OLP Literary Magazine 2017-18

ACADEMY OF

OUR LADY OF

PEACE FOUNDED 1882

Up in the Air Volume IV Academy of Our Lady of Peace Literary Magazine 2017-2018

Letter From the Editor A paint stroke on a page shows a story created in a person’s mind, and words sprawled across these very pages are the tales an author wishes to convey. People have the power to evoke emotion in others, and OLP students take flight in showcasing their talent through their artwork and writing pieces.

Here begins the fourth edition of Up in the Air, the OLP Literary Magazine. This year was an amazing experience with a large team of 19, and an even larger amount of submissions with a wide range of writing pieces as well as art. This project is unique in that is is largely student run, and is composed of only student content.

As you read this magazine, pay attention to how the emotions displayed tell a story. For the team this year arranged the pieces in a general timeline of a person’s life following the basic emotions of: innocent happiness, confusion, darkness, and finally, triumph.

Thank you team for putting up with my ideas, and for creating a magazine as spectacular as this one. From the beautiful flyers, to the organizing and matching of pieces, to the hours of InDesign, and the hours of discussion we had– each and every one of you played a major part in the creation of Up in the Air. On behalf of the team, I want to thank Mrs. Gascho for being an amazing moderator and support system through this entire process. The flight to publication was not always smooth, and we had our bumps in the road, but she always had faith through it all. As a sophomore, I feel extraordinarily grateful that Mrs. Gascho believed in me from the start.

I barged into her classroom, asked her if she needed someone to work on the magazine, and continued to pour out my crazy ideas. I never imagined that I would be able to have this position on the team, but it has been a life changing experience that I will never forget.

Lastly, I want to thank the writers and the artists for being bold enough to share the works that truly come from your hearts. You inspire us all with your powerful pieces.

Continue to be powerful, and never forget your talents that you posses in art and writing. Enjoy the magazine!

Much love, Ashley Yeatts Editor in Chief

Meet the Team Moderator Mrs. Gascho

Editor in Chief Ashley Yeatts (10th)

Editors Hannah Balkowski (11th) Katie Jordan (10th) Nathalia Velasco (10th) Lake Ransom (11th) Mila Rodriguez (11th)

Designers Renata Burnett (11th) Mariela Lopez-Oviedo (11th) Savina Charlier (10th) Olivia DiNapoli (11th) Liz Prado (10th) Sofia Esparza-Chavez (11th)

Publicists Sofia Rojo (10th) Mia Soto (10th) Chelsea Macavinta(9th) Valeria Chavez (11th) Valeria Dominguez (10th)

Apprentices Loren Joy De Los Santos (9th) Coral Miner (9th) Carissa Clarke (9th)

Up in the Air Award Winners Woman of Courage

Something to Declare by Camila Tirando ‘18

Woman of Excellence Soliloquy by Penelope Sanchez ‘19

Woman of Faith Argentine Tears by Michelle Rickwa ‘20

Woman of Heart Home is Where the People Are by Natalia Girolami ‘21

Table of Contents Joy is Barbie Pink Boxers (Brazil) 1 Mickey (Bernal) 2 Celestial Ratios (Wauson) 3 Shell Hell (Magat) 4 Love is Friendship (Lukasik) 5 80s art room or something (Ivanjack) 6 Baseball (De Los Santos) 7 Monochromatic (Girolami) 8 Puertorexican (Torres) 9 Bad Soup Good Times (Lewis) 10 Colored Images vs. Black and White Images (Esparza Chavez) 11 Eli (Lujan) 12 How to Take a Portrait Photograph (Esparza Chavez) 13 Welcome to the Ode of Oranges (Brazil) 15 Untitled (Konja) 16 At Home (Jordan) 17 Untitled (Nechita) 18 The Girl Who Shared by Citrus Tree (Rogers) 19 Home is Where People Are (Girolami) 23 Monochromatic (Diamond) 24 How to Love Yourself as a Mexican Woman (Sanchez) 25 Untitled (Torres) 26 Spring (Jordan) 27 Untitled (Clarke) 28 Untitled (Coronel) 29 Woman In Time (Acosta) 30 Desire (Vindiola) 31 The Future is Female (Buser) 32 The Roots of Life (Nunez) 33 Sara (Sexton) 34 Response to Silent Gallery Work About Slavery (Paoletto) 35 Untitled (Valle) 36 The People (Tria) 37 Enaia’s Anguish (Buser) 38

I Hate School (Magat) 39 Death (Ferguson) 43 ½ Way 2 No (Simonelli) 44 Drowning in Wind (Velasco) 45 Achieve (Aguilar) 46 It (Yeatts) 47 Untitled (Baloyan) 48 Grotto (Tiller) 49 120 Days Sober, In the Rain (Nunez) 51 Blue Monochromatic (Clarke) 52 Heart of Steel (Velasco) 53 Torn Photograph (Yeatts) 55 Untitled (Cardenas) 56 I try to think about things that make me happy but sometimes it doesn’t work (Tiller) 57 Tiger (DeFrates) 58 Al Sujeto De Mis Tios y Tia, y mi hermano y yo (Tiller) 59 Tell (Carrillo) 61 Untitled (Miranda) 62 Untitled (Mazzei) 63 Untitled (Mazzei) 64 Soliloquy (Sanchez) 65 Crash and Casey (Bass) 66 Rosebud (Vindiola) 67 Blush (Ransom) 68 Argentine Tears (Rickwa) 69 Adam (Lewis) 70

New Perspective (Ortega Flores) 71 A Father Who Leaves (Yeatts) 73 Love is a Snail (Evenson) 75 Untitled (Kojna) 76 Electric (Jordan) 77 Ambidextrous (Clarke) 78 Jade (Nunez) 79 Untitled (Baloyan) 80 Don’t Quit, Even When You’ve Lost (Ortega Flores) 81 Winnie in the Night (Bernal) 82 Untitled (Magat) 83 As Free as the Ocean (Aguilar) 84 Something to Declare (Tirando) 85 A Victim No More (Martinez) 87 Ink Girl (Sexton) 88 Her Eyes Carried Questions (Brazil) 89 Untitled (Torres) 90 The Eternal City that Doesn’t Look a Day Over Two Thousand (Cerny) 91 Untitled (Cardenas) 92 Shopping is Shopping! And Shopping is Shopping! (Handy) 93 When I Shopped Till I Dropped (Handy) 94 Untitled (Mazzei) 95

Joy is Barble Pink Boxers

Mickey

Ella Brazil ‘20

Gabriella Bernal ‘20

Joy is barbie pink boxers That remind you of bubble gum and fancy cars With pleather seats and high horsepower.

Passion is fire engine red hot chili peppers.

That burn you eyes and sizzle in your mouth With a hint of sweetness behind the fire.

Happiness is buttery brown chicken wings While sharing stories and memories of 7th grade With your friends, Love is a baby blue blanket That is soft and smells of laundry detergent With a worn down feel that brings you joy Sadness is indigo curtains Blocking out the sun with its dark hues But calming you with the consistent sways to your sobs Knowledge is a forest green paint swatch That will be going up in the new study With the old wood bookcase from the yard sale down the street Loyalty is an argyle green sweater That holds you when you need it But lightens you up with its ever confusing window pattern

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Materials: Tempera Paint Artist statement: A portrait of my best friend

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Celestial Ratios

Shell Hell

Abbie Wauson ‘21

Dani Magat ‘18

If the universe was a salad, I would simply be a pea.

I am just a sprouting leaf On this cosmos of a tree.

In the ocean, great and wide, A small drop would all I be.

And if the world was music, One note in a grand symphony.

But if one pea was missing, All the lesser would the salad taste.

The tree a less vibrant shade of green, The ocean a shallower place.

And of the world’s grand symphony A jarring tune would soon replace Should just one of many notes Be carelessly misplaced.

I used to hate the ocean, but this project is helping me to see that it’s not all that bad.

