Bard Winter Issue 2016

Editors-in-Chief: Anna Boonyanit and Sara Varadharajulu Layout and Artistic Editors: Sylvia Chen and Ashley Zhang Writing Editors: Sunia Sadeghi and Ashley Zhang Photography Editor and Website Manager: Nikhar Arora Staff Writers: Lauren Chan, Mina Mahmood, and Natalie Jarrett Teacher Advisor: Tripp Robbins Cover Design: Ashley Zhang and Lauren Chan Table of Content Design: Sylvia Chen and Anna Boonyanit

Table of Contents Letter from the Editor 4

by Anna Boonyanit

Tales from British 6 Boarding School

By Peter Brodie

What in the World: 12 Non-Governmental Organizations in Greece and Beyond

By Lauren Chan

Funny in Farsi, Not 18

By Sunia Sadeghi

G.R.I.T.S: 20 Girls Raised in the South

By Avery King

The Midwest 26

By Ellie Lieberman

The 5 Mile Journey 30

By Riya Goel

Straight Outta D.C. 36

By Natalie Jarrett

Short Takes: Television Drama 40 “El Tiempo Entre Costuras�

By Lauren Chan

r

o t i d E n a m Letter fro

A few weeks ago, I ranted to a friend at Stanford University about the stresses of my college application process.

I was and still am in similar shoes that many of his college peers were in high school. But his high school peers, at Stanwood High School in Camano Island, Washington, had not felt the looming pressure of college admissions that we Menlo students face.

At Stanwood, no one does SAT or ACT prep. Four AP class es are offered, and in the two blocks of his AP Chemistry class, only five out of the sixty kids even took the AP test.

Here, we are kindly reminded probably ten times either by college counselors or parents to ask our teachers for

college recommendations in the fourth quarter of junior year.

The protocol is well-established; we fill out a form on Naviance and the rest is taken care of by our college counselors. For my friend, his two teachers were very surprised and even honored when he asked them for teacher recommendations. They had written very few recommendations before and in fact showed them to him, asking if he wanted them to add anything before submitting them.

At Menlo, essentially everyone goes to a four-year college and frequently, top fifty schools. At my friend’s school, only about 25% even attend a four-year college. Most students go to trade or mechanical school to get a job. To them, University of Washington is basically the equivalent of an Ivy League to us.

My friend was the only person ever accepted to Stanford from Stanwood since the 1970s.

In addition to a disparate academic environment, the

political culture there is drastically different from the Bay Area’s.

Stanwood is extremely conservative and religious. People even bring their hunting rifles to school. My friend comments, “At Stanford, if you aren’t liberal, you feel like you’re doing something wrong.” That vibe seems to permeate through all of the Bay Area. I’ve seen hundreds of posts on my Facebook feed slamming Trump and probably about two pro-Trump posts.

That other side is almost invisible to us. Yet, the other half of our country somehow hears validity in his points. We are so sheltered in our Bay Area bubble that most of our conversations are overwhelmingly one-sided, making it difficult to understand the other side.

Through this issue, we hope you will reflect outwards onto

the numerous dimensions of our world beyond the Menlo Bubble.

Anna Boonyanit

TALES OF BRITISH BOARDING SCHOOL

gourmet; but if many of the entrees seem brown and mushy, the salad bar is copious and colorful. But Menlo kids can leave the campus, or have their hampers chauffeured, Draeger’d or App’d in; our lot was quite different.

We were not allowed to leave the school grounds, Guest written by retired Menlo teacher Peter Brodie except to buy ink at the Stationer’s for our fountain Design by Sylvia Chen pens. Food shops, especially,

In September 1951, when I were out of bounds: the shopkeeper would report you was 8, I was dropped off at my boarding school by my parents, and the punishment was a caning. I would have welcomed who I wouldn’t see again till a Menlo meal that first day, as June. The next ten years were split between 2 schools: a Prep we new boys tried to mask our misery.

School (Lockers Park) from

Our first Tea, memorable 8 to 13; and a Public School (Wellington College) from 13 to for its food—or, rather, its nonfood—was to influence my 18. The contrast between my schools and Menlo is so striking eating habits to this day. We each had a plate with a piece and so absolute that I have to of bread and a nasty dollop limit myself: I’ll start with Food, of what passed for margarine: followed by Hygiene, Bullying I ate the bread and was then & Discipline, Drinking & More told that I had to eat the dollop Bullying. too, which I couldn’t bring

It’s fashionable to bitch myself to do. Fortunately my about Menlo lunches—and the neighbor picked up my plate hike, and the crows—which are and licked it clean. To drink, not, perhaps, designed for the

there were mugs of milk that had been sitting all afternoon in the sun: they were not just warm but topped with scum and they were turning sour.

Again my neighbor rescued me; but I have never drunk a glass of milk since, and I buy only I Can’t Believe It’s Not Margarine.

For the rule was: Everything must be eaten. Or, at least, your plate must be cleared. If you found a live slug clinging to your lettuce leaf or a large black beetle under your slice of grim grey meat, you couldn’t pass it down to the master when he stacked the plates: you would be punished for insubordination. So we became expert smugglers-out: put offensive matter in mouth, blow nose, transfer o.m. to hankie, pocket hankie, flush down loo later.

Breakfast was porridge.

Vats of the stuff—lumpy and slimy—were placed on each table and at mine the Head’s wife doled it out into the orange plastic bowls. I actually liked the lumps, but the boy

next to me didn’t; he would put one in his mouth, chew it a bit, gurgle, and then throw up.

This happened every day for a month, and it was enough to put us off our feed. The Head’s wife was unsympathetic: instead of excusing him and letting him choose to starve, she bribed me to find a solution. So, guessing it was the smell and the sight that made him queasy, as much as the texture, I had him hold his nose, insert a mouthful, close his eyes, swallow, and repeat.

