Bowsprit 2019

STAFF Literature EDITORS:

Table of Contents literature editors:

Artists:

IZZY CHENEY ‘20 GRACE MACNEILL ‘20 HARPER MCKERROW ‘19 GRACE MEAD ‘20 CAT SHAKIN ‘19

GRACE MEAD ‘20............................................. 4

STUART WEMPLE ‘20........................... 2,18,49

CARA JACKSON ‘19.......................................... 8

MENASHA LEPORT ‘21.....................................3

PETER MURRAY ‘20....................................... 14

MAX MIGNATTI ‘20............................... 5,33,39

GIANNA ZAGARRI ‘20.................................... 16

ALICIA LIU ‘21....................................................6

BRANDON SHERMAN ‘20............................. 22

BROOKE INGEMI ‘21.........................................7

ArT CURATORS:

LILLY EARLEY ‘20........................................... 24

SAVANNAH LEAO ‘19.............. 11,12,13,32,38

KELLIE NARVARRO ‘19.................................. 28

LEAH KLEINFELD ‘20.................................... 36

GRACE MARTIN ‘21.................................. 15,55

JOSEPHINE GERAGHTY ‘19.......................... 40

CAROLINE GELINA ‘22.................................. 20

IZZY CHENEY ‘20...................................... 45,54

DAISY COOK ‘20............................................. 21

TRACY FANG ‘21............................................ 51

LELA KREIN ‘21.............................................. 23

FAYE PARKER ‘19........................................... 58

MADDEN STERRETT ‘21................................ 25

HONORS ENGLISH 2...................................... 62

LILLY EARLEY ‘20..................................... 26,27

DAISY COOK ‘20............................................. 68

CHARLOTTE GEBHARD ‘20.......................... 31

CHARLOTTE GEBHARD ‘20.......................... 70

CHIKA OYIGBO ‘22......................................... 34

NEATO KEEN ‘20............................................ 74

CHLOE TRUDEL ‘22....................................... 35

LELA KREIN ‘21 CHARLOTTE GEBHARD ‘20

Layout DESIGNERS: CINDY BAO ‘20 (EDITOR) KHALED AJAJ MOHAMMED AL-QASMI ‘19 MOHAMED AL-SHIZAWI ‘20 ELLYN CUNNINGHAM ‘19 AYI DOLBY ‘19 RICHARD SHUM ‘20 STEVEN WALXIM ‘19 EMMA WANG ‘19 WILLIAM WU ‘20 ATHENA ZHONG ‘22

MAYA LANNAN ‘21......................................... 37 CLARE O’LEARY ‘20....................................... 43 MARY DO ‘21.................................................. 44 MAEVE KELLEHER ‘22.................................. 46 ATHENA ZHONG ‘22................................ 50,73 CONNOR PETERSON ‘19............................... 56

Faculty Advisors: ART: TRICA SMITH tsmith@taboracademy.org LITERATURE: CHRIS WHITE cwhite@taboracademy.org LAYOUT: KATE ANGELL kangell@taboracademy.org LAYOUT: JOCY SU ysu@taboracademy.org

47,48,52,53,66

TONY GUO................................................. 57,62

Cover:

TAYLOR SPIKELL ‘20................................ 60,71 WILLIAM WU ‘20...................................... 61,75

DESIGN................................... WILLIAM WU ‘20

SUZU SEKI ‘19................................................ 64

IMAGES................CHARLOTTE GEBHARD ‘20,

CHARLIE WORDEN ‘22.................................. 67

TYLER HARVEY ‘19 & MARY DO ‘21

WANJIRU GITONGA ‘20................................. 68 CASSIDY YEOMANS ‘22................................ 72 ELLYN CUNNINGHAM ‘19............................. 76

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EDITORS’ NOTE

This year’s Bowsprit theme, “What’s Your Landscape?,” was inspired by our beautiful campus that lies on the edge of the ocean. The theme nods to the beauty of our natural world, and celebrates the places and people where we have felt most at home. The pieces encompass all environments that shape us, our identity, and our beliefs. We hope the writing and artwork within this year’s edition encourage you to reflect on the things that matter to you, and most importantly, why they matter to you. Lastly, in the words of Samuel Johnson, an 18th century writer, “A writer only begins a book…a reader finishes it.” With this in mind, please help us conclude this project by enjoying the Bowsprit’s display of talented writers and artists.

Thank you, The Bowsprit Editors

STUART WEMPLE 2

MENASHA LEPORT 3

Beginnings

BY Grace Mead I heal in the three-brane before my day begins possibilities ruffling in comforting wonder touching the paper, spread with a honey light layer, upon layer of folds the trickling, the holding on‌ I melt among the perception of the universe as tiny strings, tiny strings with ends bound in dimensions loops of vibrating calamity my heart holds in the morning when everything I feel escapes the margins as a particle tender to every path, still indiscernible.

MAX MIGNATTI

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ALICIA LIU

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BROOKE INGEMI

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chapel Speech

BY Cara JAckson

Everyone has a mask--something they use to hide a part of themselves from the rest of the world. For me, that mask is makeup. I rarely leave my dorm without it--I have 5 different foundations and 6 different mascaras on my desk at all times, and, when I’m having a bad day, I have a habit of spending just a little too much at Sephora.

I remember reading a quote freshman year that said, “I’d rather be hated for who I am than loved for who I am not.” For a long time, I didn’t understand this mentality. Why would you ever want people to dislike you for who you truly are? During that year, I had begun to struggle with my self image, which eventually led to the diagnosis of my eating disorder. I was only eating around 400 calories per day and exercising obsessively, but I put on a mask of a happy girl so no one would know the pain I was really feeling. I pushed away any friends who started to see past the mask, so they would never know what I was doing to myself.