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Love is Friendship

80s art room or something

Kira Lukasik ‘19

Maggie Ivanjack ‘18

One of love’s most beautiful qualities is that it comes in many forms. Love does not have a specific size or shape. Love is versatile and ever changing. Some may find this frustrating, wanting love to have distinct characteristics. But love depends on the person. Although it has many forms, it is always recognizable.

Love is Dani. Love is an endless supply of jokes. Love wears a scrunchie in her hair and fuzzy socks on her feet. Love knows the lyrics to every song. You can find love in room 117 or sitting at the mint green table next to the steps. Love is far more talented than she will ever take credit for. Love knows how to be her unique self.

Love is looked up to by many, including me. Love has the best smile. Love always wants to make other people smile. Love has a heart that is too big for her body. Love is empathetic; it is her greatest superpower.

Love is Ivana. Love came into my life at the perfect time. Love was someone I had met once when I was younger, but didn’t know until a year ago. Love is hard working and passionate. Love has the goofiest laugh. Love’s hair falls out of her french braid. Love eats the most extravagant school lunches I have ever seen. Love is a photographer. Love captures moments through a lens. Love is intelligent, but can say the dumbest things sometimes. Love doesn’t always have all the answers.

Love is learning. Love is going to change the world one day. Love is truthful. Love is magnificent.

Love is Gabby. Love is welcoming. Love is a friend to those who need one most.

Love does not look down on anyone. Love is small, but mighty. Love wears character shoes to fancy dances. Love treats herself to a mocha frappuccino more often than she should. Love deserves those mocha frappuccinos. Love is the best person to bounce ideas off of. Love gives great advice, but is also the best listener. Love is well thought out. Love is never lazy. Love is willing to talk to you for hours on end.

Love feels like your long lost sister. Love will always, always be there for me.

Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is all of this and more. But above all, love is friendship.

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Baseball

Monochromatic

Loren Joy De Los Santos ‘21

Sofia Girolami ‘19

Baseball is a lot like life.

Though it may seem like you are playing the game by yourself a good portion of the time Everyone is on the same team, Simply just trying to reach a common goal.

People have the chance to help others out In their journey throughout life.

Taking those chances to swing and take action Can also help others out on the field who are in need.

All of you are given opportunities To step up to the plate.

You are able to choose whether you take a swing at it, Or just let it pass by.

Some hit a home run at the opportunities they are given, Running smoothly through all the obstacles that come at them.

Others take longer to reach their destination, And sometimes are overwhelmed by hardships that are on their way to success.

Some never even leave home plate.

It may not go the way they want it to.

Other players attempt to take a swing at their opportunities, And what unfolds can be unexpected or disastrous.

But, when another opportunity arrives, Players have another choice completely up to them To take a swing at what will arrive Or wait for another chance to act upon it.

We all see opportunities pass by Without even knowing it.

But, with courage, confidence, and patience, We all will hit our home run one day.

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Tempra paint I painted this piece to pay a special homage to one of my favorite movies as a child, The Life Aquatic. Since I’ve watched this movie, I have fallen in love with the styles that the director, Wes Anderson, chooses to use in many of his films. I enjoyed the time I spent interchanging my love of art, with my love of this film.

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Puertorexican

Bad Soup Good Times

Alejandra Torres ‘19

Mackenzie Lewis ‘18

I am bicultural (not to be confused with biracial which is a whole other can of worms). I am not of one but two minority groups: Puerto Rican and Mexican-Puertorexican if you will. Daughter of a first generation Nuyorican and a seventh generation Xicana, the two halves of me are both subcultures of cultures within the same ethnic bubble on the scantron sheet.

Being Puertorexican is not knowing what racial category I fit into. There is no official race for Latinos. Do I pick African American and claim the race of the scumbag afro-latino abuelo I never met? Or do I select Native American and claim the race of my long dead bisabuelos who hid their culture from the world? Being Puertorexican is people coming up to me and saying the five booming words “So what are you, really?” and having to hear the coo “Ooh how exotic!” every time. Being Puertorexican is not quite fitting in anywhere. Sure there are a few Mexican kids here and there but their English is lacking just like my Spanish. Sure there areother mixed kids here and there but they are mixed with White instead of more Brown. Being Puertorexican is feeling guilty for not knowing exactly where my family comes from. California and Puerto Rico are as far my familial map can stretch before everything gets hazy.

BeingPuertorexican is learning at a very young age how to walk into a store: open palms behind my back or out in front but never in pockets and a courteous smile.

But being Puertorexican is also growing up in a household with Puerto Rican poetry and Mexican cookbooks lining the shelves, Boricua and Xicano art hanging on the walls, Reggaeton and Mariachi music dancing in the air. Being Puertorexican is always having a boatload of cousins to play with no matter the household. Each of us running around and spewing out of every corner, couch, and crevice. Being Puertorexican is dancing till my feet fall off-- and then some more after that-- every pachanga, birthday party, and holiday. Being Puertorexican is having cousins feel more like sisters and friends feel more like family. Being Puerorexican is having duplicate celebrations for every occasion. But most of all, being Puertorexican is being one hundred percent​me and being one hundred percent​unapologetic about it.

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This is a piece from my concentration from when I was in AP Art in the Drawing portfolio. The concentration is focused around my brother and sister. They are in the foreground, and the background is designed with lines that further emphasize the importance of these two without completely obliterating the components that the background is made up of..

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Colored Images vs. Black and White

Eli

Sofia Esparza-Chavez ‘19

In the digital age, a photographer always has the choice of producing his or her image in color or in black and white. This decision is either quick and easy or complicated and enervating. Both colored and black and white pictures are beautiful but sometimes a picture will be more captivating and sensational one way more than the other. It is an emotional decision that is derived from the reasoning of which way the picture expresses the essence the photographer wants it to echo. The photographer decides what his audience will feel and what direction their thoughts on the picture will lean towards. He or she decides whether they want their image to be expressed in a serious and passionate way or if they want it to be expressed in a more vibrant and effervescent way.

A colored image captures context in a style that a black and white image can’t. It reveals the beauty of dissimilarity and unique aspects of the subject. Whether that be facial features like eye color or an animal’s fur or the color of clothes, it gives the viewer a sense of relatability by connecting to the colors. A colored image can also be described as more eye-catching because the color makes it stand out. If a photographer chooses to produce their image with color he or she might be aiming towards a more lively and lighthearted tone and mood. They may want to show their audience the significance of the colors in the picture. Or the image simply cannot do without color.

There is a bewitching elegance that a black and white picture emits. They capture sincere and strong emotions. They display the core of the spirit of the picture in a uniform manner. The somber tones are meant to enthrall a viewer and inspire him or her to analyze the image. Powerful images are often filtered in black and white because the feeling evoked by the subject triumphs over need for additional context and color would simply impede.

A photographer that has knowingly captured a stunning image will want to do that image justice. Choosing whether the image will be a colored image or black and white depends on what kind of spirit he or she want to give it. This is undeniably one of the hardest decisions a photographer makes when processing an image. But it is not always hard, sometimes the photographer will instantly fall in love with one way and it is just meant to be.

Emily Lujan ‘19

In honor of my old rabbit.

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How to Take a Portrait Photograph Sofia Esparza-Chavez ‘19 Step 1: Familiarize yourself with what a portrait style photograph is. A portrait photograph is the most intimate style of photography. It captures the soul of the subject.

It is not only about capturing the human soul, but it can be animals as well. In other words, anything with eyes should be the subject of a portrait style picture.

Step 2: Get a camera that is rather small and you feel comfortable with. By small I mean that it should not be intimidating to the subject and preferably with a small lens, one that is no bigger than 135mm. When it comes to capturing a good portrait, the camera is simply a tool, and the truth behind a good photograph is you , the photographer. Therefore, the brand of the camera does not matter. You don’t need studio lights or assistants or a breathtaking scenic background. It is about you, the subject, and the tool in between you.

Step 3: Begin by making sure that your camera has a fully charged battery and enough storage space on the memory card. You don’t want to have to stop while you’re in the process and lose your momentum , just because you ran out of space or battery.

