elementary secrets needed sworn testimony. This, of course, was a problem for little me. If I couldn’t tell the truth out loud, how was I supposed to write it down? It was beyond me. After signing my name on the dotted line in bright green marker, I never used the diary once, which was probably the only way I could keep to that promise of honesty. The pages that followed—full of prompts like what was my favorite book?

What was my best friend’s name? What was something that made me happy?— remain empty, and now, years later, the lock has broken, but inside the pages are still crisp and white, pristine as the day I’d first found it at the Scholastic Book Fair.

Finding this diary again in the mess of childhood memories, I couldn’t understand why I’d never filled it out, why the hot pink graphics and flashy lock didn’t attract me. Instead, I found another, less ornate diary, so filled with sloppy handwriting that the only thing that kept the loose pages in was a strap around the cover. This book, complete with its own first page promise that if anyone else read it I would “kill them,” had no page left unused. What had allured my younger self to an old,

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blank notebook that had sat at the bottom of a desk for months over the new one I had craved so much? I wanted answers, but more than that I wanted a glimpse at my old life. I opened the book to find nothing of the sort. In full character for eightyear-old me, I didn’t get past the first page without starting to lie. I wrote one entry about two of my friends liking the same boy and getting into a fight. Another about my dream birthday party, complete with a six-layer cake and my brother doing my every bidding. Another chronicling my trip to England. None of which I have any memory of.

I was disappointed, these stories, which were neither true nor written very well, weren’t what I wanted from younger Josie. I wanted a peek into what my life was like, like the photos within my yearbook or the ones hung up on the wall. I realize now however, in revisiting this diary again, that it contains the clearest window into my childhood I have, I just had to look. No photo, no matter how precise the coloring or focusing, could recreate me as exactly as these pages could. The same questions and answers were there as in the other diary, but hidden between lines. You could tell my favorite books from the plotlines, which often closely resembled Percy Jackson or Harry Potter. You could tell who my best friends were by the same names reappearing on every page. You could tell what brought me happiness by the sheer amount of time I must have spent filling that book. These daydreams, stories that might have been to any other kid just that, were real to me.

However, as I’ve gotten older, these stories aren’t true to me any more. As I’ve gotten older, my stories have truly become lies.

I think that as we grow and find new versions of ourselves, we try to outweigh who we were before. I’ve tried to compensate for past actions by becoming as different from them as possible. As if by balancing the past out by the present, I won’t have to claim my history as my own. As a kid, I was unruly and wild. Lying was only the start.

I would spend whole days in the woods and only come back when I couldn’t see my own hands in front of my eyes, and only then to grab flashlights. My mom would call me her feral child, saying that she never worried because I’d always come back when I wanted dinner. You would have been hard-pressed telling me what to do and how to do it. I rejected any instructions, from how to tie my shoes to how to solve my times tables. Though I’m sure other parents would have called me difficult, mine never did. They understood that I wasn’t the way I was to be rebellious or malicious, but because I simply wanted to figure things out for myself. I would likely find myself to the same conclusion I was being told, but I needed to have arrived there on my own or it wouldn’t mean anything. I didn’t want someone to tell me the tree was tall, I wanted to climb to the top to see just how far away the ground was. I lied because I didn’t want someone to tell me what the truth was, I wanted to feel what the truth was myself. I understood then, in a way I’ve forgotten, the importance of my own judgement before that of others.

Since then, probably sometime in middle school or Covid-19, I’ve become acquiescent. In between my phone, my friends, essays, and lab reports, I’ve stopped

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telling lies. I shy from old photos of myself and push away the stories of me that my mom would tell.

To balance out the unruliness of my childhood, I’ve tried my best to become ordinary. My diary fell out of use, and nights that I used to spend up late writing on my computer turned into hours of scrolling on social media. Writing, what used to be my favorite distraction, has become a chore I only partake in when I have an assignment. For a long time, I couldn’t see the advantages of spending my limited amount of time writing recreationally, even if I had enjoyed it as a kid. I’ve given up my childhood dreams by mistaking them as childish.

I filled out the blank diary because I didn’t want to be contained or structured within the lines of pre-planned questions and answers. I made the truth what I wanted it to be, not what someone else told me. When I found those diaries again, I was confused.

Confused because somewhere between then and now, I forgot the appeal of an empty page.

JOSIE DENNY ’26 Stuck among the rigid lines of book reports and tests, the questions and answers seem relaxing and easy. I’m trying to remember. I took Creative Writing and I’ve been writing more month by month. I’m in the process of bringing those old lies back to my memory, but it’s slow. Building habits is hard for me, even harder when they’re habits I spent so long breaking down. However, when I read over the last line of the instructions for this essay, an instruction that struck a familiar chord, something innate in me was disappointed by them. It is in those moments that I think, just maybe, I could learn to be a liar again.

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The Writer’s Cave CHRIS ONSOMU ’25

I thought I’d meet another fate Inside my Writer’s Cave Then watching people through a hole And wishing I was brave But chased by demons, in and out, That tore us—life—apart.

I heard a drip inside the cave And hoped it’d quench my heart.

Inside—so dark I had no hand— I found a glowing lake, But as I drank and wrote, the tide Slowly began to wake.

The more I wrote and stared, the tide Rose like the morning sun.

In time, I’ll drown and suffocate— And still, I’m never done.

ETHAN WILLIAMS '26 THE ANDREAN 2025 v 11

VANITY, FRANK CADOGAN COWPER

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Function of Beauty JAYDA BADOO ’25

In your reds, and blacks, and golds, and pearls, Vanity is Royalty, (earth’s most expensive girl).

You do not Behold he who captures you, instead you look away.

With a crown on head and a mirror in hand, it is there your attention sways.

What could possibly have your attention?—Only Her and Her eyes.

They are the sole keeper of Her attention, the prize.

In your gaze is that pride?

Or perhaps it’s a shadow of doubt that you hide.

I assure you, my liege, there is some beauty to be found.

Though more so within than in these riches all around.

You, an enigma, puzzle and mystery.

The function of beauty, a question for history.

Though the question will forever belong to time, I think you know the answer, and you’ve found it sublime.

Because a girl made rotten with riches is a girl well-loved, And she who gets all she wishes is as good as the angels up above In all that is cloying is unadulterated wealth, But finely embroidered in between is the elevation of the self.

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Kaleidoscope Eyes LINDY BLACK ’25

The call of the murder above me drew my head upward, mouth agape, neck exposed to the monstrous unknown in front of me. Swirls of blackness against a black sky swarmed my vision and the there and the here melted together in front of me. Gagged on my own blood, I watched as the murder came for me. Contrition forced upon the innocent is no act of God. ____________________________________________________________________________________________ There is a painting of St. Joan of Arc that hangs above the headmaster’s mantle.

The first convocation of the school year is marked by the same speech every time.

Headmaster Walsworth speaks of the importance of bravery, faith, and leadership in the face of the trying times ahead of us. This year there was an emphasis on the war raging across the ocean where we all have cousins or friends or a boy down the street we only knew from the bus stop fighting for something none of us believe in.

Walsworth reminded us of the tragedy at Kent State that happened only mere months ago and urged us all to use the talents we learn here at school to our advantage instead of the “senseless assaults and noiseless shouting.” He told us we would be a waste of talent and potential and life should we find ourselves in the position of those students. Can you imagine that? Telling us that our lives mean more than our counterparts who were dragged away from their home to the shithole of Vietnam.

So much for Catholic morals.

She is staring at me now from her place on the wall as I sit in the plush chair opposite his desk. Ms. Betsy sits beside me with a typewriter on a small table beside her, and her purple reading glasses are sitting precariously on the bridge of her nose.

The headmaster looks out the window behind me for a long minute before he turns to meet my eye.

“Ms. Clarke, I am sorry to see you here.”

“Yes, Mr. Walsworth,” I reply. There is another long minute.

“Well, Ms. Betsy is here to transcribe our conversation just to make sure we are all on the same page should it be of concern in the future. I am sure you have been thinking about this meeting plenty, haven’t you?” He says this with a slight breathy chuckle, as if the fact that I know he can smell my fear is supposed to give me comfort.

“Yes, Mr. Walsworth, I have been,” I say.

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“Well, then, if it’s alright with you, I would like to begin.” He pauses to wait for a simple nod of my head. “So, can you tell me about your relationship with Zachary Goodall?” I don’t want to answer, but I know I have to.

“We were friends for a while. Good friends. We hung out with the same people— had chemistry together last year.”

“Is that all?” I nod.

“I see. People say that you two had been fighting. Can you tell me about that?”

“I mean, yeah, of course we fought. Doesn’t everyone fight with their friends?”

I know what he is referring to. It was a Monday afternoon in November when Zach and I were hanging out on the Quad and Mr. Nolan walked by. We both had the same free period after chemistry which often meant that we found ourselves spending the better part of a class day together every so often. This meant that no one was surprised to find us sitting alone on the stone bench cloistered by the strong stone walls of the building. I remember forcing the muscles of my face to relax as I felt his presence next to me suck the air out of my lungs. That was the problem with us. I have replayed all of the fights and bruises and love that flowed between us, but it all traces back to the inescapable intensity that followed us everywhere.

I am truthful when I tell Mr. Walsworth that we were friends. We were. It was just the sort of friendship that sucked something from the marrow of our bones in order to weaken the spirit. It was the only way we fit together—when we were weak.

That Monday afternoon on the bench, the back of my bruised thighs met the cold stone, and Zach’s hand hovered near where my own rested on the bench. I knew we were both mulling over the night we spent in the old mill as we sat in silence for a few long minutes. After a while, I finally quit the quiet and asked him a question while he pulled a small wood chip out of my hair that remained from last night’s escapades.

Zach didn’t like that I questioned him in public. In the beginning of everything, he told me he would be there for me—tell me anything, do anything. But he failed to mention the constraint that stated I could only ask him when he wanted me to ask him. His voice was sharp and his hand on my arm was strong as it gripped me tight enough to create bruises matching the ones on my thighs—those ones too were courtesy of his hands only mere hours ago. Mr. Nolan’s voice rang from across the Quad as he asked us how the afternoon weather was. There was a glint in his eye as he watched to ensure Zach dropped my arm.

“Yes, I guess we all do fight with our friends,” Mr. Walsworth answers.

I sit there silently, staring at the caked-over blood on my fingertips. That night in the barn that prompted me to question him was just over a week ago now.

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“Now, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Ms. Clarke, but I don’t know if I believe you told me the whole truth. I must ask you, did you and Mr. Goodall ever copulate?” My stomach sinks. “You must answer honestly, Ms. Clarke.”

“Yes, we did.” I hold my breath.

“When?”

“Maybe a week before it all happened.”

“Ok.” The images of the Sunday night prior to our fight swirled around in my head. In the early hours of the morning Zach and I found ourselves at an unmarked rendezvous point on the edge of Route 11. The moon was high above us; the campus silent and empty. We began our walk out towards the edge of town with me leading the way and Zach never more than a step behind me. We had only seen our destination from the window of a car, so we walked cautiously until it loomed ahead of us.

The old grain mill is a tall building, standing alone along Route 11. The red slats have rotted and separated over the years, letting the pervasive sunshine in to illuminate that which had not seen the light for fifty-some years. As the sunshine streamed in, it brought to life the secrets seeking refuge behind the creaky sliding door at the base of the building. Forced out of their resting place, I could not help but taste the mistakes and memories and misguided decisions that swirled in the air. It was as if the derelict building had a secret itself, one that was revealed to only those people desperate enough to enter it.