Crisis averted, and my pockets filled with extra sugarlump.

Lots of food was still rationed. WWII had finished only 6 years before, and the English had learned to subsist on one egg a week and meatless meat pies.

Vegetables were scarce and limited; fruit was almost nonexistent (I don’t think I peeled an orange before my teens).

A roast chicken was an annual treat, for Christmas Dinner.

Sausages were supreme; and bread, at least, was plentiful.

We relied on surplus wartime

supplies, like those sugarlumps.

Sunday tea meant a slice of bread and a white-ish slab of lard. Then an upgrade to brawn. They took those parts of the pig deemed too lowly for a sausage—the snout, ears, spleen, skull, genitalia, anus, etc. and fashioned them into a tawny loaf, with a salami texture. We eyed our first slice with suspicion, which turned to horror: out came the hankies for the nose-blow, and the dash to the loo.

Small wonder, then, that as a generation we tended to be small (at sixteen I was only 5 foot 2). The average height of a British soldier in WWI—like a Roman legionnaire—was 5 foot 5.

Both my mother and my potential father (wee Archie McKellar, an ace Spitfire pilot killed in 1940) were less than 5 feet tall.

One huge difference between Wellington and Menlo would be the smell. Americans have a keen, almost canine, sense of smell: they can sniff out the faintest of sebaceous glands and they are in thrall to deodorants. We changed our clothes once a week.

For 7 days we wore the same underwear, socks, shirt (though each shirt came with 2 detachable collars, secured by studs, so you could freshen up your neck on Thursday). Jacket, tie, and pants didn’t matter so much (we had two of each, for the year); but after an evening’s indoor soccer we must have reeked. Deodorants were simply unknown. But when you live steeped in stench, you don’t notice.

Nor was personal hygiene much valued. Showers did not exist—they were not a Brit thing, and hotels only installed them later to lure American tourists. Brits like baths, so we had baths— but only twice a week, and then only for 7 minutes, which was not enough time to empty the bath and refill it. (We had 2 baths, and two lavatories, for 50 boys.) As we never drained the bath water, whoever had the 10 pm slot just lowered himself into a purplish swamp and added his accumulated mud and grime to the everthickening sludge.

At Lockers there was little bullying, which is odd, because small boys are essentially feral and can be very nasty. Instead, we focused our hostilities on our common enemy, the teachers—who must have led strange lives in their tiny bedsitters with a shared bathroom and schoolboy grub. There was one who dug his claw into my bicep and lifted me on high because I had made an errant pass in a soccer game, and who sent me flying with a backhander across the floor & into a radiator for not knowing the Latin for “furniture.” He also mocked me for my ignorance of St. Mark’s Square—as if any British kid was familiar with Venice in 1954.

Teachers were free to strike us—an educational fashion that has since fallen into disrepute. But we had our weapons, too, and our favorite target was old Colonel Henderson, who taught French because he had survived the trenches in France during WWI: he had an inviting bald head, and when he turned to write

on the board we loaded our rubber bands with a tightlywadded paper pellet, and let fly a salvo. This caused him not only pain but a series of traumatic flashbacks (as I later realized) that made him freak out and cancel class. Mission accomplished.

At Wellington, discipline was wholly in the hands of the prefects, who could dish out a variety of punishments ranging from “Make me 20 copies of the house list (50 boys)”; or Go to Grubbies and buy me some cake”; or “Run to that brass plaque 2 miles away and make a “rubbing” to prove you were there.” (Of course we made several rubbings for future use, or even for sale.) But for serious offences you were caned by the Head of House.

These included: running after dark; walking with hands in pockets (even on the coldest day); failing to salute a master you passed; wearing socks that were not sufficiently “subfusc.”

The caning itself involved quite a ceremony. You were summoned, execution-style,

to the House bathroom at 10 pm in your pajamas—which were examined for padding. Then you were led to the chair and made to bend over the back and grasp the front legs: this ensured maximum tautness of the skin. Six of the best was the phrase— only the Headmaster could give more, and his limit was 12. As for caning At Wellington, technique, opinion varied from a smart be brutal, espe backhand to the traditional forehand whack. I was caned 4 times myself, but there were no as Head of House I got to cane seven.

Tracy Bianchi.

If all this sounds barbaric, it is meant untrained (and i to. Because it was. (Caning has since been abolished.) This was the height were supposed to of the British Empire, when much of the upper lip and world was run by a tiny kingdom the size of Oregon. Hence all those boarding schools, to look after kids while their dads were off lording it over “lesser breeds without the law,” and to train them as future lords themselves.

By demonizing alcohol, America has guaranteed that teens will lust for liquor, and most of them find a way to indulge, even if they have to wait for college. At many Brit Public Schools they try a different tack: we had our own pub. After evening “prep” you could order a pint of beer or cider; and if you were really thirsty there was always a pal to donate his ration. It was designed to civilize us, to make us accept alcohol as a modest part of life; but of course it failed, and binge-drinking is as common at Brit Unis as at American colleges. (But it’s legal: the official drinking age is 16; and with no IDs, all you have to do is convince the publican that you are of age (and of means)—my nephew found a pub in Bath to serve him when he was 14 and looked 10.)

