Senior Review by The Highliner

I N V

R O E

COVER BY MEL DOUER

The Highliner Managing Board wants to give a special thank you to Mr.Mendel for all of his support not only with the Senior Review, but with our work all year long. We really appreciate how much care and attention you put forth in all of our endeuvors, we could not have done it without you!

To the Avenues: New York Class of 2020: Whether we are budding linguists, writers, physicists, athletes, or computer programming prodigies, each one of us has something that sets us apart from our peers. The Senior Review, composed of written and visual works—from personal and reflective pieces to poems, drawings, photographs and cartoons—is a reflection of who we all are. The Review highlights all of us, both as individuals and as a class, in addition to being a testament to the ways in which we would all like to be remembered. As we go our separate ways, pursue our passions and discover new paths in college and beyond, it is important that we have something tangible to hold us all together, even if we are in different corners of the world. In making the Senior Review, we sought to give our grade just that—something to look back at in the future and something to hold on to for the rest of our lives. Ultimately, we hope that this publication makes us all proud of the people we have become and everything we have been able to gain from our Avenues experience. We feel very fortunate to have been a part of the Class of 2020, and we look forward to seeing where the future takes us. Enjoy! The Highliner Managing Board Belle Fraser, Didi Jin, Isabel Mudannayake, Jaden Schapiro, Daniel Khazanov and Melissa Douer

CONTENTS

70 The Legend of the Standing Pencil Case | Jimmy Kerr

How I Got Through High School

The explained experience of a professional procrastinator BY DIDI JIN

ometimes, I really wonder how I’ve been able to get through high school without any major regrets. I’ve missed too many deadlines, meetings, and toed the line of being unethical, all of which stems from my problem of, what I call, chronic procrastination. I’m grateful, of course, to be where I am now, to my teachers and others who have helped me, but once in a while, I almost wish that there had been a moment that would have jolted me into picking up better work habits for good. Everything started off well in my freshman year. I’d make myself do schoolwork once I got home from school before watching Youtube or playing video games, like any good, hardworking student might. I don’t know quite where things went awry, but I think that it might have had something to do with my discovery of Netflix and Fortnite. Anyways, my after school routine turned from staying up until 1 or 2 am binging Arrow or The Flash to this: Go home. Nap. Try doing homework while watching Netflix. Give up on homework. Play video games. Do homework. Go to bed in the early morning. Somehow make it to school. I found the most obscure ways to waste time at home. I learned to play the ukulele, solve a Rubik’s cube, watch pointless Youtube videos for hours on end, and so many other things that I don’t even remotely remember. I learned to write English and History papers in a night, and how much coffee I needed in order to pull an all-nighter and still function at school the next day (anything that added up to four shots of espresso). I was also a big fan of Red Bull, though I noticed that it would give me pounding headaches if I’d had too much. I’d meticulously plan out my days, only to not follow any of that plan, and do it all over again the next day. I’ve missed too many first periods and music classes to count (sorry Mr. Dolan), and missed deadline after deadline on homework assignment, essay, or independent project. Thankfully, I’ve had teachers who have been more than lenient with me, and

for them, I’m truly grateful. I think that that leniency did genuinely help me create some of my best work. I don’t say all of this to brag about my school experience at all (although there’s definitely a hint of pride now that I think of it), but rather as something that I can hopefully look back on years from now and chuckle at. Even now, six weeks into quarantine, there’s things on my to-do list that have been sitting there since the quarantine started—like learning to make spaghetti and meatballs. Heck, I’m even writing this piece two days late, on a splitscreen with White Collar. Though, with these habits, there’s definitely some things that I’m genuinely proud of regarding my time at Avenues. Beating Nicole out for Vice President at the end of sophomore year, single-handedly organizing Avenues’ first Homecoming, and leading The Highliner to heights its never seen before. In all seriousness, though, I’ve written memoirs and journalistic pieces that I’m really proud of. I’ve had meaningful conversations with students and teachers and learned life lessons that I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. I’ve had invaluable experiences all across the world, and I’ve had opportunities to really dive into fields of study that excite me. Some of my favorite memories, though, have to be from participating in prospective family events, where I’d love to talk about how completing homework assignments was similar to playing video games because both were things that I just enjoyed doing, or that I was almost fluent in Spanish. With all of that said, this is getting long, so for any future version of me reading, I hope you’ve built better habits, and that your penchant for waking up late and procrastinating has at least lessened to a manageable extent, and that it hasn’t cost you in a way that you might seriously regret. Cheers, class of 2020! I truly will miss coming up with creative solutions and workarounds with you all as we enter the next phase of our lives. •

"I’d meticulously plan out my days, only to not follow any of that plan, and do it all over again the next day." 6

c lc n c c a c c An Abundance of ThankYou's

By Belle Fraser

he Lands End site wouldn’t load. I had three white polos with the Avenues logo left on my “things to buy before my first day of school” list. My baggy P.E. pants had already arrived and my mom even let me get the black fleece with the light blue A in the right corner––I saw it as a necessity. The same as I am today, 11-year-old me liked to have everything planned: all the boxes checked, and all of the to do’s done. The circling rainbow ball on my computer screen did nothing to ease my nerves. Nina Cutler and I had just spent the last two hours on a scavenger hunt for all the grey pleated skirts Crewcuts had to offer. She had her first year at Avenues under her belt so was able to show me the ropes. Yes to purple tights, and green necklaces, but no to a light pink blouse––that was out of dress code she said. Nina recommended a statement shoe to balance out the drab black, white, and grey that would occupy a majority of my closet space for the foreseeable future. For me, it was easier to distract myself with my fashion choices than to think about the daunting prospect of going to a new school. The night before my first day was disastrous. A summer full of sleepovers left me with a head full of lice and a single evening to restore the cleanliness of my brown locks. To add on to that, I had just remembered the summer reading homework...that I hadn’t done. So, I sat at my kitchen counter, chemicals and combs burning my scalp, hastily reading and sloppily annotating The Circuit. I was convinced this was a bad omen for how my Avenues experience was going to pan out––but thankfully, I was completely wrong. From the first time I walked into 259 10th Avenue, to the last time I walked out, I have grown in tremendous ways: as a student, person, and citizen of the world. I don’t want this to sound like an admissions speech gushing about how great Avenues is, but let me just get a couple sentences in and I swear I’ll be done. This school has given me the space to progressively become a person I am proud of by challenging me to exceed instead of meet expectations, and never settle for “just okay” in any aspect of my life. I’ve been surrounded by some of the most amazing people I’ve ever met and I don’t know how I got so lucky to be part of the Class of 2020. Grateful is an understatement. Putting together this Senior Review has been such a rewarding experience. I’ve, in a way, gotten to relive bits and pieces of the past couple of years through reading everyone’s submissions. I’m now overly nostalgic and will burst into tears anytime a family member brings up school, but it has also given me a sense of closure that the end of this year lacked. Also, a sense of purpose. It sounds a little pathetic but I found a lot of meaning in being a student, I guess it made me feel useful. During this quarantine The Highliner has acted as my outlet to be someone other than a sister, daughter, or sad high school senior. Beyond this past month, though, The Highliner has been one of the biggest spaces where I learned who I was and who I want to be. Best. Club. Ever. I wanted to give a thank you to this year’s managing board. I would probably be too awkward to express these sentiments to you guys over zoom, so I thought I would put them here.

Isabel, you are so reliable and hardworking. If an article needs to be edited, you’re on the document within seconds. If an intro needs to be written, you put together a powerful message. I think everyone in the club really looked up to you this year in the way that you led group meetings and were there to help with whatever they needed. I have had the best time working with you and can’t wait to see the amazing things you do next year! Jaden, The Highliner will never be the same without your “break” claps at the end of each meeting. We could always count on you and your unmatched layout skills to bring the articles to life––yay team indesign!! Your leadership with the zines really helped the publication branch out and experiment with forms of journalism and art that we hadn’t before. Thank you for your unwavering dedication and good luck next year! Mel, I am so sorry for the hundreds of times I’ve texted you at 10:00pm asking for art for an article. But what can I say, there’s no one more talented than you! It brought me so much joy opening emails from you because I was always so excited to see what you had created (and was always wowed by how amazing it was). I don’t know what we would’ve done without you, thank you for making the pages of The Highliner a fun place to be. Can’t wait to see your art in the MoMA one day. Dank, from photo series, to running The Highliner website, writing articles, and being a part time editor––you’ve really done it all! You always lightened the mood in stressful meetings and were very honest about your views on things which greatly benefitted the publication. Your “get it done” attitude is something I really admire and was a mentality that enabled you to lead through your actions. Thank you for all of your work this year!! Didi, I know we joke around a lot but you really are one of the best writers I know. You have such a distinct voice. It’s relatable, funny, but at the same time very thoughtful and insightful. You have a great way of connecting with people and made everyone in the club feel welcome and supported from day one––truly a role model for everyone in the room. When things got hectic you were always able to crack a joke or calm me down, I think we balanced each other out. There is no one else I would have rather run The Highliner with, you’re the best. Mr.Mendel, thank you so much for everything. You really went above and beyond in supporting us in whatever initiative we were taking on. No matter how crazy the idea, you always had confidence in our group and gave us the structure we needed to produce the best work that we could. You pushed us outside of our comfort zones which allowed us to grow as both people and journalists. The Highliner has been such a special experience for me and I am so grateful for all the work you put into it to ensure success. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Okay, sorry for being so sentimental––agh. But lastly, to the Class of 2020, thank you for the most amazing seven years. You are all the very best and I can’t wait to see what everyone accomplishes in the future. So sad that we all can’t be aviators forever, but it is so clear to me that we are all ready to take on these next stages of our lives. I’m not really sure how to end this, but thank you for everything and I love you all. • 8

piro

Keep Quiet 9

by jaden schapiro

art by jaden scha

"This was the first time in high school that felt completely quiet. I remember eating there and feeling like a motionless body of water. Even with the fragrant scoops of cabbage and tufts of steaming mantou in front of me, nothing could distract me."

he memories I always go back to when I think of my high school experience so far are all the places I have managed to visit in the past four years. The one I remember most vividly, despite it lacking many eye-catching traits, is the dining hall at the Shaolin temple in Yunnan, China. What made it different from any other dining hall were the rules that we had to follow: don’t talk, face the front of the room, finish all the food in your bowl, and the shifu always eat first. In addition to all of those rules, I got separated from the rest of the group and the only seat left was the end of the second row from the monks, nuns, and a large statue of Budai. From then on—for breakfast, lunch, and dinner—I was alone in complete silence. This was the first time in high school that felt completely quiet. I remember eating there and feeling like a motionless body of water. Even with the fragrant scoops of cabbage and tufts of steaming mantou in front of me, nothing could distract me. It seemed like I was eating alone in a giant white cube while having a conversation alone with my thoughts. Although, I would occasionally glance up from my bowl to see Budai’s wide grin smiling from ear to ear. His eyes were incredibly intimidating as though he was watching my every snap of cucumber and squish of bitter melon. It made me think of each grain of rice going from the pan, to my bowl, and down into my

stomach. I could call it a reflection, but the experience was more intense. With that level of solitude I became more aware of everything around me: wafts of incense burning, the shakiness of my stool, the texture of my chopsticks, and how every foreigner at the temple seemed to be making peanut butter and honey sandwiches with their steamed buns. Isolating myself from the group and being put in the dining hall’s restrictive situation made me very conscious of everything that I was doing from that moment on. I didn’t know it then, but it was really a type of meditation just like counting your breaths or listening to ambient noise. I was in Guangdong—where we stayed during the second leg of the trip—when I noticed the deeper impacts of the dining hall. The Wudang commune contrasted starkly with the Shaolin temple: the air was soupy and humid, our lessons were quiet, the food was heavier, and I didn’t happen to see any peanut butter around. Most importantly, our new dining hall was an outdoor seating arrangement with split logs as benches and we were provided the freedom to talk with and face one another. Despite not having the same rules like we did in Yunnan, I couldn’t help but pay attention to the condensation droplets on our tables or the stringy orange insides of the southerners’ sweet potatoes. I had left the ominous white room with Budai looking over, but the temple’s dining hall refused to part with me.• 10

what we have and

give

by isabel mudannayake

venues’ three core values, “Welcome, Safety and Respect” are heard every day and practically branded on the minds of every Avenues student. By now, they have become examples of a number of buzzwords in the ever-growing Avenues lexicon, but beyond the words, how do students actually practice this philosophy at school? Walking down the pristine, tree-lined sidewalk into Avenues: São Paulo, Anderson, the security guard standing by the door gives me a friendly smile and offers me a fist bump. Although I have only been here for one week, he seems to know me already. As masses of noisy kids and teenagers continue to file in, he greets them, offers them friendly high-fives and asks them how they are doing. They smile and respond, taking a second to enjoy the brief but fun interaction before their busy school days begin. At morning break, students go to the spacious and inviting café on the sixth floor. As they eat or wait for their food, they stop and chat with the café staff, laughing and joking with them before they head back to class. In the immaculate, brightly-colored hallways, students run into staff tirelessly cleaning the school floors, sweeping the staircases or carefully distributing healthy snacks to students on every floor. It is clear that they genuinely care about the kids and are doing everything they can to make Avenues better for the community that inhabits it. This work does not go unnoticed. Rather than just passing by, more light conversations are shared between the students and the staff. Most people seem to say “thank you” to one another and genuinely appreciate the efforts that other people make for them—addressing them in a polite and friendly way. “We love the staff, we always talk to them and they are really kind,” said Marco Serra (SP ’23). When asked about the role staff members play in the Avenues community, Serra said “beyond just taking good care of the school, I think they build a nice atmosphere and a lot of positivity.” He then elaborated about his own interactions with Avenues staff, saying, “I didn’t like the picture on my badge so I put a piece of paper over it and drew on it, then I showed it to Anderson, the guy who stands by the door and he liked it. Then it fell off after a while and now every day when I walk into school, he tells me to make another drawing. He’s like, ‘I’m not going to look at your badge if you don’t have a drawing.’” This is just one example of the friendly banter that often takes place between Avenues: São Paulo students and staff members. As a new school, Avenues: São Paulo is rapidly developing a strong sense of community and this has been manifested through the bonds that have been formed between students and staff members. However, although the rapport is usually positive, there is always room for more growth and improvement, as is the case with anything. Manuela Atkins (SP ‘23), says, “I think students here are very respectful overall, but the people who don’t respect are very disrespectful. I think the upper grades students are usually most respectful, too.” Other Avenues: São Paulo students agreed, saying that the culture around respect

was most prominent within Avenues’ older students. Despite their geographical distance from one another, this idea of close connections to staff within the upper grades seems to be a common thread in both Avenues: São Paulo and Avenues: New York. Avalon Scarola (NY ‘20), said, “Overall, I think the older kids treat staff a lot better than younger kids do. I’m sure there are exceptions, but younger kids seem to have less of an understanding of the privilege it is to be at a school like Avenues, where teachers and staff care so much about kids. It could just be this year, but that’s what I have seen.” Scarola said. With age comes responsibility and maturity, so it makes sense that Avenues’ eldest students are the closest to staff members, but it is important that younger grades continue to follow in the footsteps of leaders before them because before long, they will be bearing the torch. Scarola said that she, herself, has close relationships with many staff members at Avenues such as New York Security Guard Clayton Pickering: “Clay is so nice. The other day he wanted to know all about fencing because he knew we had practice, but he didn’t know how it really worked so I talked to him about it for a while... If the staff didn’t work as well as they do, students would have a lot more complaints; they are the quiet backbone of a well-running place,” Scarola said. As everyone often picks favorite teachers, it seems Avenues: New York students definitely have special connections to some staff members as well. For instance, Tony Longo, Security Officer Supervisor, is a friend and ally of most students and many have personal and close ties with him. Qi Mei Schmidt (NY ‘20), said he is one of the closest adults she has in the whole building. “I can just sit down with him whenever I need to and talk with him for hours. He tells me stories about his time working for the NYPD and he asks about my own life so I tell him all about things like school, college and volleyball. He always wants to make sure I get home safe and he lends me an umbrella if it’s raining and I don’t have one.” When asked about respect for staff in other grades, Schmidt said that a lot of it came down to a question of courage. “I definitely think a lot of it is about confidence and learning to make small talk, which you get better at when you get older. I think that if you are in the elevator with a staff member that you have seen around, you are a lot less likely to ask them how their day is when you are younger. But as you get older, you realize it doesn’t hurt you to say hello. Overall, Avenues does a good job fostering well-spoken kids, but I think there is definitely room for improvement. When you have more, it is really easy to appreciate less and it is our responsibility to make sure that kind of thing doesn’t happen.” Andres Murillo (‘20), said, “Part of why we are able to have these special relationships with staff is definitely because Avenues is a smaller school. When I went to public school, I didn’t know any of the security guards or anything because they were just like NYPD officers and saw so many kids every day.” As Murillo said, we are lucky to be a small 12