Step 7: Working with the zoom. To capture as much detail, intimacy, and intensity, it is best to zoom-in and get close to the subject. However, there is a balance you need to discover of how much to zoom in for this style of photograph. If you zoom in too much, the connection between the subject and the audience will be lost. If you zoom in too little, then the intensity and intimacy is lost. Take as many shots as you can until you find that balance.

Step 8: Set your camera to aperture priority. Setting your camera to aperture priority and choosing a large aperture setting like F1.4 or F2 will blur the background. You want the subject to be the focal point of the photograph and everything else to be secondary.

Step 9: Make your subject feel comfortable. Talk to them and ask them questions that will help bring their guard down. It’s important for you to connect with your subject because the camera is just a tool and you are the one with the capability to get the connection across.

Step 10: Shoot.

Step 4: Pick your setting. As I mentioned before, it does not have to be picturesque, it can be as simple as a white background. A simple background is preferred for portrait pictures so that attention is not drawn away from the subject. Familiarize yourself with the setting and observe where the best way to position yourself and the camera and the subject would be.

Step 5: Once you’ve picked your setting you should consider lighting. Lighting is the single most important factor of photography. In this case, lighting your subject is a priority and extremely significant. You want your subject to stand out, but you want their eyes to stand out even more. Good lighting illuminates your subject’s eyes in a way that you and your audience will be drawn to the picture. The best kind of lighting is raw sunlight, but if you are not shooting outside during the day, make sure there is sufficient light in the room or you’re using a flash (although you should try and avoid using flash as much as possible).

Step 6: Position your subject, yourself, and your camera. As previously mentioned in step 4, you should look around your setting to determine a good place to set up.

Although portrait photographs are distinctly about the face, there are various ways to position the camera. It can be from below, from above, from the side, or simply straight across as long as the eyes are locked on the camera.

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Ode to Oranges

Untitled

Ella Brazil ‘20

Yasmeen Komja ‘20

Welcome to the ode of the oranges in the bathroom the sweet tangy fruit that fill the room with sweet perfume Ode to the fruit that I eat in the shower the sweet tangy fruit that smells like a flower Ode to the orange fruit that can make a smile grow The sweet tangy fruit that drips like snow Ode to the brightness and joy that an orange can bring the sweet tangy fruit that reminds me of spring Ode to the oranges in the bathroom the sweet tangy fruit that I watch as they bloom

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At Home Katie Jordan ‘20

Untitled Gabriella Nechita ‘20

There are a billion stars in the sky.

I know that when I look up at it from twisted stone streets.

If you look far enough, you’ll feel alone, like no one can get to you, because you are where you think you are, and you think you are where you look for, and suddenly I am far from my parents, far from my friends, far from responsibility and expectations and judgement if just for a second.

And I breathe and I smile.

I can’t not smile.

I see stars whizzing back to earth.

I am back on earth, but still just as free.

I am nearly drunk on my freedom, my liberty, grinning at the vendors who roam around me, offering me their wares, and for some reason not trying harder to sell them, but only smiling and turning when I say No, thanks.

The earth is asleep, but even at midnight this corner of the world is still vibrant, dancing in the warm glow of street lamps to the tunes of the street performers.

I feel at home, here, miles across the sea.

All the streets look the same, but I know where I am.

Shopfronts are lit, even at this hour, and schoolchildren in bare feet race around laughing while fathers carry their sleeping youngests on broad shoulders and I smile.

Again.

Not again, because I never stopped.

My feet are light, not tripping on the uneven cement, and I walk balancing on a wall bordering the sidewalk, like a bird hopping along the ineffectual fence that means to keep out what is meant to be out and keep in what is meant to stay in.

The moon is shrouded in silver, and I can smell ancient sculpted fountains, still flowing with water.

It smells like the water at amusement park rides, uniquely calming, but exhilarating at the same time, slowing your mind and quickening the beat of your heart.

My hands are warm, wrapped around copper coins that I throw in over my shoulder and I feel their splash when they hit the water.

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The Girl Who Shared My Citrus Tree McKenna Rogers ‘21 One could say this afternoon is a pleasant one. The sun is shining, the breeze is light, and the temperature both inside the house and outside the house is comfortable.

I have nothing to do, though, for my parents are out and my friends are all busy.

Soccer, they tell me. The windowsill is an alright place to sit and listen to music. It’s relaxing.

I am still getting accustomed to this place. It’s quite funny, though. I have lived here for 12 years, but my father got a job in Colorado, and we were there for about 9 months, and then we got to move back here. In Colorado we lived in the country, and he commuted to the university every day. A person can never understand how loud a street in the suburbs is until they’ve lived in the middle of nowhere.

While we were gone, my parents rented out our house to a mother and her two children. My parents tried getting me interested in that whole deal with their classic “Hey Meredith! Did you know...” format of speaking to me. I wasn’t particularly interested in the matter until my mother told me that one of the children was a girl my age, and that she stayed in my room. They also told me this girl had a cat. I like cats, but Mom and Dad won’t let me get one. My Aunt Kay is allergic to them, they say. That’s funny.

Aunt Kay only comes and visits about twice yearly.

I’m thinking about her now; the mystery girl. Does she like to garden, like me? Does she have many friends? Does she skateboard? Does she like her sandwiches with crust or no crust? The wind blows suddenly, and a car drives down the street. The straw in my bottle of Coca-Cola moves, ever so slightly. I’m not used to cars driving up and down the street.

Or people, for that matter. But they walk instead of drive. A girl is walking along the sidewalk in front of my house, and stops to look at the fig tree in our half-circle driveway. She is petite, with light brown hair, and is wearing a pretty yellow sundress and sandals. She looks at me through the windows and grins. She skips over to the window where I am sitting and waves at me.

“Hello,” she says. “Mom told me a girl lived here.”

I can’t believe it. “Did you live here while I was gone?”

She bobs her little head. “That I did.”

I scramble to the front door and open it. “Come in! I’ve been thinking of you.”

“Is this alright with your parents?” I guess she’s the worryworm-type.

“They’re out this afternoon, and won’t be back until 6. It’s fine, don’t worry.”

“Ok,”she giggles, and tentatively steps inside. “It’s just like how I remembered it! I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Meredith. And you?”

“Elle. Oh!” Elle claps and sways a little bit, looking around the dining room. “So many memories.” She looks over at the windowsill, where my soda is resting, and points. “My cat used to sit there and sun herself.”

The red bow in Elle’s hair is crooked, and her dress has some dirt on it. She notices me looking. “I’m moving away again tomorrow, to the country. I wanted to get a last glimpse of this place before I left.” She looks around the dining room again. “Can we walk around?” I nod and laugh.

“I’m going to look in your room,” Elle says, and turns to the right to walk into the hallway. “Does anyone stay in the bedroom closest to the front room? That’s where my brother stayed.” I shake my head. “That’s just the guest room.”

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Elle squeals as she skips into my room. “I missed this place,” she says, swaying her hips. “I thought that I had left too many little holes in the walls, but you’ve got so many posters and things I don’t think you noticed!”

“I missed this place, too”, I said. “This sounds strange, but where you happy here?”

Elle stops swaying and turns to look at me.

“I was as happy as I could have been, I think, considering the circumstances.”

Elle’s answer doesn’t satisfy me. “Did you like it here?”

Elle smiles. “I did. I have some good memories from this place. Bad ones too, but-Ah! What am I saying? I’m fine really.” She interrupts herself once again. “Look, I can only stay for about two hours at most. I’m moving right now, so I’ve got work to do. But let’s make the most of our time.”

What? Elle’s moving? Again? Didn’t she move out of my house just three months ago?

“Moving?”

Elle sits down on the floor in response, and points to the corner beside my bed. “I used to sit and read there, and other there-” she points to a wall, “my bed was up against that wall.” She looks at my golden yellow rug and curtains. “My color scheme was magenta and white, but yours looks so pretty and earthy!”

My room is pretty magical. Like Elle said, the color scheme is golden yellow, along with dark brown and green. I keep potted plants all over the place, too. I’m busy watering them all in the mornings. “I really like plants and things,” I say.

