Callithump 2017

Caroline Barry Lara Bedewi Ana Clara Borga Laura Brueggeman Maggie Cavanaugh Nicole Chu Sophia Ciatto Ciara Collins Katie Connell

Shea Darcey Stephanie Devine Maddy Dreiband Courtney Fanning Roxy Fassihi Charlotte Flannery Cece Gadina Maddie Holt Cecilia Hornyak

Shira Nash Maddie Notarianni Nipuni Obe Meghana Pai Alicia PanĂŠ Alex Pitts Lucie Quinn Willa Riekhof Abby Romano

Rilei Johnson Hannah Joseph Izzy Kallen Emily Kaminski Annie Kelly Elaine Kim Carter Leahy Cameron Leonard Joyce Liu

Rachel Ruffin Libby Scanlon Kayla Simpson Naomi Steplight Piper Suk Briana Thompson Camille Toner Kris Turner Camille Werth Maya Young

Maddie Sparrow (Editor-in-Chief)

Ellie Nuckolls (Head of Design)

Karly Page (Copy Editor)

Grace Christenson (Art Editor)

Grace Yang ‘19

Miranda Whitmore (Faculty Advisor)

Emma Cowan (Faculty Advisor)

4

Ele Grenfell ‘19

Olivia Mullaney ‘18 5

Inspired by Margaret Walker’s “For My People”

Helena Torres-Siclait ‘17

Maddie Sparrow ‘17

For my underdogs fighting for a place in the game, Or the familiar face they know from that building tuning out the people telling them they’ve already lost, where everyone looks just about the same, trying to break a fixed system that is designed for them to lose, in search of a friend as unfamiliar with this strange land as they are, being polite, hands above your head, being overly smiley, narrating every The ones that are lost in this maze of privilege and opulence, move, The ones that spell GPS a little differently, following the “Get Along, To Get Along” F-A-F-S-A, or “Get Along, To Stay Alive” routine, The guide that has led them thus far, a to-do list ingrained ever since you woke up from your three trimesters of peace, For my petting zoo exhibits with signs clearly stating “PLEASE DON’T expecting light and receiving the opposing side.

TOUCH,” black girls with hair that defies gravity so much so that you are forced to be For my brown sugar sprinkled throughout school systems to add a little the center of attention, flavor to the pie, elephants in the room walking on eggshells, trying their best not to step on More color to the chart, anyone’s toes, Longing for a familiar face, a familiar voice, a familiar story, not to bother anyone, Afraid of controversy, hurt feelings, politicians with backpacks, Damaging, frying, singeing their beloved curls to fit in the frame placed ” or should I say knapsacks, before them, afraid to speak your mind, all because your skin renders you offensive, modern day Sarah Baartmans on display before you even begin to speak.

Every single day, forced to explain the concept of nature For my insecure faces plastered throughout hallways, like an unknown species. but never truly seen, overthinkers predicting scenarios, Let our faces be seen, routines be rejected, and our rights be respected, what people will say, do, or think, Let our differences be loved, cherished, and appreciated, lying awake in the middle of the night with “them” on your mind, Not only when convenient and politically correct, praying that “they” aren’t talking about you, But always, shaking while standing still, cowering while walking, eyes darting, Let beauty be found in every strand, while maintaining eye contact, Let the ones at the top all while hiding in plain sight, Realize it’s lonely up there, Let humanity be seen in every driver, shopper, and classmate, For my confused passengers, Let the “Are you okay”s and “How are you”s, Navigating through this foreign place, become more than a friendly greeting, praying the houses stop growing, Hoping they won’t get lost inside, Let life be worth living, - Jordan DeVeaux ‘18 Wondering if Geoffrey will answer the door, because someone understands.

