Rubicon 2018

rubicon

WILBRAHAM & MONSON ACADEMY

2018

vol.4

rubicon Wilbraham & Monson Academy 423 Main Street Wilbraham, MA 01095 413.596.6811 rubicon@ wma.us

EDITORIAL TEAM Editor/Executive Chef Yewon “Jamie” Lee ’20

Dessert Chef Mai “Maya” Nguyen ’18 Pastry Chef Yanxi “Scarlet” Lu ’20

Pantry Chef Ziyi “Cecilia” Chen ’19 Adviser Heidi Ostendarp

COLOPHON

The text was composed in 11 point Adobe Caslon Pro. Adobe CC 2017 was employed in its design. Starbust Printing & Graphics in Holliston, Massachusetts printed 400 copies on 80# coated paper stock using Konica equipment.

Columbia Scholastic Press Associaion awarded “Rubicon” 2017 as a Gold Medalist.

MISSION

The mission of “Rubicon” is to publish excellent artwork and writing from as wide a swath of the student body as possible.

COVER Front & Back Cover: Noah Kantor ’19

SPECIAL THANKS Josh Bain

Russ Held

Paul Bloomfield

Royale McCormack

Kristen Casey

Liz Mitchell-Kelly ’04

Wendy Staples

Marxan Pescetta

Brian Easler

Bill Rosenbeck

Dean Guarino

Valeri Wallace

Tim Harrington ’73

Sue Wood

EDITORIAL POLICY

In 2017, a panel of faculty judges culled through writing submissions and awarded honorable mentions and first prizes in three catergories: poems, memoirs, and short stories. First place entries and honorable mentions appear in this publication. The “Rubicon” staff, which met during the winter season, selected photographs from the Travel Photo contest.

Wilbraham & Monson students in grades 9-12 are eligible to submit their work to the writing contest, and students in grades 6-12 are eligible to submit their work to the photography contest.

The “Rubicon” staff reserves the right to edit minor errors and to return submissions to the author for requested corrections. Authors and artists retain copyright of printed submissions but grant “Rubicon” the right to use selected submissions as deemed by the editorial staff to be most appropriate in the publishing of the magazine.

CONTENTS 06 Last Goodbye Short Story Mai “Maya” Nguyen ’18

10 Acrylic Creative Nonfiction Yirui “Elaine” Dong ’18

18

20

28

30

38

42

12

16

Preamble to Anthem Find X Discussions Creative Nonfiction Poem Nate Towle ’18 Celina Rivernider ’19

22

27

33

35

44

48

Remembering Reality Telescope When You Are Seventeen careful Poem Creative Nonfiction Poem Poem Gianna Paroli ’19 Maia Hutcheson-Jones ’19 Yinqi “Sherry” Yang ’20 Jiani “Jenny” Chen ’18

Thoughts from a My Nightmare, Geography Lesson My Power Poem Creative Nonfiction Anthony Arnieri ’18 Jiani “Jenny” Chen ’18

Under a Spell Short Story Paula Fuentes ’18

Detached Hello World Poem Short Story Erika Convery ’19 Jiani “Jenny” Chen ’18

Wilbraham What Does It Take to the Woodchuck Be a Starship Captain?

Short Poem Story Ben Wisniewski ’18 Zhe “Eva” Wang ’19

Learning Curve Kicks Creative Nonfiction Celina Rivernider ’19

PHOTOGRAPHS 05

06

10

12

15

16

18

21

22

25

27

29

33

34

36

43

44

Untitled Slot Canyons Blue Pond Lioness Queen Noah Kantor ’19 Won Geun “Allen” Park ’18 Insun “Sunny” Kim ’18 Wenjun “Happy” Chang ’18

Budapest What You Think Sound Lit The Deer Emily Nagle ’18 Seth Abal-Sadeq ’18 Rebecca Mancini ’18

Entrance Noah Kantor ’19

30

Tibetan Yifan “Kevin” Qiu ’18

38

Breathe Zheng “Richard” Xie ’20

Wuzhen Shiyin “Sally” Liu ’18

Salt Lake Yifan “Kevin” Qiu ’18

Cancun Oxygen Not Included Paula Fuentes ’18 Zihan “Leo” Liu ’18

Bird Heritage Loc “Randy” Nguyen ’18 Yewon “Jamie” Lee ’20

Flying Away Alex Ravelli ’18

49

uNder Once Upon a Time East Harwick at Sunset Risa Fugetsu ’18 Yibo “Canna” Zhang ’18 Tatiana Ravelli ’18

writing as a

REFLECTION

Won Geun “Allen” Park ’18 Blue Pond, Photograph

5

LAST GOODBYE Insun “Sunny” Kim ’18 Untitled, Photogragh

6

“My eyes? How am I supposed to live?

How am I supposed to see her without my eyes? This is a stupid idea; I don’t want to do it. But the witch said I would be able to see her.” The moment he believes that he has his mind made up is the moment he is genuinely intimidated by his own thoughts.

Is it worth losing an eye for a girl? That girl abandoned him. It all happened the moment she left him…

“No, no, no. Please don’t leave me!”

Waking up from a dream, he felt sweat all over his body. Ever since his little girl abandoned him, Max had been flashing back to the horrible memories of being left behind.

He could never forget the way she disgustingly looked at him, neglected his persistent begging, and erased all the greatest memories they had.

“I wonder what she’s doing right now?

She’s normally back from school at this time of the day,” he told himself while looking for food at the filthy corner of a small street.

Nobody ever looks at this corner; it’s solitary and confined. But if they do, are they going to give him food? He’s just an old golden retriever, looking hideously pitiful with a rawboned appearance. Nobody will ever love him like she did. She took care of him, gave him food, and played with him. How many

people on earth could possibly do that for him? Recalling the images of her shattered his heart as tears streamed down from his despairing eyes. Missing her greatly, he had been dreaming about her for the last weeks.

“I’ve got to find her,” he said determinedly, hoping that she will take him in again as her beloved pet.

Max’s determination disappointed him immediately. He came running to her house with a flower dangling in his mouth. But all he received was disappointment; she moved away. His whole world collapsed in front of him, his heart constricted.

“How come you look suddenly adorable?”

“I’m amazed, myself. They said there is this magical witch; she will do whatever you want, but the price is deadly high. A week ago I came to see her, and here I am, looking cute and lovable.”

Dragging himself back to the melancholy slum, Max overheard a poodle and a beagle’s conversation. In the moment of despair, he quickly realized that the witch they were talking about could help him to find her. Sneakily, he followed them as they continued to talk about the witch.

“How much did you pay for it? I want to be like you, too.”

7

“Oh, oh, oh, the price. It was a deadly price, one of my lungs. But to me, it’s worth it. Beauty is more important than a lung.”

“A lung? That’s an unusual way to price a service. But I guess two lungs are excessive, I can give her one. Where is her place?”