“That makes two of us, Mary. Wait, can I call you Mary?” Elle shifts her position a little.

“Mary is fine,” I tell her, giggling. I’ve never really had a nickname before. “So, you like to read?”

Elle nods vigorously. “Yes yes yes! Reading, writing, poetry, and art too. I used to put sheets all over the floor so paint wouldn’t splash all over. I used to carry my easel all over the house, but my spot in my room was next to the window facing toward the backyard.”

“I can tell you liked the backyard a lot,” I say. “ I do too.”

“Let’s go out there!” Elle cries, and she scampers out of my room and down the hallway, and I follow her, laughing at her energy. As she scurries, she blurts out things she remembers. “ I remember having no ice machine!” and “I used to watch television in here!” and “My cat hated the staircase”, too.

I help Elle open the sliding glass door leading to the balcony; it took her some effort to tug it open. “The door sticks,” we say in unison, and we laugh. This feels so weird, having another person I’ve never met before know my house inside and out. “I loved the balcony. You could see the fireworks really well, and I ate dinner out here sometimes when the weather was nice.”

“Yeah!” I exclaim. I love the same things about the balcony, too. “It scared me a little walking out onto it though, because the handyman said-” “The wood was rotting!” Elle finishes the sentence. “Yeah, that scared me too! Is that ugly plant still down there?”

I know exactly what “ugly plant” Elle’s talking about. “Yup, still there.”

“Yuck,” she says, and the dashes down the steps to the patio, and I follow her. “I remember lots of spiderwebs and moss here. It looks the same!” Elle remembers lots of things.

The outdoor table was kept down here, but I hated being here because of the whole rotting balcony thing. I’ve heard that rotten wood just snaps and falls right over.

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“It scared me to hang out down here, under the balcony,” I say. “It scared you, too, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.” She turns around and looks at the yard and starts hopping around. “Oh! I loved the garden and the trees and the grass sooo much! I missed it, I really did.”

Elle runs around the trees and whistles and does cartwheels and laughs. I think I recognize that tune she’s whistling. She falls over after about 6 cartwheels and runs back over to me, her dress dirtier than ever. She’s just like a little kid. “C’mon Mary!

Don’t just stand and watch.”

“I’m coming,” I respond. Elle runs around the yard and through the garden and around the trees again until she’s out of breath. Her laughs and cries are gaspy and wheezy, but she won’t stop.

“I missed-this- place. I didn’t think-I would-but I do,” Elle says, gasping in between words. She walks over to the lemon tree and hugged it. “Hey Elle,” I say. “You’re gonna get ants all over you.”

“I remember the ants.” Elle’s eyes are starting to look misty. She sniffs. “I’m a little scared, Meredith.”

“Why?” Elle clambers up into the lemon tree and sits on a branch. “I’m moving to the country to live with my uncle. I’ve never met him before, and I won’t know anyone.

Neither my parents nor my brother is coming with me.”

“Wow.” No wonder Elle is frightened.

“But,” Elle says. “I’m excited too. I’ll be living next to a forest, so I can explore. It’ll be real pretty there. And I might make some friends.” She starts whistling again.

I know what the tune is now! I whistle along with her. Elle turns and beams at me. “I love that movie.” I look at her yellow sundress again. “Hey! Your dress looks a lot like Satsuki’s dress.”

Elle keeps on grinning. “That’s why I bought it. It sounds really funny, but that movie’s why I’m excited to move. I don’t really have much I’m leaving behind, and my parents might come and visit me sometimes. Other than that, I don’t think many people will miss me.”

Ouch. It hurts to here someone say something like that. “I’ll miss you.” Elle’s face lights up. “I’ll miss you too,”she says. I clamber up into the tree an sit on a different branch. I don’t know how much weight a lemon tree’s branch can hold.

“You really do love the yard.” I don’t want to talk about things that’ll make Elle potentially sad.

Elle claps her little hands and swings her feet. “Yes, ever so much.”

“I love the plants. They aren’t mean to each other.”

“They don’t argue either. And I loved this tree. I would sit and read on these branches for hours. And I got a good view of the neighbor’s yards from here, too.”

I really can talk to this girl about anything. “I like looking into their yards, too! The lady to the right of us has the prettiest garden ever, doesn’t she?”

Elle beams at me again. “She really does! I always wanted to sneak in there and steal her vegetables!”

“Oh my gosh! Me too! I never really met her though, and that always made me curious about her.”

“Me too! Oh Meredith, I can only stay for a few more minutes!”

We talk about everything. We talk about the mystery neighbor’s garden and her vegetables and her little white dog who would bark at us. Elle tells me about a book called The Secret Garden, which I have in my nearly-empty bookshelf but never read.

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We talk about the mushrooms that would grow and how much we missed them when they weren’t there. We talk about the neighbor to our left and his cat, who would creep into the yard, and the neighbor who’s backyard fence connects with ours, and the two dogs they had, and how we loved those dogs and how they loved us. We talked about their pomegranate tree, and lemons and limes and flowers and bumblebees and all sorts of lovely things.

Elle looks at her watch. “I have to go now.....” She looks like she’s about to cry. I feel like crying. I wanna keep talking. “Ok,” I say. “I’ll walk you out.” We hop out of the tree and head inside. As we walk through the house, Elle runs her fingers along the walls.

I unlock the front door and open it, and walk outside onto the porch. Elle stands beside me. “I don’t think I want to leave anymore,” she says. Her face lights up all of the sudden. “Give me a piece of paper.” I smile, and get one from inside, and a pen, too.

“Give me address, so I can write you!” She says. I laugh. “Why don’t you just call me?”

I ask.

“I think writing is more charming.”

“Of course you do,” I write down my address, smiling at the paper. I hand it to her, and she hugs me tight. I hug her back. “You’d better write back,” she says. Elle’s crying now. Oh no. I can feel my nose burning the way it does when I’m holding back tears. “I will.” My voice breaks, and I feel my cheeks getting wet. We let go, and Elle scampers out of the driveway, past the fig tree, and to the sidewalk backwards, blowing kisses and waving in between shouts of “I’LL MISS YOU!” and “I’LL WRITE, I PROMISE!” Elle reaches the sidewalk and scampers off. I wave for a long time. I go back inside, lock the front door, and make myself a sandwich. After I eat it, I go to the backroom and wipe my eyes and do deep breaths.

A few hours later, my parents come home. “Hi Meredith! We’re home!” Mom calls.

I can hear Dad talking on his phone, and I can hear her heels, clopping down the hallway to my room. When she enters, she gives me a kiss and sits on my bed. “So honey, what were you up to?” I look at the ceiling. “Nothing. I did some homework at ate lunch.” Mom ruffles my hair and chuckles. “It’s funny to see you reading. Do you have a project for school?” I shake my head.

“The Secret Garden, I see?” I nod. “That’s funny; you never seemed too interested in that book.”

“Someone recommended it to me,” I say, and I smile to myself.

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Home is Where People Are

Monochromatic

Natalia Girolami ‘21

Ella Diamond ‘19

In the years while I still lived in Mexico City, I met marvelous people, who I miss dearly. One of the first people I met was my blue-eyed, raven haired best friend, Clara Zakimi. Clara lived in an apartment across the street from mine. She had two sisters, all of them with the same blue eyes and black hair, a short, genial father, and a lovely cook for a mother. All of them were Argentinian, with thick accents and were extremely kind, but Clara had the stubbornness and temperament of a horse, and yet I found a way to find the goodness in her. She and I would be mischievous and silly, as we built forts and did what any other little girls would do. Clara never judged me, and even now I cherish the memories I have with her at the park near where we lived, where we would roller skate and climb trees together. Countless nights were spent together with our families having late night dinners, where we would laugh together and enjoy each other’s company. Now, the Zakimi’s live in Argentina, Clara’s older sisters go to university, and we never talk as frequently as we used to.