When I came to Tabor sophomore year, I had decided that I would never let my guard down or take off my mask around the people here. I knew that letting my guard down would make me vulnerable, and when you’re vulnerable, you can get hurt. So, with my face fully made up, I did the best I could not to show how scared and insecure I was. I couldn’t keep it all in, and eventually, the mask came crashing down. I then had to leave school for a couple of weeks to work on my mental health.

When I came back to Tabor, I had a new sense of confidence, highlighted by the fake nose ring that I made by wrapping a paper clip around a pencil. I finally felt ready to take off my mask. It was around that time that the sophomore English classes started writing the infamous “This I Believe” essay. So I poured my heart into my “This I Believe” essay, and I wrote about my experience with vulnerability. In the essay, I told the story of the time I was taught that I did not always have ownership of my own body. It was the time an older boy, who I thought was my friend, took advantage of me when I was unable to fight back.

It was the time I experienced sexual assault, years before I was even legally old enough to give consent. In the essay, I described the situation, the struggles, and the pain that I felt after the incident, but concluded with the idea that one moment does not have to define your life.

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It had taken me years before I was able to admit what had happened to myself and even longer before I was able to tell anyone else. It took every ounce of strength I had left in me to write that essay, but I did it. When it came time to read it in front of the sophomore class, I was told by the administration that I was not allowed to share my story. Although the school’s intentions may have been good, it made me feel like an outsider, and completely changed my outlook on Tabor.

The initial love I felt for this school suddenly disappeared. How could I feel safe at a place where a story I had built up so much courage to be able to tell wasn’t accepted? I had finally allowed myself to take off my mask at Tabor, then desperately struggled to put it back on.

This school is supposed to be a place that celebrates diversity and acceptance, yet my story, and so many others, are pushed aside. To this day I am still frustrated when Tabor hosts events or programs that encourage people to share their thoughts when my story felt so unwanted here. It makes me think about all of the other things that we are discouraged from talking about: mental health, eating disorders, politics, failures. Students here struggle with mental health, assaults and unhealthy relationships take place here, and everyone has failed at something before, so why do we cover it up and pretend that it doesn’t happen? Not talking about these things won’t make them go away.

It’s not just Tabor that looks down upon showing how we truly feel, it’s the world. Boys are taught that crying makes them less of a man and girls are taught that crying makes them seem attention-seeking. We avoid talking about the things that make people uncomfortable, simply because we are afraid of what we might discover. But if we begin leaning into that discomfort, begin talking about the things that scare us, begin looking at the ability to admit when we need help as a sign of strength instead of weakness, or begin looking at crying as a sign of how hard we’re fighting instead of failure, I truly believe we will be better, happier people, and the world will be a better, happier place. No one deserves to feel like what they have to say is unimportant.

I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times when I’ve come close to leaving, but I always stay. I stay because I hope that things will start to change here, and I know that they can. I hope that this school will become a place where everyone’s story is accepted, no matter how difficult it is to hear. I hope that someday I can say that I’m a Republican or that I think Beyonce is overrated without fear. I hope that we will go out into the world and make it a place where we’re all just a little less scared to show what we’re feeling.

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I’m not saying that you need to let your guard down and tell your story to everyone who asks, but I hope that you find people who will listen and accept everything you have to offer, not just the nice parts. Having even just one person you can take your mask off in front of, one person who’s your cheerleader, your rock, your best friend, can make the biggest difference.

My mom is my person. She always tells me that I wear too much makeup and says “Cara, you’re beautiful without all of that stuff on your face.” I always thought she had to say that, because she’s my mom and that’s just what moms do. I never believed her; I always felt so much better after my face was fully made up and my mask was on.

As cliché as it might sound to prefer being hated for who you are than loved for who you aren’t, it’s true. Loving yourself is one of the most important things you can learn how to do, and it’s taken me a long time, but I’ve finally learned how. There are still days where I look in the mirror and don’t like what I see, but over time I’ve learned that loving yourself isn’t waking up every day and thinking that you’re perfect. Loving yourself is acknowledging and accepting your flaws; it’s seeing your scars but still loving your skin, it’s hearing people’s judgments but not caring what they think; it’s experiencing the bad moments but having the strength to get through them.

SAVANNAH LEAO

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SAVANNAH LEAO 12

SAVANNAH LEAO 13

An Experiment in Internet Abstinence

BY PETER Murray

This is a tale of pride and humility, of sloth and diligence, of greed and temperance. This is a story of one man’s battle with himself. It is triumph or failure of the will . . . at least, that is how I imagined giving up non-essential internet usage for a week would be like. The real story was far less interesting.

In today’s society, the youth have so very little opportunity for discomfort. It makes our lives terribly boring, so when I determined to excuse myself of an “addictive” aspect of my life for a week, I first jumped upon my silly habit of constantly checking the front page of the Fox News website just to ensure nothing of importance is going on- and let me assure you, nothing ever is. Long ago I had given up actually reading the articles.

But then my pride inflated, and I raised the stakes to include internet podcasts, then Wikipedia binges, then computer games, until finally I declared that all non schoolwork related internet usage would be barred from my life for a full week. I would use the time that I’m normally playing “Hearts of Iron IV” to finish War and Peace, write, and pursue the other activities of pseudointellectuals. Of course, due to my staunch Catholic background of my own creation, I also viewed my abstinence as a form of penance. Since the wearing of hairshirts fell out of fashion about four centuries ago and the post confessional routine has fallen to as little as two “Hail Marys,” this internet fast seemed a perfect opportunity for Christian devotion.