“She lives in a corner of Kneeland St. in Chinatown. It’s an isolated alley that no one will ever dare to enter. A feeling of evil and sins pervades it. Her shack gives you this sense of mystery that will scare you off, but she’s actually polite. You will find it right away. Don’t worry!”

“Got it.” Max absorbed all the valuable information that he heard as he eavesdropped, ignoring how scary it sounded.

Without any hesitation, he hurriedly rushed to the directed address.

Standing in front of the witch’s shack, a cold feeling flushed along his spine. A sense of mystery, sinfulness, and wickedness pervaded the place. The deadly smell of the shack made him hesitant to enter. Despite all the unwillingness, he came in with the eagerness of seeing his friend again.

“Hello? I… is anybody here?” he asked nervously.

“Come in and please close the door behind you!” He was amazed by her politeness.

Inside the meager shack, there was only

8

a table, two chairs, and a wardrobe probably full of magical potions. She hid her face from the world with a curtain as if it contained a dark secret that should be forever concealed. As uncomfortable as he was, he hesitantly asked her for a favor.

“I heard that you can do anything for anyone that would pay you. I have come here to ask you for a little favor, just a tiny one.”

“What you heard is true. I can do everything, and anything for you, Dear. Just with a little price, an affordable one. What can I do for you?”

He thoroughly told her about his story and his wish.

“Oh dear, that’s a piece of cake! And about the price. Hmm… the price…”

Her uncertainty threatened him. After consideration, carefully, she confirmed.

“I want your eyes.”

“What? Are you serious? Both of them?

Are you crazy?” My eyes? How am I supposed to live? How am I supposed to see her without my eyes? This is a stupid idea; I don’t want to do it. But, the witch said I would be able to see her.

The sentence strikes him for a moment.

He is stuck in the cycle of his own thoughts.

He doesn’t know the way out. He is confused. But the witch, she said it is possible.

But how? These thoughts are running through his head like crazy. He sits there, in front of the witch, with his poker face.

Should I trust her? There is not going to be a second chance for this. But there is also no way to have my eyes back if she fails.

“Can you just take one? I’m good with that.”

“Give me two or you will get nothing. NOBODY bargains with me on ANYTHING. Am I clear?”

“What if you fail?” He asks for reassurance.

“Oh no, that never happened. The only thing I don’t do is fail. I can do any other magic but not failing. I managed to transform an extremely hideous dog into a princess, bring people to the past and future…

There’s nothing, NOTHING on Earth that I cannot do. Are you clear?”

With hesitation, he nods his head, agreeing to give her his eyes. With a creepy laughter, she stands up immediately from her seat to her wardrobe. As she pours multiple potions into a big pot, Max’s body shakes terribly out of fearfulness. She reads some nonsense spells as she mixes the potions.

Suddenly, it explodes. Two transparent hands appear out of the pot, and reach toward him. Intending to run away, he is caught by

9

the weird hand. He’s shaking, crying and praying to God that he will get to see her after this. The evil hands move to his face and rapidly tear his eyes out. He screams an endless scream. It tears his throat apart.

He can feel pain all over his body. Blood is dripping down from his eyes as he endures this deadly pain. He can’t bear it anymore; he feels himself dying as he lies on the floor.

“I think I’m just going to take a nap, a quick one. Then everything will be fine and I’ll get to see her.”

“Come here, Max. Catch this!” Every time she takes him out for a walk, they would be running on the fresh green grass, playing the throw and catch game that she likes. Seeing her delightful appearance satisfies him. In his last dream, he gets to see her, even though it’s only for a moment, but for an old dog missing his owner, that’s more than enough.

“I love you, Rose,” he murmurs quietly as his heart stops beating.

Mai “Maya” Nguyen ’18

ACRYLIC

Three hours left. Sweeping brushstrokes of faded blue, I gently mixed the colors with water, which meandered through the palette like a moving snake.

Unlike watercolor’s mellow stroke, the acrylic I used was thicker and richer in texture, producing a more saturated touch on the canvas board.

I love the feeling of using acrylic, not because of its convenience or its higher pigment load, but its braveness. When facing errors, it simply covers itself up and creates the right tone once again. Its ability to self-correct is so audacious, like how a soldier would march through the death trench without any fear. Acrylic is brave enough to face its mistakes and amend them; it is willing to take risks and correct itself.

People make mistakes everyday, but seldom do they stride over them and start again.

Two hours left. Looking blankly at my maple leaf, I was unable to settle my fluttering brush. The sophistication of the ideas in my head had baffled me for an hour already, yet I still couldn’t decide their fate. By the time the majority of us began to clean up, I was still staring blankly at the table, tapping out my thoughts on the maple leaf with the rhythm of the clicking clock.

Stressed.

The droplets of water from the palette dropped on my leg like pearls fallen from

ACRYLIC

a broken string. Anxiously swinging my brush, I spilled some color on the canvas. It was an act of imprudence, of desperation; I had given up. However, when my gaze focused on the blot, I suddenly realized that the color was not important, but the courage of trying things out is.

Life is like an acrylic painting.

When facing the vicissitudes of life and painting, the courage to admit defeat is vital.

Difficulties are not terrible; encountering them without doubt and correcting myself in the meantime is the essence of acrylic, which also embodies the core of my artistic career.

Watching the wet acrylic slowly melting down the board, I painted the maple leaf without any irresolution.

I filled my maple leaf with gradient color while sweeping my brushstrokes of faded blue onto the canvas. This time I would not be a coward because I was willing to fearlessly take on the challenge.

Yirui “Elaine” Dong ’18

Noah Kantor ’19 Slot Canyons, Photograph

Find

X 12

Be the pirate looking for gold. X,

Wenjun “Happy” Chang ’18 Lioness Queen, Photogragh

X is what marks the spot. Find X.

The sound of the oxidized steel splitting the compact dampened sand cried out amidst the slow sorrowful waves in their attempt to claw their way to shore. The quivering arms raise yet again and then drive down to the skin of the earth, tearing open the pores. The red life seeps through the blisters and splinter incisions and soaks into the carved bark. Alas the sound of metals greeting each other silences the night and leaves only the moon to stare in awe. When X is discovered, the sand is met by knees and then followed by tears of happiness that glide off the sun-kissed cheeks of a dreamer.

X is hard to find. X can be found. Or can it? Find x when 2(3x-7) + 4(3x+2)= 6(5x+9). Algebra 2 taught in high school will ensure that you are capable of finding x. But nothing truly prepares you for finding X. What is X? you may be thinking. It’s more complicated than that. Let’s think about it this way. X is what human nature strives for, it’s what gives us life, what fills

13

our spirits. Unlike seemingly every other organism on planet Earth, humans have the ability to think freely. Every other organism is programmed for survival and reproduction. We are programmed for X. It may take you the last intake of O2 and release of CO2 to find X. You may have already found X. Some may never find X. There is not one clear path to X. X is different for everyone. The man who stays at home all day, who lives alone, and only leaves the house once a week for food may have found X. The millionaire soaking in the sun’s rays while traveling by yacht may have not found X. No one has an advantage in finding X. No one has a head start in finding X. These factors are what make X so desirable.