"Every grade often sets the standards for the one below it, so we should do what we can to set a positive example." school with amazing resources and staff, so it is necessary that we continue to recognize this. It is all too easy for a school to feel like a hierarchy, where everyone has their place and no one wants to disrupt that system, but if we are going to be in touch with one another, we must make the effort to give back and make the most of what our community has to offer not just by doing what benefits ourselves, but also with what helps those around us. This idea extends to students and grade dynamics, as well. Every grade often sets the standards for the one below it, so we should do what we can to set a positive example. Beyond that, we must be conscientious of our own behavior at school, because our manners and the ways that we present ourselves matter within those walls as much as they do anywhere else. Avenues students do, for the most part, carry out the values of “Welcome, Safety and Respect” well and they are not empty words traveling through one ear and out of the other. Numerous students have positive relationships with staff and this is the kind of culture that we strive to encour-

age—we cannot become complacent and expect these connections to form on their own, because unless students take it upon themselves to give back, these connections simply will not emerge. Avenues (both New York and São Paulo) is a new school; its reputation is still malleable and growing, much like the school itself as it continues to build campuses across continents and oceans. Thus, it is all the more necessary to continue to be as respectful as we can of those around us and practice these values that Avenues often preaches to the best of our ability. As Atkins (SP ‘23) said,“We hear almost every day about the three core values. It doesn’t help to just repeat three words and think that will make them come true.” We do not want to become known as a fractured community, so it comes down to us to make the effort to ensure that that kind of reputation does not develop. A small gesture, a hello and a quick wave or a warm hug go a surprisingly long way. These are all fantastic places to begin building meaningful relationships with those who work so hard to make our Avenues experiences everything that they are. •

piro

A r t b y J aden Sc ha

THE MANAGING BOARD

Hooked by daniel khazanov

ilence is often misleading. The quietest moment is right before the whole lake echoes with the sound of a fish fighting to run with my line. Erupting from the water like a torpedo, it twists its head furiously, unable to shake the hook. My obsession with fishing started when I was three. My parents took us to a small cabin in the Poconos so that (I later learned) they could feel at home in this “foreign country.” My mom put a yard sale fishing rod into my small hands and said “смотри” (look). Every day of that vacation, my mother taught me to fish. We would sit silently, waiting for a bite, then she would erupt with stories of her family’s дача (cabin) in the Soviet Union. To escape from cramped industrial cities, people had little plots of land in the countryside where they grew vegetables for the winter and relaxed during the summer. It felt like time travel, listening to her speak. I could see her as a kid like me, learning how to fish for the first time. Messing up just like I did, smiling as her grandfather held the rod while she reeled in her first fish. Just as my grandfather taught my mom fishing fundamentals, she taught me. And just as she struggled, I did, too. I tried to do exactly as my mom instructed, but every time I let go of the line, I would end up with a hook somewhere on my body. I raised the rod and let go: hook in my hand. Raise, let go: hook in my arm. Still, there was something so immersive in the experience––it was worth the pain. For my mother, fishing was a way to connect with her roots, and for me, it was a way to connect with her. Much of my more complex Russian vocabulary consisted of fishing terms and names of aquatic inhabitants. But I also learned about my mother's family, her childhood in Kiev, and how I was growing up in a different world—and this world was my parents’ gift to me, the gift of freedom. For my 6th birthday, my grandparents gave me a Russian fish encyclopedia that I silently hunched over for weeks. The more I mastered the subtle art of fishing, the more it reeled me in. There is something meditative about tying knots, setting rigs, and practicing flipping and pitching casts. Even when I’m home in Jersey City, I get sucked into the fishing world through videos on YouTube of tutorials, strategies, and GoPro footage from my favorite fishermen. Time drifts and disappears. We still spend summers with fellow Russian émigrés in the small Poconos town where my initial enjoyment of fishing became a full-blown passion. I have many fishing buddies there, most of whom are senior citizens. I see my favorite one every Saturday at the dock on Hemlock Lake. He always tells me about his life: fishing techniques he learned in the Soviet Union, escaping to America with his daughters, and visiting the Poconos to escape Brooklyn. His stories transport me through time, to my first fishing lesson, to my mom’s дача, where silent fishing sessions erupted into stories about pre-Soviet life. When he talks, I can also see my future. Someday, I will be that old man sitting on the dock, pulling young fishermen into the stories that hooked me as a child. Already, I have begun to introduce my little cousins to my passion the way my mom introduced me to hers. At first, we sit in silence, but silence is fleeting. All of the stories my mother told me, I pass down to them as we practice the basics. The way they listen, I can see that the hook will be hard to shake. • 16

hat I’ve been looking forward to most about graduating is that my completely monochrome, grey-scale closet will gain back its color and excitement. I will finally be able to buy that blue sweater instead of settling for its grey alternative because “I’ll be able to wear it to school.” I might even indulge in some bright orange pants for the heck of it. But as much as I have dreamed of this moment, I know deep inside that this will not pan out the way I’m imaging. I’ve grown comfortable with black, white, and grey. Wearing a slightly colored shirt with a print or a pattern on the weekend is now a bold move for me, and doing that requires me to be seriously hyped up by my mom who is tired of seeing me wear the same shirt everyday. Honestly, it might take me another four years to break out of this color shell. I also recently realized that I’m going to be going to college with people who aren’t from New York City. Crazy, I know, right? Not everyone grew up in the epicenter of hypebeast culture. To clarify, I’m not in the least bit a hypebeast, but I’ve noticed that I know a lot about street fashion and what “the kids” are into these days. I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t know what to make of the fact that not everyone will be sporting fake Gucci socks, chunky Balenciaga shoes, that cured construction tape looking OFF-WHITE belt, different variations of the same Supreme hoodie, and let’s not forget a trusty Canada Goose jacket. People might not even understand why pre-scuffed up shoes with a star on it sells for 500 dollars. Not everyone might know who KAWS or even “Virgil Abloh” are. And for that I’m actually thankful. Or rather, “thankful.” How will I explain to people who grew up in some faraway place, like upstate New York or Connecticut, why putting quotes around a word makes it “so fire.” Not as many people will care about the pretentious assholes that dominate the high-end fashion industry. I’m not saying we all fall under this description; some of us at Avenues actually have style. Just kidding, don’t come at me. But it’s very present in our culture. And I kind of hope to remember what we dressed like ten years from now. I want to remember the Comme Des Garçons shirts, those sneakers with the distracting neon orange zip tie, and how reliable Uniqlo was. I don’t want to forget the sudden rise to popularity of Carhartt beanies because someone decided that to look cool we had to start dressing like lumberjacks and fishermen. We won’t forget Penelope’s cool aesthetic and eye for finding statement pieces or Jaden’s support for sustainable and ethical brands or Jenzemi or Didi’s extensive hat collection or Tara’s beach girl vibes and pink obsession. We all have our fashion evolution story and in some ways our individual styles have evolved as a grade. •

art by mel douer

FRESHMAN YEAR Two words: fingerless gloves. I had extremely frizzy hair and braces that completely covered my small teeth. Why didn’t anyone tell me that I shouldn’t brush my curly hair? I would wear skirts over leggings or really thick tights and beige vans that made me think I was really cool. I mostly shopped at H&M and Zara (I no longer support either) because both were near my house and had lots of black, grey, and white stuff. To top it all off, I wore a saggy beanie that would just accentuate my frizzy hair. Other than that I mostly wore leggings.

SOPHOMORE YEAR The year of the combat boots. Despite those glorious boots, I kind of broke out of my “emo” phase. I still listened to Fall Out Boy, Panic and the Disco!, and occasionally My Chemical Romance. But I didn’t wear fingerless gloves and I was no longer trying really hard to be edgy. I loved Urban Outfitters and I began to live on high waisted jeans and turtlenecks. I started to collect colorful socks with fun patterns which soon enough got out of hand. I also for some reason liked wide flowy pants. I think it’s a Brazilian thing.

JUNIOR YEAR I got rid of the combat boots. Just kidding, they’re kind of iconic of my years at Avenues so they’re staying in my closet until further notice. I straightened my hair everyday and I still wore the same high waisted pants and wannabe turtle necks. However, I started to understand what looks good and what doesn’t. I got that red squishy bracelet that everyone liked to play with. I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m probably going to be that lady who wears crazy jewelry and who you automatically assume teaches art to middle-schoolers.

SENIOR YEAR Some people say they like my style, but I don’t really know what that means because I basically rotate the same 5 outfits every week. I almost always wear white corduroy pants and a black long sleeve shirt on Mondays. It’s involuntary and I don’t know how it happens. I’ve obtained a keener eye for fashion, but I still don’t think I’ve developed a style or aesthetic yet.

Veasna

BY VEZ BOGLIOLO

easna is a Cambodian name: it means fate, destiny, luck. In Cambodia, many boys are given the name Veasna when they are taken into an orphanage as a sign of hope, as good omen. I was one of them: born in Phnom Penh, I was left in a hospital by my biological parents and transferred to an orphanage four months later. A few years ago, I looked up the word "fate," and I found out that it originates from ancient Greek. It refers to the Fates, the three goddesses who preside over the birth and life of humans; each person's destiny was thought of as a thread spun, measured and cut by the three Fates. I don't know what the Fates have set aside for my future, but I know that, so far, the thread they spun for me has been sensational. When I was 13 months old, I was adopted by my mom and dad, an Italian couple, and I was brought to Rome, Italy, where I grew up. Today, I am seventeen years old, I lived in three continents, and visited at least fifteen countries, I speak three languages and I studied in four different schools. It’s been a journey and at times it wasn’t easy to leave my comfort zone and to say farewell to friends I loved. But along the way, I learned something that has deeply shaped my identity; that establishing authentic relationships is the turning point between feeling lost and feeling at home. I learned that if I make people happy, they make me happy and that if I give them my best, people give me their best. The Fates set aside a life of changes and new beginnings but they gave me the gift of empathy, the ability to connect, recognize and understand others. It’s this ability that allows me to function at my best in a group. A few weeks after I moved to New York, some of my new classmates and I were having a conversation about tolerance and patience and someone pointed out that, even if I was a new kid, I seemed to be always open to everyone and welcoming of every situation. That was surprising and very heartwarming, but it was not the first time people had told me how quickly they feel comfortable around me. More recently, in my 11th grade report, my film teacher wrote : "Vez, everyone wants to work with you!" No A or A+ has ever made me feel better than what Ms. Howard wrote. I am proud that my teachers and my peers recognize and appreciate how important it is for me to connect and be part of a group. Last May, I traveled to Guatemala with some students from Avenues New York and Avenues Sao Paulo to learn about ethical filmmaking and produce a short documentary about the life of the Mayan community in the village of San Antonio Palopo. We lived with local families -sharing their food and helping them with their chores––and we worked in small groups of two or three students––writing scripts, carrying out interviews, shooting and editing. My ability to connect allowed me to recognize the local people's dignity in the face of hardship and put my privileges and my expectations for comfort in the right perspective. At the same time it allowed me to contribute to creating a strong commitment to collaboration within my production crew, my teachers, the local guides and the other students. The little Veasna, the Cambodian child left to himself in Phnom Penh, has grown into Vez, what people call me now, the person people look for, people want to be with and want to work with. Veasna's fate was to become Vez: a kid who was gifted with empathy, who respects and recognizes others and who strives to become a better person from learning and working in a team. • 20

I Want to Learn Japanese By Valentina Doukeris iro

chap

en s y jad art b

espite my best efforts to whisper, my voice sounds unnaturally loud in the study hall silence. My friend’s fingers end their dance across her keyboard as she shifts her focus from her computer screen to me. She gives me an uncertain look. “Really?” she asks, shifting in her seat to face me, “I thought you were going to try learning French.” She’s right. I bought a French textbook after my dad suggested I learn it. But for the past two weeks, that textbook has been sitting in a drawer. I don’t want to learn French. If I wanted to study a romance language, it would definitely be Italian. Or, perhaps I’d try my hand at Latin. It would be a language that captivates me, not my dad. I shrug, distractedly drumming my fingers on the table. “I’m just thinking… I should probably balance things out, you know? I have three Western languages, right? But... I only know two Eastern ones, and once you learn Korean and Mandarin, how can you not learn Japanese? And–” “–Yeah, you can probably do it,” she interrupts me before my list of excuses grows. We’ve had this conversation before. She smiles and returns to her essay. My eyes fall back to my paper, but my mind continues to wander. Instead of annotating the excerpts of simplified texts about Confucius I let my pencil roam around the margins. A doodle of a sunflower turns into Korean lyrics of a song by the same name, turns intoI want to go back to Korea in bubble letters, turns into an airplane flying around the world. Around and around and around. I move across the world enough to make most people dizzy. Most people. But not me. I grew up exposed to an array of different cultures and unfamiliar traditions, so the concept of something being different and unfamiliar is neither different nor unfamiliar to me. It’s just… right. It’s ingrained in me to learn about other people, to learn of other people, and to learn from other people. I have a ravenous appetite for it: I always crave to hear new stories and to share my own. And no matter how much I learn, I’m never satiated. Every culture exists behind a door that gives you a peephole to look through. Languages are the keys that unlock those doors. Learning a language gives you the privilege of walking through one, or two, or three doors. It gives you the honour of hearing those stories. I hold five keys, but I am greedy for more. I want to throw open all those doors. I want to turn the hallway into a cacophony of unique sounds and smells and tastes. If you could zoom in on my drawing, you would find me sitting with my chin resting on my palm, listening passively to the safety video they play every time the plane takes off. You would hear me laugh under my breath when they played the same video again, except this time it’s dubbed in Chinese––because we are flying out of Shanghai Pudong International Airport––and I understand it word-for-word. You might see me strike up a conversation with the Taiwanese flight attendant or help a Korean couple understand the immigration lines at John F. Kennedy International Airport. I shake my head ever-so-slightly to reign in my roaming mind. My phone reads 1:28 pm and there’s a pop-up below the date that indicates I have three unread texts from minha mãe (my mom). I admire the collection I’ve created on my page. I wonder what I’ll add to it next. •

Change PLANS

by fiona jasper

“

Are you kidding me?” I exclaimed, scrutinizing the multicolored squares that composed my new schedule. It was my senior year and I had waited the entire summer to see who my teachers would be, and which days I would have which class for the final time. I selected my courses near the end of eleventh grade and had put special care into the process. I wanted to get the most out of my last year at Avenues. However, when I scanned my different class descriptions, I saw that my chosen elective, Journalism, had been replaced with a class I had never heard of called: Eastern Philosophy. After speaking with my dean, I learned that the administration would not be able to make any immediate changes, even if my resulting schedule was due to a clerical error. I had to attend those classes for the first day and follow my schedule as it was given to me. On my own again, I groaned and rolled my eyes in frustration. This was going to put me off track for what was supposed to be the perfect start of a perfect year. During second period, though, when I found myself sitting in the Eastern Philosophy class, my earlier frustration had dissipated. I watched as Mr. Baron, normally a Chinese teacher, spoke about this course he crafted. He wanted to give students insight into his passion for studying global perspectives on culture, not only the Western ones we were accustomed to. When he asked a question, his bright eyes scattered the room eager to see what someone would say in response. When he explained an ideology, he would pace at the front of the room waving his arms around him. His energy was infectious, allowing me to disregard that I would only be there for one day. I wanted to learn even if it was for a single class. I listened to his every word and quietly reflected each time he asked a question, ultimately sharing my thoughts with the rest of the class. Although I was only there by mistake, I walked out of school that day feeling as though it happened for a reason. In the weeks leading up to my first day, I had been a mess of emotions. I was scared to start this final year because there is no way to describe my seven years at Avenues other than magical; I was proud not only of what I have accomplished as a student, but more importantly of the person it allowed me to become. The people around me and the curriculum encouraged me to explore my curiosity, to hear others’ perspectives, and share my own. I felt so much love for the school and the learner I could be inside those walls, that it made the idea of having to move forward so frightening—it seemed unimaginable. However, in those eighty minutes with Mr. Baron, he made me realize a valuable lesson that could not have come at a more perfect time. During one of his passionate explanations, he spoke of a Chinese ideology in the form of a proverb. In English, it meant that no matter what group of people you find yourself among, you can always find a teacher in one of them. The philosophy resonated with me because it was my reasoning for having learned so much at Avenues. In all my classes I had been given the opportunity to learn not just from a teacher giving a lecture, but by sharing and absorbing perspectives through an ever-evolving discussion with my peers. Being in Mr. Baron’s Eastern Philosophy course on that first day of my Senior year let me feel eternally grateful for the experience I had at Avenues, but also made me realize that I needed to let go. If gaining knowledge and wisdom from those around me was how I grew so much, then it was time that I found teachers in a new group of people. After seven years among fifty-eight other students who were like family to me, I had learned all that I possibly could from them. The clerical error that at the start of the day made me want to scream, later seemed like a gift because I knew then that I was ready to immerse myself in a new environment for the next four years. I would simply lead with my passion to learn about anything, anywhere, and from anyone that I had cultivated as a member of the Class of 2020 at Avenues. • 24

by ella price

Pigs

was born in the whirlwind that is New York City. Though out-of-control to many, I’ve blissfully navigated the subways since age thirteen, assuaged the nerves of intimidated tourists, and muscled my way through awkward smalltalk with chatty cab drivers. Accustomed to Manhattan hurdles, I was convinced that my “junior-year-farm-school-semester” would be easy. I quickly discovered that my city never prepared me for being up close and personal with six pigs. Long before the winter sunrise on a Maine Wednesday, I waded into Chewonki’s pig pen, armed with only a 50-pound bucket of slop in my freezing fingers. Instead of the hungry, happy farm-like-dogs I expected, I was greeted by the most terrifying beasts I had ever seen. At 250+ pounds, each swine was stout and virtually immovable, coated in the previous day’s breakfast and manure. All at once, twelve black, beady eyes narrowed at the bucket in my hand and before I could scream or run, I found myself sinking into an ocean of manure beneath the famished mouths of six monsters. I skipped breakfast to shower, shocked by how easily the pigs clobbered my self esteem. I’m a person who likes knowing what to expect. I had done my research for Chewonki and thought I wouldn't be surprised. But so far from the concrete hurdles I was used to, my typical solutions were useless on the farm. The chowhounds’ attack flattened my facade of confidence and couldn’t have been further from my expectations for farm chores. So, I tried to get out of it. While they sympathized with my morning’s ordeal, my cabinmates flatly refused to switch tasks. Though I begged and pleaded for action over sympathy, I went to bed unsuccessful, dreading the next day. It came and I had no choice but to wade back into the hideous hog-parlor. With slop in one hand and a pitchfork for balance in the other, I made it past the giant devils to the other end. Though trembling, I triumphantly poured that slop into the tub with a warrior’s might. Sure, the writhing barbarians walloped mud into my pants, but I completed my task and completed it upright; it was a success. Time passed and while I never grew less afraid, I began identifying the once anonymous monsters by carefully chosen names. The four indistinguishable hogs were all called Frank; the biggest demon, the group’s clear ringleader, was named Frank Senior; and the pink tinted animal with fluttery eyelashes became Lila-Belle. Somehow, naming the pungent porkers made them less alien and they soon became my morning companions. Instead of detesting them for their vulgar, muddy mannerisms and for making me feel weak, I began to care for them. I learned that one of the Franks loves red apples, that Lila-Belle sits in the back left corner of the pen because that’s where the sun first hits in the morning, and that when there’s no slop around, Frank Sr. is a big softie who likes being scratched behind the ears. Soon, I didn’t tremble when I plunged into the pen. I didn’t need a pitchfork to keep my balance. I wasn’t angry when Frank, Frank, Frank, Frank, Frank Sr., and Lila-Belle got a little dirt on my overalls; that’s why I wore them after all. On my last morning at the farm, I stumbled when the hungry, happy gobblers shoved my mud-encased legs. My arms ached as I poured my ultimate bucket of slop into the tub. Relishing my final mini-victory, I recognized that the predictable isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. While I still like knowing what to expect, I understand I have the strength to face the unknown. So, I squelched my way out of my friends’ pen, thankful they showed me I don’t need to be so perfectly in control. Truthfully, we had Chewonki-raised-bacon for our final breakfast of the semester, but that’s a whole other essay… • 26

The Best Time

by nicole domingo 27

D art by nicole domingo

ear class of 2020, There is so much that I want to say, and it’s hard for me to put into words, but I’ll try my best. Before this year, I didn’t really think about how all 57 of us became classmates, but after being in Mr. Tappe’s Senior Seminar this year, I have a newfound appreciation for how our lives crossed paths. Whether we enrolled in 5th, 6th, 9th, 10th, or even 11th grade, a plethora of decisions, circumstances, and chances led us to Avenues. I overthink a lot, so I’ve recently found myself reflecting on how my family came across this “New School of Thought.” Like the rest of us, I’m sure it was in a very random way, and we were definitely skeptical at first. I am so glad that my parents made this decision; the right decision, for sure. Of course, I’m grateful for the amazing teachers, unique curriculum, and resources at our disposal, but most importantly, I’m grateful for the time that I’ve gotten to spend with all of you. When looking back at my years at Avenues, time is a strange concept. I’ve spent eight years here, which means I was 10 when I first started. It feels like such a long time ago, but at the same time, the years flew by. It’s sometimes hard to differentiate what happened when, and to really grasp how much of our lives have been spent in 259 10th avenue. So, I decided to look through both my old phone’s camera roll, and our previous yearbooks to highlight some memorable events, people, and experiences from every year: 5th grade: The First First Day, Ms. Reedy and her Wizard of Oz obsession, Move Your Body, Master Chef 6th grade: Black Rock Forest overnight trip, Chelsea Piers PE, humanities milestone night, the Intrepid Museum visit, “Spring in the City” dance 7th grade: Ms. Kim, participating in team sports (finally!) , “Fallderall” dance, Cabaret, Bar & Bat Mitzvah season 8th grade: musically, fields, end of year science presentation, six flags trip 9th grade: peer leadership, battle of the bands, Ms. Sager, Ryan Aotani’s mastery performance 10th grade: Governor’s Island trip, Spanish cabaret, gun violence walk out, Os Primeiros 11th grade: Jaclyn’s sweet 16, MOMA trip, Science Museum trip, debate club, dodgeball tournament 12th grade: all white on first day of school, climate change walkout, Black rock forest, Mish’s, Homecoming ... This ellipse at the end of my 12th grade list is very upsetting. We’ve been looking forward to those monumental senior year experiences for as long as we can remember. As much as we’d like to be able to snap our fingers and transport to those moments, I think this will only make everything after more meaningful. Now more than ever, I think we’ve all developed a new appreciation for time. I remember talking to people before the COVID-19 situation, and most would say “I can’t wait to graduate” or even countdown the days until we got to throw our caps in the air. I now realize how I wasn’t living in the moment, and instead anticipating and rushing to the next chapter of my life. All I want is to go back to those little moments where I really wasn’t doing anything, except interacting with my classmates. I wish I could be lying on the 9th floor couches surrounded by you all, talking about literally anything (my personal favorite will always be politics). I really took those moments for granted. It’s even harder to live in the moment now, since the future is one big uncertainty. So instead, I hope that we all take this time to reflect on our incredible years at Avenues with each other. I hope we reach out to one another , more than ever, and continue to build our strong relationships during the last moments of high school and beyond. So, thank you again to each and every one of you for creating such an amazing community, and for making my time here so memorable; I am forever grateful, love you guys! • 28