The first day went by easily. The second went a little harder, and so did the third, but ultimately I noticed I was not desperately desiring to go down the rabbit hole of internet usage; I was simply bored, and annoyingly only slightly more bored than when I could listen to The Daily Wire while doing homework.

Even on the occasion when I briefly relapsed, I quickly backed off as my boredom was not satiated. When I had spare time, I stared at the ceiling with thoughts pinging about, or read Plato’s Dialogues, or scrawled a page or three into my pensees, but in the end, I found that I didn’t engage in any productive leisure, or spend significantly more time in prayer.

As my experiment concluded, I determined that, one, I had been presumptuous to assume that since I was a child of the internet age I was addicted to being online. Two, I was a very bored individual who has attempted to fulfill his lack of genuine human interaction with political and religious internet chatter. Three, I will continue to fill my brain with political and religious internet chatter.

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Thus my experiment confirmed some long-held suspicions of mine, and any sense of grandiosity or human strife that I had felt at the beginning of the experiment was gone. And the worst part is, I never even finished War and Peace.

GRACE MARTIN

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I Believe in Relying on Yourself

BY GIANNA ZAGARRI

Success is a shoreline and the mass which creates the wake is the unceasing sweat and struggle. A wake reaches a shoreline not as a result of chance, it is caused by the mass moving through the water.

There is no such thing as fate.

I lay beside my father in his king sized bed, my head resting on his forearm, observing rectangles of light seeping through the glass door brought on by the golden orb falling behind trees. I listen to him; but only listen, because his words relax the drops of water on my hot cheeks. “You cannot rely on anyone else, Gianna, you are the only person that you will always have.” I was nine when I first heard these words from my dad, and yet even now they persist in my head. Every now and then they might travel and linger in the very back of my mind, but they’ll always reappear.

To reach a life with desirable circumstances, I cannot expect life to transpire in my favor, instead I must work to meet my expectations. My two parents struggled with this; my mother committed to marriage abruptly and wishes she depended on herself for longer. My father claimed the marriage continued merely to please my brother and me. And I resent this. I believe that they would have been happier if they acknowledged their tension and parted when it became necessary, much earlier than last summer when they did separate.

I believe in the importance of creating a future for myself, letting my life persist not with fortune, but through determination because luck is not real.

If I’ve learned anything from growing up while watching the hardships of my parents’ lives, I’ve realized that if I allow my life to fall out of my hands, I will end up unsatisfied.

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I sat beside my mom in her black Jeep one night and watched small waves on the water creeping behind one and other, advancing towards the shore. There was a tangible tension in the tight space. However, I am stubborn and refused to address the evident feeling. My mom’s eyes observed my emotionless face and she decided to break the silence; “I am grateful that you have another place to go when home is so difficult.” I pushed the car heater in my direction and it blew hot air on my neck.

I realize now that I was so reluctant to discussing the circumstances with my mother because I did not respect them. My parents had the control to ease their stress from the beginning, but it was not until just last summer that they did so. The events that have advanced throughout my sixteen years caused me to acquire a potent fear of failure. Gradually, I accumulated a series of expectations for myself in order to set myself up for the most successful future possible. I wake up every morning and ponder all I must accomplish to benefit the following years of my life. If I allow the unreliable term “fate” take control, I will fail. I believe that the only way to avoid living with dissatisfaction is by taking control of my life. I believe that I can only rely on myself.

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STUART WEMPLE 18

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CAROLINE GELINA

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DAISY COOK

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Preservation Through Exploration

By Brandon Sherman I’ve come to realize that the greatest pleasures of men Are those found on a journey.

It is the overlooked pleasures.

The ones cars drive by.

It is the unknown and the unexplored, The place where only nature prevails.

It is the grace of an eagle taking flight from a log, It is the pounding of the unrelenting rain atop an unexpecting head, It is the moment you realize the insignificance of your quarrels, of your troubles, or of your wars, It is the moment you breathe the same air that just scraped a mountaintop, The moment the rain catches your upward eyes.

The prevailing trees

LELA KREIN

The breathless views The tireless weather It is the pleasure.

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For Our Lives

By Lilly Earley

Everywhere it erupts. It flows like lava up the walls, over our heads, hot.

It encompasses the vast auditorium around us, so intense it drowns our cries of solidarity. From the second row, the girl in the striped shirt howls, sound flowing heavy from her fingertips, crashing to the ground, nipping at injustice.

The sound crashes and pools around us all, from the darkest crevices of the typical polyester seats we sit in, to the large ceilings fans that whirl above, a weak attempt in cooling the adrenalized mass of bodies. It fills up to our knees. Glancing at the spanning black platform before us, I see David glowing, standing, shoulders parallel to the white ceiling above. Sound waves swell to our shoulders now; every cell in our bodies attuned to the electricity dancing from our hands, up our forearms, to our chests, intertwining itself with our hearts and brains, awakening our souls.

We are completely submerged now, moving in slow motion. Our clothes float amidst currents of passion. I turn my head to the side, my long hair swirling behind me. Madden. My heart heavies with raw love. Our bodies in a mass of 700. Our bodies unified in a movement of hundreds of thousands.

Today, our lives are not sunken in numbers, nor statistics. Today, our lives are significant, we make them known in a ripple of change.