The air within the building was heavy and smelled of mildew. There were five floors, each more rickety than the one below, and the accessibility to each dwindled as we climbed. The moon shone through a large hole in the tin of the ceiling. This was where Zach laid me down on the battered boards of the dilapidated house and spoke to me softly.

The conviction in his voice was enough to knock the breath out of my lungs.

My head fell back on the dirt of the floorboards, and I groped at anything I could get my hands on. The grime and dust covering the floor underneath us lost their permanence as I slipped away into a world far away from this one. I was not in an abandoned mill, padlocked and boarded up, on the floor where a working man once roamed and raised his family. I was in a new body—a monstrous body that was born from the two of us. We were overtaking the history of all who came before us as we imprinted in the rotting wood under us. My head spun without focus and rammed me again and again into the barrier of this reality and the next. I felt warm, wet blood on my fingertips as I continued to drag them along the barren floors surrounding us.

My mouth was agape; I could hear the pound of rain on the roof and the tremble of the windows through the bones of the building. The cold air swept across the room, rattling my bones in tandem with the structure around me.

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WILLA ARCHER '26

It was after I had returned to my body and sucked the blood off of my fingertips that he told me what was going to happen a week from then. His mouth was in my hair as he murmured that I had done so well up until then. He made me feel good about my role in distracting the creepy and perverted head of security so someone could sneak into his office and take the master key ring. He never told me who it was. He told me I exceeded the expectation set for me when I met an unmarked black sedan in the back parking lot and delivered a brown paper bag to the science building without asking questions or fumbling around suspiciously. He went on about how well I had done every strange task asked of me in the past few months, and I listened.

“So, Ms. Clarke, can you tell me everything you know of what happened Sunday, February fifteenth?” He asks. I know what to say to this question because Zach prepared me for it.

“Well, that morning, after breakfast, Amali told me that people were going to sneak out that night. I didn’t ask too many questions because I had a problem set due for math, but I know she didn’t say what they were going to do. Later that day Zach found me in the library and told me he was feeling nervous but didn’t say about what. I assumed it had something to do with Amali but I was upset with him so I didn’t ask.” I pause for a moment.

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“Why were you upset?”

“He was flirting with her all the time, Mr. Walsworth. It was hard not to notice it.”

This seems to be nearing the line of too teenage girl for him. He pauses before he pivots.

“Ms. Clarke, the urine test we administered returned positive for a copious amount of LSD. Do you know that you ingested those drugs that evening?” This time I smile. The first emotion I have shown all day.

“Of course I did, Mr. Walsworth.” His eyes snap to attention. This is not the answer he was expecting. He wanted it to be against my will because that would make his life so much easier. He follows my statement with question after question, but I do not open my mouth again. He yells and shakes and spits but I sit and stare.

Mr. Walsworth would never know how it felt to feel the tab hit my tongue and sit in waiting for my brain to expand. He would never know how terrifying it was to kill myself inside the ether while my body trudged along autonomously. The separation of self manifested in front of me—inside of me.

He continues to speak to me about the importance of truth and honor and the dangers of succumbing to the pressures that teenagers across the world face these days. I sit and stare at St. Joan of Arc who stares back at me. I think of the teenagers being tortured in the jungle. A smile grows that I cannot fight and I shiver with the ecstasy of secrecy as this saint and I relive the night I died and was born again inside the arms of the boy I was resurrected for.

My eyes close and I am there.

I kneel at the altar, my dress blowing in the wind. I do not care about the strap falling off my right shoulder nor the light of the fire that illuminates the sheer cotton fabric covering me as best it can. I lost feeling in my knees a few minutes ago, and before that they were tingling with the pressure of the rocks I kneel upon. My hands clasped in prayer in front of me, offering no consolation.

The eyes of thousands are upon me as I sit in meditation. The woods are watching me with the same reverence that my friends do. I hear their soft hum around me, their desire to express their malevolent chant is barely contained behind their lost breath.

In front of me stands the pyre where I will find my fate, mere minutes from now. The semicircle of spectators is all too close and yet never close enough. I dare a look left, looking for any sign of presence in Amali’s eyes. The tears that have frozen to her cheeks hurt more than the way her lips move in tune to the joyous chants of our brethren. I cannot bring myself to look any further into the semicircle at my back because if I meet his eyes it means that I am truly and irrevocably damned to this end.

My eyes return to the large figure in front of me. The man made out of sticks and stones is at least ten feet tall. His legs are pointy and short. His arms resemble the pincers of a scorpion, and his hooks for fingers are built for nothing but the infliction

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of pain. His head is twice as big as his torso; it looms over me, the fire casting shadows to darken the underpart of his belly. His mouth sticks out as unnaturally as anything and the black charcoal painted in his eye sockets makes me think he gouged out his own eyes to play dice with the Devil himself.

Steps approach from behind me, and I know it is time. My boy’s hands wipe the tears forming in the corners of my eyes with a painfully familiar tenderness. The weight of the crown he places upon my head tempts my neck to break. The antlers protrude from either side of my head as the nails secure themselves into the supple skin of my blonde-haired scalp. His hands find mine and the tenderness of his touch pulls me up to my feet.

I love you.

You love me.

Yes, I love you.

He guides me now towards the impossibly large man looming ahead of us. His hand stays locked around my waist, steadying me against the swaying weight of my crown of horns upon my head. With each step the nails sink deeper and deeper into the soft matter stuck inside my head. I can hear the blood drip down my neck and into the creamy white of my garment. I step onto the altar and turn to face the ones who came to watch me. The white frocks stand out remarkably and unsurprisingly and painfully bright against the night around us. Both hands are on my waist now, lifting me up onto the pincers above. It is not my own voice that screams as his touch leaves me for the last time and I am left hanging by the horns nailed into my brain.

The cheers are gone now as my eyes draw themselves to the top of my skull. I cannot control them. The murder above us all sings in joy.

He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

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Old Roads GREY DURHAM ’25

Take time as you pass through the old roads A journey of nostalgia, it tears you apart νόστος άλγος, the homecoming of pain, no matter the age or place Take time as you pass through the old roads It won’t be a quick journey as you look and imagine past lives, past knowledge, past loves You won’t be able to see it complete, as things lie in ruin See beauty in the rubble, the partial completion of liquid marble, the shallow etches in pedestals indiscernible to the human eye Take time as you pass through the old roads The journey will be one of γλυκύπικρον, sweet bitter, forever complex Sweet as you imagine what once was, the ancient world, its beauty, its art Bitter, knowing that you will never learn to see it in its glory Take time as you pass through the old roads Wander through and wonder what you are able to see Revel in the νόστος άλγος Don’t despair in what you can’t know Be inspired by it

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GREY DURHAM THE ANDREAN 2025 v'25 21

Labels KAZ YAMADA ’26

Like many of you, I’m a student. An athlete. Every Thursday I attempt to play the right notes during Orchestra, but it typically doesn’t go very well. I overthink things quite often, I get really nervous about tests and assignments that I probably shouldn’t, I laugh at jokes that aren’t funny, and I also might eat too many cookies during Advisory lunch. I stay up too late doing homework I should’ve started earlier. I miss home sometimes, even if I pretend not to. I’ve failed tests, I get marks for missing breakfast check-in, and I remember my laundry in the washer two days later. In other words, I’m not that different from you. But there’s one part of me that tends to change the way people see me. I also happen to be gay. And the thing is, I wish that last part didn’t always come first.

Being gay at a place like St. Andrew’s, especially living on dorm and being in the locker room, you learn pretty quickly to monitor how you act. You don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. You don’t want to be “too much” and be labeled as “too gay.” You laugh at certain jokes and shrug off others. You wonder if people avoid you because of who you are. You walk into a room full of straight guys and you can feel the shift. Not always. Not with everyone, but sometimes it’s like suddenly there’s this filter over you: everything you say, everything you do, is through the lens of being gay. When I talk about boys while they talk about girls. When I make the same joke as someone else, yet it lands differently. When I sit down on someone’s bed or in the common room and they move away: I start to wonder why they don’t do that when someone else does the same. And I can’t help but think: Would this be different if I wasn’t gay? Would my life be easier if I was straight?

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ashamed of who I am—in fact I’m proud—but what gets heavy is that for a lot of people, especially other guys my age, the minute they find out I’m gay, it’s like that becomes the only thing they see. One of the hardest parts is that people don’t always realise they’re doing it. The judgement isn’t loud, it’s quiet. It’s in the side-eye and the “oh” after I say something about a guy. It’s in the careful distance on my bed. It’s not being in on certain jokes or being picked last during a dodgeball dorm function.

Suddenly I’m not the same kid they swam with in the pool or the rower they raced with on the water. I’m not the guy who likes singing or the guy that listened to them when they needed an open ear. I’m not the friend they were joking with past lights out. I become the gay kid. And when that happens, everything changes. They start watching their words around me like I’m going to be offended by everything.

They stop sitting next to me like I’m going to hit on them or something. They laugh nervously when I talk about who I think is attractive. They act like being around me means they have to change who they are. But all I want—what so many of us want—

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is to just be normal. To just be. I want to be able to talk about things I like without the fear of judgement.

I didn’t choose to be gay. But I do choose who I am beyond that. I choose to show up every day to classes and meetings. I choose to try hard in school and my studies.

I choose to put in extra effort at practice even when I’m exhausted. I choose to be there for my friends, to give them a hug when they feel down, to hype them up when they’re winning. But sometimes it feels like none of that matters as much when the label comes first.

St. Andrew’s is intense. Living in Founders, we live where we study, where we eat, where we make connections, where we sleep. This means we have to make this place feel like home, even when it’s hard. And it’s hard to feel at home when people only see one part of you. I wish more people understood that I’m not walking around thinking about being gay 24/7. In fact, I have so many other things to be thinking about.

I’m probably thinking about how I’m going to bomb my quiz on moles, or what a derivative is, or how I’m not going to fall sleep during Research Sem. Sometimes it feels like I have to carry around this invisible sign that says: “Don’t worry. I’m gay, but I don’t like you and I’m not trying to make it awkward, I’m just trying to talk to you.”

There was this one time—I remember it so clearly—I was hanging out with a group of guys in their room after classes and we were playing brawl stars. We were joking around, talking about our classes, and just about the overall feeling of the semester. For a second, I felt totally in the group. Just another kid, just another guy.

And then one of them got killed, got mad, said something small, something dumb about “this guy definitely likes boys” and then he looked at me and went dead silent.

Everyone did. I could feel the air shift. The awkwardness, the immediate realisation of what he said, the subsequent “oh my bad.” But it continues to happen, hearing the frequent “that’s so gay” or talking in a high-pitched voice and acting feminine when describing someone they might think is gay.

But the truth is, I’m tired. Tired of being treated like a walking billboard for gay people. I wish people would understand this: Being gay isn’t the most interesting thing about me. It’s not even in the top five. I’d rather talk about how I can’t whistle and wish I could. Or how hard it is to be a Bears fan. Or how much I love listening to Bruno Mars. I want to be seen, really seen, for all the things I am. Because when we lead with labels, we put people into a box. We assume things about them, we miss their stories. And when we treat someone like they’re only the parts that make them different, we forget how much we have in common.