Which brings us back to bullying. There wasn’t, as I said, much bullying at Lockers; and I never saw much at Menlo. At

Wellington, bullying could be brutal, especially because there were no resources like Tracy Bianchi, no one at all to whom you could bring your troubles or in whom you could confide: if you told a “friend,” you might as well tell the whole school. Teachers were untrained (and indifferent): you were supposed to assume that stiff upper , bullying could lip and tough it out. ecially because I was bullied because (a) I was academically advanced; (b) I was too resources like dumb to play dumb; and (c) I was small Teachers were for my age. At sixteen I was 5’2”, and my indifferent): you voice hadn’t changed. When I joined the o assume that stiff Choir as a soprano, I was quickly known as “Eunuch” or “Euny.” What may have d tough it out. saved me from physical abuse was my reputation as a boxer.

Once the others decided on you as a target, they were relentless. No one would talk to you. At meals, this was extended to being starved: you were denied the communal dishes from which you helped yourself—fortunately, there was always a supply of bread elsewhere, so I could rely on the traditional prison diet of bread-and-water. This must have lasted several weeks, before they wearied of the task or found other prey—I have a letter from my Housemaster to my father, in which he says that “Peter seems to have been going through a rough period.” But he never did anything about it. Vacations weren’t much better, but I dreaded going back to school, with severe stomach cramps as the day drew near.

Of course some are unhappy at Menlo, some perhaps filled with despair; but I don’t sense that Lord of the Flies ethos that permeated my schools. At Borrone’s yesterday, I asked a graduate to pinpoint Menlo’s downsides in her day: she couldn’t think of any—it was grad school that undid her.

What in the World: Non-Governmental

Organizations

in Greece and Beyond Written By Lauren Chan Design By Ashley zhang

For me, the most frequently asked question of the past five months has been, “How was your trip to Greece?”

My first response is, invariably, “Do you have an hour?” There’s so much to say, and yet I feel incapable of even beginning to synthesize the people, places, and emotions that I witnessed and experienced. But time is only the first obstacle to answering this question. The “how” is the second--and far more daunting-obstacle. When I begin to answer a default “good,” I catch myself. Was it good? It was heart-wrenching and heartopening. It was a whirlwind. It made my hands clench and my stomach clutch up. It was real.

It was at times, beautiful; at others, horrifying. But with all the suffering that had to occur for me to even generate the idea for this project, I just can’t call it “good.”

However, a constant theme of the experience was the presence of good people with the good intentions to do good work, in the form of volunteers and non-governmental

organizations (NGOs). They don’t always achieve their goals, and throughout the course of my trip, I learned a lot about their functions--and dysfunctions.

While I can’t judge the actions of people who have dedicated their lives to a cause I’m passionate about, I have become more critical of what they do because I believe that in many cases, small fixes could exponentially increase their impact.

Unfortunately, much of the refugee crisis is characterized by a lack of organizational health.

When the first line of defense, governments and the United Nations, fail to prevent a refugee crisis, NGOs must step in and meet the needs of millions of people. Prior to my trip, my view of NGOs was appropriately naive--I had never interacted with NGOs that needed to meet basic human needs like food, water, shelter, and clothing.

Ultimately, I ended up leaving the two major organizations I planned to volunteer with for other organizations that I found

on the ground. It wasn’t like I hadn’t done my research-I spent hours and hours researching via the Internet and Facebook, emailing and messaging with NGO leaders and other volunteers, you name it. When I got to my first day on the job for the first NGO, I found that the leaders had handed a volunteer the key and jumped ship. There was no permanent staff, not even a consistent leader for more than two weeks. The person in charge was--get this--at home in California.

At the second organization I originally planned to work with on Lesvos Island, the person in charge was in Athens. I don’t want to condemn any of these organizations--nearly all of them are begun with the best of intentions, big dreams, and empathetic leaders--but unstable organizations cannot bring stability to refugees. The first organization was based around schools and touted its trauma-centered care; in fact,

the revolving door of leaders and volunteers created more discord and more opportunity for small-scale trauma. The second organization grounded itself in swim lessons for refugee children, claiming to teach safety; in fact, insufficient volunteers made taking a large group of children down to the sea more dangerous than before, with rockthrowing, drowning, and even kidnapping as major concerns.

This prospect, that good

people could cause harm while trying to do good things, was disillusioning and dissatisfying.

It seems like a recurring pattern in the transition from childhood to adulthood: continually realizing that, contrary to that enticing childhood belief, adults don’t have it all together.

Not even the “good guys,” the people who want to help, are free of faults. It also made me confront my own path. I had to acknowledge that, while I hoped to have a net positive impact on the refugee crisis by volunteering and relaying the message back home, I also probably hurt the children with whom I bonded and then left after those few weeks. After getting to know these beautiful

kids, already riddled with PTSD and various behavioral issues, the idea that I could be causing harm to them was painful to me. But that’s the reality of this crisis, and one that I didn’t realize before I got to the refugee camps. Chaos is viral. Nothing’s perfect. There’s no cure-all or panacea. Most actions feel like simultaneously taking a few steps forward, and one or two backward, and maybe a couple sideways too. But that uncertainty can’t dissuade us from trying.

NGOs must be the clarity and consistency in a situation that inherently lacks those qualities.

The world doesn’t always see the reality of refugee camps.

The morning that there were celebrities from Game of Thrones visiting the refugee camp that I was working in, an act written about by journalists and shared on social media, there was a fight between two families in which a girl was hit repeatedly by the father of the other family. That was not a side of camp life shown to the television stars, nor to the media. The collective capacity

to approach fights, trauma, and uncertainty is what NGOs should ultimately strive for.

There’s a lot to praise about existing NGOs, too. The new refugee NGOs I found to replace the dysfunctional ones? They were amazing.

Danish Refugee Council and Because We Carry were acting in an organized, informed manner for an extended period

of time. They brought light and balance to their refugee camps, and they were different from the poorly-run NGOs in a particularly notable way: they worked alongside refugees, employing and working with them. That seems to be the secret sauce: partnership.