Relativity, Infinite Breadsticks,

and Other Things I Cannot Explain BY MISHA NOSENKO

do really apologise for the amount of scientific mumbo jumbo and general absurdity that is about to follow, so please bear with me. Firstly, our perception of the universe is intrinsically flawed, and what we call “the universe” is in fact but a small segment, known as the observable universe. It is but a patch of the potentially infinite plane which we separated with a meaningless (from the perspective of the plane) picket fence, the particle horizon, which describes the maximum distance from which light could have traveled to us during the nearly fourteen billion years since the Big Bang. Beyond this horizon exists a minimum of hundreds, maybe hundreds of thousands or even infinitely more of the same patches. Before I get carried away explaining how we can define a mathematical boundary at infinity to contain this plausibly infinite universe in accordance with the holographic principle (basically the equivalent of torturing myself ), it is simply enough to understand that many of our assumptions about the universe are wrong, and that there may in fact be an infinite amount of universe for the gods of Olive Garden to turn into breadsticks. But let’s imagine for the moment that the universe truly is finite to the point where we should all watch out for a purple Josh Brolin, how then, does Olive Garden achieve the impossible? This is another point at which all of our intuitions and assumptions about the universe and what is possible have to go. For you see, Olive Garden is no mere mortal establishment. Just like at an airport from midnight to seven, an empty art gallery, a 7-11 parking lot, or literally any Denny’s, reality at Olive Garden is altered beyond the ability of our minds to comprehend. An Olive Garden effortlessly bends the very fabric of existence, distorting space and time beyond Einstein’s wildest dreams to create a nigh-impossible quantity of breadsticks (that I am convinced no one actually likes) from existence itself, utilizing mass-energy equivalence and the sheer willpower of third generation Italian-Americans to force the breadsticks into reality. There is however, another explanation that is less likely to cause a mob of angry high school science teachers to hound me harder than the French did Louis XVI. In physics, there exists an oddity about the nature of objective reality. When we attempt to establish something as “objective reality,” we typically look for universal agreement, meaning that literally everything, and I do mean literally everything, must agree on it. This includes me, you, your dog, my dog, that weird uncle we all have, every single subatomic particle, Danny DeVito, God (although the last two are basically one and the same) and anything else you can think of. The trouble is, concepts like space, time and the order of cosmic events all lack the backing of universal agreement, meaning two particles can disagree on the order of different events, as well as the space and time between those events. So none of them are objectively true, and there is no universal ordering of events, meaning your past could be in someone else’s future. The one thing that everything CAN agree on though, is the spacetime interval between events, the four-dimensional spacetime interval, the external reality that encompasses our collective experience of the space between things and the time between events. So spacetime, is what’s real. This means that, as Hermann Minkowski, a former math professor of Einstein’s once proposed, reality is NOT a three-dimensional spatial plane that evolves through time, but instead a four-dimensional, non-Euclidean (which is to say not like your high school geometry class) plane that is simply there, with no evolution, and no time. The points (just like everyone’s favourite (x,y) points from middle school math, but all grown up into hideous, soul crushing (x,y,z,t) points) in this plane are events, all events that have ever happened. These events do not appear and disappear in this plane as we might typically perceive events to come and go, they are simply there. And objects, such as you, me, and the aforementioned breadsticks, exist only as a geodesic (basically a fancy line segment that is the shortest path between two points in a curved space, sounds complicated... I know) joining the events of our birth and our death (in the case of the breadsticks instantaneous consumption by someone who clearly lacks taste in Italian cuisine), a geodesic that is simply there, completely timeless. So theoretically, not only is your future completely predetermined, it already exists. What I am trying to say is that the breadsticks, just like us, and for that matter literally everything, have always existed, and will always exist regardless of how our puny mortal brains perceive them, and all Olive Garden has to do is to stick them on a plate. • 30

Independent By Stefano Canavesio

In this digital age, where most people have a high-end camera tucked in their pockets, photos are becoming lost in deep archives of one’s digital landscape. Throughout the past two years, I have been using a 35mm Olympus Zoom 80, a simple point and shoot film camera, to capture raw moments without losing my present sense of self. These black and white film photos represent my reconnection with the world around me, a separation from the digital age. As we reach the final moments of our high school experience, I have put together a few photos of Avenues students to honor them, and the memories we have created, a genuine reflection of times past in a nostalgic art form. P.S. I would’ve never done this if it hadn’t been for Luc Detiger, he introduced me to film photography and let me use his camera. Thank you. •

The Last First

By Lila Kempler 41

y mom sits across from me, elbows planted firmly on the marble table and coffee mug resting between her fingers. “Okay. I have to get a picture!” She says excitedly and escorts me to the living room. She has her iPhone in her right hand and her left thumb ready for clicking, trying to capture the moment with good lighting. I attempt to summon a smile after a rough 7:00am wakeup, then hold still. She pulls up her camera and honors the tradition of first-day pictures, which has been upheld every year since I was three. My last first-day picture. When I am sluggishly moving through my morning routine, I don’t think about the conclusiveness of these events. I don’t think about how I will never have a first day at Avenues again or how my quiet morning conversations with my friends will also come to a close. I don’t think about how every action is terminal––even the small ones. We are used to celebrating firsts, but often skip over lasts. Avenues has seen us through so many endings, but most of them never truly felt final as we always returned to the same building and people each morning. My last bite of an original chocolate chip cookie from the cafe didn’t feel final. My last trip up the 515 stairs went unnoticed. The last time I opened an Avenues locker was not dramatic. The last time we gathered in the black box before we grew too big is lost in memory. The last time we sat in the cafe during lunch, stretched out on the ninth-floor couches, crushed ourselves to fit in a crowded elevator, stayed in the building after school hours, played music in the commons, and raced on wheely chairs, never felt like the last. They were simply moments. Having ended our year on a random Wednesday in March, we weren’t able to be conscious of all these lasts that surrounded us. I went about my morning as usual: stop in the cafe for an iced coffee, head up in the elevator to hover around the ninth-floor couches, get to my English class in time and start my day. I robotically pushed through a lobby flooded with parents and children to exit the building without a second thought. We missed having a day of slow nostalgia, making sure to take in every moment we knew would close off a seven-year series. However, the lack of closure we have had has forced us to see past the significance of a dramatic ending. All of my memories of Avenues quirks stretch over my entrance in sixth grade to my exit at twelfth, leaving out nothing in between. There was no pressure to make sure a final image of a filled classroom or the ninth floor was etched in the corners of my brain. Instead, we leave with infinite images and video clips on replay. We leave with an endless stockpile that we have built and tailored over the years to fill in for the lasts that, in reality, shouldn’t even matter that much. We leave with clearer access to the better parts of our experience at Avenues: everything that came before each last. •

art by jaden schapiro

hat does it mean for a place to feel like home? Is it just that it’s cozy? Is it that you know exactly where everything is? Or maybe it’s that you feel comfortable with anyone and everyone you see? For most of us, after a while, we don’t know how or when it happened exactly, but Avenues becomes home. I remember walking in my freshman year as if I had just entered another dimension. The terms people were saying, articles of clothing people were wearing, references that were being made were, oh so very… “Avenues.” I didn’t know it then, but I too would evolve into feeling as comfortable in this building as all the people around me appeared to be. I remember being in awe of the passion everyone in our grade had when describing not only the school, but one another. I did not understand how every person I interacted with was profoundly unique yet all came together to form this complete and uniform Avenues puzzle. Students in our class are made uniquely individual from the diverse passions and talents we have and come together over a very interesting love story with the school we have all invested time in and many of us, took a risk in. Avenues being a new school is one of the biggest blessings, without us fully being aware of it, that we as stu-

dents could have asked for. Going to a new school teaches you many lessons. As you begin to love it, you find yourself at its proud defense to those that don’t understand what it means for something to be “Avenues.” Most importantly, it creates a warm environment, similar to that of a home. And lLike a family passionate about one another and the space we reside in, we also grow critical. Being a student at a new school, where we are told that our voice and input is valued, teaches us to be natural critical thinkers. To be hard on the people and places you care about not out of a disliking, but rather a passion for that place, for it to grow in order to reach its full extraordinary potential. On the same note, our love for Avenues comes from the intention and care that each of us had when investing a little part of ourselves in this school. This culture in our school will take each member of the class of 2024 very far in life. Walking into Avenues my first year of high school I felt I was on the outside of something very exciting, and I was warmly invited in. With warm arms, people explained the quirks and the terms. To the class of 2024, in our brilliant and bold fashion I always wanted to be the best version of myself as a human being and student for you all and this special place we each call home, thank you. • 42

By Rachel Hymes

Dear Class of 2020, I decided to write a poem for you all. I hope you like it. Asta is the best at gymnastics and kindness She will help you any time, with any assignment I look to Cali and Marlo for fashion inspiration We can count on Jaden for helpful information It shocks me how they slay even with dress code There are two Jaclyns: fun and business mode Didi is so funny and his outfit’s always fly Dylan has sick style and knows the most digits of pi Lila + Fiona side by side, perfectly insync Go together like Sabine, and wearing hot pink

Cydney cares about us, is funny and never rude Mish is so kind and really just the dude To cheer up watch a Vez and/or Stef film In sports talk and minecraft Caroline can kill To talk sneakers or soccer Jax Surf is the man Political discussion and international screams Xan Ella is a self starter and naturally artistic Angelo’s FIFA skills are just unrealistic No person dislikes Usain Bolt, sorry I meant Dillon Neither has a person ever not seen Oscar chillin. Nina is the social justice warrior, and cool sock lady Jonathan with the gym is all the sudden not lazy To laugh and feel at ease talk to La Chica Naranja Belle None of us can comprehend the artistic excellence of Mel

Tess is a mechanical knitting machine It’s hard to see a hoodie and not think of Anzib Penelope will shake you with her incredible imagination The world will be saved by Michael’s good vibes and techy creations Plant Jenna is so chic (and did you know musically gifted?) Lynn’s + Valentina’s dancing makes my spirits lifted At every sport Sonny is naturally flames Ian becomes the best at all his sports and games Dank is the photographer and esports man We support Nicole, the stemwamen that can.

Ines deserves to be in this, she always has a place in my heart Henry will always be Henny, has been from the start

Wonyoung does a lot, like art, read manga, and tutoring (me) Somewhere Hugo is off doing his own thing Tara the laxsis and I, the best math team For fruit eating and deep talks Olivia is queen Econ and Finance was so fun with Jim and me We will never know what Minnie is doing because shes so lowkey (respect)

Tenley is the sweetest and her paintings are so tasteful Evan is the least judgemental and least hateful Owen (cuz) and his mind are from another planet Uni with my partner + neighbor Jacob. Dammit!

Malcolms nice at skateboarding and really always vibing In the art of being different Luc is always thriving

Andrés is the best at smash and loves pizza with broccoli Ben is beast at gaming political philosophy Everyone: “I loved Isabel’s comment about the gate” Avalon is really easy to talk to and to relate Talk to Max for hunting advice in other nations We can all agree Qi’s journal looked like a novel that went through many iterations

Thanks for all the laughs. Love,

by malcolm davol

SUNRISE MART

art by belle fraser

A REVIEW

f you ever are in need of a quick meal or snack in the Soho/Tribeca area, then Sunrise Mart is a great plan B to any outing. At around 8pm, in a row of dark storefronts, you can’t miss the large two windows pouring light out onto the sidewalk. A chain of bells strung up on the glass door alerts the whole store of your arrival. You will then pass through the narrow glass walkway to the second door, having to maneuver around people leaving at the same time. But it’s only after you step past the second door that the true essence of the store hits you. There is no easy way to take in what you first see. Rows and rows of colorful plastics and paper covered in Japanese characters, make it difficult to distinguish where aisles start and end. The important thing to do in this situation is to just start walking. Everyone else in the place seems to already know what they want and where they can get it, and you are just getting in the way. If you take a sharp left at the door, you are confronted by the long frozen section. The smell is odd and fishy. The shelves are lined with frozen fish, dumpling skins, countless brands of frozen udon noodles, and some unmarked tentacles and crustaceans wrapped in plastic. This aisle is not for you… yet. As a rookie, it’s best that you continue browsing. When you head back to the center of the store, you will pass shelves of gummies and crackers of every kind. Plastic wrapped lychee, ramune, blueberry, and mixed berry gummies stack almost to the ceiling. Grabbing out a bag is like trying to yank a whole layer of blocks from the bottom of a giant jenga tower. It’s best to just avoid the gummies on your first day. In the center of the store is an island of cashiers, and a large wooden board painted all white, covered in small hooks. On each hook is a stack of color-coded, laminated tabs, with a different hot food on each. Rows of different types of ramen, udon, rolls, and rice dishes are complemented by a column of different additional toppings listed by price. The $0.50 dashi to accompany any hot soup and a hot bowl of Kake udon for $6.99, make up the least and most expensive items on the unique menu. The food isn't exactly Michelin star rated, and some dishes like the cayenne pepper french fries are best to avoid, but most options will fill you up if you are in need of a quick and cheap meal. Once you have your meal, normally made up of a bowl of noodles, a ramune drink, and maybe a candy or soft cake for desert, you will make your way to the checkout line. The line is never too long, and it moves quickly. Behind the counter, are one or two cashiers who look like they could almost be happy to see you. If you plan to pay using credit or debit, there is a sign that will just break your heart. Taped onto the cash register in red sharpie the sign reads: $10 dollar card minimum. Yes, I know this sounds crazy and for the most part it is. With only a card it becomes impossible to buy only one item, but if you come to buy a full meal then you will most likely be able to reach the bar. Sometimes all it takes is to grab a Hi-chew from the bin on the side of the counter. Once you’ve paid and all of your items have the signature Sunrise Mart sticker, you are ready to find a seat and wait to pick up your bowl. You will almost always be able to find a seat. In the front is a haphazard group of square wooden tables and chairs. At one table parents sit with their little kid, showing them how to use chopsticks to pick up the slippery rice noodles. At another, a pair of tourists who speak little English sit for hours at the same table trying different flavors of mochi and candy. In the corner, an old man, a regular with loose pants and a long beard sits and enjoys a hot miso soup. If you happen to be in the Soho area looking for a cheap last minute meal you may stop by Sunrise Mart by luck, but otherwise it’s not a place you search for on google maps. For me at least it is just an afterthought, the backup plan for each mealtime. If I need a quick breakfast, lunch, or dinner, I know that Sunrise Mart will be open and all of my favorite dishes will be waiting for me there. It is comforting to me that there is such a store that relies on its regulars, on the quick in and out eaters who fill its tables. However even when I’m in the store, it feels like more than just a quick stop. To me it is a door to another culture and country. For a short time I get to step from Broome street into a bountiful Japanese market. Completely unique flavors and textures make the place feel so foreign, yet so much like a second home. Whether it be a deli, food-cart, or obscure grocery store, we all have that go-to place. It’s a place where we don’t expect to land in our outing but that we end up needing and crawling back to. For me, Sunrise Mart is that space, a whole world tucked into the first floor of 494 Broome street. • 46

art by mel douer

The Quirks of Avenues By Michael Delaney

ost of the time, Avenues doesn’t feel like school at all. It’s the only place I could imagine passing through the hall to the sight of Dr. Glazer in a snowman costume, students practicing their TikTok dance moves with their calculus teacher, a student flying a drone around for “educational purposes”, or a group of kids arguing about who is the “sweatiest”. While some of these wholesome school activities venture into the realm of ridiculousness, the sense of community that the class of 2020 has formed through experiences like these is unlike any other. We listen and talk and treat one another with respect. This may be strange, but some of the best harkness discussions at Avenues occur outside of the classroom— sitting down with other students to talk about philosophy, school, music, or maybe even just to settle an argument. We’ve 47

learned to engage with each other thoughtfully, in a way that conveys our care for one another, and with an understanding that everyone wants to express themselves by dancing in the halls, sharing their passions, or burrowing on the couch. Knowing that our high school experience is coming to a close, I am lost for words. The most challenging aspect of this conclusion is the lack thereof; the experiences that we all anticipated with joy, wrenched from our grasp without any warning or apology. Nevertheless, we mustn’t let this detract from an unforgettable high school experience: the adolescent shenanigans, mistakes, failures, victories, and laughs. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. It is with these memories in mind that I wish my Avenues family the best in their journeys ahead. And in case this is the last time that you hear my voice: I’ll miss you all, dearly. •