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ELIJAH PROCTOR-MOORE ’25 THE ANDREAN 2025 v 25

Two Poems from the Bullpen Poet ANONYMOUS

Haiku

The pitcher’s mound is the loneliest place on earth when you can’t throw strikes

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Limerick

Chess is a game of wits and soccer, the sport of the Brits but football hits different opponents clad in equipment you win if you tear them to bits

JAYDA BADOO ’25 THE ANDREAN 2025 v 27

Inconveniences CHRIS HUNTER ’26

Inconveniences. Inconveniences are the things that make our day from good to bad, that disrupt the normal flow of our day. When something goes beyond an inconvenience, that moment affects someone for the rest of their life. This is called a moment of suffering.

Suffering can be moments of war, a death in the family, a tragic event: all of which can hang over someone for the rest of their life. Suffering is something I haven’t felt much for myself in the physical world, not because I haven’t had hard times or traumatic experiences, because I have had those things, but entirely based on perspective. There are two different kinds of suffering in my mind: one is in the physical world, which includes obviously physical pain but also social events surrounding myself and the world. On the other hand is mental suffering, the internalization of our comprehension of what surrounds us, the situations that we think about in our head. When the worst event happens in someone’s life that sets a standard.

With the right perspective, that standard can help direct the rest of that person’s life in a more positive direction.

In late 2024 during Latin class we had a writing assignment, and while writing I listened to music and after the assignment I never took my earbud out. Dr. Walsh noticed and took my thirty-dollar earbuds. Later in the week I went out bell-ringing with Tanner for the Salvation Army and I placed my phone on a ledge right next to me. My phone fell from the ledge and the entire screen was a bright fluorescent green and broken. I couldn’t see a single thing on my phone, and wouldn’t be able to get a new phone for a couple weeks. All of the stuff I need in order to handle my Type 1 diabetes was on my phone. Despite this, my night continued on as normal, even though for the next three weeks I would be navigating my phone almost entirely based on memory. But here’s what’s strange: the inconvenience of losing headphones had a bigger impact on my happiness than breaking the device that keeps me alive everyday.

When I was eight, two weeks before my birthday I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. I remember spending the night in the hospital with two two-inch needles in both of my wrists.

I had to sleep upright, not being able to move because of the pain with the needles. I don’t remember being told that I had Type 1 diabetes, just that I knew that I had the disease. Four or more shots every day, every week, every month for the next year, then after that to needles constantly in my body for the rest of my life. Never being able to freely eat whenever I want. It would be different if it happened early in my life because then I wouldn’t have the experiences I had been robbed of ever experiencing again. The struggle I faced after being diagnosed was pretty big, because I was unable to participate in a bunch of things because of the disease. There is this numb feeling to the things that impact my life for a certain period. It gives a perspective that nothing can be worse than this disease that I have been handling for half of my life and will continue to handle for the rest of my life.

The importance of this perspective allows a more stable and better reaction to things that surround me. Human nature is to make comparisons every second of every day, and the

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constant effects of a thing being experienced every day sets a mood and a thought that one can handle a situation because one has experienced worse. However, it is a double-edged sword, because in order to have this perspective the initial experience cannot dominate the mental side of things. Being unable to accept the event and its side-effects, develops the opposite mentality and perspective: not being at peace about what happened stops your mind from being able to think that you can handle a situation. It dominates your mind, never leaving you until being accepted. Still, living and continuing on is a reason enough to empower you to handle any struggle that comes at you.

Through the first two years of my time at St. Andrew’s there was a constant flow of being in trouble over small things such as swearing, my room being messy, lateness to classes, using my computer during class, and missing some required obligations entirely. The term marks is what measures how disciplined I was in the community, and I ended up in the Dean’s office many times and the recurrence of my mark flow risked my place in the community. At first I didn’t accept the situation I was in, despite the fact that the most important thing I cared about was on the line. I was either mad at the system, angry that I got caught, or I thought the reason for receiving marks was stupid. It felt unfair, just like being subject to developing a disease. My options were limited to: choosing to crumble and let this moment affect me for the rest of my life; or I could dig myself out of the hole I had created, accept what I had done, and use it as a reason to better myself. The motivation comes from having a choice to experience better. If I hadn’t had the mindset from being at peace with my disease, I wouldn’t have been able to see light at the end of the tunnel, I would have given up because I would only know to give up.

Is being numb, at peace and accepting the things that have happened to a person the definition of a happy life? Does the struggle turning into routine create a void in feeling? For me I believe that I am living a happy life, but is it right to have a void in feeling in the sad things that happen in my life? I don’t remember how long ago it was when my grandmother died, but when she did, I remember being in my room and crying out of anger of being unable to cry for a person I loved. It isn’t that I am unable to feel sadness or happiness, it’s that there is a numbness to that pain. I’m not sure if it is morally right to have a calm reaction to adversity and moments of pain, if it’s healthy, or optimistic. What is certain is that using moments of struggle as motivation to better yourself is a way to stop struggle from preventing your happiness.

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Ode to Tyrants CHARLOTTE GREEN ’27

Wisdom and confidence are power for all but the tall and towering Tyrants.

Terror and fear prove loyal as a dystopia forms, far away from wonderland sits the high throne.

What is humility for the sovereign lion? when the wildebeest dances on the beach at midnight?

Under only one roof the arbitrary constitution reigns, hoarse goes the voices of the tenants.

Earsplitting silence haunts the dim halls while the dove’s wings are heard flapping, caged in the walls.

Although atop the star stallion, intimidating all passersby, his luck will eventually run short.

The well, dry.

With his blind eyes and deaf ears someday the bully will wear out the arrogant mirror.

From control to regret, and power to debt, the Tyrant was always quite foolish.

And then up from the sand arises a leader, true to his people as the ocean to the Earth.

The Tyrant is a lamb lost in the fiery jungle until he meets his final opponent.

No memorial, unburied, rotted.

Wisdom, he hopefully learned.

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GREY DURHAM ’25

The Concrete Gymnastics Club GLORIA OLADEJO ’25

In the two-bedroom apartment on the bottom floor a little brown girl with braided pigtails watched anxiously at the screen, legs folded in a perfect crisscross applesauce. Through the projected pixels, the Lifetime special of The Gabby Douglas Story kept the girl in a trance, blocking out another tense conversation between her two parents.

The reenacted Gabby landed her uneven bar routine and the crowd full of extras screamed of an Olympic gold medal. As the cheering ceased and the biopic faded from the screen for the credits to roll, the 1 hour, 26 minute trance was broken. Quickly the girl jumped out from her seated position onto her small feet and turned to her parents.

“I want to do gymnastics," she said.

Silence was the response.

“Pleaseee. Can I start gymnastics? I want to be like Gabby!” she pleaded with a purposefully turned head that made her pigtails swing and eyes look a bit teary.

Instead of silence, her mother sighed and putting down the wrinkled paper riddled with numbers and signatures gave the dreaded answer.

For a moment, she remained frozen. Pigtails no longer swinging, tears filling her big eyes. Her parents attempted to read their daughter’s reaction but the paper sitting in between them called their names, pulling them back into their own trance of belittling over irresponsible spending and marital regrets.

For the first time, she heard her parents’ conversation and understood what incompatibility looked like between two high schoolers who once equated sex to love. Her eyes began to dry and became full of both disgust and determination.

One day I’m going to leave this apartment, this city, this state, and become an Olympic All-Around Champion.

The following day rang in the beginning of the new school week alongside the first day of spring. As she walked into her homeroom class after getting her backpack and pre-adolescent body scanned, she couldn’t help but smile. Looking around the classroom at her underpaid teacher’s attempt to make the peeling beige walls and barred windows look like a third grade class, she couldn’t help but smile.

The thrifted, faded rainbow rug transformed into a padded mat as she saw herself on her box TV screen land a perfect tuck jump. On the scratched, stained white board she saw all three judges with their pressed shirts and perfectly styled hair all holding up the number 10.

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The bell rang its distorted tuning, releasing herds of small brown children with beads, fades, and greased skin into the concrete courtyard bordered by barbed wire for recess. Swinging her pigtails, she rallied her small troops into a small corner of the courtyard.

“Welcome to my gymnastics club!” she exclaimed towards the curious faces of her friends.

The kids looked in confusion at each other and then towards their sergeant, unsure of what the word meant. Seeing their skewed faces, she decided to show and not tell. Taking her stage, she centered herself in front of the crowd and stared forward with the same eyes of disgust and determination.

“Gymnastics.”

From the beaten asphalt, her sparkly sneakers and following her legs traveled up towards the partly cloudy sky of the city. Hands pierced by the rocky ground, she looked at the ground proudly as she envisioned a blue padded mat and an Olympic crowd.

Every day following this moment, a congregation of Black elementary school students gathered in the corner of the courtyard to listen to their preacher’s divinely ordained words of competitions that promised fame and freedom. For them gymnastics became something bigger and beyond themselves. Like a ritual, they mutely listened to their prophet’s instructions of attaining glory and followed behind her. Under their sleepy teachers’ gazes, blurs of light brown, ebony, and bronze twisted and ascended on and off the cracked ground. Unbeknownst to them, the prospect of future Olympians that would make it out in the world from behind the barbed wire.

There wasn’t a day during the 2014-15 school year that the Concrete Gymnastics Club didn’t meet. Maybe of course when it rained and they were holed up with aged board games, staring through the barred windows that gave a glimpse of their beloved courtyard.

But soon the blossoms of spring turned a vivid green against the smoggy city landscape. The city was roasting and the children were released into the heat, from one hell to another. She dreaded leaving but not for the learning or even her fellow comrades. Trapped by another set of barred windows in the box-shaped apartment, she longed for the freedom her courtyard provided. Sure the sidewalk in front of Building 208 offered some space for a cartwheel or two; the concrete didn’t feel the same. Crowded by hopscotchers and fire hydrant-drenched neighbors snickering at the foolish girl who spoke of fame and the weird sounding word, she found refuge in front of the box TV. Clips of The Fierce Five flipping, turning, and balancing in the backdrop of the five rings were watched carefully and meticulously. Mimicking Gabby and Jordyn’s

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movements, she stood in a star position and imagined a roaring crowd and massive American flags blowing in the wind replacing all four walls.

At the late hours of the night when even the city was asleep, her mom would come in after below average minimum wage hours to see replays of Olympic gymnasts attaining their victories. Tiredly she would smile down at the sleeping girl she picked up in her arms, reflecting on her childhood dreams. Dreams now lost without a desire left in the world to be found.

The city was still scorching, burning from God’s merciless wrath when PS 501 opened back up its door. Excessively moisturized from head to toe, she strutted through the metal detectors and aged vinyl flooring into the fourth grade homeroom.

The thrifted furniture and worn expression on the teachers still remained as if summer never happened, halting time in its tracks. Settled into the familiarity of her surroundings, she stared onto the bars and through the glass that gave the comforting image of her beloved grounds, oblivious to the half-genuine calls of “Destiny” from the front of the classroom.

The bell played its same offbeat tune, releasing black small bodies into the courtyard for 30 sole minutes of childhood enjoyment. She quickly made it to her enshrined corner, thrilled to see that her fellow gymnasts had arrived before her.

Taking center stage, she prepared her lesson plan for the school year when she was rudely interrupted.

“We don’t want to do gymnastics anymore.”

Dismissing the resistance, she spoke of the gold medals, fame, and freedom that played in her dreams. Once her monologue was over, she shined her rows of baby and incomplete adult teeth convincingly at her brethren.

“My mama told me that Black people don’t do gymnastics,” chimed another prepubescent voice.