Our noise is dampened by the whirlpooling resonance that surrounds us. Together though, we create it. We are beautifully drowning. David closes his eyes, spreads his thin arms and bares himself to the crowd. We all feel his pain.

He holds the microphone to his lips. The raging ocean we have created drains, dead silence taking its place, louder than the raging chaos ever did.

“It’s a revolution!” echoes throughout the building, the sound waves cascade into our ears, penetrate our minds, unify our souls. It erupts once again.

From the balcony above, spanning the length of the auditorium, police stand, baring guns, looking down upon the beautiful chaos. Ironic isn’t it?

Spectating the movement, with the weapon that instigated it all.

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MADDEN STERRETT

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LILLY EARLEY 26

LILLY EARLEY 27

Chapel Speech

BY KELLY NAVARRO

My mother grew up in Itagüí, a city south of Medellín, Colombia. Time and time again, I would hear my mom talk about Colombia with such passion, proudly saying, “I’m Colombian,” to whoever asked her where she was from.

Growing up, we celebrated Colombian independence at annual festivals, and she had Colombian flags all around the house. Almost every story that my mom told me about her past began with, “I loved my childhood. I remember running around with my friends and just enjoying ourselves around the barrio.” She would describe the holidays with lights all over Medellín, music blaring, food cooking in the streets, and people dancing. She would talk about how much she loved running through Medellín, roller skating down steep streets. She would tell me that she was looking forward to going back to school after high school.

However, the violence in their neighborhood soon became too much to bear and they decided to leave their beloved country. I remember the tears down her face as she explained: “We had to leave Colombia. I had to leave the place I loved without a choice. It was a matter of life or death.”

All the stories that she told me about her close friends in Colombia ended with me asking if she had kept in contact with any of them. She would say, “No, lo mataron. They killed him.” In describing how life in Colombia was during that time, she would say, “Pablo Escobar would kill people mercilessly…it was a terrible time for anyone that lived in Colombia. It was a time of fear that your family and friends could be killed at any second.”

Upon arriving in the United States, she said “Your aunt and I were the first to come and we lived in our uncle’s house. We were so grateful that he took us in. However, we had to face humiliation and guilt as our uncle would rub in our faces that he was allowing us to live with him and his family. He would tell us that we had to find a place to live soon despite the fact that we had just arrived in the United States and we were working our butts off in terrible factories to get any money we could.” She continued with a repulsed expression on her face, “I still remember my first job which was working in a factory that prepared chicken. We had to chop up the chicken into pieces and take the skin off for it to be cooked. Our uniforms would be covered in blood and we smelled terrible.”

She would then explain that when my grandma and her two younger brothers came after her arrival to the US, both she and her sister were forced to take on the responsibility of supporting the family financially. This responsibility 28

fell on their shoulders as they were the older siblings and my grandma hadn’t worked a day in her life because she grew up in a traditional society where women were expected to be housewives. My mother said, “I had to work long hours in jobs that didn’t pay well because I didn’t have experience in anything else and didn’t have the credentials to get a high-paying job.” As a result, my mother was forced to give up her aspirations to become a labor and delivery nurse.

In the 26 years that my mother has been here, she has worked as a packer of electronics components, a specimen technician, a medical secretary, a data entry clerk, an office cleaner, and a customer service associate. Recently, however, she decided to go back to school for Early Childhood Education as her passion for children drove her to pursue this career. I love hearing the stories that my mom comes home with such as, “Every time I leave the room, Brooklyn starts crying and she gives me kisses on the cheek and forehead every time I walk in.”

My mother once explained that “before you were born, I had lost most of my amniotic fluid due to a complication and you were born very prematurely.”

For the two weeks after I was born, I stayed in the hospital and was only four pounds. Months after my birth, I had to go to the hospital for check-ups often and doctors had to keep a close eye on my health until I was well over a year old. My mother’s efforts transformed a four-pound baby into one of the fattest babies you’ll ever see. Even after the struggles that came after my birth, I was seen in the doctor’s office more often than most up until I was about eight or nine years old with mysterious fevers and colds.

In school, I was not the greatest student which I know is hard to believe for those who know how much of a nerd I am today. It wasn’t until sixth grade when I saw how far education was taking my best friends that I went from a C and B student to a straight A student in one year. Not only did I see how happy it made me to do well, but I saw how proud my mother was when she saw my grades and heard from my teachers. During middle school, I chose to apply to a program called New Jersey SEEDS for motivated low-income students who wish to further their education at college preparatory high schools. This 14-month, academically rigorous program introduced me to opportunities that I had never imagined and furthered my love for marine science by helping me arrive at Tabor. New Jersey SEEDS allowed me to choose a path that wasn’t originally obtainable in my education system and gave me the skills to succeed in a competitive private school environment.

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In Passaic, there was poverty, lack of motivation with regards to academics, an acceptance for the conditions in which we lived, and I understood that I wasn’t going to fulfill my dream in my current town. My choice to apply to Tabor and take advantage of the marine and nautical science opportunities was a decision that completely changed my life. However, without the support of my mother and family, I would never have applied to a program so foreign to me. Anytime that I wanted to quit the program due to its competitive academic nature, my mother explained to me that the only way to do what I wanted with my life was through education.

In asking my mother if she ever regrets coming to the US, she answers every time without hesitation, “Look, Kellie. I love Colombia, but I couldn’t live there anymore. I couldn’t live with the violence and lack of jobs that are still there. That is why I am so thankful for this country. Despite all the struggles, the United States gave me a chance to build a life away from all of the negative aspects of Colombia. If I didn’t come here, I wouldn’t have had you or your brothers, and you wouldn’t have the opportunities that you’ve had at Tabor.”