A Small House Under a Mushroom BY TENLEY SMITH

My Turn BY CYDNEY DEAN

“

art by mel douer

One day I’m going to learn a language YOU don’t understand,” ten-year-old Cydney declared to her parents. My whole life, my parents spoke fluent Spanish, and often spoke in front of me while talking about me. Entering middle school, I had to choose between learning Spanish or Chinese. While my family told me that learning Spanish would be easier, I didn’t want to cheat myself out of being able to challenge myself with learning a difficult language and learning a language my parents didn’t know. I decided to go the most difficult route and chose to learn Chinese. Chinese quickly became an important part of my life. I became obsessed with learning the language, and while I had excelled in Chinese in middle school, I was nervous about high school. More and more assignments involved going out into Chinatown and communicating with native speakers. During my freshman year, one of these assignments was to order at a restaurant in Chinese and film it. So there I was, eating at a casual Chinese restaurant in Soho with my friend, so nervous about messing up that we hid our scripts in our menus. But, after this challenging assignment, I practiced the ordering vocabulary and encouraged my family to start eating at more Chinese restaurants to develop my skills. Our favorite became Joe Shanghai on Pell Street--the soup dumplings are amazing there. On one occasion, I felt very confident in my ordering abilities because I had been practicing the vocabulary. Assertively, I said, “我可以有两盘小笼汤包，一盘芝麻鸡，一碗米饭和两杯水,” expecting two pans of soup dumplings, one plate of sesame chicken, one bowl of rice, and two glasses of water. Suddenly, however, an order of scallion pancakes arrived at my table. I began to panic, “I didn’t order this,” I thought to myself, and I was beyond crushed. All of the time I had spent practicing had gone to waste because the wrong order showed up. I flagged the waiter down and he asked me what was wrong, as I explained that I didn't order the pancakes. With a smile etched on his face, the waiter laughed, “Oh! It was a gift on the house for you learning and speaking Chinese.” I sighed out of relief as my mom looked around the communal table, shocked. I thanked him, processing the fact that I wasn’t just getting a gold star in class; I had actually made an impression on someone outside of my class, in the real world. As grateful as I was for the free appetizer it was strange to see somebody other than my teacher appreciate my dedication to Chinese. I never thought about how my waiter might appreciate me speaking to him in his native language when most other customers communicate in English. Although that small moment may seem insignificant, for me it was a big deal. Most praise happened inside the classroom, but receiving that same praise outside of the classroom made me feel like I had begun to fully immerse myself into Chinese language and culture. Speaking with my classmates made me too comfortable and I knew all of their quirks when they spoke, like how they use the wrong “measure word” or “classifier” signifying a quantity of an object. Now, however, I felt as if I had accomplished that goal I had set years prior. Being as determined as I am, I did what 10-year-old Cydney set out to do and ended up learning a language that I love. I have traveled to China twice, frequent grocery stores in Chinatown on my own, and make dumplings at home for my family. Learning Chinese has changed my life because when I was ten years old I never thought that a simple class choice would become one of my biggest passions. It taught me that I am able to handle a challenge, and that a little family rivalry goes a long way. • 50

art by jaden sc

hapiro

The Greatest City on Earth

By Dillon Bickerton 51

hen I moved from Tokyo to New York City when I was 15 years old, it was, needless to say, an eye opening and life altering event that fundamentally changed who I am, down to the core. Moving from one large city to another came with its familiarities and differences, and overcoming the cultural and societal differences I faced built not only my character, but also my deep love for this great city. As I reflect on my time here in New York City so far, it really boggles my mind about how blindsighted I was when I first moved here. Blind of the changes, the realizations, and the relationships that were coming my way. One of the most important lessons that this city has taught me is the power of human interaction. Whether that is a profound relationship like a lover or a best friend, or asking a stranger how they are doing, opening myself up in general has opened up a whole new perspective on how to live. Saying “yes” more often to new experiences, making new friends—all things that contributed to building my confidence. Not too long ago in protest of gun laws in America, countless high schoolers left class in the middle of the day to congregate in Washington Square Park, and I found myself and my friends, surrounded by thousands of other kids, supporting the same cause. In another instance, I found myself with even more people flooding the streets of Lower Manhattan, supporting the climate change march. When people in this city want to make something happen, they just do it. There is always something going on, and that makes life here exciting. There are concerts and festivals happening year-round, an endless array of restaurants to savor foods from every corner of the world, and museums to draw inspiration from. But all of that, within a matter of days, has been stripped away from us so quickly. New York City, the city that never sleeps, is taking a nap for the first time ever. Streets are barren, restaurants are closed, gatherings are not allowed. It’s a little eerie. This is when I truly realized that what makes New York City so great is not just its sprawling tall buildings. It’s the people. It is a reminder for all of us that the spirit of New York is each New Yorker who lives among these streets and avenues, and everyone, no matter what background, is the essence of this place. The words that resonate with me I only heard a couple of weeks ago. They come our governor, Andrew Cuomo: “When you are united there’s nothing you can’t do, and because we are New York tough… I love New York, because New York loves you. New York loves all of you. Black, and white and brown and Asian and short and tall and gay and straight, New York loves everyone. That’s why I love New York. It always has, it always will. At the end of my day my friends, even if it’s a long day, love wins. Always.” We are on pause. Things are uncertain. But I have great pride in being a part of this beautiful city, and although it is frightening, I am proud to stay here right in the middle of it. This city helped me grow into the person that I am today, and I owe it to this city that I am holding onto hope that the spirit of New York will live on, no matter how hard it gets. And when we are allowed to fully come together, whenever that may be, it will undoubtedly be a beautiful moment. That’s worth looking forward to. •

Period. by nina cutler

alf of you reading this article know the humiliation of walking into a Rite Aid or a CVS to buy tampons or pads, only to find the checkout guy hesitantly grabbing them from your hand, while refusing to make eye contact. I can almost guarantee that the other half of you who don’t get a period have jokingly asked the question, “Is it that time of the month again?” to a co-worker or friend. Although these backhanded comments may be jokes to you, they shouldn’t be. Many young girls and women cannot afford pads or tampons, and as a result they fall significantly behind their male peers. Around the United States, conversations surrounding menstrual stigma are continuously rising. However, we have to do more than just talk about this issue in our privileged bubbles. Instead, we have to advocate for new legislation that promotes accessible feminine hygiene products, such as the elimination of the tax on tampons. In most states, tampons and pads are a luxury, whereas Viagra is deemed a necessity (Vogue, Garcia). This clearly demonstrates that a man’s erection is prioritized over a woman’s health and safety. Additionally, feminine hygiene products should be included in food stamps and government-subsidized programs because they are a necessity and without them, young girls are unable to live their lives. This issue of menstrual stigma surpasses our borders and is the reason that women around the world are held back from education and are dying. In Kenya, many young girls miss school frequently due to their periods. A young teen leader named Mary from a school in Mathare Slum explains her experience: “Girls in our school cut pieces of mattresses and use them as sanitary towels,” she said. “We see the soiled rags thrown all over the slum and outside our houses. We risk stepping on them as we go to school.” Many young girls and women simply cannot afford feminine hygiene products, and as a con-

sequence, they miss up to 500,000 days of school per year collectively (Time Magazine, Muthara). When women miss school, they drastically fall behind their male peers, and so they lose out on a variety of opportunities. According to UN Women, when we include women in education and the workplace, productivity and economic diversification increases, thus boosting the economy. The approach to tackling menstrual stigma in Kenya differs greatly from the United States, because Kenyan slums are considered illegal and unplanned, so the government does not provide services to these areas. Tampons and pads must be brought through Kenyan-based grassroots organizations that intimately know the nuanced issues of the women in these slums. I may be an outsider when it comes to the need for sanitary products in Kenya, but I think we can all agree that all women and girls deserve an education. In Nepal, period stigma may even result in death. A traditional practice called chaupadi caused the death of twenty-six-year-old woman Dambara Upadhyay because she was forced to sleep in a hut outside of her house in order to prevent “contamination.” In addition to staying outside, women cannot attend school, touch men or enter the kitchen (Glamour, Maunz). Although a law has been implemented to ban the tradition of chaupadi in Nepal, there have been minimal efforts to enforce it. Beyond just legal rhetoric, there needs to be an intentional execution of this law. This pervasive stigma throughout the world has resulted in many unnecessary consequences that ruin the lives of many women. Regardless of outcome, there is a common thread: menstrual stigma deprives women the right to go to school and live. So, the next time you want to joke about “Aunt Flo” or “that time of the month,” consider the real impact that periods have on women around the world. • 54

and Moving Forward

Looking Back

DYLAN

JACKAWAY

t was a hot day in 2011 when the taxi arrived at Madison Square Park. My mom and I rushed into the building, rode the elevator up and took our seats in the waiting area. No more than a minute later, my name was called. It was time for my interview at Avenues HQ. I introduced myself to Mr. Bonell, and might possibly have spilled water on him, but he laughed it off. Before long, I became part of a community that had never before existed, the Avenues class of 2020. My classmates and I met for the first time in a large dining hall, where we learned new words like “advisory” and “minimester.” We met back up in HQ for pizza and again at the Chelsea Piers bowling alley, where I met Ms. Reedy. When the First First Day arrived, I stepped into the 6th floor commons where I was enthusiastically welcomed by Mr. Shy. That’s where this nearly eight-year-long story begins, and it’s difficult for me, and I imagine all of us, to believe that our roles in it are essentially at their end. When I started writing this and sat down to think of a moment in the years since fifth grade that stood out most to me, I was hardly sure where to begin. Here are just a few of my favorite Avenues memories. 6th grade, May 2014, Black Rock Forest: What an amazing trip that was. Singing around the campfire, wading into the cold stream with boots that went up to my knees to collect samples, and playing a gradewide game of zombie tag. Throwing frisbees and enjoying a long conversation with Mr. Cortese as we hiked up the Hill of Pines, which he would always pronounce in his dramatic actor voice, with my friends there the whole time––it was a really great bonding experience for our class, and I’m sure everyone on that trip would agree. Even though it feels like a really long time ago, it also feels fairly recent at the same time. Musical and theatrical performances: In each of my years at Avenues, I participated in a production either for a class or as an extracurricular. I’ve really enjoyed being part of a team to put together a polished and satisfying show, stepping into the shoes of my role, and singing or practicing my Mandarin. Some of my castmates I’ve continued to know for long after the stage was struck. In particular, my favorite performances would have to be the science fiction adaptation of Shakespeare’s The Tempest called Return to the Forbidden Planet, the classic Chinese play The Orphan of Zhao and The Winter We Danced, depicting the gradual unrestricting of society through ballroom dancing after the Cultural Revolution. 10th & 11th grade, fifth term, Global Journeys to China and Hawaii: At first, I knew Mr. Baron by taking his Mandarin class in freshman year, and later his Kung Fu elective. When we left for China to learn about Buddhism, I knew it wouldn’t be quite like anything I had done before, but it still far surpassed my expectations. Thanks to Mr. Baron, I had the opportunity to climb the Great Wall of China, participate in fascinating dharma talks, and visit multiple Buddhist monasteries. One was on top of a moun-

tain that we hiked up silently, all while being immersed in by far the most foreign cultural environment I’ve been in. The next year, my physics and cosmology teacher Mr. Tappe brought together a group of students from Avenues’s two campuses to Hawaii––the intersection point of the ancient Polynesian culture and the nascent science of astronomy. To me, the times we spent looking up together at the universe, with telescopes or with our eyes, were the most special parts of that fifth term. As anyone who’s gone on a Global Journey would know, these descriptions only begin to encapsulate the kind of experiences that travel offers, and that our teachers at Avenues made possible for us. While the more extraordinary things we’ve done might stand out the most, many of the things I remember are the relatively ordinary things, like laughing with friends over memes in study hall, going out to lunch or playing kickball at the soccer field across the street. Even in the times when the daily school routine has felt more tedious than engaging, our connections with the community around us were still being formed. At the time when I’m writing this, with over 100,000 coronavirus cases in New York City, Governor Cuomo has just announced that non-essential services will remain closed until the middle of May. By the time you read this, you’ll of course know if we had graduation, prom and any other senior activities, but we still don’t know that right now. At no point on our journey through middle and high school was there any indication that this was what was in store for us. In the weeks leading up to COVID-19’s insidious arrival, there were many of us counting the days until spring break, with all the things we were looking forward to just around the corner. We had written research papers for World Course, celebrated our learning in science, worked our asses off for college applications, we’d even sat through HIP in freshman and sophomore year––we were meant to have some kind of reward! But as the city went into quarantine, the last day came and went without fanfare, as it wasn’t until late at night on March 11th when the administration sent their email containing the decision to cancel school the next day. Needless to say, this wasn’t what any of us signed up for. As we’re about to each set off in our own individual directions, I’m reminded of the question Mr. Shy posed to the upper school on the first day of school in September 2019: “How do you get from here to the rest of the world?” I don’t know the answer, but on a few occasions, I’ve heard adults say that the degree to which we’re able to express our views and the quality of discussion that we’re able to have far exceeds what they would see with other people our age. As much as we might like to make fun of the Harkness method, that seems like a good sign. That leads me to believe that we can be the ones to not only find solutions for the challenges facing our civilization today, but also ensure that in the future, no other senior class has to lose what they spent years working towards again. Because if not us, then who? • 56

My Universal Language BY PENELOPE THORNTON

sat on the sun-soaked cement as specks of mottled light shone through rustling leaves and warmed patches on my face and hair. Above me hung three clothing lines, and to the right of my feet sat a wash bin filled with potatoes that would later become chuño. The wind carried the dry air of the mountains and the sound of the charango, a tenstringed Andean instrument, being played across from me. My homestay father sat in a shaded spot next to the storage room. His calloused hands played bright notes on the nylon strings of his charango. In my hands was my guitar; my playing synchronised with his. The song was like a conversation, but in a language I had never heard before. The only book I brought to Bolivia was The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. The book spoke of a universal language; a language understood by people of all walks of life. While staying with my host family I came to understand a form of my own universal language— music. Before even knowing I was going to be lucky enough to spend a month in Bolivia over the summer, I had stumbled across a video of Joan Baez singing “Viva Mi Patria Bolivia.” I’m OBSESSED with Joan Baez and folk music in general, and am often judged by people my age for this. Sometimes I fit in better with older people because I have more talking points when it comes to music. I sang “Viva Mi Patria Bolivia” at school, for family, and with friends, but it didn’t carry as much importance at home as it did in its country of origin. The first thing I did upon meeting my host family was whip out my guitar. I sang “Viva Mi Patria Bolivia” and the whole room erupted in song, feet stomping, hands clapping. I had never felt such a strong connection with a group of strangers. Immediately after the song ended, I was showered with warm embraces 57

and laughter. For me, music has been a means of building community across divisions: cultural, generational, even political. Folk music has especially given me this power; by learning and reinterpreting the music passed down through generations and cultures, I’ve become a part of this historical narrative. “Donna Donna,” a Yiddish folk song that was later translated by Joan Baez, is a perfect example of this. I played the song for my grandparents, and for the first time in my life I saw my grandfather cry. His parents were Russian and Romanian Jewish immigrants. He told me his mother used to sing that song and I sounded just like her. I once sang the song at school, and multiple parents came up to me saying it was what they listened to as kids. I felt moved that I had inspired nostalgia within others; that’s what folk songs are for. Music has quite literally given me a voice. The first time I ever performed in public was during the first assembly of 11th grade. I was so nervous that the microphone I held in my hand was visibly shaking. As soon as I let the song erupt from my mouth, all the anxiety that had been building up inside me went away. Since then, I have taken every opportunity to perform. I have noticed immense changes within myself as a result. I’ve become visibly more confident and am definitely not afraid to share my voice. So many of the defining experiences of my life have arisen through music. Music has always been there for me and I will always use music as a means of self-expression. When people ask me what I want to be in 10 years, I often say “the face of the folk revival.” I want to be many things; photojournalist, anthropologist, academic, but I genuinely want to use music to register and effect change. •

art by belle fraser

U P R L By Cali Gaer

uede. The perfect amount of fringe. A rhinestone heel. Cleo loved her purple boots. A dedicated yet premature fashionista, Cleo wore her boots everyday. At just ten years old at her new school, she developed her own, unique style. The boots followed her to school, to see her friends, and back home. One typical Tuesday, Cleo drudged to school with her purple boots on. Her tye-dye pink zebra print Jansport backpack overflowed with crumpled class assignments and clothes for gym class. In her typical morning mood, Cleo sighed at her rigorous schedule filled with classes of adding fractions and memorizing the fifty states. She whipped her atrociously ombrĂŠ locks into a signature low bun with a couple of pieces still grazing her rosy cheek and trudged to first period. Following a long day of classes, Cleo was ready to let loose. Lucky her, she had gym class after school. Changing out of her dress-coded outfit, Cleo prepared for her workout as she slipped into a pair of grey shorts and a school-brand59

BOOTS

ed shirt. Almost ready to go, she began digging through her Jansport to find her fuschia and turquoise Nike trainers. She dug and dug, until she hit the bottom of her backpack. Cleo was forgetful from time to time. One day she would forget her folder at home, another day it could be her computer. Each day was something different with Cleo. Today it happened to be her gym shoes. In a panic, Cleo rushed around the girlsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; locker room asking each of her friends if they had an extra pair of sneakers. All the prepubescent girls said no as they projected shunning looks for her forgetfulness. How dare she! Circling the sardine-packed locker room, Cleo stumbled upon the lost and found. There was absolutely nothing. Well, there was one option. A beat-up pair of orange New Balances which belonged to a complete stranger. She picked the sneakers up by the laces, lifting them above her scrunched face. With one sniff, Cleo chucked the sneakers back into the lost and found bin. She knew there had to be another solution.

The locker room soon emptied out, and Cleo was left alone. With no help or hope, Cleo had no choice but to wear her purple boots. She used the few minutes remaining before gym class and began to rehearse a speech for her coach. Should she blame it on her mom? Dog? Brother? A bad liar to begin with, Cleo seasoned her story with fictional events and prepared for what appeared to be a nerve-racking task. She got her story down-pat: her little sister. Cleo didn’t have a sister, so she seemed like the perfect person to blame. Sliding back into her boots, she strutted up to her coach and explained the dilemma. “Oh well, uh, that’s unfortunate. I didn’t know you had a sister,” he exclaimed. “Yea I know she’s so young. We aren’t very close,” Cleo rebutted. “Oh, makes sense. Well can you run in those?” He questioned, pointing to her boots. “I wouldn’t want you to get hurt or anything, I mean we are playing soccer today,” the coach explained concerningly. With zero attempt to test the functionality of the boots, Cleo stated she could play in anything if she really wanted. Intrigued by her own cockiness, she shook her head in agreement with herself. Somehow, someway, she convinced the coach to let her participate. “Ha. Nice shoes, Cleo. Where did you get those, the rodeo?” The premature boys in her class questioned. “Good one,” Cleo said as she rolled her eyes. Brushing off the comment, Cleo ran onto the field wearing a green jersey and her purple boots. Many strange looks were directed her way. Cleo ignored them, focusing on her game. She didn’t even wear shin guards; she knew the purple suede would protect her. The game commenced, and next thing you know, she’s off. Unsteady at first, the heels of her boots began to clunk. Cleo followed the rush of offense pushing up the field. Her bony chicken legs, looking like they were ready to snap, moved faster than ever before. Cleo’s legs were moving so fast the purple pigment on the inner ankle of her boots began to fade. Following a foul ball, Cleo rushed the opposing teams inbound and stole the ball. There may have been some physical altercation, some may call it a foul, but Cleo just played her game. No one could stop her. Following a season of not participating in a sports team, Cleo was very out of shape. While she was quick and speedy, her stamina was terrible. Cleo suddenly slowed down and the defenders approached her as she dribbled toward the goal. In the corner of her eye, her teammate Rebecca rushed beside her. Cramping hard by her rib-cage, Cleo passed the ball to Rebecca. Her teammate strikes the ball into the left corner with her navy cleats. Goal! One hand massaging her rib-cage, the other high fiving her teammates, Cleo tried to catch her breath. Her teammates, and even her classmates on the rival team, complimented her on her steal. The boots only made it more impressive. The sharp pain continued to ignite her body. Cleo reluctantly took a seat on the bench to recharge. Her turquoise eyes stared down at the boots wondering what kind of magic the rhinestones held. She yearned to wear her purple boots to the next gym class, but the warping blisters on her feet told her otherwise.• 60