Living in a big city gave me a lot of insight on how the world works, but the people that I surrounded my life with truly made me the person that I am today. Graciela Salazar was a very hard working woman, who traveled for three hours a day to get to work on time to take care of my sister and I while my dad went to work. Graciela, or as I liked to call her Graci, was one of the constant female role models in my life as a young girl. Then, I saw her as more of a friend. She would let me do her hair or help her cook, and I was never really told the sacrifices that she had to make to work and take care of her own family until I was older. Now, I see it as a cycle. My father would go to work to take care of his two daughters, and Graciela would come to us so she could take care of her own husband and children. I can’t help but think that I took the sacrifices she made for granted.

Graci would go out of her way to make sure my sister and I weren’t bored throughout our days together, and then, I didn’t understand why she would say things like, “Naty, estoy descansando mis ojos.” I would look at her puzzled, not understanding that she woke up at four in the morning each day to get to my sister and I, so we weren’t lonely, so she could do her job. Once I moved, there was not a lot of ways to keep in touch with Graciela, but I do know that she will always keep a place in my heart that will never be forgotten.

Mexico has given me beautiful people that I grew to love, and for that I will always love it. I miss Mexico with an overwhelming passion in my heart. Not only is it where half of my family resides, but it is where my young heart grew up. I miss being able to take a roadtrip to see my family, not a three and a half hour plane ride. I miss how fluently I used to speak spanish to my cousins and the overwhelming joy I would feel when hearing stories from my Abuelo about when he was younger. I’ve lived in four different places in my life, New York City, Sao Paulo, Mexico City, and San Diego. Although I love San Diego, Mexico will have always taken my childhood, and as I have grown, my love for the culture and the place that it is has grown deeper and deeper as I live and breathe.

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Tempera Paint This is a painting of my sister, Hana Diamond, who used to paint me all the time for her art projects! So, this was a way to repay her!

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How to Love Yourself as a Mexican Woman Penelope Sanchez ‘19

Untitled Alejandra Torres ‘18

1. Count the freckles and spots on your arms and legs, all of the tiny scars and fading scratches from playing soccer barefoot in the dirty street as a child. Trace the dots into words, messages, love letters from your own immune system telling you it cares about you. Your body cares about you. You care about you.

2. Say your name out loud. Full name, with all of the accents and tildes and sharp edges and rolling Rs. Feel it on your tongue, the way it dances through your teeth and into the atmosphere without apology or insecurity. Hear its rhythmic melody and notice how it harmonizes with guitars strumming and ocean waves crashing and strong coffee brewing.

Say it again-- just because.

3. Remind yourself of your roots and cling onto them fiercely. You are the Aztec gold and Mayan silver the Spanish could not mine. Your veins carry not blood but Pacific salt water and rebellion.

4. Watch the sun as it rises outside your window like an orange birthday balloon every morning. Realize your skin is brown not because you are tainted or ugly but because the sunlight loved you so much it embraced and embedded itself into your very being. You are the daughter of fire and bronze. You are the core of the universe itself.

5. Savor the foods of your ancestors. Allow the spice and sweetness and smoke to float around your kitchen like a veil shielding you from the outside world. Pretend that, as crazy as it seems, nothing besides your arroz con leche matters (at least for now).

6. Dance; whether you’re in your bedroom, at a party, or in a car on the way to school.

Latinas are not meant to sit still and look pretty. We have salsa in our lungs and reggeaton in our bloodstreams. Let the music guide you through life. Get lost in the current and see where you end up. Hopefully, you’re happier there than you were where you started.

7. Remember all of the great women before you. Famous painters and civil rights protesters and single mothers and rebels; remember that you are the sum of all of their efforts, of all of their strengths and weaknesses. You are meant to be different because you were created out of originality. You are special.

8. If all else fails, smile in the mirror. See? You care about you.

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Spring Katie Jordan ‘20 spring. we know it as familiar as a dream fading into the shadows of the mind where we see blood red flower petals and plums spotted with dew drops and brush our fingertips over the thunderstorms and winds that pick up out of nowhere, hauling paper kites off to heavenly lands beyond this realm of imagination. there’s a smell of electricity in the air and hairs standing on end in a spell of afternoon chill. coming of age and dancing to deep songs alone. sharing music and running barefoot over cold, wet cement. we watch the majesty of a sunrise as stars flicker out of existence and the moon lazes around all day long. we taste stolen kisses and curls whipping about our face, getting caught in pale pink raspberry lip gloss from the ramshackle drugstore downtown, you know the one. and we feel the sting of hangnails and chapped fingers, and pull our sweater sleeves down over our palms as we remind ourselves just how alive we are–– how awake, revived from our icy stupor, how real. spring. better described as: laughing breathlessly and splashing in puddles; racing popsicle sticks in the gutters and eating buttered toast on the porch; blue jays flapping from tree to tree and itching knitted scarves; colors popping against a colorful dark grey sky; turning dirt over in the yard to bury the seeds of mystery flowers. it has shadows–– the stuff of darkness between all the light and paisley and birdsong, equal parts terrifying and wondrous. anticipatory. that’s the word. haunting melodies and falling rocks cold skin and hot, beating, bleeding hearts keeping time.

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Untitled Clarissa Clarke ‘21

tempera paint,. econd of my monochromatic paintings this year. I made it for my mother because her favorite color is violet.

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Untitled Dannia Coronel ‘18

Woman in Time Alexandra Acosta ‘20

Materials: scratch pen on scratch board Statement: What I love about figurative art is that it has a way of stopping a moment in time and putting it on paper. It includes all different sizes and that’s exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to stop a moment in time of this full figure women in her natural beauty.

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Desire Nina Vindiola ‘19 A list of things I desire: Roses, Chocolate, Diamonds, You. I have every reason to hate you, I can’t stand the thought of you, But my first love was you, And I can’t keep my mind off of you.

A bittersweet flavor rests on my tongue, A bittersweet favor rests on my mind, But when I see you I look away, I stay away, Because it’s common sense that you’ll never be mine.

Oh, how my heart aches.

You are so happy, You are so accomplished, You are so perfect; While I am slowly going crazy, Dying, Rotting away, With no one to save me but my unhappy, My unaccomplished, And my imperfect self.

My desire blinds me from the things you really did, The things you really felt, The things you really wanted.

You took and took And I gave and gave Because I’m just the fool who’s willing to kill herself for a taste of perfection.

Desire overrides sense.

Despite my knowledge of your selfishness, Your greed, Your willingness to use me and throw me away, I still see you as immaculate, And I am so lucky to be in your presence.

Despite your sins against me, I still believe that you not only deserve happiness, You not only deserve success, You not only deserve love, You deserve the world.

And if I could give it to you, I still would.

I would until the day I die.

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The Future is Female Ali Buser ‘19

materials: Card stock paper, Faber-Castell Black pen in size F & M I did this piece to reflect on the power that women hold and celebrate the beauty of all women. The more we can use art to empower women and to motivate women to achieve their dreams, the more we can truly see the intensity of women’s capability.

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The Roots of Life Sophia Nunez ‘18

Sara Gabby Sexton ‘18

“Come with me,” said the honest man.

I followed and soon we reached a dirty old tree that seemed somewhat small in comparison to me.

He lept towards the tree and what seemed a small hole began to grow. Flesh was flinging out and with each drop of blood, I felt rational. “It’s strange” the honest man proclaimed “She seems to need a new home.

See she has grown and began to feel all too alone” I began looking all around searching for a better tree When suddenly he turned and handed her to me.

He said “treat her well, remember to always give her love, and always remind her where her first home was.”

The further she goes and the more she knows The longer this story grows.

The girl from the tree, loved by the honest man and me.

This is a Memory Project portrait I did for a Syrian refugee girl named Sara who likes the color blue.

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Response to Silent Gallery Work About Slavery

Untitled

Sofia Paoletto ‘19

Andrea Valle ‘18

“Free man” Why am I not a free man?