I hope you understand the importance of truly embracing the words of the speaker on MLK day, Mr. Febo, when he said, “Humanity is what should bring us together.” Our differences in political beliefs, or identity, or personal beliefs, should not cause us to forget that statement. We are all human. Please don’t forget that the claims, “all immigrants are criminals” and “this isn’t your home,” undermine everything my family has gone through to be law-abiding citizens of this country. Such claims convey to me that my mother and family should have stayed in a country where their lives were threatened. All I ask is that everyone in this community respects, embraces, and understands the humanity of ALL of us.

CHARLOTTE GEBHARD

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SAVANNAH LEAO

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MAX MIGNATTI

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CHIKA OYIGBO

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CHLOE TRUDEL

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Green Thumb

BY Leah Kleinfeld

I do not have your green thumb.

Of all the things you raised me with, That you did not pass down.

I cannot do what you could I cannot grow roses with my words, Daisies do not spring forth from my smile, I cannot laugh sunflowers into existence.

You could.

But you aren’t here.

The world is gray and the sun is gone, But the flowers you grew live on, So I sit in your garden, in poppy blankets, I sit and imagine these petals alone might bring you back.

The garden is my home, for it is where I can find you now The breeze pulls your words from the roses and floats them to my ear Daisies sing with the eternal abundance of your smile.

Bumblebees hum in tune with your laugh as they hover over sunflowers.

I cannot do what you could, But I keep your garden green For as long as I can sit in your garden, You will always be here with me.

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MAYA LANNAN

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SAVANNAH LEAO

MAX MIGNATTI

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Growing Up a Diplomat’s Daughter

BY JOSEPHINE GERAGHTY

No, my parents aren’t spies…at least I don’t think. No, I don’t have access to top-secret government documents…though I do have a clearance. No, we aren’t rich…my parents get a government salary. No, we don’t fly first class 24/7 and live lavish international lives or party and whatnot…although, first class sounds nice. The truth about being part of the foreign service is not like the movies portray, especially when you are an average American kid just trying not to miss the school bus.

I’ve lived in five countries since I was six years old and have attended about ten schools during that time. To other foreign service kids, I’m green. A Scrub. A Newbie. By the time I was ten, I could pack a suitcase that weighed fifty pounds on the dot, and owned just enough stuff that my family of four wouldn’t go over our household weight limit of 75,000 pounds. At twelve, I knew by memory the safety instructions of a plane and mouthed along the words every flight. If you asked me twelve years ago what my life would be like, I would not have said this. I would have said I’d be in Canton, MA, living in the same blue house, going to the town high school…I couldn’t have even guessed what sports or what activities I’d be doing, or what college I’d be attending next year. This lifestyle has been a whirlwind.

Each time I moved I met new people, went to a new school, lived in a new house and new neighborhood, and played on new sports teams. The most noticeable “new” thing was friends. I’m sure you remember the first day of middle/elementary/high school, and how nerve-wracking it was. I turned it into a profession. I got “Hi I’m Josephine, from Boston (sorta), my favorite flavor of ice cream is cookie dough... nice to meet you,” down pat. Although I got plenty of practice, making friends was still very tough because I was often the new girl who came in the middle of the year when friend groups were already formed.

Most people were welcoming…but some friend groups couldn’t be broken with a sledgehammer. I’m not kidding….TNT wouldn’t crack some of those circles.

Coming to Tabor I had a tough time making friends. I was a new junior.

Most of my peers had been together for two years and sometimes even before high school. Don’t get me wrong, I have amazing friends here, it just took a minute. It took a lot of lunches alone, a lot of putting myself out there and getting involved, and a fair amount of tears and awkward situations.

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I was definitely a little tired of making new friends by last September.

The silver lining is, every time, every move, I have found my group of amazing people. I never had the benefit of having a friend from childhood who I grew up with, but I’ve had the benefit of making friends from every corner of the world. I do have friends I will cherish my whole life, they just live far away.

Coming back from Iceland when I was seven I was bullied for the first time. In elementary math class, we were counting money and I didn’t know how much a quarter was and thought dimes and nickels were the same thing. While that seems stupid to me now, back then I was taught with Icelandic currency.

“Are you stupid?” was something I heard a lot. To make matters worse, I couldn’t tell the temperature or distance because I had learned Celsius and the metric system.

When I was younger, I was really self-conscious about being different.

It wasn’t until the end of last year that I fully embraced it. Once I realized that people like to hear about my stories of living overseas and didn’t laugh when it took me a second to understand feet and inches, I saw it wasn’t a bad thing but kind of cool. I’ve lived in a way few have, and that’s not bad but special and to be celebrated.

The toughest question I’ve ever been asked is, “Where are you from?”

Well I was born in Boston, lived for 5 years in a suburb outside of Boston, came to Tabor from Suriname, but before that I lived in DC, and before that Mexico. I spend most of my breaks in Braintree with my grandparents, but I lived on the Cape this past summer, and I have no clue about next summer. My parents are buying a house in Canton, but they’ll move again, so…what do you mean?

Home has taken on a new meaning for me. It has expanded from where I reside, as cheesy as it sounds, to where my heart is. When every new house is decorated with my family’s things and acquires the ‘smell of home,’ that becomes home. Tabor is also a home. My dorm room is my little house, and my dorm mates are family. I might not be from Marion, but it sure feels like home.