I’ve attended several seminars and dinners with the leader of a Jordanbased refugee organization called Questscope. Questscope uses refugees from within the camps to mentor younger refugees. Curt Rhodes, the Questscope director whose seminars I’ve attended, has said, “You can’t give someone dignity. You can only recognize it.” Partnership recognizes dignity, and the fact that refugees must be the basis for a solution to their problems. Rather than offering selfaggrandizing aid, the West, along with NGOs, should be working side-by-side and hand-in-hand with refugees.

For more information, contact lauren.chan@menloschool.org or visit www.firsthandblog.wordpress.com.

Funny in Farsi, Not Written and Designed by Sunia Sadeghi The majority of my extended family lives in the Islamic Republic of Iran. While I have visited every other summer for all my life, I have only recently started to notice all of the stark differences between my cousins and I, especially in school. One of my cousins, Mehrad Aflatouni, is my age and one of my best friends. This summer, I saw him for a total of about 10 minutes.

Mehrad is studying for the Iranian University Entrance Exam, also known as the Konkoor. This test is the single criterion to gain admission into any university in Iran. If you do well on the test (that is, if you are in the top 100 out of the 15,000 kids who take the test every year) you can go to the school of your choice and study whatever you want, but if you do badly, you either retake it the following year, or go to whatever university has accepted you (if any). Only 10% of all those who take the test end up being accepted into university.

The Konkoor is not just any test. It is the single hardest hurdle that Iranian students must jump over if they want access to higher education. Due to its difficulty, Iranian students graduate from high school their junior year, and spend the entirety of their senior year solely studying for this standardized test, which consists of approximately 800 multiple choice questions to be completed in a wide range of subsections (religion, scripture, grammar, biology, etc.) in about five hours.

The Iranian high school system is nothing like America’s.

Schools are not coed, and both boys and girls must cover up completely before they go to school (girls with headscarves and guys with slacks and long sleeves). The school day is the same as ours, 8:00-3:00, but kids must wake up hours in advance in order to brave the nail-biting traffic of Tehran, where it could

take hours to get from one point to the next. They study twelve subjects, including Islamic scripture, Arabic, English, and Persian grammar. Freshmen in high school must choose one of three tracks to pursue throughout their high school careers: arts, humanities, or math/science. Because of this, you must know your future profession by the time you are fourteen. Although you are able to switch this “track”, you must work incredibly hard to catch up on the wasted years that you have missed in the track you switch into; because of this, kids generally do not brave the switch.

Teachers are also extremely strict in all Iranian schools. My cousin’s principal called his father into a meeting due to his “excessive laughing.” Mehrad once got smacked by his history teacher for chewing gum in class. While not all teachers reach this level of intensity (or child abuse), they all do discipline their students harshly.

Because schools are not co-ed, and are not places where students typically have tons of fun (as exhibited above), Mehrad tells me that he and his friends meet up with girls, somewhat secretively, after school. In a society where drinking alcohol and having sex before marriage can land you in jail or even whipped, teens do not typically tell their parents that they are out with the opposite sex. Although Mehrad’s parents are much more open-minded than others, he told me he still hesitates to post Instagram pictures where he’s innocently hugging his girlfriend.

We often forget that we don’t have a dress code at Menlo, or don’t need to spend our senior year studying day and night for a test that essentially tells us where our future lies. We may (or may not) think twice about posting a picture online because we cannot get thrown into jail for it (hopefully). As kids living in America, and even more fortunately living in the Bay Area, we often forget the freedom that lies in our teenage hands.

G.R.I.T.S. Girls Raised in the South WRITTEN BY AVERY KING There are rules in the South.

I don’t mean simple rules like sugar-shocking your iced tea; I am referring to the rules that any true Southern girl knows.

These aren’t written rules. A Southern girl learns these rules by watching her mother, or aunt, or grandmother; the real Southern traditions are passed down through generations.

For those of you trying to pick

DESIGN BY SYLVIA CHEN up a few tips on how to be a Southerner, remember this: we don’t become Southern; it can’t be bought- we’re born that way.

Whether it is Nashville or New Orleans, Birmingham or Beaufort, there is a special breed of charm and grace that’s signature below the Mason-Dixon Line in the American South. Southern is a blessing. It’s more than the region you were born in; it’s a lifestyle.

MY SOUTHERN COMFORT ZONE SOUTHERN WOMEN ARE

A Georgia Peach, I was DIFFERENT born and raised in the South.

My Mama gave birth to me in Atlanta, Georgia. Like all Southern girls, the accent and preppy style is handed to our Moms with our birth certificates.

After I was nine years old, my family moved from Georgia to the heart of country music: Nashville, Tennessee. After spending seven years in Nashville, my family made a huge move across the country to the Bay Area. It became apparent to me that: not everybody drives a truck.

Not everybody drinks sweet tea.

Not everybody owns a gun. Not everybody knows all the words to “Amazing Grace.” Being removed from the South is what has ultimately shaped me into the girl I am today. By leaving the South, I realized that there is a world beyond it. A very different world. And I cannot wait until the day I can move right back to where I belong: the South.

This is not an exaggeration or advertisement, like all the song lyrics about California girls and their undeniable glamour.

Southern women are hospitable, put-together, God-loving, chatty.

Southern women make the effort. That’s why you will never see a Southern woman without perfectly manicured nails. And that’s why you will never see Oprah wearing sweatpants.

You will never see a Southern woman leave her house with wet hair (even in the case of an emergency evacuation) because wet hair shows that you don’t care, and Southern women do (at least when it comes to our hair).

Southern women aren’t insecure or narcissistic, we simply do what we need to do to take care of ourselves (blow dry our hair); because, we are caretakers.