All About that Bass By Owen Ackerman

nd there he stood, head rocking rhythmically to the slap of his bass. My body transfixed by his performance as my brain rushed to absorb every detail. He played each note and chord change confidently with precision and passion. He seemed to telepathically communicate with his band as they were able to talk, shift, and play as though they were having a conversation. I was hooked. To the casual onlooker, the situation was plainly a family friend playing background music at my grandfather’s birthday party, but I experienced something completely different. “DAD” I finally screamed after the shock left my body, “What was that?” He told me it was a bass guitar, but what I experienced was something far greater than the instrument itself-something I wouldn’t be able to articulate for years to come.Driven by the power of the performance, from ages seven to eleven, I took weekly lessons and achieved a technical proficiency on the bass. Despite the hours of practice, I couldn’t replicate the feeling the musician’s palpable passion evoked within me. Passively listening to catchy pop music, I entered a period of ennui until my 13th birthday when my parents filled my room with albums, a vinyl record player, and with it, a new appreciation for music. The 70’s rock bands they introduced me to completely changed my perception of what music was. Bands like YES and Pink Floyd’s musical mastery allowed for the auditory satisfaction that initially intrigued me, but this was not why I continued to listen. Instead of contemporary music’s focus on isolated singles, the bands I loved used entire albums as a medium to develop beautiful and elaborate stories. Listening to these bands that overflowed with passion and deep time commitment inspired me to teach myself guitar. I found that working to replicate these masterpieces on guitar drove me to an extreme state of focus where I would lose all sense of time, spending countless hours meticulously perfecting each note. Music showed me how much enjoyment and personal fulfillment I feel when putting myself deep into something. However, music is not the only subject where I experienced this passion. In sophomore year, my school offered a free, selective, month-long electrical engineering program in Shenzhen, China where the seventeen of us, Chinese and American students, learned to build mobile phones of our own design from scratch. It wasn’t until 2:00 AM on Thursday of the final week, after my teachers kicked me out of the engineering labs, that I finally understood something fundamental about myself. I had worked 16 hours that day on little sleep and, even at 2:00 AM, had never felt more motivated in my life. While replicating the bands from the 70’s had initially shown me the power of deep commitment to a passion, actually engineering my own creation had an incomparable effect on me. When problem solving, I go into a heightened state of ability: the rate at which my brain operates, my level of focus, the speed and accuracy of my fine motor skills, everything is enhanced. The second I got home from China, I redesigned my room. No longer my parents doing, this time I added to and reoriented it to fit a complete soldering station and housing of my electrical components, along with my music setup. Standing dumbfounded watching the musician at my grandfather’s backyard birthday party, I experienced something that would later change my philosophical outlook on life. The musician’s performance not only sparked my love for music, but also showed me the power and meaning that is conveyed through a deep time commitment to one’s passion. In a generation whose attention span is ever decreasing, I want to do work in my life that emulates my musical idols, work that has depth and meaning to hopefully inspire and allow others to experience the power of time dedication to one’s passion. • 62

What Does DiscoUrse Mean to You? By Tess Price

elcome, safety, and respect. That’s Avenues’ school motto and one of the reasons my parents chose to send me there. I live in a home where I am encouraged to speak my mind openly and honestly. Avenues’ motto is embodied in its commitment to promote independent thought and the free flow of ideas. In many ways, Avenues has lived up to its motto: the curriculum makes room for students to explore their views, which has guided my intellectual development. But in important respects, the reality can fall short of the promise. On February 14, 2018, seventeen innocent people were killed at a high school in Parkland, Florida. On March 14, 2018, millions of people around the world participated in a walk out. While I was heartbroken and angered by the senseless loss of life, I did not walk out, and the backlash I experienced was distressing. I’m growing up in, arguably, the most divided social and political climate our nation has seen. Social media is a hotbed of vitriol, and civil discourse no longer prevails in the halls of Congress. Despite my school’s efforts to encourage the respectful exchange of competing opinions, our student body mirrors the national divide. A majority view holds sway and contrarians are often silenced for fear of being ostracized. As someone who sometimes holds “unpopular” points of view, I’ve experienced outright hostility when I question the status quo. Without realizing it, any time I feel judged, the more defensive I become. The more I felt my positions attacked, the more firmly I wanted to hold my ground. Just prior to my junior year of high school, I was accepted to Maine Coast Semester at Chewonki. Having spent six years at Avenues, I wanted to explore new horizons, and Chewonki was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Every day there was something new to discover and explore. Even more enlightening than the place itself was the community I became a part of. The geographically diverse group of 45 students represented equally diverse points of view that reflected our varied life experiences. Ironically, at Chewonki I found more openness to diversity of thought than I had encountered in a lifetime of living in, perhaps, the most diverse city in the world. I vividly remember my first Friday afternoon work program. Two other girls and I had been sent to the woods to create mulch paths through the forest. We were discussing our lives back home when one of the girls proudly stated that she’d helped organize the Parkland walk out at her school. I shared that I hadn’t walked out. The girls, looking surprised, asked me why: a question I’d never been asked. We then engaged in one of the most enriching discussions I’ve ever had because it was one of my first experiences where I realized people could wildly disagree but still respect one another. I flourished at Chewonki where open discourse was truly respected. Because we lived and worked together, what mattered was character, not the opinions we voiced in class discussions. We shared our views without judgement, not only in class, but also gathered around campfires, sitting with faculty and students at meals, and even milking the cows. At Chewonki I wasn’t the girl who disagreed, but the funny, kind, thoughtful knitting queen who speaks her truth. Over the next few weeks I let down my defenses and my positions became more fluid. I listened and felt listened to. I began to critically examine my preconceptions and acknowledge my blind spots - we all did. I came back to Avenues with a broader, more informed worldview, and a commitment to take a leadership role in fostering open discourse among my classmates in a way that makes everyone feel valued because I believe that only when we feel truly free to express our views will we grow as a people and as a society. •

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One, two...”, I counted as I stepped onto the muddy trail leading up to the hill. Rain dripped onto my head as I continued, “...twelve, thirteen...”. I shivered as the coldness perpetrated through the wet fabric and into my bones. Today was exceptionally cold for summer. My backpack felt like a piece of rock in my hands, but I still held it tight to my chest. “... Nine hundred and ninety-nine... one thousand!” I exhaled as I finally stumbled into my house halfway up the hill. I squeezed my shirt dry on the front steps and closed the door behind me. The water was absorbed quickly by the dirt floor. I wanted to unzip my backpack right away, but instead, I put it down, stepped on the short stool inside the kitchen and turned on the icy stove. As the pot heated up, my fingers began to defrost. The scar on my hand has almost faded. I couldn’t help scratching it while the porridge was cooking. It was a reminder that I was once again beaten by my teachers for failing the finals. After this summer, I would have to repeat sixth grade, with kids younger than me, who are living either at the foot of the hill or in the village near the school. But it’s fine, because it is summer now, and everything would be alright. The sweet scent seeped out from the porridge. I ate half of it and left the other half inside the pot. My muscles ached, begging for a break, but this was it, the moment I’d been waiting for all the way home. I wiped my hands on the sides of my shirt, unzipped my bag, gently removed all my workbooks, and there was it. “PiPiLu and LuXiXi,” the cover read. The novel laid neatly at the bottom of my bag. I gently flipped over the corner of the first page and scanned through the dense lines of black and white. There were a few characters that I couldn’t read, but that didn’t hinder the vivid descriptions from dragging me into the vibrant universe beyond the page. Suddenly, the click from the front door pulled me back to my senses. “Baba, you’re back.” I jumped up. It felt like he came home exceptionally early, but when I peeked outside, the sun had already set. Baba’s upper body was half-naked and his pants were dripping wet. He sat next to the

"I felt deep in my heart that ever since the beginning of summer when I met this high schooler-teacher, my world had been changing rapidly."

table as I carried the remaining pot of porridge to him. “What’s that?” He pointed at my book lying on the table as he poured his porridge into a bowl. “My teacher gave this to me. Along with two bars of soap.” I said excitedly. “Huh, that high schooler? What kind of teacher is that? Plus, you are not a good student anyway, why would she give you this?” My father asked skeptically. “It was raining and the bus hadn’t come until five, so I waited in front of the convenience store. She walked over and asked me why I didn’t go home like the other kids.” My dad listened and nodded. “So I told her about myself, and she gave me these things before I left. She told me that she lives in ‘waiguo’, the foreign countries. Did you know that?” I asked my dad. “Yes, I’ve heard.” He agreed emotionlessly. “Well then, since she brought you soap, you should take a shower later today then so you don’t embarrass yourself in front of those waiguo people. ” He said casually as he slurped the remainder of the porridge. I took the bowl and walked towards the sink. “Baba.” “What?” “This is a ‘bowl’ in English.” I tried to show off what I learned today as I scrubbed over the plates and pots. “You are my ‘father’. Did you know that baba?” He shook his head. I know this already. He doesn’t speak English, nor can he read Chinese characters or speak proper mandarin. I washed the plates, secretly feeling proud of myself, and I was sure that he’s proud of me too. Using the pot I just cooked porridge in, I boiled some water and took them to the shower. I undressed and mixed the boiled water with the freezing cold water from the faucet. Using a bowl, I scooped some warm water out from the pot and poured it onto myself, wetting my short hair and trying to untangle the strands. “Baba?” I called out to him from the bathroom. “En.” He replied yes. “I know English now.” I repeated. “En.” “And I can read Chinese.” “En.” “Will mama be proud?” I asked from the bathroom, rubbing the new bar of soap onto my body. “En.” He replied after a long pause. I poured another bowl of water onto my head, feeling the warmth spreading through me. Mama would be proud, I thought. I felt deep in my heart that ever since the beginning of summer when I met this high schooler-teacher, my world had been changing rapidly. Deep in my heart, my home would always be rooted deep in the soils of this hill, but my dreams have flown way beyond the villages and mountains into the world beyond my own. It was as if a magical portal had opened in front of me, leading me into hopes that maybe being able to attend highschool, or even college, isn’t that far from reality. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow’s morning sun to wake me up and to go downhill again, attend my classes, and find out what’s going to happen in the next chapter of my novel and my life. That night, I dreamed about being a teacher. I dreamed that one day, I could buy more books, and we could then move to the bottom of the hill with other villagers so I would no longer have to count the 1,000 steps up the mountain anymore. •

Film By Nicole Domingo

Sunset Serenade

Open Sanctuary

The Editors 68

Iron Jungle

The Legend of the Standing Pencil Case BY

JIMMY K

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ou all know it. You have all seen it: standing in all of its gray and green glory, holding up the assortment of pencils and pens stuffed into it. It is not just any pencil case, but my standing pencil case. It is the cylindrical grey pencil case that has a lime green zipper running the length of the pouch. The top half is soft and malleable, and the bottom is hard. When opened, the lime green inside bursts out at you, begging for you to look at it. I am writing about this pencil case because of how important it has been to my Avenues career. I have had it since 7th grade. It has been a constant in my life for the past five years— through four backpacks, probably more than 100 pens, numerous challenging classes, and new friends. This pencil case means a lot to me because it represents so much of my Avenues experience. You can see the ink on the inside where my pens exploded on the plane coming home from San Francisco in my sophomore year. You can see the black ink on the zipper where Angelo Orciuli wrote on it. When I think about my pencil case I think about the interesting classes I have taken while at Avenues. I think about the friends who have marveled at how it stands on its own. In a way, it is like a time capsule. When I look at my pencil case, I remember how in 8th grade, a 6th grader stole my pencil case. Thankfully, Cydney Dean got it back for me and its legacy still lives on! I also remember when I lost my pencil case on the bus coming back from a squash match in December. I did not realize how much this pencil case meant to me until this point; nor did I realize how much my peers associated it with me. I remember distinctly how sad Nina Cutler was for me when I informed my advanced biology class about my missing pencil case. Thankfully, I found it after hunting down the Avenues red school bus. Jose, the bus driver whom I have known since kindergarten, let me search the bus, and to my delight, it was right under the seat in the last row where I left it the day before. The standing pencil case has become a part of me, a part of my Avenues experience. I got it in 7th grade because Marianne Lee had a cool pencil case so I wanted a cooler one. The standing pencil case has become much more than a “cool pencil case”—if that is even a thing—it has become a vestige of my time at Avenues. As I leave Avenues and go to college, the standing pencil case will continue to be a constant for me during this large change in my life. It will bring me comfort when I miss home because I will remember Avenues and all of my peers when I see it. • 70

BY JENNA KIM

llegra and I started our Jenzemi journey at 9:00 am in Soho on a Tuesday. Needless to say, stores were still closed and New Yorkers had already begun work. Defeated and tired, we headed into Ground Support Cafe on West Broadway, just before it started to rain. Allegra and I both ordered iced matcha with almond milk (they were pretty good) and took a seat at the wooden table in the far back. Soon, the cafe filled up with busy New Yorkers ordering their morning coffee and breakfast. 71

*enter Yves.* He sat on a bench adjacent to us, typing away on his phone as he waited for his bagel. I spotted him. There was just something about him; maybe it was the hat or the tailored blazer or everything together, but the man exuded confidence in his simple style. To say Allegra and I were nervous to approach him is an understatement. Neither of us seemed to be able to open our mouths. “You do it!” we said to each other. Finally, I pushed my fears aside and did it. “Excuse me? We really like your outfit.” •

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W The Mind of an Intermediate Game Designer By Andres Murillo

hen I began my journey to discover video game development in 10th grade, I was guided by the question: “What makes video games fun and replayable?” For my first game, I took inspiration from Super Smash Bros. and created a small two-player fighting game. My hope was that I would be able to create a game that didn’t have a huge learning curve but had a high skill cap. In essence, the game would be easy to pick up, but hard to master. To an extent, I believe I was successful in doing just that. When I first presented the game during that year’s 5th term showcase, people who never played video games were able to enjoy themselves, while those who were experienced would continuously come back and find new ways to improve. Looking back, I realize that there were a lot of flaws in the programming and level design. Nevertheless, I am still proud of the work I did as it laid a foundation for my work in game design in the coming years. The following year, I continued to build upon the concept of replayability while straying from multiplayer games. To me, it was important to learn how to make something fun without having to rely on players being motivated by each other’s performance. And so, taking advantage of the creative freedom given to me in my biochemistry capstone project, I decided to create a single-player game that outlined the process in which viruses infect stem cells. Though it was a tedious process, I was able to use what I learned from my previous game and improve upon the overall gameplay. As a result, my sophomore game was much more efficient and tuned both in gameplay and in programming. Upon presenting it to students during the exhibition day, I was stunned to see the extent to which a high score sheet affected replayability. Although it was a single-player game, players showed a similar interest in coming back to do better, although this time, it was against themselves. Though I expected this to happen when I implemented the mechanic, I was still mesmerized as to how a few digits on the top right corner of the screen would entice people to continue playing. I am currently in the process of creating a new single-player experience for my Senior Mastery Capstone Project. Unlike my previous projects, I wanted to focus my attention on crafting a story that would captivate players. Over the past few months, the concept of my game has changed quite a lot, ranging from an action game detailing the blood feud between fruits and flies to an isometric adventure game about a man’s exploration of the nine levels of Hell. I ultimately settled on a mystery/puzzle game about a freshman college student who got into a car crash on his way to school. He stumbles upon a mysterious town in the middle of the woods and tries to uncover its secrets in hopes of returning to safety. I was inspired to create such a story At the time I am writing this, I do not know if this game will be able to answer my original question. All I can do is learn from my experiences and continue to improve myself as a game developer and a curious mind. •

New Message

Subject An Email to my Future Self By Jacob Cridland

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It seems that we have reached a somewhat strange space and time. When my parents pitched the idea of having no school, playing video games all day long, and getting to sleep in until whenever I wanted, it sounded like a very appealing offer. One month in, it is a disaster. I watch the maps that track the coronavirus cases as if I were playing the game Plague Inc.; it feels completely surreal. I have realized that there is a slim chance of us getting to go to prom and walk at graduation, but all of this seems minor when compared to the global pandemic that we are all experiencing. Schools in NYC are cancelled for the rest of the year. However, there is a silver lining here. I no longer have to worry about telling people why I did not have a date to the prom. Uniform has become sweatpants and hoodies; not much has changed there. I miss walking into the ninth floor to be greeted by students getting in a few final seconds of sleep before class. I miss debating whether or not to go to math class that day. I miss getting stopped at the door coming in with food. I miss Bottinos and Hudson Market. I miss the warm water in the 536 water fountain. I do not miss getting told to stop playing ping pong during study hall. I do not miss getting dress-coded by the Tiger Team. I do not miss walking into class one minute late and being told to go get a late pass. Avenues online login has no late pass that I know of. It is such a shame that we watched our last moments at 259 10th avenue pass by without knowing that we were having our last math presentation, last discussion, last snack at the cafe, and our last ride in the elevator.

Mac by avalon scarola

haven’t eaten in three days, and it’s dark again. Four nights where I’ve grasped at oak leaves to keep the ice off my fingers, three days where my cheeks burned as the sun reflected off powdered snow. Three days since I woke up, at least. My eyes still burn. I touch the soft, raw skin and feel the sting of my fingertips, crusted with soil. Three nights ago I opened my eyes to nothing. I felt water where my back was indented in the powder, grasping at the hardened ground. My eyes began to focus and I found the moon. My stomach is so empty it’s fallen silent. When I stare at it at night, listening to wind through the trees, it almost seems to curve inward, as if I were imploding, folding up within myself like an umbrella, a telescope. Maybe I’m a beach chair. I don’t know where the shirt is from that I lift to watch myself. It isn’t mine, and it’s not colorful like a beach chair would be. At least I know that. It’s grey, scrub-like and rough, so large that it could fit my father. He used to wear shirts like this. He was a big man. The pants fit enough so that they don’t fall as I walk. They are made for someone much shorter. In the sun I can feel the small plants running their fingers along my ankles, asking me to stop walking, to stay. I’m tempted. They’ve taken my shoes. My toes hurt from curling open, again and again as I walk over rocks and ice into what feels like nothing. I thank the trees for their leaves, softening the forest. I follow the river like my father taught me, but all I see is more rippling, more rocks. But it's quiet here. The fish don’t follow one another, slipping through waves, tails breaking the surface, adding to the gurgle of the stream. The birds don’t sing or weigh the boughs of the birch trees. Fallen branches don’t snap as they would if I had any sort of large company. Everything is quiet here. Muffled the way my sister’s voice would be when she stuffed a towel in the crack under her door to keep her phone calls to herself. I would stick my ear to the keyhole instead. I found a dry spot tonight. Under the shadow of a large boulder. I can’t find the north star. I can’t find any of them. All of them would be there if I am where I think I should be. Hydra should be in the East, Cygnus and Draco in the North, near the dippers. The clouds rolled off yesterday. The moon doesn’t rise early in the evening. Each dusk I’ve walked I’ve watched my steps for rocks or snakes and hoped for a broken beer bottle, a smoldering cigarette. Trash, a slain tree. A sign that the river had been crossed by boots. Suddenly the water on the leaves would shine, and I

would look up again and the moon would be there, where it wasn’t a moment before. I no longer watch for snakes. I now watch for changes in the light. The lights. Three days ago, I stayed up late with the lights off. I played The Great Reunion of Ellington and Armstrong and stared at the ceiling. I watched as it closed in on me forever, crushing me to the bed sheets but never reaching me. I imagined the walls doing the same, my room falling in on top of me. I closed my eyes to Solitude and peeled them open again as the first trumpet sounded. The shadows swayed as the horn played, and I imagined them dancing, finding partners in the crowd to swing with, from the closet to the floor to the fish tank, dimly lit. They circle around one another as if they’ve memorized the Viennese Waltz, and disperse when the cars pass, afraid to be found. The skip across the whitewash, vaulting gracefully over the imaginary cracks in the walls, the ones I almost wished were there to bury me. I implode with the plaster it seems. I stayed there, watching the shadows until the fourth track, when it filled my room. I wrenched myself from the seats to find where it flowed from. Blinding, brilliant, and stinging, the white light seemed to turn the shadows to dust, pouring in like unwanted guests at a small town party. The brass sliding lock on my window shook, rattling like snare wires. The light had found me, but something followed it. My skin itched, and, scratching my arms, I pushed myself to the head board, always keeping one hand over my eyes, my knees tucked in. I saw colors, doubles of things the way you do when your eyes creep too close to the sun, or when you watch a lamp just too long. The rattling of the brass lock reached a crescendo, and the little thing was flung from the wood. It landed on my carpet, red hot. I watched the smoke rise slowly as it burned. The disintegrating shadow dancers fell away with the wind as my window flung open. It hit my face like a whip, like a belt. The air was hot, radiating, warping everything so that it rippled. The light hummed, like hornets did in the summer in the thick parts of the woods by the river. I stayed in the clearings then, when my sweat made the leaves stick to my arms and the dried mud dust to my feet. I was careful not to sprint over anything that made that sound, but now it was crushing me. My ribs shook, each breath a game of catch-up as I struggled to keep the air from wriggling out of my throat. I felt my way off the bed, along the pocked wall to the door. I reached to grab the handle, but shied away at the heat that fell from it, that seemed to boil the air around it. I should have thought myself a lobster, the kind that yelps when you cook it, but the humming was too loud for me to know if I was screaming. I turned back to the window, the force of the air and bright light urged my eyes to shut, but I held them open, if only slightly, to see two figures, climb through the window, on the second floor. They were unmoved by the wind, the light, shadows against it. Only their coattails moved, slightly as they talked to each other with words I couldn’t hear. Before I could call to them, they turned, almost identical silhouettes, and walked slowly to me. They brought the choking smell of exhaust with them. As they got closer I could see how their suits hung from their bodies as if on hangers rather than walking things. I backed up into the corner 78