With all that said, I would not trade it for the world. I’ve thought about what my life would be like if my parents stayed lawyers in Canton, MA. If I went to the public high school and was graduating a bulldog, not a seawolf. If I lived in the same blue house, with the same neighbors. Would I still have traveled as much? Would I even be at Tabor? Would I be going to college in South Carolina next year? Would I have the same passions and interests? Would I love country music? The list goes on and on.

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The state department has enabled me to have some of the best experiences of my life so far. I’ve seen the northern lights in Iceland, learned to cross country ski in Norway, found a passion for history in DC, experienced the US/Mexico border first hand, worked with sloths in Suriname, and discovered a love for community service while at Tabor. All these events and more directly contributed to my experience growing up a diplomat’s daughter.

I’m sure you’ve all heard of “global citizenship” or “global awareness.”

I like to think I have that. I’ve been placed in countries and cultures that are not mine and told to go about my day. Living overseas is so much better than reading about it in the news. Having lived in Ciudad Juárez, Mexico, a border town, allows me to view current headlines with a lens few here have. I’ve seen and crossed the border. I’ve seen the US factories in Mexico. I’ve seen the poverty and corruption first hand. I’ve seen how much the border guards put up with. I’ve seen the buildings that have secret tunnels and I’ve been on the bridge when drug busts happen. I’ve seen racism. I’ve experienced racism that exists toward Americans. I do not condone most of the current political actions; I see it differently. I do not condone building a wall across the entire border or separating families. I see both countries are dependent on each other. El Paso, Texas needs Juarez and vice versa.

I feel like I do not say thank you enough to my parents and the state department for my story. It has truly shaped who I am and who I hope to become. It has opened my eyes and my mind in ways I didn’t think possible. It’s put my values and things I find important into a new light. Thank you, mom and dad. Thank you, US state department. Thank you for my story.

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CLARE O’LEARY

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Leave No Trace

BY Izzy Cheney

MARY DO

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My knuckles turn white as I grip the sides of the Jeep. The tires screech against the red rock, staining the air a rusty orange. As we crest the hill and roll past its peak, I begin to dangle from the sticky leather seat while gravity tests the limits of my fraying seat belt. Without warning, our elevation drops and I seal my eyes shut so tightly that I see blurs of lingering light amid the blackness. After a few seconds I reopen my eyes to see that we are perpendicular to the ground, frozen still. The grooves in the tires cling desperately to the crevices in the rock, and then they release their grip. We settle at the bottom of the rock formation breathless, with wide eyes and pale faces; “that’s why we test our brakes once a month,” the driver reassures.

I massage my hands gently to soothe the tension and I shake them to regain blood circulation. The Jeep plows a path toward the clearing, swaying from side to side with each rock that we roll over. We come to a complete stop and the engine hums off. My feet land on the ground as if stepping on the tarmac after an overseas flight, and the crisp air cleanses my lungs of the red dust while the hot sun radiates off the sandy ground.

The massive rock formation miles away captivates my gaze and the brilliant blue sky behind it resembles that of a painting. The sun illuminates the bright oranges and reds; everything is motionless. The horn honks and the engine rumbles to a start. I scurry toward the Jeep, afraid to descend the next rock formation; reluctant to create more clouds of dust. I appreciate the beauty of the untouched, and I worry about the effects of our permanent footprint. We drive away from the clearing, and this time I notice the cloud of exhaust behind us, wrecking my view of the desert.

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MAEVE KELLEHER

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SAVANNAH LEAO

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SAVANNAH LEAO 48

STUART WEMPLE 49

The Church Bell

BY Tracy Fang After the bell from the church has rung, the car has gone into the one-way path.

After the sun hides far behind, ink has spilled onto the pale clouds.

Wind starts rising, blowing up the dark blue satin dress of the ocean The calendar has memory, more than dates we count together.

Sand has memory, tiny grains remember our former footsteps.

A boat has memory, slender white scratches we carved on the black paint.

ATHENA ZHONG

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The boats still set on, the ocean still roars, and the church bell rings.

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SAVANNAH LEAO

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SAVANNAH LEAO

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This I Believe

BY IZZY CHENEY

I believe in rebellions.

As a kid, my dad always told me, “the more rules you follow the fewer rules you’ll have,” but I disagree. Today, even though I consider myself a rule-follower, I find myself surrounded by more rules than ever before. Do your homework, be in dress code, no texting in class, attend the required programming this night and that night. However, my dress is rarely a prox card from my knee, and as provocative as they are, people will likely see my shoulders in a classroom setting. Occasionally, I am guilty of texting during class through my not so discreet computer, and I haven’t Sealogged in months. Every once in a while I break the unwritten, yet widely understood rule of not liking someone’s post from months ago, and sometimes I double text. But so what with all of these insignificant rebellions?

Even though the odds of creating revolution are against me as a highschooler, marching as a small part of a large demonstration inspires others and facilitates change. This past January, as we approached Cambridge Common on our way to the Women’s March, the sporadic protesters soon became thousands. We meandered our way through the crowds, dodging scores of empowered and enthusiastic women, men, and children on a raw January day.

Once situated amongst the sea of people, the speakers commenced, and while the microphones were barely strong enough to convey the powerful messages over the hundred-yard distance, the harmonious clapping and cheering from thousands of people spoke louder than any of the actual words. All of these people had chosen to participate knowing that one extra voice yelling in agreement, or one extra poster, would make little difference. Thousands of seemingly insignificant yet passionate voices made one large one. Thus, my general dissatisfaction with the government and civil disobedience that day at the Women’s March carried the spark of rebelliousness needed to initiate meaningful change.