Tears filled her eyes and her teeth slowly disappeared as images of Gabby Douglas’ gold-winning floor routine began to dissipate by every word said by her once fellow gymnasts.

“Gabby Douglas does gymnastics though!” she countered with a shaky voice.

“She don’t count. She’s not like us.”

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QUINN FERGUSON '25

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Why Worry?

WILLA ARCHER ’26

I have always had a chronic problem of biting my fingernails. The habit formed in the fourth grade, when I first began doing multiplication tables in math class. Prior to my math class, I had been extremely excited to start fourth grade. I had always loved going to school and figured that this year would be no different than the others.

When I got my class list, I was overjoyed to find out I had been placed into a class with many of my closest friends. My homeroom teacher, Mrs. Alexander, was also rumored to be one of the nicest teachers at my intermediate school.

The day before my first day of school, my parents and I attended the fourth grade open house. There, we were expected to drop off everything I needed for the first day.

Once we arrived at school, I met Mrs. Alexander for the time. She was just as kind as the upperclassmen described her to be. Right as I entered the classroom, she greeted me with a toothy smile and a huge bear hug. While I placed my school supplies in my locker, Mrs. Alexander explained what a typical day would look like for me as a fourth grader. I would start the day in the homeroom with her, but would travel to other classrooms for my core subjects. When I heard this I became extremely confused, as I had been used to having my homeroom teacher instruct all of my classes. She could sense the confusion on my face and exclaimed, “Don’t worry, you’ll be spending most of your time with me here anyway!” Her positive attitude caused my worries to fade, and I returned to being excited for the first day of school.

I woke up the next morning feeling eager to start my classes. I jumped out of bed and scurried to the bathroom to brush my teeth. I had laid out the outfit I wanted to wear the night before, which consisted of a khaki skirt and my favorite purple shirt. Since it was the first day of school, my parents decided to take the morning off to drive my brother and me. The car ride was quick, about 20 minutes, and we arrived at school. When I got to my classroom Mrs. Alexander handed me my class schedule; the first class I had was math. I had never disliked math growing up—it may have not been my best subject, but I was not awful at it. Still, I was nervous to go to a new class with a teacher I had never met before.

When the bell rang, I made my way across the hall to the math teacher’s classroom.

When I stepped inside the classroom, I instantly felt like I was inside of a cardboard box. The most colorful thing in the entire room was a dull yellow sticky note pressed against the wall. Abruptly, the teacher came hurtling into the classroom causing the class to go silent. She practically threw her bag on the floor and strided over to the whiteboard at the front of the classroom. She picked up a black expo-marker, wrote “Ms. Wilson” in capital letters, then turned to face the class. Her appearance did not resemble any teacher I had ever had before. Ms. Wilson was a tall woman, standing over six feet tall. She had short, peppery hair that stuck up like Albert Einstein’s. The detail I remember most about her was her voice. She had an inside voice louder than anyone I had ever met, including my six-year-old brother.

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Once Ms. Wilson finished her introduction, she walked over to her desk and began to rummage through her bag. She pulled out a giant stack of freshly printed papers and placed one face down on top of each student’s desk. As she paced around the room, she explained that we would be starting the year with a test on multiplication. She expected us to have the entire sheet of 50 questions finished in under three minutes. If we were able to do this, she would reward us with a packet of Smarties. As she pressed start on the timer, I seemed to forget everything I had ever learned in math. Instead of my fingers going to pick up the pencil on my desk, they went directly to the opening of my mouth. I sat at the front of the class, blank page in front of me, biting my fingernails. I wondered what would happen if I did not finish the test, rather than actually trying to do it. Before I knew it, I heard the timer sound from across the room. I looked down at my paper, which looked exactly the same as when Ms. Wilson placed it on my desk. The only thing I had managed to do during the three minutes was bite off the sparkly pink nail polish my mom had painted on my nails the night before. Ms. Wilson came around the room collecting students’ worksheets and passing out Smarties to a majority of my classmates. I was anxious for her to reach my desk and find absolutely nothing on my paper. I distinctly remember her smirking in front of the class and saying, “Only the smarties get Smarties!” Her comment made me feel even worse about the lack of lead on the paper in front of me. I was worried about how my inability to complete the test would affect how I looked as a student. Would Ms. Wilson think I was dumb? I sulked in my chair, biting my nails, worrying about what was to come from my failure.

Math was not the only thing that triggered my nail biting. The summer before seventh grade, I started playing club field hockey with high schoolers. I had been playing club my entire life, but it felt different playing with people who were four years older than me. They were more experienced and actually knew how to play with one another on the field. I was exceedingly anxious for the first tournament of the season.

I bit my nails the entire car ride to the game. Once I arrived, I headed to the field to warm up with my new teammates. They all seemed super nice and excited to have a new player on the team. Though the players were inviting, I was still very intimidated by them. When we started warming up, I began to realize just how much four years of experience could affect a player. Whether it was speed, stick skills, or shooting, they were all better than I was. In that moment, I became even more anxious than I had been before. Instead of focusing on the drill in front of me, I began to worry about how I would perform during the game. I was nervous about what the other players on my team would think of me. Did they even think I deserved a spot on the field? Not only was I worried about the players’ opinions, but the coach’s as well. I doubted she would even play me after seeing my skills in comparison to her other players. Instead of focusing on how I would play, I thought about what everyone would think of me if I were to make a mistake. I stood on the sidelines, biting my nails, worrying about my lack of skill.

Throughout my childhood, my parents began to pick up on my nervous habit.

The most common phrase in my house quickly became, “Get your fingers out of your mouth.” They knew that biting my fingernails stemmed from my anxiety and tried to

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help me rid the vice. For Christmas, they gifted me a book titled How To Let Things Go by a monk named Shunmyo Masuno. The book was composed of Zen Buddhist teachings that my parents believed would help me clear my mind from stress. In the book, Masuno explains that “at the root of anxiety is the desire to know something that you are never going to know, no matter how much you think about it.” His teachings have pushed me to start putting my energy toward improving myself, rather than worrying about things I cannot control. Worrying about things from time to time is okay, but it is not something that I can let consume me. For many years, biting my nails served as a coping mechanism to deal with my anxiety. Now, I have another outlet to help release stress in a way that is not damaging to my nail polish.

Whenever I feel anxious, I take a deep breath, pull out my book, and read.

CATHERINE FOSTER '25 THE ANDREAN 2025 v 37

DAISY WANG ’25

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Exhale MADELEINE LASELL ’25

Caught beneath the shadow of a plan Trembling from a wish or fear of it falling I can either look into a bright plain Or curl up on the grass bawling Have you ever curled up on the floor, Clutching your arms to your chest Letting sobs rattle your core Wondering if you did your best?

It is tempting to look into the sun Ignoring the pressure rising, Holding my breath till I am done With everything I am trying But then my eyes are burnt My lungs are frozen cold And I have finally learnt That I should not be so bold.

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DAISY WANG '25

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Fluorescent Lights and Waffle House Fights JAYDA BADOO ’25

The fluorescents never slept. Neither did the fry grease.

Waffle House at 2:00 a.m. wasn’t just a restaurant—it was a stage for the unwell, the unloved, and the unapologetically hungry. I worked the counter. Because apparently, when you graduate with a degree in English during a tech boom, your best shot at storytelling is watching a man in a Batman onesie cry into a plate of chili cheese hash browns.

This is where I learned Life Lesson #1: Whatever I did, I couldn’t just be good. I had to be irreplaceable.

I used to think being “good” was enough. Write well, show up, care a little.

Newsflash: good is not good enough. Good doesn’t pay the rent—not in a world where AI can generate convincing romance novels and vaguely sarcastic ad copy in under thirty seconds.

AI doesn’t need bathroom breaks. It doesn’t ask for health insurance. And unlike me, it doesn’t stare at a blank Google Doc for six hours before giving up and eating dry cereal.

So, I took the job.

I told myself it was temporary, just a paycheck until something “real” came along.

But the truth? There’s nothing more real than a Tuesday night shift at a Waffle House on the edge of town, trying to explain to a drunk man in a prom dress why he can’t bring his snake inside.

Life Lesson #2: Know your audience.

Really, the interview should have told me everything I needed to know.

“Listen, kid. You look soft. Real soft. That’s good. The old guy scared people off.

You? You’ll be good for business. Real good.”

Then: “You want this job?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Can you fight?”

I laughed. He didn’t.

The waffle house wasn’t like other jobs. Especially the night shift. It isn’t for the weak-hearted or well-adjusted. The customers don’t just come in hungry—they come in haunted.

In fact, the night shift didn’t attract “customers”—it attracted characters. Some were angels in disguise. Others were bastards with backstories. And all of them expected a hot meal and a clean table, no matter what hour of the night or state of mind they arrived in.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that place was a kind of purgatory. And I was about to meet the strangest soul trapped inside it.

Sometimes? You meet someone who doesn’t fit into either category You meet an Ethan.

But he didn’t start with a name. He started with a coin.

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Life Lesson #3: Mind the business that pays you. I know that now—better than anyone else. In fact, it was in breaking this rule that I met Ethan, and for a little while I’d sorely regret it. I’d had trash duty that week—in fact, I’d been such a pushover that I’d had it every week since I’d arrived. Going strong at week 4, I was starting to question things, but still just grit my teeth to bear it.

Life Lesson #4: Never take out the trash alone.

It was a quiet Tuesday night when I met Ethan—quiet by Waffle House standards, meaning the only three patrons were a trucker nursing a plate of hash browns and a couple breaking up in the booth by the window.

The girl was crying.

The guy was eating her toast.

And why not?

He paid for it.

A classic.

I had just finished wiping down the counter when my manager, a man named Joe who always looked like he was one bad customer away from quitting, jerked his chin toward the overflowing trash bin near the kitchen.

“Take it out,” he grunted.

I wanted to protest. I really did. But I’d already established myself as the pushover of the team, and I wasn’t about to start a revolution over garbage duty. So, I grabbed the bags and pushed through the back door, stepping into the alley behind the restaurant.

It’s the kind of place you’d expect to find a raccoon with a cigarette habit.

What I didn’t expect was a man sitting on an overturned milk crate next to the dumpster.

Hoodie. Elbows exposed. Jeans ripped in a way that suggested life, not fashion, had done the ripping. He was flipping a coin between his fingers like he’d been waiting for an audience.

I froze.

He looked up. “Hey, man,” he said. Like we knew each other. Like I’d just stepped outside for a smoke break instead of walking into a potential crime scene.

Now, here’s the thing about working at a Waffle House: you don’t assume. You don’t assume that someone lurking in an alley is dangerous, but you don’t assume they aren’t. You just keep your head down and mind your business.

But instead of doing that, I opened my mouth and asked, “Uh. You good?”

Lesson 3, broken. Again.

He smiled—too wide, like I’d told the funniest joke in the world. Then he flipped the coin one last time, caught it, and held it up to me.

“Heads or tails?”

This was the moment I should have walked back inside. Maybe even ran. But something about him felt ... off, and not in a terrifying way. More like he was testing me.

“Heads?” I said, unsure.

He slapped the coin onto his wrist, peeked at it, and nodded. “Good choice.”

Then, just like that, he stood up and stretched.

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“Name’s Ethan,” he said (like that meant something to me).

I stared at him. “Okay?”

He laughed. “Okay,” he echoed. “I like you.”

That was it.

Ethan promptly disappeared into the night like a fever dream in distressed jeans, leaving me standing there with two leaking bags of trash and no idea what had just happened.