You still may be thinking, What the hell is X? It’s easy to find x in an algebraic equation. There may be different ways to solve for x, all based off rules discovered by previous

humans. X is hard to find because only you can find your X. There are no rules discovered by someone else to help you find X. Even without the intent in finding X, you can find it. Some may search their whole lives and never obtain X. X, X is happiness.

X is purpose. X is what surpasses human instinct. X is longed for more than a breath when the lungs have compressed and released all oxygen and are in dire need to be filled. X is what you want to spend the last moments of life doing no matter the cost.

When we find x from the equation 2(3x7) + 4(3x+ 2)= 6(5x+9), x = -21/4, the answer is complicated and is found from multiple steps such as completing multiplication, grouping like terms, subtraction, and then division. Although these steps are complicated, x could also be found by subtracting one side of the equation and solving for x when the other side of the equation equals 0. This goes to show even in a rule based and organized system, there is not only one path to find x.

Life will take each and every human on a journey of triumph and torment all in the attempt to find each individual’s X. Sometimes we may get a taste of X, a taste of happiness, a taste of purpose. You must grab onto the thinnest singular strand of X if necessary and never let go. You must spend every last breath of air and every ounce of sweat to find X.

14

Be the pirate searching for the chest in the sand. No matter how scattered the path to X was, never stop searching. No matter how many steps you take, never stop digging with the shovel until you hear it strike the chest. Then fall to your knees and dig with your bleeding, blistered hands until you drag the chest out of the depths of the earth and onto the surface of the sand. Then pry open the rusted lock with what remains of your fingernails until the chest breaks open. Don’t stop until the gleam of gold blinds your eyes and soaks into your skin. Be the pirate looking for gold. X, X is what marks the spot.

Find X. Nathan Towle ’18

writing as a

WINDOW

Emily Nagle ’18 Budapest, Photograph

15

Preamble to Anthem Discussions 16

Oh Say Can You See By The Dawn’s Early Light the sky was painted in a hurry and the atmosphere dove into the sea stole droplets and threw them onto breaks in the earth bullets in a gentle arc fortifying the beat to a symphony of newscasters Breaking News: it’s been so long since The Twilight’s Last Gleaming we forgot how to take it Flash floods likely, the topsoil won’t accept Resist and drown your neighbors United is an Empire and Over The Ramparts We Watched as the Empire State was struck by lightning more than twice and the land of the free feeds the sea in a crashing sacrifice shelter in place is a command happily heard the highways are already clogged with change their speed limit signs illuminated by The Rocket’s Red Glare 226 years per amendment

Seth Abal-Sadeq ’18 What You Think Sound Lit, Photogragh

tornadoes in the river and sitting ducks on the bridge nothing is changing as the ozone layer peels away over Bombs Bursting In Air nothing is changing as the basement is rainwater better to climb to the roof and see The Star Spangled Banner Yet Waves as the free wade through their land and the brave drown in their homes the American People is followed by an asterisk guiding a bloodshot blue eye to the exceptions We The People is not a brand but we need to learn to sell it to ourselves Celina Rivernider ’19

remembering reality

Rebecca Mancini ’18 The Deer, Photograph

18

all you remembered was the scraping, scratching, scarring and pressing the heels of your shaking hands to your mind that was ringing, raging, roaring all you remembered was the destroying, demolishing, dying and pushing away the frigid cold from your body that was escaping, evading, erasing

all you realized was the tracing, tickling, touching and pulling the heels of your steady hands away from your mind that was buzzing, breathing, blurring all you realized was the embracing, elevating, embodying and hugging your body to invite the warmth to your soul that was freeing, flourishing, fulfilling Gianna Paroli ’19

19

careful young and naive she was scolded for caring differently than she should differently as in its absence entirely mindless They were marching towards and back again destinations chosen much too early repeated day by day stomping signs They were screaming in blinding letters “CAUTION” but never too loudly of course a book with ripped pages she was crinkled by Their attempt of ruin thrown into the depths of Their pool of shallow thirst to be right but she had left a long time ago never having truly arrived the doors failed to welcome at the sight of her smile and They all seemed to care that she didn’t one bit

Maia Hutcheson-Jones ’19

21

Yifa n Salt “Kevi n Lak e, P ” Qiu ’1 h oto 8 grap h

Noah Kantor ’19 Entrance, Photograph

The Telescope

I met her in Spring, on a rainy day.

Nobody picked me up from school.

Fortunately, I had my umbrella, but I didn’t want to use it. I was in a rage over my parents’ carelessness on such a terrible day. I walked with my umbrella in my hands and hoped I could get a cold. Then my parents would feel guilty. Halfway to my home, I was totally wet. Raindrops and tears all came down my face. Oh, I must have looked like an ignorant, ugly kid.

“Too much independence for a kid.”

Suddenly, she covered me with her umbrella.

I heard her voice and looked up. I saw a new face of a girl who looked a little older than me. I felt shamed; somebody was seeing my secret and said it out loud straightly.

I didn’t say anything, walked faster, and then ran.

“Wait! There are puddles!” She followed me; she kept holding the umbrella and making sure that I was covered.

I stopped in front of the building and watched her. She followed. She was leaning on the wall, breathing hard.

“Thank you.” I realized how many troubles that I brought to this stranger.

“Not at all. I also live in this building.”

She smiled and closed up the umbrella.

“Why have I never seen you before? On which floor are you living?” I entered the

23

elevator and asked.

Her smile paused.

“I live in the basement, the same floor with the parking lot. You can go up first.”

I was curious about the basement. I had never heard there is anyone living there.

There were no windows in the basement.

How could people live in that kind of place without sunshine? But I didn’t talk about this topic and said goodbye to her.

The elevator went up.

Since then, I started to notice her and talk with her. We became friends. She told me the story about her family. Both of her parents didn’t go to school and got jobs as cleaners in this area. They heard there were more opportunities in Beijing, and children could go to better schools than in their hometown, so they took the thirteen hours by train and came here. I didn’t care a lot about her story; neither did I understand.

“Did you ever see stars clearly?” she asked me one evening lying on the ground and looking up into the sky.

“Of course. Let me go get you something. A magic thing.” I sniggered mysteriously.

“Wait, what?”

I didn’t answer, but ran back to my home. I rushed into my room and ransacked

24

Shiyin “Sally” Liu ’18 Wuzhen, Photograph

all of the boxes and shelves. Finally, I found it.

“Where are you going?” Mom stopped me in front of the door.

“Stars.” I was sure my answer sounded intelligent.

I handed my friend the thing and waited for praise.

“What is it?” She stared at my hands and asked.

“A telescope. You can see the stars clearly through this. My dad told me.”

Seeing she was confused about how to use it, I helped her.

“Wow, it is real!”

I heard her exclamation, but I didn’t follow her to look up. I turned and tried to see her shocked face; I vowed that it would be funny.

But I didn’t laugh at her as I predicted. I was fascinated by her eyes. They were brighter than the stars.