At the right time and place, I believe rebellion becomes a medley of bravery and passion for productive change. I recognize that my disobedience is commonly of trivial concern and has minimal effect. However, the momentus rallies across the country have had a profound influence, proving that those who rebel accomplish more than those who do nothing. As symbolic as I may think they are, I know breaking dress code and boycotting Sealog will not initiate the change I hope to see in the world, but I can’t help but wonder if my rebelliousness will inspire the next Emma Gonzalez to address any number of the problems in society today. My message is not to break a massive school rule at the next opportunity, but instead to cherish and appreciate the human desire to rebel, and use this inherent gift to create positive change, or at the very least, inspire others to do so.

GRACE MARTIN

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CONNOR PETERSON

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TONY GUO

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chapel Speech

BY Faye Parker

I had had my license for about a month and it was literally still my permit with the “you passed” signature scribbled on it, but against everyone’s better judgment, I was behind the wheel on an unearthly cold December night.

The best description of my driving style at this period of time would be cautious, very cautious, and despite Ella telling me I was going to take 40 minutes to complete a 10-minute drive to the high school, I continued to go 15 in a 30 just as fast as I could. But the roads - they had other plans. Five minutes away, we round the top of a hill and enter a 90-degree bend in the road, and Ella says, “Faye, it looks icy.” Now let me tell you that 1999 Passat flew. The entire bend was black ice and our car, which Ella had lovingly named Baltazar, was skating himself right into the 2018 winter Olympics. Baltazar did not turn and by the time I had corrected the wheel to prevent us from flying off the road, it had overcorrected and we were now soaring head-on into the one other car driving on a completely desolate street.

Ella was yelling “Faye fix it. Faye, Faye, Faye, Faye, my god Faye!!!!” and I was yelling “It’s hydroplaning, oh my god it’s hydroplaning!” And then the wheels snatched, and our father’s 20-year-old Passat, and us wide-eyed inside it, went back onto our side of the road. And then onto the sidewalk. And then into a ditch. And then onto a boulder. Which stopped us from continuing down into the trees and water a little further on, but also flipped us completely 90-degrees. We were now entirely sideways, with the driver’s side door resting on the ground. I turned to Ella who was now tilted above me, rather than next to me, and told her the truth: I legitimately thought we were going to die. She looks at me and goes…“I told you it was icy.”

To say the least, Baltazar was done for, the boulder had ripped the entire undercarriage off the car, oil covered the pavement, and it took the work of three tow trucks to get him out of the ditch. Not to mention, his airbags still didn’t go off.

Now, I want you all to know something very important: each and everyone one of you has the undeniable ability within you to total a car. I mean absolutely wreck one beyond compare… it’s a pretty easy task. All it took for me was going 20 miles per hour in a 25, a 90-degree bend, and a really cold December night.

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The fact of the matter is that it is much easier to destroy than to build something. The saying may go “Rome was not built in a day,” but remember, it did fall in one.

The construction versus destruction comparison came up originally in a conversation between my dad and me. We were driving home from an outof-state basketball tournament and the White House had recently switched administrations. We were discussing what the new White House had done during its first few months in charge. The new administration had begun to undo much of the legislation put in by the previous one, and to say the least, my dad was unimpressed. As he saw it, there is nothing monumental or praiseworthy in breaking something; it doesn’t take skill to undo what others have done. The real work comes with creating and developing. It comes with progressing not backtracking.

Now think about life and what goes into creating a life: the nature and nurture that results in someone completely unique. Aside from the biological aspect of it, the probability of you being born is roughly 1 in 400 trillion. And then there’s the growth aspect and all that goes into the human you become, all the details and choices and learning moments that develop a person, that create your life. Now, how easy is it to lose life? It’s not just easy, it’s inevitable.

As we have seen too often in these recent years, the pull of a trigger can end it all. Think about that power: the power of one finger in one moment to end something that is the product of thousands of moments, a power I don’t think anyone should ever have. However, the choice to destroy rather than create is a power we all have. That, in my opinion, is terrifying.

When I think of creating versus destroying in relation to legacy, I think of how easy it is to have an inconsequential legacy, one of indifference, rather than one of consequence; whether that is the consequence of Ruth Bader Ginsburg being the one-woman show of the supreme court, or my mum making sure I will always feel her love.

Right now we are at a turning point societally, environmentally, and politically We are about to enter adulthood or sitting just past its doorstep. The world is being passed down to us and we must decide, in a generation’s time, how we will pass it to those behind us.

Due to the current state of the world, our generation will not decide how big or small we want our impact to be. We’ve lost that ability: our impact will be substantial whether we would like it to be or not. So, instead, we must choose whether our impact will be constructive or destructive, an active fight or a lazy submission. All the work to come is ours, all that there is to build and create is ours.

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So, when you view the world, think of your actions, think of what you wish to achieve, think of what your energy goes in to, and think of whether you have helped the world move forward, or whether you’ve set it back, or held someone back.

The world is ours, the hammer is ours, the time is ours, so please don’t take the easy route. Instead, put a little bit more into the world than you take out.