"The Great Reunion" by Louis Armstrong (1961)

art by jaden schapiro

between my bed and the front of my bedside table. I held a hand up to keep the light from my eyes again, and saw their faces more clearly. A pallid, greyish, sickly color. One of them reached to its pinkish mouth that looked like mine, but its thin fingers, slightly too long for its hands, came away red. The only color they had was painted on. I wanted it to stop. But they came closer, with that burned smell and daubed faces. Their sleeves were too long, and their pants too short. I could feel the fabric, like sandpaper, like nothing we cour wear, as they coaxed me from the wall. They never spoke, never moved their lips. I couldn’t feel myself. My hands and feet seemed lost to me. They dragged me through the rippling heat, unflinching, to the open window. I wonder if my neighbors saw, at 3:06. The skinny things in untailored suits lifted me by my armpits to sit on the window sill. I happened to cock my head just far enough to see my watch, and that it had stopped ticking. No one wears suits like that any more, with long tails, with bowler hats and unshined shoes. They looked familiar, but unreal. It’s the same way the forest looks now. Like it should, but it is missing things. The water that drips from the crooked rock and onto my lap is too quiet, moves too slow. Too still. It all is. I think I understand now. Why it all seems to slip farther into the uncanny valley with each appearance of the sun, each time I feel the breeze but the leaves seem not to notice. Everything has left, or, perhaps, it was never here. There are no birds, no fish. There are no deer. I am alone with the indifferent trees and biting snow. I can’t bring myself to drink the water. It is much too clear. My lips are cracking. I watch the sky now. It feels the way my walls did, as if it could fall in on top of me. The moon has not yet appeared. I hope to catch it, if only to prove to myself what I already know. I search the ground around me quickly, stealing looks back up into the night in case I miss it. I am not near home, and I may never be home again. I find a small, sharp rock, and push up from the ground with creaking knees. I walk with my chin to the cloudless night to the nearest tree. I cannot make it interested, but I can make it remember. I carve slowly, tracing each line with my fingers. MAC. •

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The Weeb Article

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fter President Trump met with Shinzo Abe to discuss the future of Japan’s military, a London, Idaho resident, Jeff Denton, decided to take a trip to Japan. When Denton began to realize the prospect of traveling to Japan, he took to Twitter to say the following: “As an avid anime watcher and Japanese culture aficionado, I can confidently say that I will not be seen as a tourist by the Japanese but rather, one of their own.” While this is the outcome Denton wanted, what actually occurred is quite the contrary. As the Londoner landed on the tarmac, locals reported that the small town man butchered some Japanese phrase that was so incoherent that an ambulance was called because people thought he was suffering from some kind of post-flight seizure. This was not the case, as Denton later informed authorities that, “I’m fine, I was just trying to immerse myself in the culture.” Upon arrival in Japan, Jeff was reportedly surprised by the absence of subtitles when people spoke. Jeff had heard from his local game store in Idaho that everyone in Japan traveled around with giant necklaces that had an LCD screen displaying their words in English. “This is ridiculous,” Denton said, “how could so many people talk in a language different from English and actually understand each other?” Other eye-opening cultural learning experiences for Jeff included: people do not fly around in giant robot mobile suits, men and women don’t have giant eyes or exaggerated features (boobs), and women are not romantically interested in awkward men with magical/ extraordinary abilities. Sadly, many of Denton’s shows present these tropes. Some of the Londoner’s favorite shows include Neon Genesis: Evangelion, No Game No Life, The Seven Deadly Sins, and his absolute favorite, the original Sword Art Online. While many people look at Denton as a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter, his outspoken reaction to Japan’s actual culture has shown millions of American weeaboos reality. • 80

THE EIGHT -YEAR STORY By Sonny Carton art by jaden schapiro

have been waiting eight years to write this piece. A reflection. A recollection. Of all the times, both good and bad, that I’ve experienced since I’ve been at Avenues. I knew the day would come, where I’d be a senior and be forced to look back on all the times that had come before. So, to properly write this reflection, I must start in September of 2012, which really was an interesting time. Having just moved to New York City from a small town in Pennsylvania, I was beyond excited and surprisingly minimally nervous to begin 5th grade at this school called Avenues: The World School. The name sounded intriguing, yet confusing. And the name really didn’t mean anything yet, as there was only one location of the school and that was in NYC. So, after what felt like a very short summer, I was ready to begin a new stage of my life and school career. Before the official first day of school, we had a tech orientation. On that first day, I still remember being greeted by Joe Milan, Ms. Reedy, and Ms. Davis, as I entered the giant beige building from the main entrance. Seeing large “Welcome” balloons draped across the main stairs that led up to food, I was immediately overwhelmed and excited. I made my way up the stairs, and they had all of us meet in FOOD. Looking around, seeing the huge lunch room, the glass windows in front of the kitchen staff, the 30 other kids, all had a similar look on their faces. We had to take pictures for our ID badges, and then we went upstairs to the sixth floor where we were given computers and iPads. If that first day was a sign of anything, it was that this was not going to be a normal school experience. In the year that followed, it didn’t feel much like school at all. I say that not because I didn’t learn anything, but because there was zero school spirit, and there was almost no feeling that it was a school at all, besides from the teachers. It really felt as if we went to a building to learn, but the building wasn’t a school and certainly didn’t feel like home. As I got to learn the students however, that all changed. Little did I know, when I first stepped foot in the building that day, that the little kids I looked at would be the same ones to help create what Avenues is today. The customs, spirit, clubs, attitude, culture, would all be created in our view. To me, since that first year there’s always been a personal connection I have with the school. I have seen it go from a place with no togetherness at all, to somewhere I can proudly and certainly say I will miss. With amazingly interesting and extraordinary opportunities and assignments for learning, compared to my small public school in Pennsylvania, I was always a fan of the education at Avenues. In fifth grade, I remember our final capstone

event was called “Iron Chef: Avenues”. In groups of two, our final project was to select a food from either the “new world” or “old world” that we had been learning about in World Course. At the time I thought, Who’s lucky enough to get to do a cooking challenge as a part of their final grade? It was opportunities like these that reminded me how special of a place Avenues is. In sixth grade, things began to change. I w a s in a new “advisory” which is what they called “deans group” at the time. With new friends around me, and with many students added to our grade, I could feel out my own relationships, along with the school spirit building. Sixth grade was unique because the schedule had completely changed from the year before. I remember we would always have snacks after gym class at Chelsea Piers. All of us would be tired and hungry after hour and a half long gym sessions, and we would sit on the Lower School side of the lunch room and play board games while eating our snacks. I would always run to the same table, with the same group of friends, and play the game Trouble. It was so much fun and we would do the same exact thing every week. However, even during this exciting second year at a new school, I remember not being able to wait until seventh grade, probably because this is when I was allowed to try out for an Avenues sports team. Those first two years I was really just waiting for the time when I’d be able to suit up in an Avenues team uniform. Then that year came and it was everything I had hoped for. Being coached by Thomas Hill, hearing my parents and relatives tell me stories of them watching him at Duke, and now I got to play middle school basketball with him leading me—it was everything I had hoped for. With the schedule completely changing again, for the third time in three years, seventh grade was just as exciting as fifth and sixth. This was when the school really started taking off. With clubs finally being brought into the school in a focused manner, one day a week we would have forty-five minutes for our club. I was in Random Sports club, which featured games of hide and seek, riding bicycles through the school hallways, and many other activities. As mentioned, this was 82

the first year I could play sports, and I was sure to participate in all of the three that I was allowed to join: soccer, basketball, and baseball. It was such a fun experience, being able to represent a team and a school through sports. Eighth grade came and went, just like the three years before it. With another schedule change, countless new additions to our grade, and many original students departing, the school was already unrecognizable compared to itself just three years before. Then, in what now feels like only a short time ago, I was ready for high school. With an exciting eighth grade graduation, where we had to sing ”The Climb” by Miley Cyrus, it was time for ninth grade. At this point, over the course of four years, I literally saw the school change around me. With the school board of directors changing, the ownership shifting, the schedule changing yearly, and the teachers coming and going, the one thing that seemed to stay the same was the relationships I held with the kids around me. Some had seen the school from the first year as I had, but many had also joined us at some point along the way. However, it didn’t matter when each student got there because by the time we were all in high school, we had developed a strong chemistry that would never change. At the beginning of ninth grade, we were introduced to a new temporary building at 515 West 26th Street. It was fun and unique being able to go from building to building in the middle of a school day. That is, except for the short, two-minute walk up the steep stairs, always crowded with students. As ninth graders with minimal expectations, as it was our first year in high school, I began to see even more opportunities for learning open up. In a mandatory, freshman Mastery class taught by Mr. Gutkowski, we focused on the practice and idea of mastering something. I would explain to my friends outside of Avenues the nature of these classes and I could 83

feel the envy they had, unable to experience these interesting and extraordinary classes. This leads into my favorite part of Avenues over the years, which was by far Minimester and 5th Term. In ninth grade, I took the 5th Term course “How to Build a Board Game”. Taught by Mr. Tappe and Mr. Yarbrough, it was a one-of-a-kind experience, as I got to spend essentially every hour of school working towards building a board game. At the end of the course, I not only had a working board game, but the knowledge of what it takes to create a thoughtful, insightful, and educational product. Then tenth grade came, and for the first time in the six years I had been at the school, the schedule was the same as the year before. I was once again, for the 4th year in a row, a triseason athlete. Soccer in the fall, basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring. That year, I was on varsity soccer for the first time, and it was amazing. We made it to the league semifinals and I felt that my first year on the team was a great success. The amazing educational opportunities would continue throughout the year, ending with another 5th term course, Differential Diagnosis, taught by Mr. Jofre-Lora and assisted by Mr. Hoeksema. This was without a doubt, the most I had ever learned about a specific topic in a learning period. With several students from the Avenues: São Paulo campus learning among us, the words “Avenues: The World School”, which sounded so strange that first year, had finally become a reality. I felt so proud to know that I went to a school that truly was worldwide, with a third campus in Shenzhen. In this course, we learned the practice of diagnosing patients, and studied indepth, to the best of our abilities, the anatomy of the human body. With experiences including dissecting an entire fetal pig and travelling to a museum and seeing a live kidney transplant first-hand, it

“It is these moments, these learning opportunities, that I will take away with me when I leave Avenues.” truly was a one-of-a-kind educational experience. It is these moments, these learning opportunities, that I will take away with me when I leave Avenues. Then eleventh grade came and the educational freedoms expanded, giving us the chance to take multiple electives. This was a great opportunity, and the first time we were really able to shape our own education. In classes like Psychology and Film Arts, I began to learn more and more, and I began to explore some of the topics and ideas that really interested me. It was fun to see which of the kids around me shared similar interests and wanted to do some of the same things. As soccer season came around, in what was the most successful varsity regular soccer season in Avenues history, I started at center defense, and I was having more fun as a student athlete than ever. With an unfortunate quarterfinal loss, however, we saw another season end before the championship. Shortly after basketball season started, and I was the sixth man on the varsity team. At each game, I was eager to come in with a burst of energy; it was amazing to play in front of such great home fans, which only increased since my earlier years of sports. Following basketball, it was time for baseball season. With many of the same players on the team for the third and fourth years in a row, I knew it was going to be a special season. As the starting second baseman, we had a thrilling season, upsetting the number two seed in the playoffs and making it all the way to the league championship game. It was the first time we had made the championships as a school and although we came up short, it was an amazing experience. Now, after all this time, it was time for twelfth grade, senior year. All the different classes, the different schedules, and the different teachers, there were only two things that remained the same: my classmates and the main Avenues building itself. At this point, it was fascinating to come to school each day and to see most of the same people in the same beige building that I had been in for over eight years. I had not only my best year academically, but athletically as well. At least, it would’ve been, had baseball season not been cancelled. Soccer season was thrilling. As the captain of the varsity team, in my last chance to represent an Avenues soccer team, I played every game as if it would be my last. Now, with my

secured role as the main defender on the team, I made many defensive plays and scored multiple goals, one of which gave us the 1–0 win in our senior game, and the other to take a 1–0 lead in the league semi-final game that we would end up winning 4–2. Although we lost the finals in a shootout, the season itself was magical, and I had learned how to lead the team in a way that encouraged fun but at the same time dedication and focus. It was this same year that I was blessed with the news that I had been accepted into the University of Miami to continue my education. With that positive news, it was hard not to reflect on Avenues in a positive way, as the goal of any school is essentially to provide an education that will take you into your next path of life, and that is exactly what Avenues did. Now, although I am incredibly disappointed that I will miss not only baseball season, which would’ve been my last chance to play for an Avenues sports team, but also the final semester of my senior year, including prom and graduation, I look back on all of my years at the school with a big smile. As is most likely very clear now, I have loved the ever-changing nature of Avenues, which started as a reputation-less middle school and has expanded into a complete school. I have enjoyed each and every year as a student and athlete at Avenues, and I can’t wait to visit next year once I am on my journey to college. I hope that one day in the future, I will read this reflection on my time throughout middle school and highschool and remember the fun times, great learning experiences, amazing teachers, and most of all, the great classmates and friends I’ve made during my eight years at Avenues. I will forever be proud to have attended Avenues: The World School, and I hope at some point in the future, I will return to New York City, to the large beige building on the face of 10th Avenue, ride what feels like an everlasting elevator, step off on the tenth floor, make a left, walk through the double doors of the gym, look at the floor, see the Avenues “A” branded on the halfcourt circle, look up on the wall and see the quote, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.” Best of all, I will walk toward the windows which overlook the city, and see the names of the students that attended the school in that very first year all the way back in 2012, and I’ll make sure I run my finger across the name “Sonny Carton,” enscripted on the window in a white paint, in the same way I had done that first year. • 84

The Class of 2020 Official Dictionary By Ian Rosenthal

avenues

aves

noun [ ah-vehn-yooz ]

noun [ ahvz ]

our school; our second home; the place we go to apprehend knowledge

abriviation for â&#x20AC;&#x153;Avenuesâ&#x20AC;?

bread

bev

noun [ brehd ]

noun [ behv ]

money

another term for a drink, excluding water

bot

café

noun [ bawt ]

noun [ cah-fay ]

someone who acts in a robotic manner; called this when you do something stupid

the place on the first floor of the Avenues building where you buy eats during your breaks in classes

drid

dumb

adjective [ jrihd ]

adverb [ duhm ]

to be annoyed, irritated, or sad

an amplifier; puts emphasis on whatever you are trying to say

fort

saaaiiike

noun [ fort ]

interjection [ shaïk ]

short for “Fortnite,” an addictive game popular in tenth grade

alternative to, “you thought wrong”

sw-

sweaty

prefix [ sw- ]

adjective [ swehd-ee ]

a prefix attatched to names to indicate they are “sweaty”

someone that tries so hard at something (e.g. discussion) they start sweating 86

Examples: • Bev: “What Bev are you going to get to pair with your sandwich?” • Bot: “Why are you doing your homework early? Bot!” • Bread: “Let’s get this bread.” • Café: “five minute break... Who wants to pop out to the café with me dumb quick?” • Drid: “This homework assignment got me mad drid” • Dumb: “That’s dumb wild” • Fort: “Yo bro, hop on Fort right now so we can get ode wins.” • Saaaiiike: "I like your outfit today...Saaaiiike." • Sw-: “Swian”

Meaning of an Athlete by evan friedmann

art by belle fraser

f I were to give a TED Talk, it would be called “What Being an Athlete Means to Me.” When I was a sophomore, I was one of only two people in my grade who earned a spot on the varsity basketball team. This certainly came as a shock to me––I did not think I was very good. In fact, it was clear from the first practice that I did not necessarily belong. I was all around the worst player on the team. When we got into games I wasn’t terrible, but I definitely struggled, especially against strong competition. About a month into the season I was considering quitting. I went to the assistant coach, who I had formed a relationship with, and told him how I felt. He sat me down and told me that I was on varsity because the coach saw potential in me, and the fact that everyone was better than me should make me want to play more and work harder to get to their level. That was something that really stuck with me, not only in terms of sports but in life. I ended up listening to my coach and I worked harder than anyone else on the team. By the end of the season, I was getting a lot more playing time in each game, and had earned the respect of my teammates and my coaches. So, even if you are not the fastest, smartest, or the strongest, you can still be successful by working the hardest. •

“Painting” from 1946 By Francis Bacon

"Untitled" BY LUC DETIGER

The City

By Xander Stefanovic

r o t a Elev N O I T U L EVO

yn josephson

photo by jacl

LI Y GIL HENR

he school I attended before Avenues had four floors and an elevator, but the students were not allowed to use it. Every morning I had to badge in and walk up the four floors to go to class. Going to the bathroom was never an option. You didn’t know what fluids were left in there from the day before so if you had to go, you would have to wait until you got home. We were also allowed to go outside the campus to get food during lunch. I can remember sprinting from my homeroom to the block up where a little chicken teriyaki mom-and-pop had opened up. If you were not there within the first two minutes of being let out of class, you were forced to wait in the 30 minute long line that stretched around the block. This was a problem because our lunch period was only 45 minutes, so you would have to rush back to class. In fall of 2016 I came to Avenues. The days before my attendance at Avenues all I could think about was that the days of walking up stairs to get to class was over. And then I got to school. Sure there were many nice luxuries like having an hour long lunch and having clean bathrooms, but my desire to ride the elevators was not as satisfying as I would have liked. I could either choose to take the elevators and experience that luxury and be late to class, or run up the stairs showing up to class on time, but drenched in sweat. I was stuck with two bad options, but I said to myself, “well, it can’t get worse.” And then I found out that we weren’t able to go outside for lunch and that a sandwich from the cafe cost more than my allowance. However, I bided my time and waited for the grade representative and the student government (or at least the Avenues administration) to make some changes, and thankfully they did. In 10th grade things got better: we were finally allowed to go out to eat. Even so, with one problem fixed, a hundred more were either created or left untouched. Now that I was allowed to go out to eat I could finally satisfy my midday pizza cravings. There was just one problem: we weren’t al-

lowed to bring food inside the building. I was dumbfounded. I was once able to bring a lunchbox to school, whereas it was now forbidden. This especially bugged me because it seemed that Flik was only making the best food when their contract was about to expire, so now my alternative to eating the food at FOOD when I did not like it was ruined. Still, this wasn’t the only inconvenience I faced at school. If I wanted to do some homework afterschool with a friend, we had to be supervised! I was 16, on my way to becoming a mature adult. But I was patient and I thought again, “it can’t get worse.” But oh, was I wrong. When I was in 11th grade I had a study hall that sometimes took place during my first period or last period class. I was super excited because, upon seeing my schedule, I thought that I would be able to wake up later and leave earlier. But Avenues struck me down again. We were forced to go to our assigned study hall rooms on the stinky 8th floor. And everytime we would go get a drink of water, the fountain produced a sad stream of lukewarm liquid. Sometimes the fountain’s water pressure was so bad that it was close to impossible to drink from it. What a travesty! When I entered 12th grade I was super excited. It was my time. Everything would be perfect. EXCEPT THE ELEVATORS. They were the bane of my existence. For the past 4 years, despite receiving extensive complaints from everybody, the elevators were just as bad as when I had arrived at Avenues. Not to mention, Flik had introduced Meatless Mondays. As I look back on these frustrations I realize that they are actually good memories. I realize how many great conversations I had while waiting for those elevators. What first made me frustrated has now given me new experiences with friends. Now, whenever I’m waiting an especially long time for an elevator, or when I can’t get water from a water fountain, I remember all of my friends that I have made at this school. •

"I could either choose to take the elevators and experience that luxury and be late to class, or run up the stairs showing up to class on time, but drenched in sweat."