“If you like it, I can give it to you,” I said without hesitation.

She didn’t say anything but gave the telescope back. We lay on the grass in silence for a long time.

As I was searching words to break the silence, she spoke up.

“To me, stars are the most beautiful mystery. Thank you for letting me see them clearly. When I was still living in my hometown, I always sat in the yard and looked

at the stars. While I did it, I would realize how tiny I am and how big the world is. You know, I am afraid, and I can’t see my future.

I don’t know what role I am going to play in this world. I wanna make a difference, but all of that is so far from my real life. You are lucky, really. I am going to drop school next month. My family decided to go back and let me help with housework. You know, everything in my life is so hard. Maybe you can’t understand, and I hope you will never understand.”

I should have said something to comfort her. But I failed. She was right, if you were not in that kind of situation, you would never understand.

I saw her body was shaking. She hugged herself tightly. She bit her lips. But she didn’t cry.

Paula Fuentes ’18 Cancun, Photograph

She left the next month.

I went to say goodbye. It was my first time to visit her home, in the basement. No windows but weak brightness.

I couldn’t control myself crying. I asked her, “Will me meet again?”

She didn’t answer my question and gave me some tissue.

“Too much sadness for a kid,” she whispered and smiled.

“Your life will be bright, and please, please take my hope, and always keep going.”

Yinqi “Sherry” Yang ’20

26

When

It is impossible to feel the sunlight everyday or to love life, Sometimes over the sea, the fog covers the warmth Let the endless horizon be separate from water and sky, Hide your tired body When you stand straight, you see a tree on the top of the mountain Stretching the branches to you and bending the trunk By the help of the strong wind from the east, saying Don’t be discouraged and give up. Time will prove to you

You Are

The beauty of the nature is the sun at seven o’clock Although the chance cannot be required, wait It is always there, ambitious and hopeful Lead the ocean through the heavy fog and run to the far destiny When you are seventeen, you are the sun at seven Bless you with all the zeal and love, leading the way to break the fog

Seventeen

Jiani “Jenny” Chen ’18

Thoughts from a

Geography Lesson

Our teacher taught us about beautiful places With the blinds drawn shut so we could see them on the overhead The face on the mountain has since been washed away The oak tree outside the window grows tall and strong to this day The Amazon is disappearing The projects down the street are still there Nestled between dry sandy lots and convenience stores Antarctica is cracking and melting into the sea But I still drive by the 3rd grade classroom And see that same rusted green Camry parked across the street And those things are beautiful to me But I’m the only one, it seems, to see how The power of the everyday, the unremarkable Can leave in you that mark, the one called beauty And maybe I’m wrong but I feel it’s my duty to inform you That tropical jungles and mountain vistas are just a burden Right now though those thoughts are a finch indoors So I just open up my window and let that bird out And while my brain is poked outside I just take a moment to notice that house across the street from mine The bluish one I could’ve sworn had shutters I notice the browning grass underneath the AC The cracks on the sidewalk where the tree roots once reached for the sky I notice the marks on the road where the car swerved and skidded to a stop To avoid the now cracked telephone pole And I see how they never really fade away

28

I remember that he was so young when it happened But that I was just a stupid kid And I think about what each day means to all of us And how beautiful that really is Anthony Arnieri ’18

Zihan “Leo” Liu ’18 Oxygen Not Included, Photograph

29

30 Yifan “Kevin” Qiu ’18 Tibetan, Photogragh

My Nightmare, My Power My color was black, which shadowed and followed me anywhere. The birthmark.

It was on my right hand, a conspicuous place, and would have looked like a leaf if it weren’t black. My parents always told me this was a blessing that made me unique; wherever I was, they could find me easily. To me, it was more like a curse than a blessing.

The first day I stepped into kindergarten, I wore a pink dress with dots on it, cute little shoes that matched with the dress, and hair braided by my mom with a butterfly hairpin. Everything on me made me feel like a princess, except my birthmark. So, I walked into the classroom with both hands hidden behind my back, hoping no one would notice the ugly feature. Suddenly, a girl ran into me and both of us fell to the ground. I had to stretch out my hands to catch myself. When we tried to get up, she saw my birthmark and her comment struck me right

31

in the heart: “Why do you have this disgusting thing on your hand? It does not fit your outfit.”

I said nothing.

Since then, I sought ways to hide my birthmark: wearing long sleeves, folding my arms, or hiding it behind my back. The methods worked well sometimes, but when people looked at my arms, I still felt nervous and awkward. My dad saw the discomfort I expressed and took me to have surgery.

Finally, I had the chance to get rid of the nightmare. I could feel the sweetness of the flower, the fragrance of food, and the kindness in people’s hearts. Then, anesthetic was injected and I lost consciousness. When I opened my eyes again, the pain almost crushed me, both physically and mentally. I rejected who I was and discarded part of myself.

Luckily, the birthmark left some traces reminding me of my past and my identity. I

peacefully accepted the scar, but I still sought ways to make it unobtrusive.

I finally realized my shadow makes me unique, which allows me to stand out from the crowd.

One day, I was at a school meeting, listening to the boring announcements.

Somehow, my attention was distracted; I lifted my hands, twisted my hair, and then untied it. An unfamiliar schoolmate who sat behind me poked my arm and asked what happened to my hand. I froze. A million possible answers popped up in my mind, and I worried how she would react to the birthmark. But, I told the truth: “I used to have birthmark here and I did the surgery to fix it.” Her response was shocking; she told me this was cool. By hearing this, all of the unfair treatment I received disappeared; instead, the memory of my parents telling me how special I am sprouted out. I had waited for this moment to come: to truly change myself.

Recently, a friend for seven years came to me and brought up the topic of birthmarks abruptly. She wanted to share a secret that belongs only to us—a birthmark on her arm, which haunted her for years. Pain

32

is always the same; I could sense the grief when she was talking about life with her nightmare. She did the surgery to alter her life but failed. What I suggested was that only by revising the perception of her birthmark could she change her life. Therefore, I printed and stuck onto the wall some influential sentences in her room, telling her how beautiful she is. Reading those quotes everyday made the concept truly live in her mind that she is as pretty as the quotes said. The quotes were not only viewed by her, but also by me. I finally realized my shadow makes me unique, which allows me to stand out from the crowd. It renders me the power to be myself, strong and confident. Meanwhile, I could help other people with the same issue. I decided, afterwards, to support those who have their specialness, and guide them out of the nightmare.

Through shining light on my birthmark, I learn to find the peculiarities and embrace them as one part of myself. I know how it feels when being rejected because of who you are, so I try my best to help others and grow with them. My color is the color of a rainbow.

Jiani “Jenny” Chen ’18

Detached We stand, Callous and cold Some phantom of warmth Found seldom, and far between Among the brief dawns of ice The veins of sheltered thoughts Run numbed and livid at once The blood has left only The gaunt sheath of paled skin Neglected until my palms lay raw The sores of our hands rest As the blush of new day In the lap of crisp horizons Frigid with mauve and grey As the somber slate of midnights fades

Detached, we all are Alone in our closeness, Distraught by our disparities Each widening our slated cracks Of our boundless, our endless, Our lone eternities in the tundra.