TAYLOR SPIKELL

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WILLIAM WU

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HONORS BOAT BY HONORS ENGLISH 2

TONY GUO 62

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SUZU SEKI 64

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SAVANNAH LEAO 66

CHARLIE WORDEN 67

RUSH HOUR

BY DAISY COOK

Standing alone in Grand Central at 3 o’clock on a Saturday, I silently cursed myself for making this the meeting place. It was Christmas weekend, hundreds of people were milling about at a breakneck speed specific only to New York City, the hustle and bustle of which I typically adored. However, I was on a mission today, and that very momentum was only a deterrent for what I was there to do. It had been 5 months, 1 week, 6 days, and a few hours since I had last seen him, but it wasn’t as though I had been counting. My calves burned from the strain of standing on my toes in an attempt to see over the crowd, but it was impossible; my little legs lent little aid to my pursuit, and I gave up with an angry huff. Just as my heels met the floor, a warm scent enveloped me that was soon followed by two leather-clad arms. I recognized the smell immediately, melting back into his chest for a brief moment before turning around.

“I ju-.” I began to say, but was cut off by him engulfing me in his arms and spinning me around. When he finally set me down, he was grinning from ear to ear and I couldn’t help but smile too. He had grown a lot since I had last seen him, and his hair was longer and darker, but he was still the same boy I had left in Spain many months ago.

“I’m sorry, I’m late for my train. I have to go.” He said. I vaguely remember him kissing me on the forehead before he turned and disappeared into the crowd.

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WANJIRU GITONGA

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Tea Time

BY Charlotte Gebhard

I pour the boiling water into the two ceramic mugs resting on the countertop, the hot steam rising, heavy with the smell of bergamot.

“Apparently, they’re only looking for someone to answer calls for 40 hours a week.” My mother stares out the window as our neighbor pulls into his driveway. He has an hour commute everyday to and from work, and she watches him roll his tired shoulders with envy. “I don’t want to answer calls.”

We’re out of sugar. I lift myself onto my toes, eyeing the top shelf for the bear-shaped honey jar. Honey is more overpowering, but she’d rather have something a little too sweet than too bitter. I turn it upside down and thwack it against the granite, dislodging some of the sugar crystals as the honey sludges down the insides of the jar into each mug.

“I can’t practice without a license, but all of my teachers are dead and there’s no one else to recommend me.” The neighbor’s briefcase is dark brown leather, nearly overflowing with papers and pens. He’s a banker. He loiters outside his door, looking for his keys. “I should have done this 25 years ago.

What have I been doing? I should never have gotten married.”

I think she likes milk in her tea. I tip the carton quickly, a stream of white arching through the air into her cup. It billows up like smoke, swirling and expanding until the entire cup is an even tan color. Although it’s too light for either of us, I claim it and retry with the second. Quick tip, white cloud, tan and sweet. I slide it towards her, cupping mine in my hand. It’s hot enough to burn, but both of us take a deep sip.

“Make good choices, sweetheart. Someday, it’ll be too late to make a change.” He turns the key in the lock, stepping over the threshold. I see his wife through the window smile, take the briefcase from his hand, and give him a kiss. “Look around you. What does this look like to you? Is this happiness, is this fulfillment? What am I supposed to do with the next 20 years of my life?”

She puts down her tea and walks away. I stand another moment at the window watching the neighbors, then tip my tea into the sink.

Too much milk.

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TAYLOR SPIKELL

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CASSIDY YEOMANS

ATHENA ZHONG

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Addiction Essay

By NEATO KEEN

I enter the dining hall ravenous, looking around for potential companions to sit with. If no such being exists, I would usually choose to eat at a later time.

As usual, I walk towards the international-students’-designated tables with my food while avoiding contact with anyone in the way.

The international tables are typically filled with the international students along with their engaged partners—their phones. A short greeting, typically a “hi,” with the international schoolmates would suffice as a request to join them for a meal. The request is always accepted, so long as there are available seats. Otherwise, silence would usually connote a preference towards tapping on the screens of their partners over chatting with others. With a high rate of engagement amongst the international students, I am, sadly, also a part of this majority—meaning, I am engaged to my phone, especially during meal time.

I place my food on the table and subconsciously and grab my partner, checking to see if she has anything important to tell me—in fact, anything she says at this moment would be important to me, and will, therefore, capture my immediate attention. My partner, whom I depend profoundly on whenever I am alone, has become my replacement for a real-life meal companion. She keeps my eyes busy, she reaps away all the embarrassment that I feel when eating alone, and, most importantly, she regularly delivers me humorous content to giggle at.

Everything was going well. I became comfortable with silence so long as I had my partner with me. But that was until I initiated the breakup. To lose somebody like her during my most desperate moment was both frustrating and demanding for my brain. She was somebody I relied heavily on for social interaction and comfort. Now, I see the majority of the population still engaged, while I am divorced, lonely, and depressed.

I soon began to realize how one-sided my relationship was shortly after I broke us apart. Although she never failed to keep me company, never upset me nor fought with me, she was never supportive of my social life. She incessantly demanded my attention whenever I was with people. She never gave me the chance to interact with others, to improve my social awkwardness, and to have a genuine connection with my peers. My addiction to relying on my partner was detrimental. But, thankfully, it came to a stop.

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My divorce may not have affected the engagement rate amongst the international students, but through my action, perhaps more students will realize that having a phone as a partner only incites an endless cycle of bleakness. But perhaps, only a few would discover a better partner, a more attractive and understanding partner who has always been within their peripherals. She, who lies behind the splendid windows of the dining hall, is the view of the ocean and the sky, seizing away my attention whenever I lend my eyes to her—she is the epitome of elegance, and she is my new partner.

WILLIAM WU

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~MR. MOGILNICKI CONFRONTS THE GODS OF FIRE~

ELLYN CUNNINGHAM

THANK YOU FOR 29 YEARS MOGS!

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