“

”

He didn’t look like much at first. We were just having a yard sale to get rid of some of my grandmother’s things. She was getting older and didn’t want to live in her large old house by herself anymore. People walked by but he stayed around for quite a while. I had never seen him before and I probably would never see him again. He seemed like the visiting kind. Someone who will stop in a small town like ours, visit for a night or two, then move on with what he actually had to do. Sometimes the visiting kind stay and look around for a bit, and he did. I remember him because he bought my grandmother’s old, broken string of pearls that used to be a necklace. I knew they weren’t real. He knew they weren’t real, but they were important to my grandmother, so I was sad to see them go. They served no purpose to almost anyone, but he bought them anyway. I knew they had to go, almost everything had to go. I was still a little sad.

Three years later, I saw them again. My grandmother, bless her heart, had decided that it was high time to visit the Nation’s Capital and explore what there was to see. She had heard of this collection on The Great Migration and wanted to go see it. So there I was, in the room next door, my grandmother leaning on me for support, staring at the old string of pearls. They were on a portrait of a young woman, used as tears. I thought that the tears were kind of ironic in a way. The tears streaming down my grandmother’s face, with the brightest smile you’ve ever seen. Her excited whispering of “Those are my pearls. Those are my pearls.” Those were her pearls, memorialized in a portrait. A portrait with the name “Kin” and a number I don’t remember. My grandmother’s pearls were at a museum for all to see and enjoy, but all those people around me could never see what we saw.

- Elizabeth Hogan ‘18 Dolores Robinson ‘17

19

cie Lu

Ali son Ma nca ‘1

9

- Kayleigh Zeman ‘20 14

‘ inn u Q

I’m not deep, But I’m cynical, and that’s close enough.

So maybe this poem will be taken seriously.

But probably not.

- Anonymous

To those who claim we have no courage I say fight for anonymous We do not cloak ourselves in shame The words that flutter onto the delicate page are not to be taken lightly We write not for the satisfaction of others We own all that we have written for ourselves And whether we desire for others to know our name Is our own business

Grace Christe nson ‘18

- Anonymous

15

Mo llie C

16

let them drain out

arr ‘

18

into the ground

Ole

ńka Wel lisz ‘

17

17

Kathryn Paravano ‘17 18

Alex Pitts ‘18

There is a spirit, never heard nor seen, who likes to sit on the beach and watch the sun set.

He sits, not alone, but accompanied by unsuspecting travelers; visitors from an unknown city or state, who come to bask on the radiant beaches and in the baby blue sky.

He sits by their side and watches the waves, Listening to their conversations, and tasting the ocean salt on his invisible lips.

Some say he likes to laugh, from beyond the grave, at the trivial discussions of ignorant humans circling the drain.

But others say he likes the company; that he likes to watch the sails drift by, and the crabs creep away, surrounded by loyal strangers.

Together they watch the sky grow pink, then orange, and red.

Until stars begin to speckle the jet-black sky, and it was almost like he was never there.

- Emily Kaminski ‘19

Kate Hohman ‘18

19

Mollie Carr ‘18

20

Lucie Quinn ‘19

Lara Bedewi ‘19 Laura Brueggeman ‘18

- Cameron Leonard ‘17

21

-C

22

arr ie G

oek e-M ore y

‘20

ing

rea

m

”I’ m

sc

i tm y

i

ack b l fe

I wan

23

I can’t find myself in here I can’t hear myself above the noise I don’t even think they can see me as they prattle on about the nebulous 77 cent to a dollar wage gap I have the urge to whisper, “it’s 64 for me” They speak of intersectionality, inclusivity But rarely practice what they preach In this place, in this space They try to force me to separate gender and race As if I am one at a time rather than both at all times They speak of empowerment yet Demean women who take hold of their sexuality, Turning pretty into power There are too many confinements, too much censoring It makes it hard to cosign the movement To brand myself as a feminist When I feel invisible in this space When I feel as though I can’t follow The rules of your revolution - Tomiwa Sobande ‘17

24

Josie Roberts ‘18

’

Cate Willing ‘18

As school encroaches Time shortens Activities explode You look down and find a little boy exclaiming “Tag you’re it” And running away You run to catch him He races forward to get away And so you slow down knowing he will come back And he smiles at you again And says, “are you coming?”