Erika Convery ’19

33

Yewon “Jamie” Lee ’20 Bird, Photogragh

The glacier lays pearled The twilight afire, deep soars Cut by puffs and veils Of the arctic vault An annex of boiled stains

writing as a

JOURNEY

Loc “Randy” Nguyen ’18 Heritage, Photograph

Hello World Year 2037. China.

Network management lobby.

post?”

“The question is ‘What is it like to have a daughter?’ with writing and pictures. The writing is Hello world and the picture is my newborn daughter.” Although I cannot see what happens on the other side of the window, I can feel the staff there frown.

“Hello world? What does that mean?”

“This is English, greeting others. This question is for celebrating the birth of my daughter, and I want other people to share the happiness.”

“You have to change it. According to the new documents released last month, any foreign language is forbidden, just in case the viewers don’t understand this.”

“Why can’t we send in English now? We could do it in the old days.”

“How could I know? This is the rule in the country. Are you going to post it? If not, I need the next person in line.”

“I am. I am going to post it. Just change it to Chinese, please.”

Ten minutes later, the voice returns.

“There are some inappropriate words in the text, and you must change it.”

“But I looked up all the improper words.

There’s nothing improper in my text.”

“There are several words that have homophonic sound with inappropriate words.”

“What the heck is this all about? Do you think you know everything?”

The whole lobby quiets down

“Hello, comrade. I want to send out a question online.”

“Did you fill out all the forms?” says a voice behind the window.

“Yes, yes. I already filled them all out.”

“Did you bring all the credentials needed?”

“I have my ID card, residence certification booklet, graduate certificate, and employment certificate. Oh, right. I have the documents given by the local police station and neighborhood committee, proving I am myself.”

A hand comes out of the window, taking all of the credentials.

“Where is your registration form?” a cold voice comes suddenly.

I am in a flurry of searching all the pockets, and finally find the wrinkled registration form I got three hours ago. “Here, here.”

“Are you working in new media?”

“Yes, I am.”

“According to ‘Network Management Law,’ new media workers are only allowed to send out a question online every ten years. Are you sure you want to use this chance?”

“I am sure.”

“What is the question you want to

35

Alex Ravelli ’18 Flying Away, Photograph

immediately after they hear my words and everyone is looking at me, including the staff that I cannot see behind the window. A sentence passes to me by the window. “Due to the governmental workplace behavior codes, your abusive words violate code number 19, imposing a fine 1024 Yuan with one warning.”

“No, please. I… I didn’t mean that.

Comrade, listen to me, please. I can explain!”

“Go and pay the fine first. Next one.”

After paying the fine, I go back to the line. “Hi, Comrade. I already paid the fine.”

The voice coming from behind the window says, “Payment certificate.”

36

I give him the new and fresh payment certificate.

“What do you want to post?”

“Writing with a picture. The writing is Hello world and the picture is my daughter.”

“A woman? Does she expose her body?”

I almost blurt out, “Who would dress their daughter like that,” but I do not. “No, no. Except for the eyes, all the body parts are covered.”

“Do you have the picture?”

“Yes, I do have it. Here you go.”

“Is this your daughter?”

“Yes.” “Do you have the birth credentials?”

“There is nothing on the booklet saying posting a question needs birth credentials…”

“What if you are using other people’s photos? Without birth credentials, how do you prove she is your daughter?”

“My… my wife could.”

“Where is your wife?”

“She is outside the lobby.”

“Does she have the birth certificate?”

“She does not have it.”

“If she does not have the birth certificate, how can she prove the picture is your daughter? Also, if you don’t have the marriage certificate, how can you prove she is your wife?”

“Please, Comrade. Could you do me a favor? I have saved the question for ten years just for this moment, for this question!”

“I cannot make the decision. Not long ago, someone wanted to post the question ‘What is the experience of having a beautiful friend?’ She did not have her friend’s ID card and friend certificate, and she had to come here several times to make the post.”

“I can understand the friend’s ID card, but what is the friend certificate?”

“Just to prove the person in the picture is actually her friend. The certificate would be given by neighborhood committees.”

“This is too troublesome.”

“This is national policy. Otherwise, who knows if people would post fake photos?”

“What about me?”

“Go back and get your daughter’s birth certificate. You can come back later.”

“But today is one month after my

37

daughter was born. It is one of the most important moments in her life that we want to share with other people. Please, Comrade.

Help me just for once!”

He hesitates. “I need to ask officers first.”

About half an hour later, he comes back.

“Officers agreed because you haven’t posted a question for ten years.”

“Thank you so much! Here is the picture.”

The staffer behind the window takes the picture and I hear the sound of a printer.

Then, he gives me back all the credentials and the picture.

“Your question is ready and waiting to be posted. Next one.”

When I walk out of the lobby, my wife anxiously waits for me. “How was it?”

“I posted it!”

She jumps into the air, cheering. “Yeah, that’s great! This is for our daughter. She will be so delighted when she sees it ten years later.”

I pull out my phone and show her all the comments below the question.

“Where are we going now, home?”

“Wait a second. Let’s go to the market first.”

“Why are we going there?”

“Our daughter will be learning how to walk in a few months. I have to buy her the black veil and foot-bindings.”

Jiani “Jenny” Chen ’18

Under a Spell

38

Zheng “Richard” Xie ’20 Breathe, Photograph

The water glimmered as she looked at herself, but her reflection was disturbed as her teardrops touched the water. In the pond of the enchanted forest she lay in solitude, in desperation. The crystalline water turned black with blood; all she could do was see the blood swirling as it left her body. Lying helplessly by the side of grass next to the pond, she began to close her eyes; she no longer had the strength to cry. The cool water quenched the pain, but she still couldn’t move. She was gasping for air, but breathing was unbearable. The stars shined bright in the night sky; the moonlight illuminated the mystical paths around the pond. The nocturnal animals kept jumping from tree to tree; the crickets kept making their sound and the fish swam in the midnight river. She blended into nature as if she were a torn flower about to integrate into the mud. Not even the frog on the lily pad seemed to acknowledge her suffering, her soon-to-be death. She had been running restlessly, and thorn bushes had cut deep into her skin. All she could do was lie there in surrender.

She abruptly woke up almost drowning in the cold water. As she choked, she managed to step out of the swamp and kept running; paranoia ran through her blood, a drilling noise tortured her head. As she ran, she could barely find coordination. She kept trembling until she hit the ground and scratched her legs with the rough dirt; she was immobilized. The sensation of pins and needles took over the bottom of her feet. A

39

strong ache in her chest prevented her from opening her eyes. She convulsed on the inside as ghostly images of her past prevented her from running away.

“I can’t change the past! Why can’t you leave me alone?” she screamed in agony.