Kim's Gift By Wonyoung Park

mindlessly eat my lunch in the cafeteria, drowning out the sounds around me. Suddenly, my phone buzzes on my leg. It is a message from my mom, I immediately scramble to read the text. A cute little mushroom emoji shows up on the screen. Suddenly I freeze. Cold sweat accumulates on my hand and every cell in my body tells me to run. Mushrooms: an evil force that should never have appeared in our mortal realm. I have feared them ever since I learned that the most dangerous plant in existence is a type of mushroom. No matter how I try to run from them, they always find their way back to me. Even my own family tries to bring me down with these entities, taking pleasure in the misery that they inflict upon me. No one wishes to save me from their existence, and my friends amuse themselves with my fear, making it their vendetta to haunt me with them. Why would my mom do this to me? I start to panic as I scroll through the message. Please don’t let it be mushrooms for dinner, I pray to myself. Luckily, it’s not. As I look closely at the messages, I read the text below the image: “President Moon sent this to my uncle, (your grandfather). It came from North Korea. The Government sent it as a gift to families who have relatives in the North but didn’t get a chance to meet them.” “What? What exactly did I just read? Is this a prank?” I thought to myself. It can’t be. I close my eyes, massaging my temples. I sit there, desperately trying to interpret what I had just read. Let me get this straight, Kim Jong Un, the "Let me get dictator of North Korea had sent mushrooms to my uncle. What is this straight: going on? I release a sigh, someKim Jong Un, what defeated by my confusion. I snap back to reality, determined the dictato see if this is real. An article tor of North pops up as I am searching the inKorea, sent ternet: “Gift of Pine Mushrooms from North Korean Leader Kim mushrooms Jong Un to South Korea Worth to my uncle." $1.83 million.” I read that Kim Jong Un, did in fact, send mushrooms to the South Korean president, Moon Jae In, as a gift. And they were not just any mushrooms, they were premium mushrooms with a value of around $1,000. I quickly reply to my mom, “What? For real?” She replies, “Yes, they are really for your uncle because we have relatives in North Korea.” As soon as I get home, I dash to my mom. “So you’re actually serious?” I ask. 95

“Yes, I actually am,” she replies. My mouth drops as I stare at her, her eyes unwavering. Suddenly intrigued, I ask,“So, what’s going to happen now?” “Well, you heard about how there are now a bunch of meetings going on between the two Korean presidents. In the future, we might even be able to see our relatives on the new train system being built,” she said. “Wow,” I thought. It was fascinating to think about. “Just make sure that the mushrooms aren’t sent to me,” I say to her only slightly jokingly. I do not want those mushrooms, no matter how much they’re worth. After talking with my mom, I flop down on my bed and my body slowly sinks into the mattress. I close my eyes and let the darkness envelop me as I mull over what happened. Why would Kim Jong Un, the leader of North Korea send mushrooms? What was his purpose? The more I think about it, the more I realize that maybe it has to do with the growing relationship forming between North Korea and South Korea. Maybe these mushrooms that I despise are actually the start of something positive in Korea. It’s funny how these tiny little clumps of death are uniting one Korea–– representing hope of a new beginning. I chuckle. My chest constricts as these conflicting feelings approach me. Now that the tension between the two Koreas is disappearing, the future is unclear. Personally, I have always identified as a South Korean, instead of Korean. If the Koreas unite, what will I be? By bringing the two together, I would lose a part of my identity, it’s a strange feeling. While I think Korea is changing in a good way, I don’t like how it would change how I view myself and heritage. At least I might have the chance to see my relatives in Korea. If so, maybe they can have a bite out of the mushrooms they received… I’ll stand in the other room. •

Interstellr

by Sabine borthwick 96

"I will By Angelo Orciuoli

forever 97

venues has given me so much. From simple things like a laptop to use for a great education to being able to travel around the world, twice. These unforgettable experiences were something that not every kid gets to have, and I will be forever grateful for it. Aside from the tangibles, more of my gratitude goes towards the community I was a part of. I learned so much from every single discussion, whether it was discussing Eric Foner or having hour-long talks about whether or not our world was a simulation. It was such a privilege to be in a community where I was comfortable, able to make friends, and develop relationships that I will forever cherish. I am so excited to see where everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s future takes them. During 5th term and class projects, I was always amazed at the intellect and the creativity of the peers around. I am so excited to see where their future leads them. I know that this was all very clichĂŠ, but Avenues has truly made me who I am. Being in a single spot for seven years made me grow a certain way. I am who I am because of Avenues. With everything that Avenues has given me, the last thing I wanted was to take it for granted. This was a lesson that I have learned again and again, and the current stage of this pandemic re-enforces it for a final time. I wish I cherished each minute I spent with the people I love a little more, because I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know when it is going to go away. And it could go away in a heartbeat. Love you all <3

grateful" 98

ail me down the river Let the current take the wheel If the tide is kind, perhaps I’ll find My anguish start to heal

SAIL ME DOWN THE RIVER by jonathan morales

I want to release the paddles I’ve gripped so tightly everyday I grasp them with fear, but why do I steer, If I can’t see, anyway… ‘The light will shine again,’ As promised by the others But when sun is set, I quickly forget That there’s always been another The clouds will bow their heads In fear of something so essential The skies look clear, but nowhere near Its infinite potential ‘Don’t stare into the light,’ you say ‘That lays beyond the blue wall’ It shines so bright, and someday might Just blind me from the waterfall The clouds regain their strength To downpour on the river’s plenty Each splash disrupts, the swans and ducks Who rested there so gently My vessel floods with chaos Under the weight that it’s amassed But all I saw, was sunshine draw A rainbow in the forecast I’ve had no luck finding directions On this map that you have followed I’ve turned at the twists, and weathered the mist, But still, the sun remains hollowed Please keep this boat steady, whoever You are… I’ve learned my lessons from rocking too hard I’ve pulled as I shake, and pushed as I quake But find myself drifting the same boulevard So please let me glide gently And I won’t move a sliver Ready to ride, both arms inside Sail me down the river

Cooked by Hugo

100

unamed.jpg by Ivan Plokhikh

101

Youngest in the Room L

ooking back at my experience at Avenues, the only regret I have is not participating in a Global Journeys trip. That being said, I was signed up to go to Hawaii in tenth grade until three days before Fifth Term when it was cancelled due to massive volcano eruptions. So, I guess I am kind of proud to say that I do not have regrets about my high school experience. My favorite memories were my two Fifth Term internships, in tenth grade at an insurance company and in eleventh grade at the NYPD. I guess what truly made those internships so meaningful were the connections I made at both organizations and what I learned about the world and myself during those times. When I first was offered to intern at American International Group (AIG), I had never really heard of working in insurance other than being an insurance broker. I told my dad I did not want to intern for an insurance broker. But, I ended up having the time of my life working at an insurance company as a fifteen-year-old. I really was not nervous for this internship, but I was certainly quieter, especially in the beginning of it, at important meetings. I spent the majority of the month asking questions, taking notes, emailing people to thank them for meeting or speaking with me, and listening to many different people talk about what they do. Two out of the four weeks, I was in the Internal Audit Department, which is the part of a company that evaluates everything within the company to assure everything is running smoothly and properly. On my last day, I was put with the college summer interns for their orientation. We sat in a big conference room; I was at the head of the long table that sat about forty people with the head of Internal Audit. He asked the group what it meant that auditing is a function of the company. When he asked this, I was getting ready to walk out; I had said my goodbyes to everyone. The room was dead silent, not one of these students from amazing colleges had an answer or wanted to answer the question. I put my hand up, he nodded for me to answer, and I said that auditing allows the company to operate properly, making it an integral function of the entire operation that is AIG Insurance. He said to the group, “that is our tenth grade intern.” My time at Avenues has given me perfect opportunities to try new things, explore my interests, fail, ask questions, talk to people, and defy the ‘normal’ definition of a high school experience. The world tells me that I should not have been sitting at that conference room table at AIG at fifteen years old, but I was, because Avenues allowed and supported it and motivated me to seek mentors, feedback, and accept failure as encouragement to rebuild better next time. I am proud of my own accomplishments at Avenues and cannot wait to see what else younger students have in store for their futures. •

By Jaclyn Josephson 102

he game was tied at zero for sixty minutes, and the rain wasn’t letting up. I was a little sophomore playing in the big leagues, aka Avenues Boys Varsity Soccer. It was nearing the end of the season and each win was critical for our playoff ranking, so everyone was playing as hard as they could. The game progressively got really scrappy. Players were yelling at each other, especially the player wearing number four on the opposing team. During the next play, number four ran past our goalie and spit on his shoe. I got the ball from our center back, quickly looked up, and started to dribble forward. I saw one of our forwards, Charlie, make a diagonal run to get in scoring position. I tried passing it to him, but I kicked the ball a little too hard, and the goalie dove laterally to save it. The ball ended up in the goalie’s hands. I knew Charlie had been annoyed by the game, but I guess he was even more annoyed than I had noticed that because before I knew what was going on, he lost control of his temper. He galloped toward the goalie, and with a quick pull of the trigger he swung his leg back and made cleat-to-forehead contact with the goalie on the opposing team. The sound of the ref ’s whistle pierced my ears; it was a foul. The goalie was laying on the ground with blood gushing out of his forehead. Charlie walked back toward our bench while the other team shouted at him from their side. We resumed play after giving the goalie a few minutes to get bandaged up. If tensions were high before, they were soaring now. The amount of cursing, name calling, and physicality increased. The ball was free, and my teammate Chetan started toward it along with a player on the opposing team. Chetan reached the ball first and quickly passed it forward. That was when the other team really lost their cool. They started shouting racial slurs at Chetan, the only black player on the field. The floodgates opened. All the players on both teams started running toward the field, yelling at each other. Our coach and our assistant coach started to corral our team toward the corner of the field to try and stop the fight, but punches were thrown anyway. I was on the field as this played out and I could tell that a fight was inevitable. As I watched my teammates run at the other players, fists

clenched behind their shoulders for maximum damage, my instinct was to walk away — I didn’t want to get involved in the mess. While I was walking away I was hit from behind. I turned around and this kid was trash talking to me, but I chose to ignore him. Physical violence is never the answer, but I completely understood why my teammates participated in the fight. I wanted to show my friend Chetan that I had his back, but I didn’t agree with this manner of solving a dispute — it was unproductive. I looked back toward the brawl and saw seniors on our team down on the ground fighting with members of the opposing team. I decided to make my way toward the fight to try and break it up. I pulled Mason out of the fight — one less player in the equation. I pulled Max out of the fight too — two less players in the equation. At this point my goal was to minimize the fight to the best of my ability and to help mitigate the hostility because I didn’t want anyone getting injured. As quickly as the physical fight began, it ended. After everyone settled down, we waited for an ambulance to pick up a few injured players. On the bus, I reflected on what had happened. I was proud of myself for taking the high road. When I think about a moment that required critical thinking, intelligence, and character, this moment came to mind immediately. With respect to my character, I am a down to earth, relaxed guy who understands that engaging in a physical fight is counterproductive. Thinking critically and using my best judgment at the spur of the moment, I knew that getting involved would only add to the problem. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically. Intelligence plus character, that is the goal of true education.” I agree with this statement and I believe the impact of my education extends beyond the classroom. I am an academically critical thinker, but I’m a real-life critical thinker too. Both on and off the soccer field, I have learned that maintaining your calm prevails and that when I think definitively about a situation I make the best decisions that I can. •

Mazel Tov by max kanders

n the months approaching my Bar Mitzvah, I dreamed of the party and the extravagant gifts, instead of its cultural purpose. For me, Judaism was all about receiving. I looked forward to Hanukkah and Passover not for their significance to my heritage, but for what I would get for celebrating them. However, after my Bar Mitzvah, it was time for me to decide what being Jewish meant to me. Being an indecisive thirteen-year old, I looked to the opinions of others for guidance. Kids at school seemed disillusioned by the pursuit of religion, as many of them had a strong affinity for science. Conversely, my parents emphasized the importance of tradition and expected me to attend holiday services. I was conflicted between my two worlds. It was not until I heard a specific sermon delivered by Rabbi Buchdahl, the Head Rabbi of my synagogue, that I realized how I wanted to be a part of this community. She spoke about the importance of legacy and memorializing those we have lost during the high holidays. By going to service on these holy days, we keep their legacies alive. And as I looked around the synagogue, eventually coming back to my own family, I decided that I wanted to preserve my parents’ legacy the way they wanted—that preserving the connection mattered to me too. I began owning my Judaism and it became a part of my identity in a real way. I participate in this community by occasionally praying and by practicing Tikkun olam—an aspiration to behave and act constructively and beneficially—in the same way that my parents do. By finding purpose in my practice, I feel welcome in my community and work actively to make all feel welcome in it. • 104

tl at lB hil Up By Caroline Connor art by jaden schapiro

y right hand clenched the brake on the bike as I rode down the gravel driveway. Soon, the trees dispersed and the house emerged into the open space that opened up before me, a familiar sight. As you enter the property, you can hear the sound of the ocean, something us Islesborians have grown familiar to. The walls were blue like the late afternoon sky, and the pillars surrounding the walls were as white as fresh snow. I walked the bike down the stone steps and rested it against a pillar next to the door as usual. Knocking is an unknown concept on Islesboro. We all just walk into friends’ houses and announce our presence, whether or not we were even invited. Benno, one of my best friends on the island, will just casually show up at my house in the morning and have breakfast even if my sister and I are still sleeping. “Hi Caroline, Ben and I were just heading out to din105

ner!” Julie, Benno’s mother, was the first person I saw as I walked through the front door that evening. “Nick and Emma are upstairs in the ‘couch-bed’ room watching a movie and I believe Benno is in his room.” I ran up the curvy stairs and situated myself in the room that I have always slept in. As I would lay in bed at night, I would look out of the circular window and admire the light of the moon shining off the glassy ocean. Julie was right; Benno was sitting on his bed watching sailing videos. “Haven’t we done enough sailing today? Or, in fact, this whole month?” I said as I threw his still wet life jacket on his bed. “Really, c’mon!” He laughed, “By the way, Julian is coming over for dinner and he’s bringing his lacrosse stick!” “Let’s get a head start at a warm up then… race you down stairs!”

“Wait, no fair! You’re fourteen!” “So? Doesn’t matter if I’m faster!” I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be my last night ever sleeping over at Benno’s house. Later that summer, our close-friend group gathered in Benno’s living room. Phoebe, Julian, and I were sitting on the large mustard yellow sofa facing the fireplace. Ellie folded herself over the armrest while Hayden and Huxley sprawled themselves out on the floor, looking at pocket knives on Amazon. Benno sat in the most comfortable and largest chair in the room. The room was only lit by the sunset and the crackling fire burning in the fireplace, even though it was above seventy degrees outside. For some of us, it was our last night on Islesboro that summer and we planned to spend it like any other night on the island. This didn’t happen; Benno soon told us that because of the new owners, his family would not be able to rent the house anymore after next year. The only sound in the room was crickets (literally—the island is full of them) until Ellie broke the silence, “Wait… we will never be able to go into this house again?” Half of the group looked at him in disbelief, the other half looked as if they were about to hyperventilate. We all felt like we were losing our second home, and thus a part of our childhood. Phoebe looked longingly at the yard. That yard is where Ellie chased Benno and Phoebe around the property, into the trees, and eventually into the ocean after they had attacked her with water balloons. That yard is where we would play lacrosse and practice trick shots until we would eventually lose all of the balls in the bushes and have to wait four days for new ones to arrive only to repeat the process. That porch is where we would engage in high intensity Nerf and water gun fights; Benno always won. That porch is where Nick, after being asked to bring a bottle of vodka to his parent’s lunch party, dropped it on his foot and had to be rushed over to the mainland by boat, yelling: “Why couldn’t have it been Benno!” That window above the canopy was the one Benno broke while playing lacrosse, the same one Nick broke a year later. Those woods are where we would run across the foot-beaten path to his house after lunches and dinners at the yacht club. Now where would we run off to after the yacht club’s monthly spaghetti nights? That room upstairs is where we would gather to watch movies that we were probably too young to watch. That dock

is where we would construct elaborate plans to push each other into the ice cold ocean. Once in the water, we would scramble onto Benno’s inflatable tube and fend each other off. That yard is where I would first learn to ride a bike. Julian glanced back at the room and dragged all of us back to reality, “Let’s make next summer the best one yet in tribute to this house.” Late July of the next year, Ellie, Phoebe, Julian, and I watched as Benno’s family unloaded their luggage out of the car and into their house for the last time. “It’s weird seeing them bring all this baggage from New York, instead of just keeping most of their summer stuff here...” Julian sighed. The rest of us nodded. “Hey! Instead of just standing there, how about you guys come and help us!” Emma, Benno’s sister, yelled across the driveway. The house felt strangely empty, colder than we all remembered it. We helped Julie stock the refrigerator with food for the summer and asked her about finding a new house: “It’s been an uphill battle, to say the least… finding another house to call home here is difficult, I don’t think there will ever be another house that feels quite like this one,” she sighed. Two weeks later, all the teens on the island escaped to Benno’s house, abandoning their parents at spaghetti night. We ran through the forest, but not on the path that we had created over so many years. Before the summer, the new owners had built a tall wooden fence that broke up our usual route. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” Luke Elkins—only a twelve-year old at the time—roared. “Capture the flag will commence in five minutes! Benno, pick the teams!” It was a night on which fatigue didn’t exist. For hours we chased each other around, rescuing the people on our team and tagging our enemies. For once, we didn’t think about losing the house—we only focused on having a great time with friends who we consider family. After the light of the sun had melted into the night sky, everybody started to head home. After saying goodbye to Benno, I ran back to the yacht club to retrieve my bike, which my parents had dropped off for me. This was my first time riding a bike all summer. As I mounted the bike, my foot slipped and the spikes around the pedal gashed into my leg, something that has never happened before. I left the bike there. All I wanted to think about while I walked

“That yard is where we would play lacrosse and practice trick shots until we would eventually lose all of the balls in the bushes and have to wait four days for new ones to arrive only to repeat the process.”