Life Lesson #5: Some people just show up.

Ethan showed up again the next night.

And the one after that.

Never as a customer. Never with food. Just a figure in the corner booth like a background character who forgot to leave after his scene.

At first, I ignored him. Or tried to. But it’s hard to ignore someone who’s made it their mission not to be ignored. He never said my name—probably didn’t know it.

He’d just tap the counter as I walked by or mutter commentary like some kind of diner deity’s prophet.

“Guy at table two? Cheating on his wife. He keeps checking the door like she’s gonna walk in.”

I glanced. The guy was in a suit, seated across from a woman who was definitely not wearing a wedding ring—or pants that suggested long-term commitment.

“She doesn’t know he’s married,” he added. “Yet.” Another night: “That couple? First date. She’s into him. He’s nervous. Probably overthinking whether he’s holding his fork weird.” A thoughtful pause, with his silence breaking into a grin. “He is.” (He was.)

My favorite, though, was this: “Dude at table six is about to dine and dash.”

I snorted. “You think?”

But that one was actually true. Ethan called it ten minutes before the guy sprinted out the door. Ten minutes later, we were yelling as a man in flip-flops sprinted out into the night with half a waffle and a full tab.

I stared at Ethan. “How do you do that?”

He shrugged like it was nothing.

“People are easy. You just have to know what to look for.”

“And you know?”

“Better than most.”

He never explained. And I didn’t push.

That was the thing about Ethan—he didn’t feel like part of the story. He felt like something watching it. Like a bookmark the universe kept slipping into my shift.

He wasn’t just there. He was waiting.

For what, I didn’t know.

But part of me was starting to think he was waiting for me.

Life Lesson #6: You can’t save everyone.

It was a Friday night, and Waffle House was packed.

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The air was thick with grease, body spray, and the kind of tension that builds when too many drunk strangers are stuck in a tight space. I was working the counter, trying to keep up, when a man walked in.

Not drunk. Not loud.

Just wrong.

He moved like someone expecting trouble. Like his body was already midargument with the world. He took a seat at the counter, eyes scanning the room like he was expecting someone to follow him.

Ethan, from his usual booth in the corner, noticed. He sat up straighter. His foot stopped tapping. That should’ve been my first clue.

My second clue came when the guy pulled a wallet from his jacket and slid it across the counter.

“Hold onto that,” he muttered.

I blinked. “What?”

“Just—hold it.”

His voice was quiet but sharp. He didn’t look at me.

I should’ve said no. Should’ve walked away. But before I could decide, the door slammed open behind him.

Another man stepped in.

Bigger. Angrier. His eyes swept the diner, landed on the first guy.

You could feel it—the air shifted. Like the room knew.

“You,” the second guy growled.

The first guy muttered something under his breath. (Probably a prayer.)

Then he stood up.

Just like that—The world snapped.

The angry guy lunged. The other stumbled back. A stool hit the floor. Someone screamed.

A fist flew—and landed in the face of my coworker, Kevin, who had made the fatal mistake of trying to defuse the situation with the useless obligatory: “Hey guys! Let’s all just chill.”

That’s when the real chaos started.

Chairs scraped. Plates shattered. A table flipped.

It was the kind of night you hope never happens.

It was the kind of night this Waffle House was built for.

And in the middle of it all— Ethan moved.

Not away from the chaos. Into it.

Like he’d been waiting for this.

In two steps, he had the bigger guy in a headlock, dragging him backward toward the door with an ease that didn’t match his frame.

“Time to go, big guy,” Ethan said, like he was escorting him out of a wine tasting and not a full-blown brawl.

The guy fought him, but it didn’t matter. Ethan was stronger than he looked.

Within seconds, it was over.

The first guy had vanished.

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The second was shoved out the door.

A chair wobbled to a stop in the corner like the last note of a song.

Ethan turned back to me, breath steady, eyes sharp.

“You good?”

I nodded, numb.

And for the first time since I met him—Ethan grinned.

“Welcome to the night shift.”

That’s when I realized—Everything I thought I knew about the night shift? I hadn’t learned anything yet.

ELLIS RATTRAY ’28

THE ANDREAN 2025 v 45

Athens EMMA HUNTER ’25

If you strung a line from the sun to the Parthenon, I would be but a single point in its path.

In this vast basin, The hill I sat on might as well have been a mountain.

These white roofed houses pooled below us, Filling in the space between the swells, For as far as the eye could see.

As the sun sinks, The shadow of the Parthenon dissipates and the city is overtaken by a blue haze.

The air does not taste clean here.

It is not quiet.

If sacred was something you could behold, I wonder if it would look like the Parthenon’s ridges, Or if it would be something at all.

And when the red eye of the sun cut through a sliver in that low hanging cloud, I felt it watch this city.

Stare me down, on my ground, Barely a hill.

And as it fell, that scarlet burning with the deep sorrow That words can only allude to, It pulled at our hearts to be heard.

Then winked out entirely.

In the blue haze, The ancient seemed like it had never been there at all.

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GREY DURHAM ’25 THE ANDREAN 2025 v 47

Playing with Cigarettes ABRAHAM PERRY ’26

During the Baton Rouge summers, I’ve always liked to sit on the front porch with my brother. I haven’t got to see him in a while. He was eight years older than me, and on his 19th birthday, we both sat on the creaky rocking chairs at the front of the house. We watched the sunset as we both drank from our Hi-C juice boxes, the humid wind brustled up against each strand of grass. I always liked to press my hands up against the wooden chairs. The sun often heated them up early in the mornings, it always gave my back a nice tan whenever I took off my shirt. My brother always liked to sneak cigarettes in his leather jacket whenever I saw him. He usually left his jacket on the chipped armrest out front—it always smelled like smoke. I remember the first time I smoked.

“Cigarettes are like medicine—the more you have, the better you feel.” He showed me the pack he bought. It was white with a red arrow pointing downward.

“Let me teach you how to smoke.” He grabbed one of the cigarettes, and put it on the palm of my hand. He then reached into his left pocket and grabbed his crimson colored lighter.

“Hold it up a bit.” The tip of the cigarette started to peel off.

“It’s not gonna smoke itself.” I pinned the cigarette against my lips, and started to inhale. When I exhaled all the smoke and ashes flew into the air, never to be seen again.

“You’re a natural.” My brother laughed to himself, I started to cough as bits of ash mingled around my lungs.

“Man, be careful!” He continued to laugh and smoke. It was one smooth motion for him. He grabbed the ashtray resting by the side of his chair and put my cigarette out. The way he smoked—it seemed like he was following the same pattern of the wind. The taste of the cigarette was still sour in my mouth, I couldn’t help but wiggle my tongue around making sure my tastebuds were still intact.

“You better go to sleep, it’s getting dark.” My room always had the window open to let all the steamy air in. At times, bugs would get in the room—I’ve always liked playing with crickets. A basketball jersey laid on top of the tower of unpacked boxes near my bed. I don’t remember the last time my sheets have been washed.

I’ve always liked to eat and watch TV in my bed, snuggling myself in the red velvet colored blanket. The sheets had pink roses equally spread around—it was aged, some of the flowers started to fade. I never knew when my brother would go to sleep.

I always heard him press his tan colored boots along the scattered concrete roof.

Whenever he’s up there, he says he just likes to sit and stare at the moon. According

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to him, the cigarette smoke would always make a perfect silhouette around it. The wind would wash up against his forehead like the blades of grass at the front of the house. He probably just wore a tank top, still with potato chips and juice stains. My brother would say: “You better never go up there, I don’t want you getting hurt.”

In the mornings, my brother would usually be out. He always has some sort of work to handle. He never made much money—we often lived off of Daddy’s extra cash. When he was gone, I’d wake up to eggs on toast served on top of a used styrofoam to-go box. On the side, we had some McDonalds ketchup packets. The runny yolk dripped all over my hands whenever I took a bite. I’d watch through the kitchen windows, and always see the other neighborhood kids playing around with water hoses and fire hydrants. They always brought a beatbox and orange Fanta to enjoy after. Besides myself, a young lady always sat and watched at a distance.

I walked outside to the front porch, letting my feet embrace the scorching wooden planks. My skin always got sticky whenever I was outside for too long—it would make the fruit flies swarm me like I was their mother. Our mother used to be around a lot, she’d always braid my brother’s hair while I watched and played with Legos. My dad would watch football games on his brown couch, a magazine resting face-down on his right knee. She’d stuff us with beignets and caress our faces as we’d join him in the living room. She used to take us to her job some days, my brother would always stare at the tools she used. She was a nurse, and I remember my brother wanted to be one ever since that day. He started to read biology books left at the basement of the house. Dad would always get mad when he’d stay up late to read an extra chapter.

My mom carried a red velvet pocketbook whenever she went out—this was the last thing she left me and my brother with before she left. Next was dad. He didn’t leave us a gift. My brother told me he made a few bucks here and there, he’d always say: “You can come when you can handle it.”

The only time my brother took me along to his work was on his 21st birthday. We parked outside of a Family Dollar, the “Y” slowly peeling off the front of the store. My brother’s car was smothered in fish bait and burger wrappers.

“When we’re inside, follow me.” He gave me his leather jacket as we entered the store. My brother pulled a wrinkled paper out of his jeans, he started to mutter to himself while continuously looking around the environment. There was only one employee, she had red dye in her hair with olive green glasses. Across from her was an elderly man, his back hunched over with a bowler hat—he wore a blue collared shirt with khakis. A black belt was strained around his waist. We entered the ramen aisle of the store, once again—my brother checked his surroundings and said: “We only take what we need.”

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He rummaged through the jalapeño-flavored ramen and brushed it deep inside the leather crevice of his jacket. He grabbed my hand and tugged as we moved on to the next aisle, the batch of packaged ramen continuing to swim around tightly in the leather pockets. While scavenging the waves of toast, the elderly man came right behind us.

“Hope you two are making the right decision.” Although he was a hunchback, he stood tall and socratic.

“Yes sir, busy shopping day!” My brother chuckled at the old man. He bumped his right shoulder into mine making me adjust my posture.

“Look, I saw you two from across the store, just put the food back.”

“What?! Sir, I think there’s been some kind of mixup.”

“I don’t want to get the police involved, just put the food back.”

“Yeah…” My brother sighed and looked at me. He took a deep breath before shoving the old man into the clusters of wheat bread while grabbing my hand. We both ran out of the store leaving the cashier startled, and the elderly man on the ground. His bowler hat was tipped over, still laying on the polished concrete.

“The world isn’t an easy place to succeed in.” This was the last time I went out with my brother.

When he was 23, I sat on top of the house with him, my navy shorts spread out around my thighs. The electricity and water in the house went out, so whenever we wanted to enjoy the light, we’d watch the perfect edges of the azure sky—both with cigarettes in our hands. I’d watch as the smoke would curl out the edge of the cigarette.

“I’m out, night.” My brother got up and pressed his cigarette against the ashtray, he left the rest for me. Lately, my brother asks me when I go to bed. I just shrug at him.

I never really know either—but when the wind feels just right, I let my heavy eyelids shut. I’ll lay there frozen on the roof, with a lit cigarette in one hand, and a packet full of unused ones in the other. I lay there, letting my back hit the concrete, and the mosquitoes sucking all the sweet nectar out of my body. I covered myself with my brother's leather jacket as I continued to lay helplessly. The Baton Rouge heat makes me feel all sticky as my body is absorbed by the humidity against the warm concrete.