His face was filled with anger; he stared at her with hatred as her screaming unhinged him.

“I will haunt you until you can’t take it anymore. I will haunt your life, your dreams; you can’t escape this, you can’t escape me.”

His face turned into black smoke and she was left there untouched.

Her pink skin suddenly turned into a gloomy blue as she remembered him. There they were...lying next to each other as they felt the warm summer breeze, about to witness the sunset. A sensation of joy flooded her heart; they wanted this moment to last forever, but deep inside they knew, it wouldn’t.

Galileia was new to the village after traveling many miles away from her home in Lotus. Her family was running away from the situation back home. They found themselves starting a new life in the village of Chakra. That is where Galileia met Darius, one of the most intelligent young men. Darius fell in love with Galileia’s exotic beauty, and she fell in love with his outstanding intelligence; she was glad that after a long journey she was finally safe, with him.

As months went by, more and more men in town started to like Galileia and admire her beauty; even though they knew she was with

Darius, they didn’t hesitate to invite her over to festivals or bring her flowers. She declined every invitation and didn’t talk to any of the men, but this still infuriated Darius. He knew he was the smartest of them all and wasn’t bad looking, but he was insecure and he broke down into pieces every time he saw another man give Galileia the slightest look. The more time went by, the more mad he became and the more controlling he was with Galilea. Even though she consistently told him he had nothing to worry about and that her heart belonged to him, he couldn’t help but want her all to himself.

Out of love, Galileia gave in to Darius’ behavior and started to isolate herself from the rest of the community including men.

She was forever grateful for all the support Darius had given to her family. She felt as if she owed him something. She narrowed her happiness to him, allowing only him to make her happy. Eventually she lost touch with the rest of the village and reserved herself only for her lover. Confusing it with love, her dependence on him grew up to the point where she stopped having a voice of her own and everything she desired had to go through him and be approved by him. As she walked through town, no one noticed her anymore, no one turned their heads around to admire her, no one complimented her, no one talked to her. Her fire was extinguished, her glowing skin had become dull, she had lost her spark; he had stolen it.

As for Darius, he no longer was the smartest

40

but the meanest. He no longer cared about being admired but rather feared. The man who once helped solve everyone’s problems was not willing to help them anymore out of distrust and jealousy. They held a relationship in which both their brilliant personalities were rotting.

One day Galileia’s father decided it was time to move again, somewhere better, somewhere with better opportunities for her and her family. Galileia’s father had decided that their time at the village had come to an end. When Darius heard the news, he was immediately torn apart; for the first time ever, he had lost control over the most important thing in his life, Galileia. He blamed her for her father’s decision and accused her of being disloyal. He viewed her as a selfish, evil woman. How dare she decide to leave him. How dare she walk away from the life they had built together.

One night in desperation, Galileia decided to leave without saying goodbye. She knew she wouldn’t have been able to take it. She knew she wouldn’t have the strength to leave him if she stared into his eyes one more time. So she left. Without any previous warning she ran away from her greatest love, from her greatest misery.

When Darius found out Galileia had run away, impotence took over his body as his skin turned into charcoal. His suffering prevented him from seeing clearly and so he went after her, swearing that once he found her he would never ever let her go.

Little did they know that they had been tied to one another, their co-dependent relationship had put a spell on them, a spell that didn’t allow them to survive without one another. The darker Darius turned, the bluer Galileia turned. She knew he was looking for her and all she did was run away from him, from the past she couldn’t change.

He knew he couldn’t live without her so he fed from haunting her until one night as the stars shined bright in the night sky and the moonlight illuminated the mystical paths around the pond. The nocturnal animals kept jumping from tree to tree, the crickets kept making their sound, and the fish swam in the midnight river. She slowly started to blend into nature as if she was a torn flower about to integrate into the mud. Not even the frog on the lily pad seemed to acknowledge her suffering, her soon-to-be death.

The warm sun touched her body and she soon woke up to find her scars had healed.

She wiped the mud and splashed water on her face. The birds were chirping. It was daytime again. The forest had opened and became a beautiful meadow of short green grass. She didn’t feel pain anymore, but her stomach growled with hunger. As she left the tangled forest and walked into the prairie her mind found itself at ease as if last night had never happened. As she walked, she saw bunnies jumping into their holes, dragonflies kissing the water streaming down the creek. The buzzing of sunlight fairies mixed with their quiet giggles. A basket

41

of fresh cherries sat under a big old weeping willow waiting to be taken. She ran into the cool shade that the tree provided and didn’t hesitate in grabbing and shoving a handful of cherries in her mouth; the flavour satisfied her taste buds and as the juice squirted, her fingers were stained with red. The sudden breeze calmed the heat of the day and made it a perfect time for rest.

Paula Fuentes ’18

Wh at Do e s It Ta ke to Be I had a rough night when I was 10.

I tossed and turned Over a particularly relevant question at the time: Do I go to Harvard or Yale in the future?

I went through their websites, And the red walls of Harvard looked like history lessons.

I always fell asleep in my history lessons.

So I figured, “I’ll go to Yale in the future.”

What I didn’t know is It takes more than that.

The first career I pictured myself having was as a scientist Because I loved green shoots and animals, And believed books that were not encyclopedias did not qualify as books.

I would have my own laboratory that would be Big With walls painted in white, like a rectangular hole in tofu.

Nothing is in the lab except a rectangular desk with test tubes Because those were the only pieces of scientific equipments that I knew.

I joined a biology club in middle school.

With an alcohol burner, I baked the mushrooms that were originally for the study of spores, And I sprinkled on NaCl, Which is commonly known as salt.

With a beaker, I drank the milk that was originally for the study of fermentation.

They were delicious. I thought, “I’m a born scientist!”

It takes more than that.

But what does it take to be a starship Captain?

I put on the communicator badge and rank pins That I bought on Amazon, And sit very erect.

“Everybody’s attention please!

This is the Captain speaking.”

And I know I am a starship Captain.

Zhe “Eva” Wang ’19

Risa Fugetsu ’18 uNder, Photograph

a Starship Captain?

Yibo “Cana” Zhang ’18 Once Upon a Time, Photograph

Have you ever heard the tale of Wilbraham the Woodchuck? The naysayers said that Wilbraham wasn’t worthy of his name, because he never chucked any wood, and chucking wood was part of his name.

Wilbraham the Woodchuck knew he had to stand up for his fellow mammals, the woodchuck population. But how? The story you are about to read is Wilbraham the Woodchuck’s approach to the situation and how he couldn’t stay stoic for any longer.

It was the first day of school at East Tree Trunk High School, and all the animals gathered in their home woods for attendance. Mrs. Macy, an old, grey-haired, short and hunch-backed Mongoose, took attendance. She got her list from her birch wood desk and in a loud, deep, raspy voice began to read off the names of the students in alphabetical order. Mrs. Macy cleared her throat and proceeded to read: “Atticus the Alligator?”

“Sup.” “Barney the Beaver?”

“Here.”

“Denise the Doe?” “I’m here.”