I stand here and work on this “free land”, Slavery is an abomination to this nation That has held us down in chains, But unfortunately slavery runs through our country’s veins They think we are a disgrace Of the unworthy or lesser race So Master’s whip us, sell us and treat us like cattle And I hesitate to say that this may be our forever battle We work day and night hoping for our human right But slavery, Slavery, It’s filled with pain and sorrow And makes us hope and pray for a better tomorrow But our freedom I fear will always be borrowed, We are auctioned off We are beaten and our women are raped, And while doing this the white man seems to never hesitate, And if I cannot own land Why is it okay that they own man?

So I ask again in this “free land” Why is it that I am not a free man?

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The People

Enaia’s Anguish

Felizsa Tria ‘20

Ali Buser ‘19

people wake up to news of violence people wake up to their lives destroyed people wake up to rain and hurricanes people wake up to death and being paranoid people would rather judge and pick sides and see in black and white with no gray people would rather stay silent than step up, challenge, and debate people would rather shoot a gun than take another man’s away people would rather kill a man than choose to accept and tolerate it should be the grade and not the gun that makes the child restive why is it that we blame the victim but the criminal goes unarrested every human living right now is growing shy and apprehensive you know that good is losing grip when the truth is the most offensive why should we put politics over people and who makes america great again? when we keep fighting each other and promoting morals we can’t sustain? some deny the problem existing and some deny they should feel shame why promote the good of humanity when our actions have been inhumane? there is no reason to stay silent there should be only a desire to fight because there should be a world where people know the difference between wrong and right it may seem too far in the future and way out of our sight but we are the future, it starts now we will end humanity’s plight

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Card stock paper, Faber-Castell Black pen in size XS & S, small & white gel pen I spent about 20 minutes doing the outline for this drawing, but I spent about week and a half stippling and filling in this with tons of tiny little dots. This art was inspired from the comic book called Skin & Earth, which is originally drawn and written by the singer Lights. Lights is one of my inspirations and drawing the main character Enaia at one of her darkest moments was truly a fun experience for me.

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I Hate School Danielle Magat ‘18 I HATE SCHOOL. There! I said it! I hate school!

I know you feel the same way!

And you, you, you, and most likely you!

Pardon my french but JE DETESTE L’ECOLE Is that clear enough for you?

I hate reducing myself to a number on a transcript, a rank in a class As if my percent of worth is equivalent to that on my test.

I hate the four white walls that are unwelcoming and cold, The walls I stare at when the teacher speaks faster than my pen can comprehend.

They make me feel more like a patient in a mental institution, Than a student in a learning one.

I hate seeing my teachers more often than I do my family.

In a few months I will leave home for college and who knows, maybe I’ll never come back.

I fear that if my brothers are asked if they miss me they’ll say, “It’s no different than when she was at rehearsal.”

I hate tests that take up my days, homework that takes up my nights, And, yes, extracurriculars that take up my weekends.

And I am tired. But not a cute, sleepy, tired.

I’m talking about an absolute exhaustion, Caused by the monotony of being overworked.

I can tell you right now, I haven’t gotten a healthy amount of sleep in weeks.

My eyes feel like lead and my feet feel like anchors.

If my body is a sailboat, I’m close shipwreck Half the crew has jumped overboard and the sail is ripped.

Actually, it’s been ripped for a few years now, but the strings I’ve tried to sew it back together with have snapped.

And now the wind has whipped and stretched a tear in my motivation so large that the winds of promise no longer push me along.

As the captain I’ve wanted to jump ship. So many times.

Who wants to head a ship that is destined to sink?

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My ship can blow off a hurricane of praise, ignore a tornado of awards, and disregard storms of achievements.

It only takes a one droplet of doubt, a single drop in a grade, to overflow my cabin.

Waves of anxiety crash through my sides, rocking my boat until the shaking numbs my head.

Nerves fill my insides, pouring through my eyes, and sometimes I’d rather run away than take that test.

I hate to be so, how do you say, casually pessimistic about the whole thing.

It’s basically the vernacular of students.

Say 100 pages of a novel are assigned over the weekend, I say, “Wow you know what sounds amazing right about now, dropping out of school!”

A chorus of brain dead zombies harmonize in reply, “Saaaaaaaame.”

Confused classmates crying over a confounding quiz have blown up my phone More than any boy ever has.

If I miss a deadline, I would rather shrivel up in a hole than send an apology email to the teacher.

If I cannot meet a simple deadline, what kind of a failure am I? Why is that?!

Why does living as a hermit under a bridge sounds much more appealing Than learning about the difference between your longissimus thoracis and your longissimus cervicis?

Why do I get more concerned looks from teachers when my skirt is too short than when I bawl my eyes over a frustrating math problem Why does my counselor think it’s more shocking that I think I’m worthy enough to even apply to my dream school Than the fact that all of my emails to her have been sent between 1 and 3 am.

Why do I have more friends who have felt utterly useless because of a failed test.

Than friends who know what they’re going to major in in college?

Why does everything have to lead up to college?!

Why can’t I just live in the now?

I am in high school!

I should be forming my own identity, Not dissecting every inch of my body, Searching for the missing link God must have forgotten when he made me Analyzing my mistakes, wondering why I’m not smart enough for my dream college.

Is it my grades? My extracurriculars? Because I took Painting rather than Physics?

Or is it me? Am I not enough?

I have the character, and Lord knows I have the heart.

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But who cares about all that sappy nonsense; all that matters is a single, shining letter.

As a child I was conditioned to work for commission.

An otherwise useless piece of paper would distinguish me from all others.

Little me would race home, bursting with excitement Though barely 4 feet, I would feel as tall than a giant.

Why? Because my teacher thought I was kind enough to be named “Peacemaker of the Month.”

The bright blue ribbon and printed piece of paper would be my badge of honor at recess If my home was the Louvre, the fridge would be the grand exhibit, and my Peacemaker award, the Mona Lisa.

Those days made me feel ecstatic. Like I was the hand-picked fruit of the Creator.

I could end world hunger and still have time to kiss every baby in the world, Because I am the Peacemaker of the Month.

Before, everyone would get an award. Everyone got the chance to feel strong enough to carry the world. Everyone was a peacemaker.

But those days are over.

It’s time to grow up and get real.

Now, awards are only for the elite.

Like hawks colleges crowd high schoolers, preying on those who are the most decorated.

If you’re not the best, sorry honey you’re a nobody.

The ground might as well swallow you up then and there because today’s world has no place for the mediocre.

Who needs a Peacemaker these days when you can have an engineer?

School makes me feel as if I’m working in a factory, Sit in rows, face forward, only speak when spoken to, Pump out homework like a busy work machine.

Listen to lectures, take notes, Fill in bubbles to test how fast I can cram in the 15 minutes before class starts.

If I fill in the wrong bubble, my entire world bursts.

A, B, C, D. That’s it. No more, no less.

I am trapped in a bubble. I am confined to this sphere of lead.

So fragile, yet so vital to my survival.

If my mind is too sharp, that bubble is bound to pop.

So where does that leave me?

I’m not in the top 10 students? Might as well drop out.

I’m not a student athlete? Good luck getting into college.

If I can’t get into college, I won’t get a job.

If I don’t get a job I’ll never have a steady income, Which leads to a life unfulfilled.

Which means I won’t amount to anything; Which means I’m a failure to not only my parents, my family, my teachers, society, but also God? I’ll die alone, uneducated, and unhappy.

Why didn’t I just join the lacrosse team?!

Believe it or not, I don’t hate the entire educational system.

I know there are millions upon millions of girls who would take a bullet to the head just to be where I am standing today.

At the age of 20, Malala has achieved her lifelong dream Something she stared down the barrel of a gun for, No, it isn’t a roaring new car, or an shiny engagement ring, It’s attending a university; furthering her education.

I am extremely blessed to be educated.

I love learning; I do! I want to see the world. I want to know what makes me me.

I just hate school.

I hate being confined to a strict box.

I cannot to shoved into a bubble on a scantron.

I refuse to be defined by a 5 paragraph essay written in 80 minutes.

I am alive. I am destined to explore everything.

If I fail along the way, let it be on my own terms, and not because I forgot to move the decimal over two places.