I let my body go numb as I smell the sweet crescent of the moon above.

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Sonder NATASHA HEARDER ’26

There are currently 8 billion people in the world, and hopefully if you live until 73, you will meet around 0.001% percent of the world’s population. According to Our World Data, in an average life span one person will meet around 80,000 people.

That is around 3 new people each day for 73 years. Out of the current 8 billion, 8.2 million live in New York City, 37 million in Tokyo, and 7.5 million are roaming around the city of Hong Kong. Each day, we walk past different men and women that each consist of a different background and that we might never pass again. Each day, you meet new characters that could completely rewrite a chapter in your personal story without knowing it yet. This is something I think about a lot—the fact that millions and millions of stories are being composed at the same time yet we are not always aware of it.

Sonder, which is technically not an official word in the dictionary, is the realization that there are no main characters in the world and everyone has their own complex life, thoughts, family, dreams, aspirations and fears just as each of us have. Even though you are the main character of your own story, you are a background character in thousands of others. The stranger who graciously paid for my ice cream one day never passed me again. The words “thank you” were going to be our only form of conversation we ever exchanged. A man who complimented my hat at the airport will merely remember me as the stranger with a peculiar hat. These are just some examples of key experiences that I still remember till this day. The feeling of sonder in the city of Hong Kong is particularly strong when I am walking through the city at night. Buzzing from shop to shop under the neon city lights with the thrill of the whole night ahead of you. I am walking across town with my earphones in, watching everyone rushing to their next event or next bus to catch and ponder if anyone really knows the layers of complexity each person beholds right in front of them.

Growing up in a city filled with dozens of cultures, the feeling of life that each culture brings emphasizes the feeling of Sonder. Personally, I grew up with a balance between Chinese and western customs. Since I could remember, every late January would be a time filled with intense family time, red pockets, and plenty of dinner parties to celebrate the Chinese New year—basically an Asian Christmas. During the month of January, I wear more red clothing than I would have accumulated from the rest of the year. Another favoured holiday is during the period of late October: the Mid Autumn Festival. Each year the same particular scene of dazed lights float above me whilst children lap me in circles; they chase each other with neon lanterns and the spirit of the holiday fills the air. However, along with traditions I hold close to my heart also come expectations I don’t necessarily align with. Such expectations include: constant respect for elders, preservative jewelry, and avoidance of conflict.

Firstly, respect for elders is important of course—but in my family that means not being given the opportunity to correct them when they are mistaken. Secondly, THE ANDREAN 2025 v 51

surely after taking one look at my piercings one can tell that preservative jewelry is definitely something that I don’t align with. I believe that jewelry is a form of selfexpression; whether that is shown through necklaces, piercings, or rings. Lastly, my family is not necessarily the best with handling situations we don’t see eye to eye in.

Rather than letting both parties plead their case, our family follows the Gold Rule, “He who has the Gold, makes the rules.” Therefore, my parents make the rules and I must oblige. Rules such as never missing a single traditional family dinner on a Saturday, Friday, and Sunday—nights I would miss hanging out with my friends— which I now have no regrets about. However, during the years of my childhood I simply longed to be at sleepovers giggling with my friends. The frustration that I used to feel surrounding these rules would turn into discontentment toward my Asian roots. A balance between two cultures that I was a part of slowly became a singular direct path of one.

To deal with this inner complexity of the over consumption into one culture, I would always remember that my identity is a unique mixture of different values which only I get to experience. Whilst walking on the streets on my daily walk, I realised how lucky I am to even feel slight dislikes in my own culture; not every person beside me does not get the same opportunity to be a part of a bigger community. Out of the 7.5 million that live in Hong Kong, 39.1% identify as a Hong Konger, 10.9% as Chinese, and 42.4% as a mixed identity. Yet again, the feeling of sonder takes over my body as I realize that each person similarly also lives to experience culture and take part in their own customs. Even though their own traditions are not necessarily the same as mine, each person is alive to live a kindred way of life: to make and find meaning in your own path. With this in mind, I took more consideration into my perspective of my own culture and the customs I started to loathe. The full realization of my neglection towards what made my own life meaningful never started to sink in until my departure for America.

When I first arrived at boarding school, a lot of people asked me why I have an American accent given where I was born. The truth is that I have always idolized the American life that I would see on TV. I would come home from school every day, the Nickelodeon channel would be on the TV. Slowly, I started to copy the mannerisms and images I would see on TV: wishing to live in a house, having an American accent, and other small lines I heard. For some reason everything about this American life seemed so perfect and amusing. To the flawless white house and care-free yet attentive parents depicted on the television, it was all I wanted to be a part of.

However, the first few weeks at my American boarding school completely squashed this fantasy of mine. When I first landed at JFK and drove through New York City, I was greeted by the fascinating and overwhelming energy of the Big Apple. Following that, I finally arrived at school. Within a month, I realised the fast food restaurants I have always wanted to try (Chipotle specifically) turned out to be half as good as I thought and the neighborhoods pictured on TV were very unrealistic. The customs and traditions I used to experience back home slowly

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started to disappear: weekly family dinners to weekly advisory lunches and my daily walks on the street turned into daily walks across the Front Lawn. By the end of the first quarter I never missed the presence of family and the pleasant aroma of Chinese cuisine more. Every day I would pray that Thanksgiving break would arrive sooner and sooner.

Finally the day came when I could finally arrive back home. On the flight back to Hong Kong, I found myself waiting at the gate and watching all sorts of people walk past me. People of different ethnicities and backgrounds all return to and from their home just as I am. I wonder if they felt the same sense of security I felt knowing I was returning back to a place of familiarity—or a slight feeling of guilt for finally finding an appreciation for it. A family of four passed me as I heard them say something familiar in Cantonese. They had pointed to a snack in the store and said, “We have those back home but they’re better!” I smiled at the realization that it took a trip away from home and random strangers at the airport to realise the blessing family brings to one’s life. Once more, I found myself in a pool of thoughts whilst staring off into the distance admiring the people around me. In this world we each have our own distinctive path to find meaning and fulfillment—from finding love from culture or spreading love through actions and words. Sonder is a good reminder that everyone is also on their own complex journey even if we are not personally aware of it.

GREY DURHAM ’25

THE ANDREAN 2025 v 53

GREY STEWART '28

54 v ST. ANDREW’S SCHOOL

Words MEKAILA GALLIMORE ’28

Words spill from my mouth every single day Every second that passes, words run through my brain, Searching for a place to escape to.

Words undoubtedly intercept each other Syllables blending within the blades of my mouth As it contorts and fixes itself upon my tongue Intricately and instrumentally finding itself to become anew As every single noise escapes my body to find its way to yours.

Words.

What are words?

What are these things that edge themselves so deep into human society?

These things that, when crinkled and crunched and coated in importance Become a means to conquer?

Words implant themselves into the womb of the earth that is civilization, Giving birth to culture.

And culture is rich, isn’t it?

We all have culture, don’t we?

As we ask this question to ourselves, we look beyond those who, Through language, Have had their own cultures become extinct.

Their lips bend and bloat to exhale words that are unnatural to them, Words that pollute their ecosystem, stripping it of the rich Culture.

And yet culture is just another word to some, Another thing left in the air unsaid.

The boat comes and goes, Separating yet again another word in a sentence.

The boat comes and goes again.

Separating a family as it did with my thoughts.

The boat comes and goes one final time, As hands of a million come together.

They act as another word in another distant universe Needlessly forgotten as poets write on.

THE ANDREAN 2025 v 55

Walking GRACE ANNE DOYLE ’25

I glanced in the rearview mirror from the backseat and locked eyes with my mom, tears rolling down her cheeks. I knew she was reeling from the devastating news we had just received from my surgeon: I would need my femurs cut and rotated.

Nonetheless, I asked, “Mom, why are you crying?”

She inhaled deeply before revealing the feeling she’d harbored since my diagnosis at age two: “I am so sorry you have Cerebral Palsy.”

Without hesitation I replied, “Don’t be sad, Mom, be happy. I’m glad I have CP because it makes me who I am, and I love who I am.”

Those were the words I spoke at age nine, and that mindset has carried me through every struggle and triumph that has come with Cerebral Palsy. Up until that moment, my parents never gave me any idea that I couldn’t do anything I wanted, that my CP could ever hold me back. They always said, “God gave you the blessing of Cerebral Palsy. Be grateful for the many positives it will bring into your life,” and I adopted that mentality, even in the face of adversity.

In elementary school, I was the slowest and first out in tag; I couldn’t jump rope as long as my friends, and I fell down constantly. While other kids cried when they bruised their knees, I thought nothing of it, because my knees had never not been bruised. And my entire life, people have made inappropriate remarks or mocked my gait.

As my mom and I drove home from my appointment that afternoon, I knew in my heart that for the sake of my future, undergoing the surgery was the right choice. On August 1st, 2017, I had my femurs cut and rotated while my hamstrings and gastrocs were lengthened. It was an intense surgery, and afterward, I was shocked to see a bar in the middle of the two full-leg casts I had on. I was totally unable to move anything below my stomach for a month.

Experiencing the surgery was the easy part; it was the full-year recovery that was daunting. Just as I was getting my casts off and starting to relearn to walk, my life nearly ended on October 9th, 2017. In the early hours of that morning, my family fled as the Tubbs Wildfire raged through Northern California.

In spite of losing everything, my determination to “make it” led me to do the unimaginable: become an athlete. During the pandemic, I began as a coxswain at Marin Rowing. I immediately found a valuable role on an able-bodied team, something most people couldn’t believe. At my eighth grade graduation, I won the Physical Education award, “The Heart of the Champion,” out of 600 students.

And then, in my sophomore year, I chose to join the Winter Workout program.

Unsurprisingly, I was the only disabled student on the team, which only motivated

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me to work harder. At the end of a grueling season, I challenged myself to run a mile for the first time in my life. The whole team ran alongside me cheering, and I ended up running a 12:40. However, my greatest athletic achievement to date came last summer at rowing Youth Summer Nationals 2023.

After a long month training at the University of Alabama, I stared down the line of buoys, not knowing glory awaited me at the finish line. As we sliced through the water, I screamed, “WALKING! WALKING!”—the term that means moving past another crew during a race. All these years after I was told I would likely never walk, I was “walking” past the fastest teams in the country. 500 meters later, we claimed gold.

LINDY BLACK '25

THE ANDREAN 2025 v 57

Agitation KASPIAN RUFF ’26

Some people’s memories are triggered by sights and smells, mine are triggered by a spectrum of melodies. Since I was in the womb, my dad would serenade my mother with Bach Partitas and Sonatas. Perhaps that’s where it all started, my love of music. Though my performance repertoire consists mostly of classical music, I am very open minded when it comes to the music I listen to. When I woke up this morning and put in my airpods, the music that came on was Felix Mendelssohn’s Agitation from “songs without words” Opus 53 No. 3. This was a piece I learned three years ago with Yukimi, my piano teacher at the time. This piece won me my first competition where the winner was invited to perform at Carnegie Hall. I was 13 and that performance at Carnegie Hall was one of the last times I ever saw Yukimi.

My teacher, Yukimi, was a classically trained concert pianist from Japan, and was my teacher for eight years. As the time went by, it became evident that I had a talent for music that was special. At the age of 8, I was playing pieces that were for most other kids, considered projects for a few years from then. By age 10 I was playing duets with my father, who is a violinist and a Juilliard graduate. And by age 13, I was performing at Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, and Steinway Hall. That being said, these accomplishments weren’t really a reflection of how talented I was, but a reflection of how hard Yukimi would push me.