“Eliza the Elephant?”

“I’m right here!”

“Franny the Falcon?”

“Here.”

“Gary the Garden Snake?”

“Here.”

“Troy the Tarantula?”

“Here.”

“And we have a new student everybody, his name is Wilbraham the Woodchuck!”

The class started to giggle and after Mrs. Macy settled the students down, it was time for recess.

Wilbraham the Woodchuck walked over to the pond for recess and immediately Atticus the Alligator and his crew consisting of Barney the Beaver, and Gary the Garden Snake swam over to confront Wilbraham the Woodchuck. Atticus the Alligator is a burly, territorial, and mean alligator whose arrogance shines above all things when his crew is present, and this time his crew was right by his side. Wilbraham the Woodchuck smiled.

“Hello, fellas, great day for a swim huh?” he said.

Atticus the Alligator chuckled, licked his chops. “Why is your name ‘Wilbraham the Woodchuck’ if you can’t even chuck wood?”

Before they got a response, Barney the Beaver splashed Wilbraham the Woodchuck with his tail and Gary the Garden Snake hissed at him as they swam away.

These remarks angered Wilbraham the Woodchuck very much and that night he cried in the solitude of his burrow. He questioned his parents about why their species is classified as Woodchucks if they aren’t known to chuck wood? He also asked why the animals at school had to mock him.

“Don’t let them get to you. Go out and make a difference!” his parents told him.

Wilbraham the Woodchuck thought

45

long and hard about what his parents said and decided he was going to make the best of his situation and make some new friends at school. The next day, Wilbraham the Woodchuck approached Denise the Doe, who was sitting with Eliza the Elephant, Troy the Tarantula and Franny the Falcon.

Denise the Doe is a lean and mean germ freak who is best known for saying what is on her mind, even if it causes drama. He looked Denise the Doe right in the eyes and smirked, asking “What’s up Dear?”

Denise the Doe laughed with her friends and then her tone became very serious, “You know Woodchuck, I’m going to be blunt with you, the animals here don’t like you for two reasons; the first being that your name is futile, and it doesn’t make sense, and second, when you transferred here, the rumor going around is that your tracks were picked up by a hunter.” Denise the Doe and everyone in her posse left the table, except for one, Troy the Tarantula.

Wilbraham the Woodchuck was left again with his thoughts, but this time it wasn’t in solitude, Troy the Tarantula felt his pain and decided he was going to be his friend, Denise the Doe never talked to him anyway.

Troy the Tarantula is a fast, small, hairy, scary-looking arachnid who has eight big black eyes, to see the good in animals, to go along with his big heart. Wilbraham the Woodchuck and his friendship with Troy the Tarantula grew stronger and stronger

over the next few weeks and the talk about the hunter didn’t cease. The talk continued and the rumors escalated to become serious concerns with the animals in the school.

Troy the Tarantula would tell them that the hunter coming was just a rumor and tried to rectify the situation in support of his friend.

The next day Mrs. Macy held a class meeting to talk to the animals about the rumors about the hunter. Mrs. Macy waited for the class to get settled and in a stern and confident tone of voice she exclaimed to her home woods class that the stories about the hunter were false and that the school was in no danger. She also added that she had heard pupils blaming other pupils for the “so-called hunter,” and this is extremely unacceptable.

Denise the Doe and Atticus the Alligator rolled their eyes almost in unison and angrily shot Mrs. Macy down.

“The hunter is coming,” they said, “and it’s Wilbraham the Woodchuck’s fault. He should’ve never have come to our school, and now we are going to die. Thanks pal!”

Wilbraham the Woodchuck tried to control his anger and thought about how his parents told him to “make a difference” and he decided it was time to stand up for himself, and for the Woodchuck population.

He stood up with a deep anger in his heart, showed by his enraged body language. Every animal stopped what it was doing to watch.

Wilbraham the Woodchuck stomped over to the biggest log he could find and in a

46

tizzy picked it up and threw that sucker. He threw the log so hard and far that it made a whistling sound as it soared through the air.

The log was so perfectly thrown that it hit a hunter square in the head as he came out of the brush, approaching the school. the log knocked the hunter right off of his feet, knocking him out for a few seconds, causing him to drop his rifle. When the hunter regained consciousness, he took off crying into the woods, and no hunters were ever seen anywhere near East Tree Trunk High School again.

All the animals in the school were blown away because Wilbraham just chucked wood. Atticus the Alligator’s jaw dropped so far to the ground that his jaw snapped clean off and he was never able to mock anyone ever again. Troy the Tarantula was so excited he peed, and Eliza the Elephant was so shocked that she pooped all over Denise the Doe, standing directly behind her. Denise woke up with pink eye in both eyes the next day and never talked any crap to anyone ever again.

Wilbraham froze in shock because he proved everyone wrong, stuck up for his species, and saved the school from any harm the hunter might have caused.

Mrs. Macy picked up the gun and framed it on a tree, with a plaque that read “Thanks to Wilbraham the Woodchuck our school will be forever safe from hunters.”

His parents were so proud their son listened to their advice and made a difference

47

that they thought he should use his talent, throwing, to his advantage.

He started at quarterback that football season and led the East Tree Trunk High School football team to the Food Web Bowl Championship game and delivered East Tree Trunk High its first ever football championship. Wilbraham had 2,017 passing yards in that game. He stood up for himself and even though the hunter rumors were true, his chucking skills saved the day.

Troy the Tarantula became Wilbraham the Woodchuck’s best receiver that season, with his ability to run through other opponents’ legs at high speeds, and hide in the grass, making him almost unguardable by defenders.

In essence, Wilbraham the Woodchuck stayed positive and learned that one true friend was all he needed. He got lucky in the end and so did his school, but now every animal, from any school, burrow, hole, or food web knows the tale of Wilbraham the Woodchuck.

Ben Wisniewski ’18

Learning Curve Kicks

My phone buzzed with a text from my mother. I opened it, and it was a picture of me and Sensei from my first karate tournament. “I thought you would like this,” she wrote, adding a heart. Tournaments were focused on sparring, and I was horrible at sparring. There’s no way to sugarcoat that. I was supposed to let my instincts take over, but I normally ended up seeing stars. The learning curve in karate follows the path of a roundhouse kick.

We sat in two lines, facing each other with our legs crossed and hands on our knees. Our heads, hands, and feet were cradled in helmets, gloves, and boots.

“Everybody UP!” We rushed to stand, made sure our feet were together, and let our arms rest at our sides.

“No. Feet together! You know that!

That’s ten.”

Some poor lower belt dropped and struggled through ten push ups.

“Turn and face me.”

We pivoted on our heels and faced Sensei.

“Bow.” We leaned forward, but continued to look up, chanted in unison.

“Face your opponent. Bow.” We pivoted again. We bowed, chanted.

We kept our eyes locked with the opponent across from us.

“Fighting stance, move!”

We jumped into position, feet 45 degrees from each other, shoulder width apart, hands up by our faces. The eyes of the more experienced kids dropped to each other’s midsections, where you could more easily see the incoming punches and kicks.