You race forward another time Pretending to search for him Exaggerating your movements To make him happy To simply enjoy his company As that is all he wants to do with you - Willa Riekhof ‘17

Maddie Sparrow ‘17 25

26

Caroline Zorc ‘17

Kathryn Paravano ‘17

27

Rub Upo ber sol e Nat n twig s shuffl s th ure’ e a s in trud t crack er. and s - Ca mer on

nap –

Leo nar d ‘1

7

Joyce Liu ‘18

Meg Turner ‘20 28

grows when sadness and tears arise ess goes when happin sides and calm sub kills when anxiety es and anger bit es shrill when memori s fight and emotion ary this hour is sc old this hour is c g wary i’m left feelin olled i feel uncontr

dying i ought to be ve i know i’m ali nying i’m always de rvive that i might su nymous - Ano

Meg Turner ‘20

Nina Osborn ‘18 29

Lara Bedewi ‘19

30

Kathryn Paravano ‘17

Lucie Quinn ‘19 31

32

Meg Turner ‘20

Oleńka Wellisz ‘17

Ellie Nuckolls ‘17

33

Abby Weimer ‘17

Cicadas fill air with chirps–

Squirrel leaps and sways,

All in the same tree.

- Cameron Leonard ‘17

34

Megan Lydon ‘17

Carter Leahy ‘18

35

There are so many words swirling through my head.

A cyclone of ideas, trying to exist, but not able to.

They float around, half-formed, corporeal.

All jumbled together in an incomprehensive knot.

I wait for one to grab hold, for just one spark to turn into a flame.

Abby Weimer ‘17 36

Helena Torres-Siclait ‘17

Cece Gadina ‘19

Bridget Robey ‘18

Sometimes it happens instantaneously.

Other times the spark ignites when I expect it least, and I try to hold on as tight as I can.

Sometimes the spark feeds the flames and grows into something wonderful.

Other times, it floats away, lost forever, wandering.

And I wonder if I’ll ever get it back, and where it has gone.

Then I am back at the beginning, with so many words swirling through my head.

- Nipuni Obe ‘19

37

Laura Brueggeman ‘18

Dear reader, I wish you chaos.

I grant you images of dances past midnight. A floor no longer visible from the constant swish of long skirts. Spilled drinks on once-white tablecloths marking the presence of people. Heels tossed to the wall when a song came on. Friends laughing at fumbled punchlines and awful jokes that dwell only in the tired mind.

I grant you chaos, but I grant you the beauty in chaos.

Children surging past lines painted on the ground. Traffic jams littering the slide. A boy using the monkey bars as a perch to I give you tan. Small ones daring each other to brave the pendulum of the sound of chaos.

I gift snapshots moving swings. A game of tag when no one is quite sure Shouting and shrieks of a Thanksgiving who’s it. Romances born through flowers stolen from slice the air all around. table. Small cousins a front office window. Secrets sworn through pinky Bells clang. Sneakers wrestling for the last promises behind brick walls. slam the ground without sticky bun. A great rhythm. Feet tap aimlessly. aunt mumbling about I give you chaos, but I give you the joy of The huddle breaks. A final the amount of pecan pie to chaos. thumbs-up is given. For a grace the table. I give you a moment quiet lives. A gun goes off.

Dear reader, I wish you chaos. grandmother and grandfather The orchestra erupts within your own - Maggie Cavanaugh ‘19 playing ping pong of words, heart but your mind stays deaf to it. their rhetoric of teasing Faster and faster your lungs scream in love bring out youth in desperation until the aluminum tube leaves everyone’s eyes. The floor your hand. Your own cacophony begins now filled with sleeping bags as and encouragement flies from your throat until it’s a Harry Potter marathon raw. begins.

I give you chaos, but I give you the fulfillment of Again, I gift chaos, but I grant chaos. love in chaos.

Lucie Quinn ‘19 38

Lara Bedewi ‘19

Sing me a lullaby my dear, Your soothing voice will One that every night I long to hear. lull me to sleep An expression of your undying love for me.

For me, the mellow moon and stars rest as a A descant about the little things I do, reminder of our love.