There would be lessons that would end in tears. She would yell at me, hit my wrists, and tear apart the sheet music in fits of rage. Looking back now, this is how she was taught, with an iron fist. She pushed me to my limits, farther than I had ever been pushed before. I would sit there in silence, humiliated and praying my parents wouldn’t hear anything. Her face was stern and stubborn like an eagle searching for its prey. Despite my talent though, Yukimi made me hate every aspect of the piano. I dreaded our lessons because I knew she would scream at me. No matter how hard I worked, she would always find a way to show I should have worked harder.

During Covid, it got to a point where my parents had to step in. It was 11:30 at night and I hadn’t left my room all day because I was practicing for my lesson the following day. It was the second page of Rachmoninoff’s Prelude in C-sharp minor.

They found the piano wet with my tears with sheet music all over the floor. I was so angry that I had broken the music stand and thrown it across the room. Yukimi had onced asked me what story I thought the piece was telling, what environment Rachmononoff was trying to put me in. I told her it sounded like a nightmare, one of those ones that you think about days later and hope to never relive. I never had any more lessons with Yukimi following that day.

The truth is I didn’t know how hard I could be pushed. I had no idea what I was truly capable of and even though I had given 110% for Yukimi, she still wasn’t

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satisfied. Despite the fact that my lessons were online due to the pandemic, I was still so frightened of the scolding I would ultimately receive for not meeting her expectations. Yukimi, however, wasn’t pushing me to fit her expectations, she was pushing me to show me that I am capable of whatever I put my mind to. What she showed me translates to so much more than a piano lesson.

I went back to look at my text messages with Yukimi to remind me of who she is as I write this. As I revisited our messages I felt a sense of nostalgia. The last message she ever sent to me was a response to my apology text for not completing what she had asked of me and reads as follows:

ELLIS RATTRAY '28

THE ANDREAN 2025 v 59

April 9th 2022 Apologies accepted. I hope I can trust you finally from now on. You have to show yourself and me that you are a person of word.

Remember, when you cheat on something as little as a piano lesson, quiz, test, or whatever, it piles up. And to me, it shows that you are escaping yourself in the end. You have to ask yourself why. Your family can also help you find that reason.

For the last few months (or a year), you proved to yourself and others that you are capable—performing at Carnegie, being accepted at all the schools you applied for, etc. So, don’t doubt your ability—but nothing in this world is free. You must work hard to get the opportunity for yourself.

You have to constantly prove that you are willing and capable to yourself and the world.

Kaspian, you have everything. The only thing I want you to take away from this experience is that you are capable, have the right support system (how lucky) and can navigate the scenario. It’s all in your hand.

Y I wouldn’t realize the significance of this letter until years later. Nothing in this world is free. No one gets handouts or free passes. The main driving principle that keeps me and all of us going each and every day is the expectations we set for ourselves and that is the sole issue; expectations are limitations. Yukimi saw that and tried to show me but I was too immature to appreciate it. Yukimi never wanted me to meet any expectations, she wanted me to be my best self. She knew that I could do whatever I put my mind to and wanted to show me that.

Last week I heard back from a piano competition I had auditioned for over winter break. I saw the email and I froze. I had been selected as the first prize winner. The only other time I had won first place was with Yukimi three years ago and that was also the last time I saw her. For the competition I had just won, I was invited to perform at Carnegie Hall. I will perform Liebestraum no. 3 by Liszt. Liebestraum meaning, “love dream.” Although my relationship with Yukimi had felt like a nightmare, like Rachmoninof’s Prelude, these were never her intentions. She wanted me to embrace my talent and share my music. The reality that Yukimi showed me is that I have the world in the palms of my hands. I just have to take everything step by step, note by note, piece by piece. When I perform this summer at Carnegie Hall, I know that if Yukimi was in the audience, she would be the first to stand and applaud, and the last to sit back down, because she would know that for the first time, I performed for nobody else but myself.

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The Grandfather Clock BIXBY HANRAHAN ’26

Left and right it endlessly drums, ceaselessly beating with a shocking hum.

God’s creation left to ponder, if all in this life is made to saunter.

What will be the new day’s ringing hymn?

Shall it be an occasion of equivocation or a sign of desperate termination?

Nobody knows if the clock is killed, until the sign says it’s finally willed.

The clock is timely buried life going back to beating hurried.

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Warm-Blooded Creatures DAPHNE BANFIELD ’26

My mom signed me up for summer camps the summer before sixth grade because my previous summer had been a mundane and uneventful two months. This time around, I was signed up for fishing camp, sailing camp, circus camp, and science camp. Often in science camp, our hot and sunny summer days were filled with day trips and experiments. We made our own scratch-and-sniff stickers, glow in the dark lanterns, and discovered the preferred environment fish live in. The fish in Otsego Lake are actually cold blooded, meaning they rely on an external heat source to keep their bodies warm. They prefer warm waters, so they don’t often travel down to the cold and murky mud below. They probably don’t even know it exists, and I guess their ignorance could be considered bliss. I think my ignorance at age 11 is considered bliss, before I knew life could sometimes be so unkind to myself and even more unkind to other people.

One day our class hopped into the van to go visit a museum. The van stank of mold and yogurt, like someone had not emptied the trash. On the way there we pumped our fists out the window to get trucks to blow their horns, I never knew that one could do that until then. Now that I’m older, I like to pump my arm with a closed fist out the window on the highway. We drove down a very long stretch of straight highway with fields and rolling hills on either side, not a surprising or irregular landscape in upstate New York. We arrived at the museum and were let loose, not given any schedule or obligation until we were to leave for lunch at 12 p.m.

I was underwhelmed—the museum was small and dark, and every room was separated. In Connecticut, there are grand museums about almost anything you can think of. I always loved going to the aquarium, because there was a huge room with a pillar of fish and mini sharks unlike any creature I had ever seen. My love for the aquarium helps explain why I was captivated by the animal room. I wandered into the animal room with a friend and didn’t leave for a long time. I was too busy examining the jungle exhibit, which was composed mainly of fake taxidermy animals.

My friend was giggling to me about the tiger, which was posed ferociously with teeth bared on a large branch.

“Tigers actually can’t climb trees,” she stated as-a-matter-factly in my ear.

Actually I knew tigers can climb trees, it said it in the excerpt below the tree model.

But I didn’t say anything to her.

After a while, I became disinterested in the tiger, I wanted to see more, to read more. I’ve always had this desperate hunger to learn and discover new things, I want to know more information and perspectives. So, leaving my friend, I strode longer down the dim lit hallway, and I saw the golden retriever statue, tall and proud, with big black ceramic eyes. Above the dog was a mural of a suburban neighborhood

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at night, with a cat on top of a dumpster, but this was not what I noticed first. The stopwatch was on the trash can painting, the numbers were in bright red, and they were going up. Not too quickly, and not at a steady rate.

I had watched Lady and the Tramp before, loads of times. It was scary when Lady went to the pound, a dark and foreboding place. There was a small scene when the pound owner took Nudzie behind the closed door. The dogs called it “the one way door,” which never registered in my brain before. I always thought he was adopted, or just leaving. I never paid much attention to that scene either, because it was such an irrelevant point to the story of how Lady falls in love with the tramp.

I stood in front of the big black glassy eyes of that golden retriever; they looked over my left shoulder. I remember reading the subscript above: each year, millions of dogs are euthanized in shelters around the globe. I wasn’t literate enough to know what euthanization was, but I was clever enough to realize what it meant, and as the numbers ticked up, a horrible feeling arose in my chest, a tangible pain I have never felt before. It felt like someone was stepping on fragile wine glasses, each one shattering inside of me that I could never repair, no matter how strong the glue.

I didn’t know that this is what heartbreak was, I hadn’t come face to face with a personal loss, besides Soncho, who wasn’t even mine to begin with.

My uncle’s dog was a dalmatian, Soncho. When my uncle moved for his job, he left Soncho in a shelter for adoption. My family watched over him and kept in contact with the shelter in order to make sure he would be all right. But we couldn’t stop anyone from adopting him, which is why when a man named Taylor Johnson took him to his rural farm in upstate Vermont, we merely exchanged numbers that would never be texted to. It was radio silent until my mom received a minimally worded text, “Soncho ate Lily of the Valley from our garden, he died from poisoning last night :(” I was enraged—how could he not watch his dog, and how could Soncho have lived such a short life, and why why why would you have Lily of the Valley in the first place if you knew it was toxic. That was the last time we ever heard of Soncho’s whereabouts after the shelter.

With each shatter of a glass, air escaped my lungs. I felt this pain in my chest growing into my throat, behind my ears, and around my eyes. I was frozen in place, and the rest of the world stopped around me as the numbers kept ticking upwards, and they never went down. I don’t remember if anyone saw me, I mean really saw me looking at this exhibit. I would like to think that if I was a parent and saw a child standing in front of this display I would try and comfort them. But no one interrupted, I was able to have a whole tear roll down my cheek without anyone around me suspecting a tinge of emotion.

When it was time to go, I had to pull myself away from the numbers. It was very high now, I stood there for so long because a small part of me hoped that it would stop at some point, but it never did. Trying to maintain my composure, I stepped away from the ticking clock, and solemnly walked towards the van. Everyone pumped their arms at trucks passing by until they honked and exchanged candies that they didn’t THE ANDREAN 2025 v 63

eat for lunch. The van smelled of mold and spoiled dairy, and I felt like I was going to be sick. I don’t know if it was because of the horrible driving or the feeling of loss inside of me, loss that wasn’t even mine to begin with but still became mine to lose.

On average, 7.6 million animals are killed every year in shelters. A number that can never go down once it has gone up. One million of those animals are killed in shelters just because they couldn’t find a home in time, or became too sick for anyone to want, and most of the dogs are pit bulls. After the museum, I went home and cried to my mom. She comforted me as much as a mother could when your child faces harsh reality, and then we started donating. We were always a family that did so, but now I felt as though I did it with more intent. Toys and treats to local shelters and money to help rescue the animals we won’t ever meet. I’ll never get the number to go back down, but some eleven-year-old part of me hopes that I can stop the number from going up too high.

Once you have information, you can no longer be ignorant. With media and smartphones, we are only encouraged to find out more, and once we find out more, we can’t “un-find” it out. I sometimes wish I could “un-find” lots of things. I wish I didn’t know about controversial politics, about how some eleven-year-olds don’t have a house, while I had countless stuffed animals, I wish my mom never told me about her mom, and I wish I hadn’t read those texts on my ex’s phone. I think it might have been better if I were a fish, under the warmer water of the lake, not even aware of starvation, disease, family drama and relationships, or the muck at the bottom.

But alas, no one can be a fish, because we are warm blooded, and we create our own warmth. We must do our best to keep others warm and then ourselves, because ignorance won’t change the fact that what you are avoiding is there.

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SERENITY DAVIS '25

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QUINN FERGUSON ’25

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The Weight I Hold ENID APPIAH ’26

I have never been one for numbers but now they rule my life Agonizing over my geometry— Figuring my shape and size To my mother’s dismay, all the parts I despise are the ones she says she loves I miss when I believed her– when I was soothed by all her words when she hid me from the hurt And when I rip away the flesh she birthed, when I let myself decay, does she look to God and ask herself, “Why is my baby this way?”