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home—as the blood from my open wound began to dry— was the amazing time I had playing capture the flag, but the reality that the house was going to be gone soon kept nagging me. The summer was coming to an end and there was one thing left on our minds: Benno’s birthday. Every year we have celebrated his birthday in grand fashion; the most memorable was a few years back—all in our pirate phases—when there was a full island treasure hunt against Harry Tower’s birthday group. However, most of the birthdays were spent at Benno’s house and this year was going to be the last. The same group of us who sat in the living room a year ago were now gathered in the dining room, including some new additions: Giles, Eve, John, and Cole. “Our last group dinner at this house!” Ellie said while trying to ignore the gravity of the situation. “Giles’s first and last!” Huxley laughed, having a slight edge to his voice. “Yeah, it’s weird that you’re not going to have this house next year,” Giles stated, “I only get to be in this house for dinner once.” “You think it’s weird; we have been coming here our whole life!” Julian responded, having the same edge to his voice as Huxley. “Have you found a house yet?” Phoebe asked Benno. “No, but it will probably have to be one more up-island,” Benno groaned. He quickly backpedaled when he saw Phoebe’s eyes open with excitement, “not thaaaat up-island Phoebe; no one will ever move close to where you are! That’s wayyyyy too far!” Phoebe rolled her eyes as the room erupted with laughter, “Hey, it’s only a forty minute bike ride from my house to the yacht club!” She said sarcastically, letting the laughter in the room escalate. “This house is in a perfect location, Benno; It’s right beside the yacht club and you are close to where everyone is, except Phoebe of course; no one wants to go that up-island.” Eve added. After finishing dinner, instead of immediately running to the yard or dock as we always did, we stayed at the table and talked for a few minutes. “Gotta say, this room feels a little different than the other time’s I have been in here,” Cole mentioned. “What, you mean like the telescope being gone?” John, who’s first time being at Benno’s house was only a year ago, asked. “No, I don’t know how to describe it… I just don’t get the sense of being home that I used to get here.” The familiar sound of the crickets filled the room after he said this. “Well,” Ellie, as always, broke the silence, “who wants to

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go squid fishing down at the dock!” Memorial day weekend 2018: Benno and I raced our bikes through the singular main road down-island after getting lunch at the Dark Harbour Shop. Benno skidded his bike to a halt beside the gravel road that led to his old house, eyes fixated down the path. “Want to check it out?” I asked him. He nodded his head and started down the path. My heart stopped. I could see Benno visually shaking as he stood next to his bike. Everything around the house had changed. All the plants that grew around the stone steps and boundaries were gone, as if ripped out of the earth. The wall dividing the house from the yacht club was even more visual as the forest was almost completely destroyed. The most jarring change however, was the bushes. Throughout our childhood, this yard was surrounded by large bushes that would eat up all of our lacrosse balls. Now however, all that was left of them were stumps and roots. Everything that we have lost in the bushes was now exposed; all of the lacrosse balls, shoes, a life jacket, some buoys, and some soccer balls. Suddenly, the door to the house opened and a women with grey hair who we have never seen before came over to us. Benno quickly explained how this used to be his house and that we just wanted to see what happened to it. The lady was friendly and let Benno walk her around the property while describing everything that he could remember; we spent most of the time walking through the remains of the bushes. After ten minutes of walking around, the lady (who turned out to be the house caregiver) stopped us, “Wait here for a second, I need to give you something!” She said as she rushed back into the house. She came back out a minute later with some clothes, “Are any of these your family’s?” “Yeah! Thank you!” Benno said gratefully, looking at the clothes with amazement as if he was holding a historical artifact, the same way he looked at the items in the bushes. The lady went back inside the house and Benno placed the clothes on the bike seat so that he wouldn’t lose them. We both stared at the property for a few seconds. “C’mon, we should head back” He said while flipping his kickstand. It was at this moment I hit my ankle on the pedal, the same spot as almost a year ago. “Are you ok?” Benno asked, worried. “Yeah, just felt like a scooter to the ankle,” “Your wound from last year is still there,” “Yeah, I think it’s a scar now… a constant reminder,” “Yeah… race you!” He said as he immediately started pedaling away from his house. “Wait! Slow down!” As much as I wanted to follow him and keep up, I didn’t know how to bike uphill anymore. •

kids

art by

mel d

ouer

by asta farrell

hate kids. Most people think they’re cute; I just want them to stop crying. I used to babysit for a family. It was the worst! I was bored, tired, and their children never listened. Yet oddly enough, I spend ten hours a week teaching three to seven-year-olds gymnastics, and I absolutely love it. When I was two, my favorite thing to do was jump. I jumped on the bed, I jumped on the couch, and I jumped off the couch. After giving my mom countless heart attacks, and irritating my downstairs neighbors, my parents decided to put me into a sport. I found love for the trampoline, starting my career as a gymnast. At three, I began practicing at Chelsea Piers, continuing ever since. Two summers ago, I decided I wanted a job as a gymnastics camp counselor. Although I didn’t like kids, I wanted to prove my maturity and independence. Also, money. The required age for counselors was sixteen, but I convinced the managers at my gym to hire their first fifteen-year-old. Work started the Monday after school ended. As kids poured in, my excitement faded. They were loud, some were already crying, and it was way too early in the morning. However, after finding my campers, everything changed. I learned all seventeen names in five minutes, I asked for favorite skills, favorite colors, favorite foods, and I loved listening to every story and responding “oh my goodness! That’s crazy!” despite them not actually making sense. By Friday afternoon, I was heartbroken to see my kids leave. As camp continued, I taught and connected with every age group. Summer eventually ended, but I had found something I didn’t want to stop. I took some courses, and by the time school started I was a certified USA gymnastics coach. During the school year I taught six classes each week.

At the beginning of each semester, teaching was frustrating and hard. My kids didn’t listen, they missed their parents, and some were so uncoordinated they tripped over air. One kid, Sebastian, was three, tiny, had big blond hair, and couldn’t do gymnastics for his life. As others started getting their forward rolls without my help, Sebastian would stand up, put his arms up, and dive face first into the mat. Every class I helped him, and every Sunday morning he came back like he had never done it before. About three weeks from the last day of class, Sebastian stood up, put his arms up, crouched down, and rolled. My eyes bulged and my jaw dropped. “Sebastian!” I cried, “You did it! Oh my goodness!”Hearing my squeals of excitement, Sebastian’s face lit up. When he gave me a hug on his last day, a feeling I hadn’t felt before washed over me. Sebastian had learned listening skills, a table-top and v-seat, and a forward roll, but most importantly he learned to trust me, and he knew I cared. Although Sebastian may forget “Coach Pasta,” I’ll never forget the joy that his happiness and trust brought me. Kids have these magical powers that seem to fade as they grow up. In a world that can be cruel, kids spread joy, lighting up rooms with their smiles and filling the air with their laughs. For some time, I thought I had lost my magical powers forever. But week after week, class after class, I slowly started to find them again. Maybe I don’t hate kids. I still don’t like when they cry or don’t listen, but when I taught them to cartwheel, they taught me to smile. When I taught them to walk across a beam, they taught me to laugh. When I taught them to roll, they taught me to be happy. And whether they’re loud, crying, or telling the same story over again that just doesn’t make sense, I wouldn’t trade being their coach for the world.

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f o s i alys

n A n A

ie Mil n n i M y B

he novel Call Me By Your Name by André Aciman is set in Italy in the summer of 1983. The story follows Elio, a 17 year old boy, as he navigates love, longing, and passion while lusting after Oliver– a scholar staying at his summer home and studying under his father. Throughout the text Aciman toys with the idea of shame– a common theme in queer stories– however, what I enjoyed about this story is the unique way he tackles this theme. Aciman mostly refrains from directly connecting shame and sexuality, and instead focuses on the entanglement of shame, youth, awareness, and growth. In the moment I have chosen, Elio and Oliver are together in a hotel room in Italy, and have stripped down any last secrets between them: they showered together and witnessed each others’ bodily excretions. Elio then tells the reader, “I want no secrets, no screens, nothing between us. Little did I know that if I relished the gust of candor that bound us tighter each time we swore my body is your body, it was also because I enjoyed rekindling the tiny lantern of unsuspected shame. It cast a spare glow precisely where part of me would have preferred the dark. Shame trailed instant intimacy. Could intimacy edure once indecency was spent and our bodies had run out of tricks?” (172). Throughout our study of this book the class has repeatedly expressed shock and discomfort due to the graphic magnitude and perversion of Elio’s desires and actions. I believe Aciman does this to amplify the role shame plays in the evolution of not only his and Oliver’s intimacy, but also their persons. The way Aciman crafts the narrative veers away from allowing shame to overshadow and control the portrayal of queerness, and rather addresses the way shame affects him as a whole, sexuality included. This book follows the classic structure of a coming of age novel in the way that Elio begins the novel as a naive juvenile, and through a singular experience gains maturity and “comes of age”. In the early pages of the novel, whilst talking about apricots, Mafalda states that “youth has no shame, shame comes with age.” (35). As Elio grows out of his youth, and begins to understand and experience intimacy, shame follows and grows with him as well; a notion Aciman clearly outlines in this passage by declaring that “shame trailed instant intimacy.” (172). However, I disagree with Mafalda’s statement that youth has no shame, instead I believe that youth knows no shame. In the earlier part of the story, Elio commits acts of lust– such as masturbating in Oliver’s bathing suit, and with the apricot– in which he doesn’t overtly express or acknowledge shame, however I believe there is a part of him that is aware that it is shameful. For when Elio has the slight suspicion that Mafalda may be aware of his crude acts, he is mortified. As Elio’s relationship with Oliver grows, he becomes more aware of the “tiny lantern of unsuspected shame,” and its glow becomes more and more prevalent (172). This is dis-

tinctly shown in the contrast of Elio’s thoughts before and after he and Oliver consummate their relationship. Before, Elio is consumed by the whirlwind of his passion and emotions, and doesn’t consider the opinions of anyone other than Oliver. On the other hand, afterwards, Elio frequently contemplates the implications of his relationship with Oliver, this passage being an example. Another example is after Oliver eats the peach Elio has ejaculated in, and Elio cries “to show him something as equally private about me” because “no stranger had been so kind or gone so far for me.” (149). After the overwhelmingly intense intimacy of that moment, Elio contemplates to the reader, “would I always feel such solitary guilt in the wake of our intoxicating moments together? Why didn’t I experience the same thing after Marzia? Was this nature’s way of reminding me that I’d rather be with her?” (150). Aciman blurs the line between shame and intimacy, entangling the two feelings more and more as the book progresses, and challenges the traditional negative connotation of shame. When Elio shares his shame with Oliver it fortifies their relationship, and accelerates their intimacy. This is shown in the aforementioned peach example, as well as when Elio reveals to Oliver what happened with the red bathing suit. Oliver dives into Elio’s shame with him, taking it on as his own, as if saying “my body is your body,” your shame is mine, we are one (172). This idea of a hybrid intimate shame plays right into the coming of age trope, for his shame “cast[s] a spare glow precisely where part of [Elio] would have preferred the dark” (172). The jumble of intimacy and shame forces Elio to realize and recognize parts of himself he had concealed from not only the world, but from himself. The shame is a part of his self-discovery just as much as every other part of his relationship with Oliver. Nevertheless, I feel that Call Me By Your Name takes the relationship between shame and intimacy to an extreme. Elio’s definition of closeness is so tied to the relief he finds in Oliver’s acceptance of his perversion that he is unsure if “intimacy [could even] edure once indecency was spent and our bodies had run out of tricks.” (179). In conclusion, throughout his novel Call Me By Your Name, André Aciman takes the classic trope of queer sexuality and shame and morphs it into something else entirely. Instead of explicitly relating Elio’s shame to the discovery of his sexuality, Aciman instead attaches shame to intimacy in order to tackle the overplayed coming of age narrative in an unexpected and refreshing way. The passage I chose is a point where the story culminates, for it connects the themes Aciman weaves throughout the story, and Elio reaches a realization that leads to a deeper understanding of himself and his relationship. However, Elio’s epiphany differs from the traditional coming of age turning point, because it is not necessarily the correct nor the final lesson and message, and it leaves much for Elio to still learn and grow. • 110

BRAVERY IN THE FACE OF

FEAR B

111

rom the start, we have been told to be fearless, that in order to be courageous and brave, you need to demolish your fears. Whoever told you that, wherever you heard it from, just know that they are wrong. You cannot have bravery without fear. You must be brave in the face of fear.We must acknowledge fear as a cue for brave action. It is scary to confront fear, and in a perfect world we would never have to. However, fear exists, and it plagues us and feeds on our insecurities. The only way to truly be brave is to face your fears head on. The best way to practice this is going out of your comfort zone. And, always remember, small acts of bravery are just as important as the big ones. If there is only one thing I will be remembered for, I want to be remembered for being brave. I want to be remembered as someone who lived outside their comfort zone, someone who never backed down. No matter how stupid this may seem, no matter how scared I am to put this in the review, I want to face my fears. I want to be brave. Tara Kerr. 2017. Orlando, Florida. I am grounded. I hustle. I shine. BE disruptive. This is my seven line pitch that I developed last year at my internship. It tells my story, and reminds me of my power when I face my fears. I keep mine on a sticky note on my computer so I can be reminded to always be disruptive––in a positive way, of course––in whatever I do. I encourage you all to make your own seven line pitch on your journey to becoming more brave. LINE 1: Your name. LINE 2: The most significant year of your life LINE 3: A place that is important to you LINE 4: I am…. LINE 5: I am…. LINE 6: I am…. LINE 7: BE word (Your be word empowers you, find a word that embodies who you are, or who you hope to be) As I enter the next phase in my life, I will continue to push myself out of my comfort zone. I hope to use what I have learned about fear and bravery in college, lacrosse, the classroom, and my future career. I will be disruptive on the field, and in the Marine Biology world. I will be remembered for being disruptive. I will be remembered for being brave. • 112

lot can change from freshman to senior year. I’ve seen it myself. Your friends change, your hobbies change, your hair changes. But nothing, and I mean nothing, changes more than your taste in music. Picture this: you’re a freshman, and your music catalog is about as deep as a puddle. If you were approached on the street and asked to name the most influential artist in human history, you’d respond “Kanye West” without even breaking stride. Yet all of the sudden, you walk into a room filled with upperclassmen and are met abruptly at the door with the crashes and thuds of rock and roll. It’s none of that professional nonsense, either. I’m talking three kids, surrounded by more, jamming out for all to hear. What is this, you wonder. Who’s got AUX? Where’s Lil [insert random word here]? But slowly, the crashes and bangs start to grow on you. Random big kids turn into friendly faces, and random noises turn into favorite albums. American idiot, Nevermind, In Utero. The past has started to present itself, and you love what it has to offer. All of the sudden you’re in the past, and now you’re a big kid becoming a friendly face. After some time you start to listen to more Rock and Roll. Then some Reggae, Jazz, even Classical music makes it onto your playlist. All of the sudden, it’s not just one or two younger faces you’re showing music to, but dozens, hundreds, the whole school. Music is culture. It always has been. Opening up to music was one of the best changes I made in highschool, and without it my Avenues community would not have been the same. •

THE RHYTHM OF HIGH SCHOOL By Jackson Meli

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wandering widow escapes her plight A soft, serene moonlight overtakes the night Nowhere to go, and nothing in sight The widow begins to rest in the light

ThE wandering

widow By Anzib Rahman

The widow looks up, her eyes very teary The solitude of the desert, so sweet yet so eerie The sand so endless, so bleak and hollow No place to be found, no person to follow The moon preserves the tranquil state The boundaries it serves created by fate Nothing can obstruct this harmonious sanctuary As it encompasses the celestial presence of heaven and space The moon so full, so close, yet so high As only emptiness fills the sky Its color so dreary and no stars to be seen Yet the moon provides the quality of a dream Her belongings aside her the widow falls into a trance Too absorbed by the moon’s presence she lies on her back The air so still and the night so silent Her eyes close, escaping this world A lioness approaches, sensing a faint smell It enters the boundaries of the moon’s enchantment It freezes in place from every bone to every cell This bubble of fantasy like no other on the planet The lioness ignores its prey, forgets what it came for It begins to walk, its head fixated on the floor Mesmerized by the the illumination, it stops and stares This moment so peculiar, only paradise can compare The widow awakes from her coma Her soul so rejuvenated, she had reached her nirvana She glances up at the moon before it disappears And wipes her face of all the tears

Image by: Henri Rousseau, The Sleeping Gypsy, 1897

Nightfall returns, nothing but darkness The lion glares at the widow, no longer harmless The widow remains calm and very still But the lioness pounces, his goal fulfilled The widow’s body gets colder Her face loses color She had succumbed to her destiny For her dream was over

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THE STREETS OF

NEW YORK WILL INSPIRE YOU by marlo liebenthal

115

ince sixth grade, my friends have been walking around the streets of New York City by themselves; I was jealous, but was petrified to take on the busy streets alone. Growing up in the city I’ve never gone anywhere without my mom or dad guiding me through the crowds of so many different people, teaching me how to cross the streets and navigating me towards the right direction. The streets of New York City are famous around the globe. I’ve gotten pretty good at remembering my streets. I caught on quickly because I’ve grown-up hearing all these New York City streets in countless books, movies and TV shows. The streets are filled with an atmosphere that’s like a young child on a shopping spree in a candy store. The streets can be mobbed with taxi cabs and cars going to and fro in numerous directions, with a scent of exhaust surfing through the air. To me the streets are diverse, filled with energy, crowded and exciting. But without anyone there to guide me, they’re scary! Feeling lost at every street corner was something I longed to stray away from. Sixth grade passed by and then I was a seventh grader. More of my friends now walked by themselves, but still not me. Then one day my mom suggested that I would take the bus from across the street from my school, up Tenth Avenue and at the corner of Sixty-Fifth Street where she would be waiting for me at the bus stop. This would mean for the very first I would be on my own, even though I would be sitting on a bus with a lot of people. The night before that day, I was very nervous for what was to come. My heart beat as fast as humming bird’s wings. My palms sweat like I just washed them. My mind spinning in circles like a merry go-round. What would happen if I got on the wrong bus? What happened if someone approached me? What happened if I forgot my bus card? What happened if the bus broke down? What happened if I got off at the wrong stop? But what was scaring me the most was what I would do if my mom wasn’t standing on the corner? The next day I woke up relentless, and looking forward to this big responsibility that was going to take a step forward to growing up and becoming more independent. That afternoon at four o’clock, the moment had come. My hands held my phone inside my pocket for security. I crossed the street. I made a left, and took a couple steps to reach the M11 bus stop. Then I stood there waiting, looking South down Tenth Avenue waiting to see the orange lights of the M11 bus approaching. I noticed others waiting as well. Children with their nannies, siblings fighting, moms and dads asking their child about their day and there I was standing tall and brave until I started to panic wondering

where my metrocard had gone. I started frantically looking in my pockets, my bag, my wallet, and couldn't find it. I heard the mom next to me tell her son, “Look there's the bus, come get ready.” I looked up and saw it two blocks away. I thought to myself, “Marlo, try hard to think where you put your bus card. My ID badge! There it was just in time as the bus was pulling up. The bus stopped, the doors opened, I’m the first person on. I swipe my card and find a seat in the back next to these wild and loud teenagers. The doors closed quickly and the bus took off. I took a deep breath in reminding myself there I was, I was doing it. Looking out window the Alicia Keys and Jay Z song “Empire State of Mind” started to play through my head:

“In New York, Concrete jungle where dreams are made of There's nothin' you can't do Now you're in New York These streets will make you feel brand new Big lights will inspire you Let's hear it for New York, New York, New York” It played in my head. The trip went by so quickly Sixty Fifth went by so fast and there was my mom, standing on the street corner, smiling. I had never felt so good before; crossing the streets and taking the bus was a liberating moment. My heart overflowed with excitement. From then on, walking the streets by myself has been part of my daily life. I now do quick errands through my neighborhood for my mom, I walk home from school, and around the city streets with my friends like a grown up. A change has happened inside me that no one else has realized. I’ve grown up. •

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class of 2020