No, I will not stop trying my best in school; I am too anxious to let my grades drop.

But I will not allow a number on a screen tell me how much I am worth.

I will fill my life of vivid color, rather than black and white text.

I hate school. But I love learning more.

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Death Emma Ferguson ‘19 Death.

A member of every family, Weeding out the ones who have no time.

Coming with us on car rides, Echoing near us during the storms, Walking through the halls of our homes.

He is always there, watching over our shoulders.

He is always there, Plaguing our thoughts and dreams.

He is always there, Bringing rain and taking hearts.

He is always there.

Death is sinister.

He is a deep crimson.

His voice is the screams Of those that he took.

His scent lures you in.

His looks: a dark attractiveness.

The young dodge him To experience life.

The old dodge him So they can see new generations.

Everyone fears him; They do not want to be forgotten.

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1/2 Way to No Liana Simonelli ‘‘19

Materials: Scratchboard This is inspired by a song by Chelou called Halfway to Nowhere.

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Drowning in the Wind Natalia Velasco ‘20

Achieve Gala Aguilar ‘19

I don’t see him anymore.

There only is a shadow of the man he once was I feel pieces of myself tumbling down to my core But I cant feel them fall, my sensations had come to a pause.

I know he is gone.

I can feel it within I want to tell him he won But I’m trapped inside my skin I feel nothing but wind Soaring breaths of dwindling air Pushing and pulling at my lungs until those breaths have thinned Then there truly is nothing to give Love, such a tragic thing Like a car crash on the open road You never know what it’s going to bring And it never ever slowed.

It only gets faster form here.

Sad becomes mad Fiery anger biting at my ear Mad turns into bad All is aflame, I can no longer hear Is this truly love that I feel?

This darkness, that lurks around the corners of my mind.

Did you set it aflame? because it all seems surreal You have made me blind.

You need to attempt the impossible, in order to achieve the impossible.

You taken my senses and turned them into ashes You have turned them into what you yourself have become know you are gone, but I still see the flashes I know, to them I can never succumb And as they scatter you I feel it The rush of the wind escaping my lungs.

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It Ashley Yeatts ‘20 It stood clear as day, Bright as the light begging me to stay.

It glistened and it longed for me to see, But even through all of the pleading and begging, it was not meant to be.

It looked me in the eye, deep into my soul, It turned my inside pages until it released my inner ghoul.

It tried to chain me, capture me, until I was locked inside, Little did it know that I had so much to hide.

It yelled and it screamed as I turned away, But the ties on my hands forced me to stay.

I fell to the ground, tethers and all, And stared at the canyon, in which I was to fall.

I tried to escape, believe that if you will, But the battle I fought, was a never ending upwards hill.

It rumbled at my feet and surrounded me in the air, And I tried to carry on as if I did not care.

All the while it was tearing me inside out, Clawing the veins and ripping the ties from which I was brought about.

It stood looming high, like a cloud over my head, Its grey storming colors, ones I would soon learn to dread.

It is the shackles on my ankles as I tread, The heavy, weighted balls, dragging me down like lead.

It would not relieve me of the pain, Instead my inner resources it would drain.

I gave my fighting chance, But my body grows weaker with every fleeting glance.

It haunted me my whole life long, From the day I was born to this farewell singing song.

It brought me down in every possible way, But here is what I want to say.

You can try to say the words on your tongue, But the real evil is the it inside everyone.

It will act as the devil branding its sword, To tear you up, and leave the others behind, barely attached to a string cord.

The It is the You, And the hate that you brew.

Every evil remark, That lashes out like a bark.

You say It is a lie, But here it strikes with a surprise.

You can deny It, and banish it, as if it is gone, But we all knew the truth, that rises with the morning dawn.

For the It is the you, The chains that brought me down, But through all of your hate and your lies, I have found arms to hold me around.

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Untitled Arahi Baloyan ‘19

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Grotto Natalia Tiller’18 I think I’m psychic. Not in a That’s So Raven way, but in a ‘when I say something it usually comes true’ way. Just a minute ago, I accidentally mentioned to my dad about how I told Annie Canfony in the hallway that her parents would send her away if she touched my arm again. Now she’s in Montana, learning how to raise cattle and till soil.

“That is completely ridiculous, I’m sure it was just a coincidence,” he says, while his hands grip the steering wheel. I shrug, unable to concentrate on his whisper of a voice, and turn to face the window again.

The streets are full today, full of people, full of cars, full of seagulls. I rest my chin in the palm of my hand and let my eyelids fall. I find myself doing this more often now— being. I like feeling the whips of wind on my face, the smell of tourists sunblock and Cuban sandwiches. I like hearing the smack of flip-flops on cracked concrete. I like knowing that the smell of the ocean is everywhere, sticking with you, clinging to you, staying with you until you cover the smell with freshwater or perfume or whatever.

“You okay over there?” My father, again.

My eyes snap open like blinds, my pupils contract a little too quickly and I rub my eyes with the back of my hands. Stupid sun with its photons.

He asks me the same question again. I nod, like always. He closes the window, shuttingout the flip-flops and sunscreen along with the shrills of seagulls.

By now, the traffic has died down and we are alone on the road. I look at him, his skin is graying from too much time spent in deep sea caves, his glasses are falling off his flat nose and his hair is slick with sweat. Today, we walked beside the ocean—sand in toes and all—during the sunrise. The air was crunchy and wet, like a cloud could form at any moment. My dad walked in front of me while I dragged behind him to search for sea stars in the mossy tidepools.

Come on, he said if you walk any slower the fish will think we’re cowards.

I dropped the hunk seaweed I was lugging behind me and ran towards him. Ahead of us, the sand released a small dock, cramped with yellowing sailboats. I shot towards the farthest one, ALEXANDRE. My head floated away from my body as I sauntered on the deck. Welcome back Marcela, ALEX voiced through me. Once he turned on the dull purr of the engine, we shot towards the smooth glimmering green water. My heartbeat paused once I could no longer see the cliffs that meant warm baths and stews.

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It’s all about being invisible, he said as we floated fifty feet below ALEX, the fish won’t come near you if you move too much. The sand clouded the water around me as I worked to slow the movement of my yellow fins. All around me were tall columns of seaweed, hiding ocean secrets my father would try to decode once a year. Rainbow Trout and Jade Perch swam out of a turquoise sea cave. My father must have said something about how the sun rays usually don’t reach this far down, but I could only see the black hole next to us, nearly fifty feet tall and darker than black.

“Why does mom never come with us,” I say with a hitch in my voice. My father blinks, water droplets dripping onto his sandy wetsuit.

“You know why,” he mutters. It’s a sort of tradition for us—we come to California in the summer when the ocean currents bring new fish from Australia and my mother forces us to spend time together. Yet, I ask him the same question each year just to see how he responds. Last year he said, She wanted to spend time alone, the year before that it was Marcy, you know she doesn’t like the ocean.

He turns left, taking us up a hillside road that climbs into wispy clouds and ocean winds.

“Maybe, next year you could bring a friend, or better yet, make friends here. What about that kid that works at the souvenir shop down by the boardwalk? You seem to be friends, right?”

“Dad, I was just being nice. He gave us like a 50 percent discount.”

It’s funny how he expects me to make friends when I spend all day underwater with him. Maybe the crabs can tell me where I could find the hidden answers to my ‘friend problem’ as he likes to put it. Even the sun laughs at me when I try to form conversations with anyone my age. Many times, I end up unintentionally telling their future.

Your boyfriend is going to break up with you if you buy those earrings. I said to Avara, our neighbor in Seattle, as she plucked out gold olive leaves from the clearance bucket at Claire’s. She wore her mascara clumpy and smelled like unsweetened cocoa powder and almonds. My eyes drifted to her bouncy curls as she turned away from me and towards the cashier, olive leaves in hand. The next day, I saw her return the earrings while she wiped at her teary eyes.

I fiddle with my yellow flippers, tracing along the worn plastic lines and hum,“I wish I could evaporate.”

My father pauses and says,“Me too.”