I call it a feeling because I do not know what it is but a magnetic pull through my ribs, a guilt I’ve felt since I was six Wanting to be better for her, to be worth her lifelong risk And selfishly to introspect and finally feel proud To never again think or say that quiet part out loud For now it hangs above my head— a ghost that haunts me still But when my mother asks “Will you be strong today?”

I tell her that I will.

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The Three Phases of Change CONNIE KANG ’26

November 27th, 2024 Dear diary, On the car ride back from the eye doctor, my mom talked about her friends who opted for plastic surgery, only to have their faces freeze into a stiff, lifeless expression whenever they smiled. She described their worries— wrinkles deepening, skin loosening, the inevitable signs of aging creeping in.

As I listened, I realized that those women were once youthful and carefree like I am now. Time had changed them, and it changes us all in ways beyond the surface. Yet, they seemed to be merely preoccupied with the visible signs and the outward evidence of such transformation.

As I sat quietly, her words lingered, and I felt the weight of inevitability and change.

One day, those same lines will trace the corners of my eyes, my nose, my lips. One day, the stretch marks of life—of birth—will map my skin, and every morning, I will find new strands of silver threading through my hair. I wonder if I will be ready to meet that version of myself, or will I, too, resist the beauty of change?

Right now, I already see parts of me that are changing. My body has become more feminine, my skin rougher to the touch, and my metabolism slower than before. I no longer feel the same lightness when I run or swim, and the boundless energy that once fueled my days has started to fade. Oftentimes I miss that version of myself. I miss not having any stress, I miss cartwheeling on the beach, I miss not having homework every night, I miss having a better vision ... These little changes, although subtle, feel like whispers of time tracing its mark on me.

Change often is evident when measured against time.

While decluttering my room over winter break, I uncovered a collection of my old swimsuits from when I was ten. Most were saggy and stretched out. Specifically, there was this swimsuit that had a cherry blossoms pattern which was my favorite when I was young. The sleek fabric, once snug and form-fitting, now hung loosely, its straps slack and its waistband frayed. The cherry blossoms, once vivid and crisp, had faded into a distorted blur, their petals stretched and smeared by the years of neglect. Time had worn them down, just like the appearances of my mom’s friends.

What had once been a cherished piece of my childhood now seemed like a ghost of its former self—wrinkled, worn, and old.

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Time does this. It creeps in quietly, altering everything it touches.

Change, when tied to time, often feels gentle, inevitable. But not all change is patient. Some come like a storm, sweeping away the past so swiftly and completely that it leaves nothing behind.

It was the last few days of winter break in January, 2020. I had laid out my outfit for the first day back at school: my new pink Adidas shoes, a matching backpack, and an endless excitement for the semester ahead. But the next morning, my mom woke me up with a strange look on her face. She had received an urgent email from my school: Postponement of Start of School.

At the time, I only knew of a few isolated cases of coronavirus in Wuhan, a city far from Beijing. But within 24 hours, the number of cases in Beijing had surged. Within a month, the city was locked down. Suddenly, my days were filled with the harsh smell of disinfectants and the suffocating tightness of N95 masks. Instead of the bustling rhythm of school, I sat in front of a computer screen from morning to evening. By the time classes end, there would only be a small trace of sun left in the desolate streets.

How could life change so drastically, so quickly? I wasn’t ready.

By the second month of COVID, life seemed to stagnate. There were no vaccines, no cures—just an endless tally of new cases. My eyes blurred from hours of staring at screens, and a deep, unshakable fatigue settled over me. Motivation faded. Each day felt heavier than the last.

By the third month, cracks in my family’s foundation began to show, and companies in China began to go bankrupt. My father’s business, founded on social connections and trade, faltered under the limitations of the pandemic. As our sole breadwinner, he struggled to meet the soaring costs of the city. Groceries, tuition, piano lessons, utility bills—all doubled in demand and price. My father worked tirelessly, but the weight of it all was crushing.

Then, in the fourth month, the news came like a sharp blow: my grandfather in Chongqing had fallen gravely ill. His kidneys and heart were failing, and the pandemic made it impossible for us to be with him. There were only two people taking care of him— my father’s two older brothers, unreliable and self-serving. My father fought to secure a flight for us, but when we finally arrived, it was too late.

I still remember the video call that changed everything. One moment, I was speaking to my grandfather; the next, he was gone. His face was gaunt, his lips pale, his breathing strained under the mechanical mask. His hands, cold and fragile, his wrists were almost as slim as the stripes of his clothes, and I could see the clear structures of his rib prints on his shirt. In a few seconds, alarms pierced the air, and his body convulsed violently, his chest heaving against the frail rhythm of the breathing machine. Then, as quickly as it began, he stilled—leaving behind a silence more unbearable than the noise.

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Those four months felt like two years compressed into one. Time moved faster than I was ready for. I went from 11 to 12 years old, my vision deteriorated from 1.2 to 0.6, and my grandfather, he went from alive to gone.

Change doesn’t just follow time, nor does it happen abruptly. It also leaves behind an empty space, filled with what-ifs and should-haves. In many ways, change and regret are deeply intertwined—change often brings regret, but regret, in turn, can lead to change.

It can be as small as changing my answer on a math test, only to realize too late that my first instinct was correct. Or as trivial as choosing the wrong outfit, ruining the perfect color combination. These momentary regrets of changes are barely noticeable. But at a certain point, it shatters you.

December 16th, 2024 I broke down today.

It was all because of a change in decision, thought, and emotion.

I cried for 4 hours, missed two classes, and spent 3 of the hours at Dr. Vassallo’s office. You could tell me that it’s not that big of a deal, maybe it wasn’t, but it felt like everything was not going my way. Dr. Vassallo told me if I had less ‘could haves’ and ‘should haves’ in my life, I would not be regretting so much.

It is the worst feeling, it is a type of pain that cannot be alleviated with medicine. Regret sharpens every memory into a painful reminder. It grips your chest, suffocating you with the choices that you cannot undo. It’s the relentless torment of living in a moment that no longer exists, a punishment with no end, no escape, no absolution.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, smearing everything on that page. I kept on writing…

I regret it. I regret I didn’t protect my vision when I was young, causing my blurry vision. I regret not treating my mom nicely because I was stressed when she came to visit me halfway across the world for the past few times. I regret not arriving at the hospital sooner to say the final goodbye to my granddad.

I regret that I did not study for the SAT hard enough when I had the time.

I regret that I tore apart a dress my mom gave me for my birthday because I was angry at her for telling me what to do. I regret exploding in front of the

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people that love me the most and hurting them. I regret I did not spend more time with my grandparents when I had the time. I regret all that procrastination.

I regret spending money on a dress and lying about it to my parents when we were struggling financially during COVID. I regret that I wasted my expensive piano classes because my mind was on another boy. I regret giving up halfway through the 2k race, even though I knew I could do more. Above all, I regret not pushing myself harder, knowing I was capable of so much more. I regret all those little changes I made that made me weak and vulnerable.

After taking a deep breath, I made my way to swim practice, only to be overwhelmed by the coldness of the water. As I swam, tears flowed once more, and I hoped that no one would notice, thinking that my tear-streaked face would be concealed by the water. Yet, the endorphins released from swimming failed to heal me. I stopped altogether, no longer concerned with whether anyone saw my tears, and I broke down once more.

Mr. Gardner, our stern coach whom we often believed lacked any emotional depth, approached me. I looked up at him, and in my desperation, I poured out everything. He simply listened, nodding as I spoke, until I had shared every frustration, every mistake, and all that weighed on me.

“You are enough,” he said immediately as I finished. “There is no use in regretting all the changes in your life. Without those, you would lose yourself, and I wouldn’t want that to happen because you will not be Connie anymore. So do what you have to do, and relax.”

He walked away, and threw a ball into the pool. Our practice turned into a water polo session.

I observed the first round of the game. The ball’s direction and aim changes depending on the person’s intent and strategy. Some changed their aim, hoping for a different outcome. But those attempts did not always guarantee the outcome they wanted. Sometimes they would miss a goal, mispass, be outsmarted, or even turnovered. In that water, it became clear to me: no matter how hard we try to control the outcome, life flows on with its own current. What mattered was not the missed shots, the sudden change in direction, but the persistence to keep moving forward, to keep playing even when things didn’t go as planned. The water, like change, kept moving, and I realized it wasn’t about avoiding mistakes, but about finding the strength to keep going through them.

Change can feel daunting, but it is inevitable, constant, and deeply human.

Time will always alter what we have, or who we are, whether we’re ready or not. And though change may feel like loss, it’s also the force that moves us forward. Without it, there would be no growth, no chance to rebuild, no opportunity to start again.

So embrace the changes you can control, accept the ones you cannot, and find meaning even in the shadows they leave behind.

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WILLA ARCHER '26 THE ANDREAN 2025 v 73

driving as she sleeps YEABI KEHM ’25

the highbeams of this old Honda reveal to me the cracked asphalt of grandeur crawling from Charleston to St. Louis across the arthritic spine of Uncle Sam and they come quickly, in their electric white and gold reeling through my sight on an endless spool running out my peripheral where she sleeps to Roy Orbison and the greasy hum of the car with moonlight on her cheek staring at the tail lights of an eighteen-wheeler my insides churn as I watch the machine sway side to side, drunkenly edging the lines taunting the possibilities which accelerate me fifteen ticks on the dial around until he’s fading in the rearview my heroism is rewarded with a snore from she her body lies as it was moments ago perfectly molded to the passengers seat her head craned to the stars nose tilted away and letting go the faintest breaths of calm I roll down the window, and down the Orbison while the hypnotic rumble of the wind bellowing by quiets my mind I watch out of the corner of my eye as the I-70 lights glide over her,

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wrapping softly around and caressing her form like mother used to except we’re moving seventy five miles per hour and mother’s dying and I don’t want anything but to sleep the wind is wailing now

BRIDGET DALY ’25

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ELIv JAH ’25 76 ST.PROCTOR-MOORE ANDREW’S SCHOOL

The Andrean 2025 EDITORS Fiction: Gloria Oladejo ’25, Abraham Perry ’26 Poetry: Grace Anne Doyle ’25, Chris Onsomu ’25, Lindy Black ’25 Art: Jayda Badoo ’25

DESIGN DIRECTORS Lindy Black ’25 Amy Kendig

FACULTY ADVISOR Alec Hill ’12 The Andrean is supported by the Amanda Leyon ’95 Memorial Fund for Creative Writing.

Amanda Leyon was born in 1977 and entered St. Andrew’s as a III former in 1991. At SAS, Amanda was a member of the girls’ soccer and lacrosse teams, participated in Model UN, volunteered at Silver Lake Elementary School, and wrote for the Andrean. In the summer of 1994, Amanda and her friend lost their lives in a car accident on Route 301 near Millington, Maryland. That year, Amanda’s parents, grandparents, and friends established the Amanda Leyon Memorial Fund. Part of the memorial fund was used to create a garden reflection spot on the bank of Alumni Point (behind the Trapnell House). This was named Amanda’s Lookout in her honor, and Amanda’s poem “Snow Geese” is preserved there.

At graduation each year, the Amanda C. Leyon ’95 Prize for Creative Writing is awarded to a senior with the following description: “The Amanda C. Leyon Prize for Creative Writing, given by her classmates in memory of Amanda C. Leyon ’95, to the student who has excelled in creative writing.”

St. Andrew’s School 350 Noxontown Road Middletown, Delaware 19709