SOUTHERNISMS

CHARM, CHARM, CHARM

Southern women know everyone’s first names Darlin’, Honey, and Sugah. When in doubt, say Bless Your Heart. Yes, Ma’am, and No, Sir- this is the expected response of any young Southerner. We are taught to address all adults as Ma’am or Sir from the start. I never thought twice about responding to an adult this way. After the first day at Menlo, Mr. Schafer asked me a question in which I naturally answered “Yes Sir.” Taken back by my response, he laughed it off and told me that he doesn’t wear a necktie, and that I don’t need to call him Sir. This seemed to be a common occurrence with other adults on the West Coast. Similarly, if I slip out a Y’all, friends will stop in their tracks, jaws open, and after seconds of silence ask if I really just said Y’all.

After these responses, I phased out saying Ma’am and Sir and Y’all on the West Coast. However, whenever I visit Nashville it comes right back. Reese Witherspoon says it best: “It’s like a comfy pair of slippers I only wear at home.”

Southern Women have taught me everything I know about gracious Southern living: how to dress, act like a lady, devotion to our front porches, being overdressed is far better than being underdressed, there are only Sinners with a Savoir, and always invite everyone into your home for a visit. You can tell an authentic Southerner if they have charm. Here are a few examples: 1. Always hold the door: If there is someone within 30 feet of youHold the door!

2. Ahem, stand up straight!

3. Smile. There is no such thang as too sweet.

GEOGRAPHY

The Oxford English Dictionary defines the word Southern as “living in or originating from the South or the more southerly part of the region.” However, being Southern is so much more than a birthplace. It’s home. Southern women do identify themselves with geography. You don’t hear, “well this is how we Nebraska girls do it.” You may hear, “I’m

a Jersey girl,” but this is more of a Threat than a Howdy. If you have ever met a Southerner, you are aware that it doesn’t take long for them to mention that they are from the South.

Southerners are proud.

THE SOUTHERN WAY Southern ain’t a pimped up truck

“

BEING REMOVED FROM THE SOUTH IS WHAT HAS ULTIMATELY SHAPED ME INTO THE GIRL I AM TODAY. BY LEAVING THE SOUTH, I REALIZED THAT THERE IS A WORLD BEYOND IT. A VERY DIFFERENT WORLD.

that’s never seen the pasture, it’s cars pulling over for a tractor. In the South, it is completely normal (in fact, 100% expected) for two strangers to chit chat while in line at Publix, because Southerners don’t believe in strangers. However, trying to make conversation with another stranger in any other part of the country reaps wide, concerned, fearful eyes.

Southerners are hospitable, loving, and chatty. You’re never gonna change a Southerner. Another huge aspect of the Southern culture is the SEC (the Southeastern Conference for college football). In the South there are four seasons: Winter, Spring, Summer, and Football.

Growing up in Nashville, my family had season tickets to the Vanderbilt football games. And before each game is the tailgate. Tailgates include: food, food, and more food, lots of people, lawn chairs, blankets, and outdoor televisions so that we

could watch the football game while sitting 200 feet outside of the stadium.

HARPETH HALL, OH PLACE BELOVED

Harpeth Hall, Oh Place FAMILY IS CENTER Beloved: From fifth to tenth

Strong pride for your grade, I attended an all girls heritage is a vital characteristic preparatory school in Nashville of any Southerner. A single first called Harpeth Hall (the same name? Southern girls have two school Reese Witherspoon is first names that come from her an alumna). At Harpeth Hall grandmothers on both sides.

I was surrounded by strong, Southern girls treasure their independent, loving, Southern heirlooms. For instance, my sister, women role models. Harpeth Hall my mom, my mom’s sister, my was not just a school for girls to mom’s mother, and I all wear the enrich their academic knowledge; same signet rings. There is no I learned far more than academics replacement for something that at this school. Harpeth Hall reminds you of your upbringing. taught me how to be polite, welcoming, strong, independent, OUR LORD, REFUGE, AND a believer and supporter of SAVIOR feminism, the list goes on and

From bow-ties to seersucker, on and on. We wore plaid skirts Sundays are days reserved for (no higher than 3 inches above Christ and Family. One of my our knees...and yes there was favorite Southern traditions is such a thing as the “Index Card dressing up for church. In the Test” which was spontaneously South, there are huge white executed), polo shirts, white churches on every street corner. knee-high socks, and Sperrys to If someone is going through a school. We were expected to hardship, it is not uncommon for arrive on time to class, always another Southerner to offer to reply to a teacher’s email, and “light them a candle a church” or never be caught chewing gum “pray” for them. (this called for automatic Saturday

School; chewing gum is not lady-like). Every assembly ended by singing our alma mater and then each grade exited one by one clapping and singing along to their corresponding grade’s chant- one of countless traditions. Part of our alma mater is below: So light of heart and free, we pledge Allegiance through the years.

As old girls with the new girls share The pleasure that endears.

Once a Honeybear, always a Honeybear. As Honeybears (our mascot) we understood that it never hurts to add a little sweet to the sour. Every day walking into school, I felt like I was surrounded by my sisters; each of us were raised by the best: Southerners. We know how to make funeral casserole. We know that the only kind of thank you note is a handwritten one. We know how to make people feel at home and loved. Leaving the South was not easy; I felt like I was leaving my sisters and my lifestyle behind. But it is comforting to know that whenever I return home I will be welcomed with good ole’ Southern Hospitality’s warm embrace.

HOME Even 3,000 miles away from home, I still embody my Southern roots. I don’t intend to change my (615) cell phone area code.