The ones that mean the most to you: But the moon is just a moon, when you look above.

My smile that lights up your day like the sun.

A one-sided love, unbalanced like a young gymnast on the beam.

My laugh that makes the whole world shake, When I say “I love you,” each word has meaningful weight, Or the overdramatic and sassy statements I make.

When you say it, you might as well proclaim a statement of hate.

The soft curves and bends on my slender body Are all reminders of those nights we spent, Although I shouldn’t, all I really want is you.

When my raw emotions and heart were all that I lent.

It is not fair, it is not right, My love for you has grown from unharvested soil, For me to wear my heart on a sleeve, every waking day and night.

From seeds without nourishment and care, Silence deafens me, and I ponder what we could have been.

I did not want to fall in love, I swear.

I wait to hear your tender voice as we lie beside each other.

I try to stop it, but thoughts of life without you haunt me.

But instead, I lie restless wondering if there is another.

I believe you when you tell me I deserve more, You might as well just sing a Lulla-bye.

But somehow you reign victorious in each unholy war.

My fearful knight in battered armor, - Shira Nash ‘19 Saving me from every monster and dragon, even though unaware: A boy like you is somehow the answer to every silent prayer.

Laura Brueggeman ‘18 39

I see the road out before you, but The bright lights, they bore me.

The sky will always shine like it’s something new.

Hey, does the water taste the same in North Carolina? and Why am I thinking of you?

See, love, nothing’s above two stories in my neighborhood and even the birds are scared to fly much higher than their predecessors could. but Please sing, my songbird, and never ever die.

Hold on, my songbird, I’ll never make you cry.

Stay, my songbird, but still, you’ll fly.

Olivia Mullaney ‘18 40

Grace Fischler ‘18

You see, suffering’s my creative salvation.

I’ve made a lot in my time without you.

I’ve been crying to “The Ballad of Me and My Brain” while I’m fighting daily battles between my body and my mainframe and boy, do I cry.

“Boy,” I ask, “why?”

He gives me nothing but silence and, a turned head?

Guess I won’t find out until I’m dead and

Ele Grenfell ‘19

this makes no sense. but I’m sorry.

- Anonymous

Lucie Quinn ‘19 41

42

‘18 olli ns Cia ra C

warmth, and the power, and I took solace in them.

Just as quickly, the flames were quenched, and I had to fight my knees from buckling.

I was out of practice and out of energy.

A babble of gruff voices entered the hallway where my cell was situated, and I strained to hear what they were saying.

“... more out of control than ever tonight,” one voice said, “and I’ve no idea what use she has for the girl. She can’t be more than fifteen.”

So they were talking about me, unless it was commonplace for the dungeon to be full of fifteen-year-old girls, which I thought unlikely.

“You know the rumors,” another rough voice said uncomfortably. “If they’re true, then this could be an eventful night.”

The two men, clad in leather armor and towering above me, reached my cell, and I was filled with fear, not of them, but of what their words had served as a harbinger of.

One grabbed my arm, and I attempted to pull away.

“Where are you taking me?” I demanded, and I was surprised at the defiance, vivacity, and control in my own voice. The men both looked at me warily, as if I was a fire that was lapping at the edge of their breeches.

One cleared his throat, and stammered, “It - it’ll be better for all of us if you just comply.”

I let them lead me through the castle. At one point we passed a mirror, and I glanced at myself. My dark hair fell in wild waves down my back, and contrasted with my deep red dress; my elvish features looked less playful, more austere. The look in my chocolate brown eyes was like that of a caged animal, fighting against its bonds and filled with fear.

Arrow King ‘17

43

Finally, we reached an elaborately carved door, and it swung open. Sitting on a throne inside was a girl about as different in appearance as she could be from me. Her eyes were an icy blue, and her white blond hair looked like a waterfall that had been frozen. A diadem with clear jewels adorned her hair, and she wore a dress of pure azure. However, there was no mistaking: this girl was my sister.

“Ignacia,” she began, “I am here to present you with an option: join me, or I will receive the other elemental power from another source.”