“Fight!”

I stepped as close as I dared, throwing a flurry of punches that didn’t land. Suddenly I had to defend, move in a circle while blocking punches and kicks. I turned and threw a side kick, trying to knock my opponent back.

He easily hooked my ankle with his hand and threw it aside. I stumbled and before I regained my balance, he lunged forward and

48

Tatiana Ravelli ’18 East Harwick at Sunset, Photograph

Pain shot up my nose, tears clouded my eyes, and I reflexively tried to cover my face with my hand.

49

punched me in the nose, probably harder than he intended. Pain shot up my nose, tears clouded my eyes, and I reflexively tried to cover my face with my hand.

“Stop!” The minute alloted for our matches was already up, and I stood there covering my face. “Is it broken?” Sensei asked. I shook my head. “You’re alright, then. Get in closer next time. Don’t drop your hands.”

Sensei stood in front of the class. We stood in rows, our hands curled into fists by our hips, palms to the ceiling. I watched from the right side of the room, where the lower belts were. The single black belt in the class was planted on the far left side, in the front row. His stance was crafted with an easy confidence my small shoulders couldn’t replicate. “Where does the front punch go?”

Sensei asked.

I knew this; I raised my hand, as we weren’t allowed to speak out of turn.

Sensei called my name. “N-nose,” I spit out. The words crawled out of my mouth, tiny and scared.

“No, say it!” Sensei began to raise his voice. The trembling in my stomach spread up my chest.

“Nose!” My voice flew out of me, more out of fear than any assertiveness.

“There. Good. Say it like that every time. When you talk, you look me in the eyes and you don’t mutter, you don’t whisper. From now on you answer like you mean it,” Sensei wasn’t yelling, but my face

still burned with shame. But from then on, I made my words sound as confident as Sensei wanted them to be, mostly so I wouldn’t be scolded.

“I want you to meet Arianna. She’s just like you,” Sensei said as I bowed in the threshold of the studio. The girl sitting on the grey, carpeted floor looked up from her stretch and smiled at me. When she turned her head, her dark ponytail drifted down her waist, nearly touching the black belt tied around her. I looked down after our second of eye contact, to my unevenly knotted red belt. Strands of my hair fell in front of my face. I began wearing my hair up.

I stood in a fighting stance, my arms bent into tentative “V” shapes, fingers curled into sweaty palms. I inhaled sharply and began a technique. I slid one foot back, blocking as I moved. One hand glided over the other in fluid lines of travel, yet my hands were shaped into blades. Now that the strike of my imaginary opponent was avoided, I began my own attack. A punch to where the ribs don’t cover quite enough, followed by another punch to the fragile nose“No, no, stop,” Sensei called from the other side of the room. I froze, mortified that I had somehow made an error in a basic technique. “You know the strikes, you know how it goes, why are you walking through it? You wouldn’t do that in a fight.

You have to practice like you’re hitting someone. Watch Arianna.”

She began her technique. I pitied the air

50

around her as it took the worst beating I’ve yet to witness. With every strike I could see the opponent knocked down, knocked back, or knocked out. Her dark ponytail whipped around her, following the sheer force she created to power a single punch. I curled my fingers into my palms until they stung and restarted my technique.

“Fight!”

I watched the boy across from me drop his hands away from his face and lunged. I tapped him with my fist, we were supposed to be hitting with light contact. He stepped back, stunned.

“You can help him out a bit, he’s a lot lower of a belt than you,” Sensei called.

“Keep your back hand up, don’t move back, stay in the circle,” I said to the boy. His eyes widened as he shoved his hands into the air, well above his head. “No, no,” I shifted my weight onto my back foot and kicked him lightly in the ribs, “Not that high! Your stomach is open.” He lowered his arms, slightly. “There! Perfect! Now throw something at me.”

Some years later, I helped a younger girl put her hair into a ponytail before her first class. I stood by her the whole class, explaining what Sensei said more slowly. I fixed the same mistakes, over and over. She must have been so tired of hearing me say, “Oh, here, like this.” But the next week, Sensei told me she would be coming back.

“You know why?” He grinned at me.

“No, why?”

51

“She loved you. Her mom said she didn’t stop talking about you the entire car ride home.”

My eyebrows shot up, “Really? I thought I discouraged her with how much I was correcting her!”

“No, not at all. You’ve got a thing for teaching karate. I’m going to have you help out with my classes more, if you want to.

You’re a black belt now, you need to teach to prepare for your tests anyway. And, you know this, I rarely give compliments like that. So I mean it.”

I nodded, and smiled at the pride in his voice.

I stood in the threshold of the studio, watching the class file in. I finished tying my black belt. The three red stripes on each side, signifying the three degrees I had earned, were becoming worn. I flipped my ponytail behind my shoulder, and waved to Sensei, who was watching in the lobby. He nodded, which was my cue to start the class.

“Everybody UP!” My voice carried through the room, and sixteen kids all jumped up in their lines. A little girl, with her hair in a wispy ponytail, watched me with wide eyes.

I had to keep myself from smiling at her.

“Feet together,” I scanned the line, checking to make sure everyone listened, “Right hand a fist, left hand over the right,” They covered their fist with an open palm, the symbol for peace over war. “Bow.” I began my first class as a certified instructor.

I sat in the car with my parents. The rain

drummed on the windows over the quiet radio. My mother, a lifetime sufferer of motion sickness, insisted on sitting in the back seat with me. Minutes passed. The scenery slid by the windows in and out of the headlights.

We went under a bridge and momentarily the downpour ceased.

“We have some bad news,” my mother held me in her eyes, “that’s why I’m sitting back here with you.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Sensei passed away.”

The rain crashed into the car in a single sheet, staccato bullets. I felt as though my nerve endings had been shaved off.

“He didn’t show up for his afternoon classes, and no one could get ahold of him, so they called his son to check on him,” my mother’s words floated around me, “and he… found him.”

I cut my hair so short that I could no longer put it up in a ponytail. I left it down at school to hide the blue and purple spilling out under my eyes. Identity became a tear stained face in the bathroom mirror.

His funeral was full of strangers, vultures in suits. I knelt in front of his coffin, and my only prayer was a repeated “Thank you.” Then I saw a wispy ponytail. The little girl’s father was carrying her. I walked to her without deciding to. I asked how she was and she didn’t respond, distracted by the crowd.

Her exhausted father said something like, “We’re doing okay.” She would never

52

have what I had. I could have taken over after Sensei, but I hadn’t learned enough.

Suddenly I could hear Sensei telling me one of his favorite sayings, “The saddest word in the English language is almost.”

The little blonde girl with the ponytail was lost in the crowd, and I stood alone in the funeral hall.

My alarm screeched me out of a restless haze. I lay under the blankets as if they were too heavy to move. “Get up, you have work to do,” Sensei told me. I opened my eyes to my empty room, and planted my feet onto the cold floor.

Celina Rivernider ’19