I listen to country music daily. I try to maintain my hospitable disposition and be a warm and welcoming person to everyone. I strive to be the young lady the South has taught me to be, and I drive thirty minutes to Chikfil-a for some moderately authentic sweet tea. It’s a cliche but it couldn’t be more true: “You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South of out the girl.” Everyone should visit the South; the door is always open.

Midwestern Nice Written by Ellie Lieberman

Design by Niky Arora

“Where do you want to go to college?

The East Coast or the West Coast?” I get this question quite a bit from the average concerned mom, curious friend or overly-intrusive aunt, but my anger stems over the omission of an important part of the country, the Midwest.

The Midwest as a whole has been an extremely important region of the United States for me. And, let’s be clear as Dan Devitt says, “The Midwest does not include the plain states.” Rather, the Midwest includes every state within the triangle of Minnesota, Missouri and Iowa. Personally, I was born in Chicago and lived there until I was four when my family packed up and moved to California. For 12 years though, my mom has been desperately hoping to move back to the Windy City. Though this is yet to happen, for these summers, we’ve traded Lake Tahoe for Lake Michigan, Mexico for Minong (Wisconsin) and thunderstorms for temperate summers. However, actually wishing to spend time in the Midwest may come as a surprise to many people who assume the region is barren of warmth and culture.

First and foremost, the Midwest geographically has a little bit of everything that neither coast can offer. Lakes? Check. Farmland? Check. Suburbs? Check. The unique blend of landscape in the Midwest is also something no resident can go without experiencing. While some Californians will have trouble reaching

the mountains or beaches, in the Midwest, you can go from the heartland to the city in less than 2 hours (If you still don’t believe me, drive from Chenoa, Illinois to Chicago), which can be very appealing to many people.

“I love the option to live in the bustle of the city, while also having easy access to suburbia and the country,” Alexander Gaul, a high senior from Barrington, Illinois, said. With that said, unlike the Bay Area’s constant commuter traffic, life in the Midwest moves at a different speed.

For Fritz Schemel, a high school senior from Westport, Connecticut who travels to Wisconsin every summer to visit family, the difference in pace is quite obvious.

“I think the pace of life is more calm in the Midwest compared to my life living on the East Coast,” Schemel said. “[Midwesterners] don’t seem like they are [in a rush] because they are willing to take the time to be considerate and kind.”

This idea of “Midwestern Nice” breeds true not only for visitors, but residents too. Aidan Berg, a high school senior from Minneapolis, actually hopes to leave the Midwest later in life. Among the other things he dislikes about the region are the weather, stereotypes, and lack of diversity in rural areas. However, Berg admits that “The people are mostly very nice and look out for each other.” I think it really says something if even a jittery teen hoping to get out of the Midwest can say that much.

Journalist Paul Kix, who is a contributor to ESPN Magazine and New Yorker, recently wrote a piece for Thrillist regarding his

experience living in the Midwest. He described “Midwest Nice” by comparing it to the other regions of the United States. “It isn’t the feigned kindness of the South, where people sipping bourbons at cocktail hour reserve the right to boot-heel you when you turn your back. It’s not the abrasive honesty of the Northeast, where everyone speaks, as Don DeLillo once put it, in the same nasally, knowing cynicism.” People in the Midwest are simply put, nice for the sake of being nice. In my mind, this really matters.

In the Silicon Valley, it is easy to get sucked into technology and materialism and drawn away from human interaction. However, in the Midwest, it is not all iPhones, Lululemon, Sprout and Patagonia “I think as a whole Midwesterners are very genuine and empathetic and not materialistic or self absorbed,” Emma McNail, a Kirkwood, Missouri senior said.

Similarly, I think It would really benefit Menlo as a whole if each day, people spent a little more time doing something for someone else.

I’m not asking you to move to the Midwest or even go there for college, but I urge you all to at least be open minded to the region. Sure, you don’t have the beautiful coasts of the East and West, but what is lost is made up for in kindness.

5 Journey

The

Mile

Written by Riya Goel

Design by Ashley Zhang

Passion, drive, motivation and connection were a few attributes I lacked while at Gunn High School. But I might have been part of the minority...

After the suicides at Gunn, I found myself lost in the midst of friends with mental health issues and academics to which I saw no purpose. When more than grades were at stake, I shifted priorities. I shifted to Menlo School: a school where students were supposed to be supported in every way. A year has gone by and I am so grateful to Menlo for providing me with some amazing opportunities. But just because I moved to Menlo in order to thrive, that doesn’t mean that other students at Gunn needed to do the same.

The size of a school influences the social dynamics of its “After the suicides at students. Menlo is four times Gunn, I found myself smaller than Gunn High School; as a result, Menlo has a more lost in the midst of tight-knit community, one with less feeling of isolation and friends with mental loneliness because everyone health issues and is well acquainted with each academics to which I other. You will definitely find specific friend groups, but there saw no purpose.” is some intermingling between the cliques. However, I noticed that life can get claustrophobic at Menlo if you don’t fit in with any of the five or so groups in the grade. As a result, Menlo students tend to have many friends from outside of school. The miniscule, integrated society at Menlo can put more pressure on students to conform to the ‘not randomly selected’ average whether it be in terms clothing choices, personality or political beliefs. Those who stand out for any of those reasons may receive negative attention from their

peers. Menlo does not provide an accurate representation of a Bay Area teenager because its student body is hand-picked, whereas anybody living in Palo Alto can attend Gunn High School.