I was shocked. She had taken over the country we lived in at my own age, leaving home and using her power over ice to take power over our own people. I had tried to dissuade her, but she had left anyway, and now she wanted to use our combined power, fire and ice, to take over the world. It would have been easy had I been the only person with the power of fire, as I thought I was, but obviously I wasn’t.

44

Helena Torres-Siclait ‘17

Alison Manca ‘19

“Sister,” I countered, “I will not.” I felt an icy blast of wind followed by the heat of fire, and when I opened my eyes again, her face had distorted into an grotesque, orange mien.

“How dare you call me sister,” a deep voice that was not my sister’s shouted. Her face returned, and I saw I saw a flicker of fear in her eyes before her icy expression returned.

“I contain much power, sister,” she stated, and I understood what she was trying to tell me.

She had wanted world domination, but now, whatever fiery force she had tried to overtake was now overtaking her, drowning her world in chaos.

We locked eyes, and I felt the heat once again starting in my chest and radiating outward until I was enveloped in flame. I sensed my sister fighting against her own bonds, and the power in the room, though silent, was ear-shattering. I began to see black from the exhaustion the summoning of power took, but I pushed on. The heat and the cold intensified, and as my vision tunneled, I heard the voice of the orange face let out an angry, fearful, and pained cry. Everything turned red, then black, and I was falling down, down, down, my arms and legs weightless in the abyss.

- Meaghan Kilner ‘20

Caroline Tangang ‘19

45

- Cecilia Hornyak ‘19

Alison Manca ‘19

Laura Brueggeman ‘18 46

Audrey Cibel ‘19

Anna Volanth ‘18

Maddie Notarianni ‘19 47

Radhika Mukerji ‘17

I am. ar. e t r s e h g t n d ti a shoo at night an m a I y , e sk ish.

Now p at th t I really am d make a w tive u k o Lo ha an ruc now w imagining away a dest k u o Y ed eep you k ave drown er. y. z t o o u r utiful t d B a l s l e e h u b d b u a o o a y up am ugh t ood; In me e. amed e r Now I werful eno used for g d e n i v o be mach me you ha I am p tended to ill . t l s i y v d e n i e r r a in s or d stu And .

Once een used f y damage ng an . o er r t b m s , t il ve il er wond v a t u e a h b l r ; I tt ‘17 s e e o r f r ea fm hin o y Benne o c , a a n e d n s e a o m i e u t o - Ta Sixt I am a used for g e true beca the world, . t n e e f s m b e o o pr sc ies I can dream o the beaut expect. ’s e l p et er Peo passag would nev a m a I ou oms y Or do

48

Meg Turner ‘20

Grace Fischler ‘18

49

Cam ille T oner ‘18

50

Sonia paused, but then drew her hand away.

“Don’t lie to me.”

Jess sighed.

“I used it once.”

“When?”

“A long time ago… it doesn’t matter now.”

Sonia tried to catch her gaze,

but Jess remained

staring at the greenish watch.

“Tell me.”

There was an

unmistakable air of

command in her voice, one Jess

usually found admirable.

“I used it when I asked

you to marry me.

You said no.”

“I said…what?”

The words continued, as

if they were a torrent

Jess couldn’t stop.

“I asked you in December

of 1993. We went to Ortzo’s,

and I had the ring in my pocket.”

Jess looked back up at her,

pleading for her to understand.

“Your hair… it was so beautiful,

covered in snow. I proposed. You said no.”

Sonia had turned away, looking down at the watch in Jess’ hand, or perhaps her thin silver ring.

“I remember that night, too. You were always playing with something in your pocket, and I was sure you were going to ask me. But you didn’t.

You didn’t ask for two more months.”

She reached for the watch again, taking it back into her hands, looking at it as if it could relinquish its secrets through its case.

“Right? That’s the truth, right?”

“Sonia…that’s the truest form. It doesn’t matter. For only a few minutes, there was an errant time strand where you said no, and I went home, and brushed off the watch. That time strand is only a stub, a fluke. The place we’re living now…the years we lived through.