Despite their differences in size, both communities care about their students; Gunn High School is extremely aware of mental health and students are always looking out for each other. According to Palo Alto Online, as of 2015, the Palo Larger schools, therefore, have Alto school board dedicated a very different $250,000 a social culture. year to hire two At Gunn, with professional “Menlo does 450 students in on-campus not provide a class, I found therapists for it difficult to high schoolers an accurate form an intimate (Kadvany). An representation connection with adolescent of a Bay Area my grade. It’s counseling impossible to system separate teenager because know everybody, from the college its student body is so students tend counselors is not to stray from now in place; hand-picked” their groups. students know Had I stayed at what to do in a Gunn, I would have graduated crisis and many student groups not knowing the names of such as Sources of Strength half the students in my grade. and ROCK are dedicated to However, it is guaranteed that keeping Gunn students healthy. one will eventually find the type of friends he or she is looking While there is a counseling for because of Gunn’s size. system at Menlo, some There is a place for everyone. may argue there is no need

for it because of the close

relationships students form with teachers. At Menlo, I know of so many adults that I would feel comfortable approaching for guidance, but I never formed those kinds of relationships at Gunn. Menlo is truly unique in the amount of time teachers spend with students. As an introvert, one may feel disoriented at Gunn, but Menlo’s welcoming community will make it easier on the shyer students.

This community feel is highly emphasized at Menlo. Many school activities are planned to bring the school closer together. The “community meetings,” junior girls night, barbecues, concerts and the senior retreat are examples of such events. While they are successful in uniting the classes, none of them would be possible without funds. Menlo’s

campus also promotes sense of community. I have made so many friends just spending my free periods and tutorials in the cozy library, student center or college counseling.

Gunn’s spirit is evidence that money is not a necessity to make events enjoyable; I still miss Gunn’s spirit rallies and annual traditions such as the whole grade going to In n Out after homecoming and the infamous paper toss at the end of the year.

None of these events depend on money, nor does one’s quality of life at school.

The money that comes with the majority of the families at Menlo may imply a life lacking in real world experiences.

Many of my friends at Gunn are either looking for jobs or have one that they work on a regular basis; on the other

hand, only a couple of my elements of a healthy life. peers at Menlo have worked Preparing for life after school paying jobs. While there are starts early. always exceptions, Gunn students have to work a little In order to thrive academically harder to enjoy pleasures that at Gunn, you need confidence, Menlo students consider status initiative and flexibility. You quo, such as obtaining parking must seek out resources that permits for school or going out are readily available to you at to lunch often. I consistently Menlo. A college counselor hear from at Gunn has my friends double the at Gunn that students “Teachers do care they felt bad that a Menlo about their students, asking their counselor does. but the culture of parents for gas Counselors money or they and teachers getting extra help wanted to limit at Menlo send is not prevalent the number you emails because of Gunn’s of colleges to meet and they applied check in and size.” to because of whereas the application meeting with fees. These are things that most teachers at Gunn is difficult Menlo students do not think because getting help outside twice about. Additionally, the of class is not common. pressure and time a job can Sophomore year, I remember take may contribute to more asking my chemistry teacher stress because there is less for extra help during lunch, time for school work. Balancing and she responded by saying such responsibilities can take “I eat lunch at lunch,” without time away from exercise, family offering another time to meet. and friends––all necessary However, this is the same

teacher that broke down into tears in front of our class when the first suicide at Gunn was announced. Teachers do care about their students, but the culture of getting extra help is not prevalent because of Gunn’s size.

While Menlo is an extremely mindful and conscientious community, it has been somewhat sheltered from an important issue in the Bay Area.

Teen suicide is terrifying to think about, yet it hits so close to home for the students of Gunn High School: seeing my friends and teachers upset, being exposed to death for the first time, and realizing the

hidden issue of depression in my community deeply impacted me, and I became more focused on a better life rather than perfect grades. I grew stronger, more aware of my surroundings, and therefore better prepared to help my peers in the future.

Both Menlo and Gunn have given me irreplaceable experiences. I am grateful to have been able to share my story with this school by speaking out about issues such as suicide and colorism. I know these nurturing communities have prepared me well for the daunting yet exciting life ahead.

Nearly three years ago, I moved from my semi-urban life in Washington, D.C. back to Menlo Park, California. I had lived here before as a kindergartner, but the bulk of my growing up had been in D.C. Coming back, it was pretty hard for me to re-adapt considering the many cultural and physical differences, but I have broken them down into You Are Now About to Witness the Stren a few main categories: Natalie Main Industry My mom always recounts my 8th grade graduation at Hillview during which some of the parents were apparently cutting business deals with other parents. This to me represents the restless business and tech culture which permeates the Silicon Valley. D.C. on the hand was the center of all American politics. Everybody there was either a lawyer, lobbyist, activist, or politician. At times, this was overwhelming––I vividly remember at a young age getting caught in a horde of boisterous protesters. D.C. was also the home to prominent politicians including the President. I am now always asked if I know the President, which is the Silicon Valley equivalent to asking if I know Mark Zuckerberg. In fact, I have never met the president, but I met Michelle Obama twice and played soccer in the same league as his daughters.

The highlight of D.C.’s political scene was Capitol Hill; the home to all the monuments and museums Menlo 8th graders visit on their D.C. trip. Any Washingtonian quickly grew bored of such spots, but they were still hugely important to the city. With my father being an engineer, my family and I were outsiders to the political culture of the District, but we don’t stand out in Silicon Valley’s tech bubble.

Straigh

I hadn’t fully appreciated the ways technology and science impact and improve life until moving back. The other day I was at a dinner party where a young woman was explaining a startup she worked at which 3D printed cheap and sustainable Homes for poor communities.

My mom always tells me of these venture capitalists who provide coding classes for ngth of Washingtonian Street Knowledge unemployed coal miners. e Jarrett Hopefully by combining my love of the humanities with new knowledge of progressive and life improving technology I will be a more well rounded person.