This is the truest iteration.

That stub doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t!”

Sonia ran her thumb around the watch’s face, then set it back down on the bench and stood up.

“Give me a moment to think this over.

I don’t know, Jess…”

Jess watched her leave and shut her door, before picking up the watch. She popped open the face and pressed a few of the dials on the side. It began to spin and glow in her hands, the hands of the clock pausing, then moving backwards frantically.

“Do it,” her wife commanded, handing her the watch.

Jess obeyed, popping open the face, then shutting it again.

“I already did.”

Sonia’s face crumpled with worry.

“Why are you crying?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Well...I don’t remember you doing anything.”

“Of course you don’t. No one but me ever does.”

Alex Pitts ‘18

- Cecilia Hornyak ‘19

51

Road rage, A simple example where a human forgets the humanity of another.

What makes us human is our story.

In their defense, Abuse, Grief, And heartbreak, Aren’t pasted on our foreheads.

But, Is that an excuse?

Just because you don’t know my story, doesn’t mean I don’t have one to tell.

Past experiences have ushered us to this point.

We are the sum of the terrain that we’ve traveled.

You can’t see what’s behind me, but why not try?

52

Josie Roberts ’18

So, Here we are.

Namaste.

I acknowledge you.

And you me.

Our paths and glances have met.

It is my job now, to empathize, with whatever fabrication of my imagination I have attached to you.

Every step from here is stabilized, or shaken, by this choice, whether or not we decide, we are human enough, To pause, To breathe, And say yes, you are human, as am I. - Jordan DeVeaux ‘18

Katie Kalhorn ‘19

The city was quiet, blanketed by the dark, murky night sky. A row of streetlights cast a dim golden glow on the damp concrete, like small, sad suns. It had poured earlier that day, like the sky was mourning the loss of someone, forcing the city and everyone in it to grieve alongside it. A lone girl walked slowly down the dampened street, absorbing the mesmerizing scene around her. It was late, in that little time frame that some considered to be late at night, or very early in the morning. She lifted her camera and snapped a picture carefully, almost as if the soft “click” of the camera would disturb the serene beauty of the city and scare it away. The night air was still, except for the quiet clicks that silently broke the world apart into acceptable portions. She did this often, always taking pieces of the world and stowing them away so she could glance upon them whenever she needed to be reminded that the world could still be beautiful. She is the world’s most appreciated thief, but always remains in the shadows. She sneaks throughout the city, quieter than the world’s tiniest mouse, but is as talented as the best artists of the world.

The sun began to peek over the skyline and the quiet world around her started to wake with the orangey light seeping through their windows. She snapped her last few treasures and slipped away into the early morning sun, just like the moon, taking the last whispers of the night with her. Each night, the girl returns, stealing pieces of the city that would never be missed, but would always be appreciated.

- Kayleigh Zeman ‘20

Kathryn Paravano ‘17

53

in a sauna enclosed allurement leaks

while pink dreary masses dance about behind misty steam foxy eyes fade under dim

vanity lights making mirrors cry

Annie Kelly ‘19

tears tears black drops drip from copper wires frosted tips focus on a stung eye fondling her self-esteem the master artist observes her work perspire as she stares at It and It glares back - Cheyenne Curley ‘17 54

Sydney Morick ‘19

Kris Turner ‘18

Droopy eyes, fluttering lashes Soft melodies only noticeable in complete consciousness A rare encounter A silent stranger gazing from the corner Leaning backwards, swallowing sweet ripples Trickling down through the empty inside Wooly patterns, scruffy, tassells Blazing comfort, blinding reflections Chilled across the peripheral border Lined sheets Curls of lead Creams and browns Warm trickles Fingers grasping Spoonfuls of specks Dollops of daisies The bumble’s honey Round and round with silver Butter browning under the lights Bubbles on blueberries Crumbles on the pale delicacy Addictions to the falsities Swirling imaginations A design, floating from brain to brain Round and round - Amanda Heckler ‘17

55