School All of my school’s curricula were designed to fit the prominent industries of their environments. Menlo Park schools have very strong STEM programs, but sometimes I feel that they underrate the humanities. D.C. schools, on the other hand, had very strong and engaging humanities, but sometimes their math and science suffered. For example, my elementary school taught math in Spanish, which was a very poor administrative choice since the standardized tests were in English.

Another major factor in my schooling was the environment the institutions were based around. Menlo Park schools are based in very quiet, affluent neighborhoods which in turn allow students to have open and navigable campuses. This was a relief after enduring the closed-off, heavily-guarded schools in D.C. Since the schools were in more urban environments, they were required to have extensive security systems and allowed little freedom for their students. I remember always being late to class because I had to undergo the

ht Outta

metal detector. In fact, new fashion trends emerged like shoelace belts, because students were tired of being held up by the metal detectors for wearing regular belts.

Weather California is known for year-round perfect weather, but since I have gotten used to it, I’ve honestly become a little bored of it. On the contrary, D.C. is a swamp and has extreme weather patterns: the summers could be consistently in the hundreds, but we could receive three feet of snow during winter in the same year. The buildings in both places are built to adapt to the weather patterns. For example, my schools in D.C. were all large, stuffy buildings, as opposed to the spread out, outdoor campuses of California. In fact, some schools in D.C., were rebuilt because the buildings barely allowed any sunlight in, which affected student behavior. After windows were added in the classrooms, students felt more comfortable and engaged.

Both places also have their fair share of natural disasters. California is prone to earthquakes and has adapted as such, but I’ve noticed that Californians have little clue how to deal with “my school lightning/thunderstorms, and many have never even seen snow. My school in DC had to shut were all lar down for three days after a magnitude three earthquake which knocked a few bookcases buildings, as over and put a few cracks into the architecture, the spread ou but we’re still mostly able to go to school campuses of C in snowstorms, and we managed to get through Hurricane Sandy.

Demographics D.C. was a minority’ majority city. At one point it was nearly 70% black, but by the time I moved there that number

was down to 46%. Even within the black population there were variations; most were African Americans, but many were immigrants from Africa, particularly Ethiopia. My house was near a prominent Ethiopian church. I had lived in the northeastern quadrant commonly considered the “good” part of D.C., especially in contrast to the notorious southeast, Anacostia area.

The majority of blacks lived southeast, which is why I wasn’t around people of my own race much until middle school. Since my brother and I had very limited experience with black people or culture, we were nicknamed “oreos,” for supposedly being black on the outside but white on the inside. Because of that nickname, I didn’t really consider myself fully black until moving back to Menlo Park and discovering blacks made up only 3% of the population.

Another large racial minority in D.C. were Latinos *(10% of the population), the group I was mostly surrounded by, as I had gone to a bilingual school taught in English and Spanish.

Many Latinos were also immigrants stemming from all parts of Latin America, especially El Salvador. I was probably around just as many if not more Latinos than whites, who were 40% of the population. D.C. goes beyond just racial diversity, with an astounding ls in D.C. 10% of adult residents identifying as LGBT, due to fact that D.C. legalized same sex marriage in rge, stuffy the 2009. Having gotten used to D.C.’s rich diversity, opposed to it was hard for me to imagine living in Menlo Park’s ut, outdoor homogeneity, but what I learned after living here is that the Silicon Valley presents a rich diversity California.” of another kind. In DC, only 3% of the population was Asian, as opposed to 30% of the Silicon Valley. California as a whole has a very long and interesting history of migration which gave it its diverse population.

Short Takes: Television Drama "El Tiempo Entre Costuras" Written by Lauren Chan Design by Ashley Zhang

Quieres practicar tu español? With the Netflixstreamable period drama “El Tiempo Entre Costuras,” translated as “The Time in Between,” you can brush up on your Spanish skills, learn about the Spanish Civil War and World War II, and enjoy gorgeous costuming and an exciting plotline all at the same time. “El Tiempo” centers itself around Sira Quiroga, a young seamstress living in Madrid in the mid-1930s.

With a short series of relationships, Sira finds herself whisked away to Morocco and locked outside of Madrid and her mother during the Civil War. Entangled in various political interests, Sira eventually embarks on a position as a spy masquerading as an upscale dressmaker and extracting secrets from her German clients. Roller-coaster plot aside, “El Tiempo” is worth watching even if it’s just for the aesthetic quality of the show. The show lives up to its focus on a dressmaker with beautiful costuming worthy of its time period and location.

The pace of “El Tiempo” hits an admirable cadence: it accelerates at a lively clip, but also knows when to slow down and allow viewers to simply enjoy the beauty of extended moments and sharply portrayed vignettes within the story. Tonally, it also manages to strike a balance between action and sentimentality; “El Tiempo” packs a punch with both gun chases and drawnout, cross-cultural friendships. Actress Adriana Ugarte is in no small way responsible for the strong, consistent delivery of Sira’s evolving character--fittingly, “El Tiempo” spans nearly more than six years of time.

Of course, the primary reservation most have about watching “El Tiempo” is language. I’m in AP Spanish, but the Spanish was initially so fast for me that I relied completely on subtitles.

However, if you’re looking to improve your Spanish skills, binge-watching “El Tiempo” is basically free Spanish immersion. By the end of the seventeenth episode, I found myself understanding the dialogue without needing to read the subtitles so closely. But even if you don’t study Spanish nor have any desire to do so, “El Tiempo” will stretch your brain to try to understand a different time, place, and culture. You’ll notice different patterns and paces of culture; entire books have been written about how language informs thought (for example, Through the Language Glass: Why the World Looks Different in Other Languages by Guy Deutscher). And Spanish is just plain beautiful to listen to. So take a little time (or, if you’re like me, a whole weekend) and give “The Time in Between” a try. You can’t lose.