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120 Days Sober, in the Rain Sofia Nunze ‘18

Blue Monochromaitic Clarissa Clarke ‘21

The rain will have to leave someday.

Sitting in the rain staring at a puddle.

One drop falls and another 12 follow and one by one the puddle becomes a river.

105 steps back The leaves wrestle I’m with him, he makes me warm I’m slow, he’s quick 120 steps forward soon enough I’m staring at the yellow lines on the road.

I need him I want him My rain boots begin to weigh far too much.

Relife 120 days back The yellow lines dash back and forth till they slip away.

I should just let him stay The cars go far and they get close till finally, I see their speed.

One person passes their raincoat swifts by me making more noise than all the busses in the city.

The water on the floor makes everything loud, yet no one looks at the floor.

No one watches but yet they wipe it away,

This was my first painting here at OLP. I was an assignment we had to do, we were recreating a Van Gough painting.

but that’s ok I’ll just sit and stay.

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Heart of Steel Nathalia Velasco ‘20

You, Glittering gold skinned beauty.

Even now that I’m not looking at you I can see the sun reflecting on your shining skin. You are everything.

You are the center of my problems but the solution to them all.

You’re everything I am supposed to want, and I’m supposed to have.

You’ve become so close to me that I feel you’re as important to me as my own feet. If I lost you who would I be?

Who would I become?

Immediately I would be deemed irrelevant in today’s society.

Because to the eyes of everyone else I need you to survive.

Not only that but I would seem insane if I didn’t want you.

Like a human denying food in the face of starvation.

I feel unsafe whenever you’re not around.

I can’t help but to feel anxious alone without you.

You seem so much bigger than me you have the ability to protect me better than I could ever do myself.

I can train and train for hours and years but you don’t have to do any of that to scare the bad people away. You have become what I depend on so deeply that you can control me.

I follow your every instruction because people have told me to trust you, to rely on you, even the people who don’t know you.

Without you I would be lost.

Not only metaphorically, but literally.

You keep me in check, you always know where to go, where it’s safest and where I have to be.

You help me organize my time and keep me in track of myself.

Can it be that you’ve become the first thing I want to look at every day?

But like a landslide with a view so beautiful but a drop so deadly, that you lose your breath just staring at it.

There is always a dark side to the sweetness in life.

You may keep me organized and safe, but you do control me.

You’re a beautiful thing that stands in my life shining like a trophy for everyone to appreciate, but behind you cast a shadow so tall, so cold dark and empty.

Everyone appreciates the image of you but I am one only person who seems to have explored what it is like to belong to that shadow.

To become part of that shadow and ti persevere in me.

So that when the day is done and sun has settled away, the crickets begin to chirp their everlasting song that slowly fades into nothingness.

Absolute nothingness.

And when my mind is empty and everyone has quitted into slow mutters or low breathing the one that thing that remains is you.

When everything seems wrong sometimes you make it better, sometimes you give me things that make me happy, show me what you know will make me smile.

But most of the time you seem to make it worse.

You take what others have done to me and you rub in my face.

Rather than comfort me you tell me everything I don’t want to know, you tell me of the things

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others say about me and you show me exactly what they mean.

And I know, honesty is something that can be hard to find but what if that’s not what I want. What if I just don’t want someone to tell me where to go or who to be.

I don’t want the pressure pressing against me of all the successful people who seem to be doing twice what I’m doing But I know that that’s exactly what you always give me.

I don’t want you to show me exactly what my flaws are and tell how I’m supposed to look.

What if I don’t want to rely on you so deeply that when I abandon you I feel this urge in me to drive right back into your arms.

You cold metal arms.

You hold me in a grip stronger than any crane has ever held a concrete block. it gets so hard to move, so suffocating that I wonder if you glued yourself to me.

But then I move, just slightly .

I seem to unstick a part of me from you and at first it’s like taking in a deep breath of fresh air.

One so clean that I forget to worry for the first time in a long time.

And in that moment when freedom is all that I crave, I don’t care.

And that is all that matters.

But time, time is our enemy and no matter how hard I try to detach myself from you time will make me regret ever letting go.

Time will start to call my name in your voice until it hurts so much that I rush back into your grip. Then it all comes back so fast.

The condescending tones the mixed feelings, the responsibilities of being with you.

The weight which I threw off myself seems heavier than before.

You tell me that it is ok, and I want to believe so you so I force myself to do just that.

Nathalia Velasco 20’ I watch you as you work in silence, as you allow me to take things at my own pace and you give me the liberty to decide.

I can’t help but to feel this is another one of your traps.

But after a while I grow fond of this new gentleness you’ve given me.

I ask myself why I had been so hard on you when everything you’ve ever wanted to do is help.

And then just when things are well, just when I feel that we’ve had enough space between us to make this work, You pull me in too deep.

Maybe it’s not what you meant to do, maybe it my fault.

Maybe I spent so much time with you that I attached myself twice as hard as I had before.

Things are bad again and you’re the source of my troubles.

You’re the only one thats telling me my skin isn’t clean enough and my waist isn’t small enough. When you’re never supposed to be the one to do that.

You’re supposed to support me, help me, inspire me to become someone better.

But you never want to, do you?

At this point I’m with you because I need you, and no longer because I want you. I’m with you because no one else will ever tell me the truth like you will. They’ll all fake their smiles and their compliments.

Maybe I spent so much time with you that I forgot how to be without you. Perhaps that’s why my parents didn’t want me to get a phone

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Torn Photograph Ashley Yeatts ‘20

Untitled mary Cardenas ‘20

There was light that shone through every crack and crevice, Formed through the whispers exchanged in the dead of night, Through the laughter that broke the stillness of day, Through the moments no one else witnessed behind doors.

The story of our youth built on the pillars of our hopes and dreams, To the beaches of Thailand we sailed, Over the moon and past the stars we glided, Down to the deep jungles of Peru with beasts no one can imagine; we went.

The song of the birds drifted on the wind and danced to our ears, A foreboding lullaby just barely grazing our skin, The song caressed us as we melted away into the world, Forgetting.

But every crack must give way as crevices widen, Every pillar must fall as dreams are dashed, And all the adventures of a lifetime must end.

The music will fade as memories from so long ago, Remain a torn photograph, buried in the sand.

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I try to think about things that make me happy but sometimes it doesn’t work Natalia Tiller ‘18

Tiger Cat DeFrates ‘18

Streams of water roll down my forehead, over my eyes, and down my cheeks.

They silently land on the shower tiles.

I’ve timed myself. I’ve gotten it down to 30 minutes 20 seconds.

My mother still thinks I take too long.

Nothing happened to me today. But should something have happened?

I’d like to think so.

My cat claws at the dusty bathroom door. Meowing.

He wants to come in.

Should I let him in?

No, thats stupid. Cats hate water.

He’d only scratch you.

Of course. Sorry.

Streams of water roll down my forehead, over my eyes, and down my cheeks.

My eyes burn, maybe I should get out?

No, stay.

Okay.

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Al Sujeto De Mis Tios y Tia, y mi hermano y yo Natalia Tiller ‘18 1. The oldest, A teacher left in the dust of Violent uprisings—that crushed our reputation. Oh,you’re Colombian?

They say, you must do cocaine, you must be poor, you must be a drug dealer or a coffee farmer or a revolutionary.

He lives in the dirt, he leeches off of his brothers and sisters. Sometimes we forget that he went to Venezuela to live his dreams, and was crushed by yet another Violent (up)rising.

Hector.

2. The artist, A painter, a sculptor, with hands turned to stone and words fresher than spring water. I haven’t seen him in years, but each time I do, he has a new lover. I painted a fish once, he saw it, he told me to move to Bogotá, to live in an art studio. To spend mornings with buñuelos and hot chocolate, politicians and protests. To be suffocated by masa and stone pieces flying towards walls.

To go with him, to disappear, for weeks, months, years at a time, while his daughters and sons call the police asking for him. De pronto lo secuestraron we joke, maybe they’ve kidnapped him. They as in guerillas, they as in the bad guys, they as in the other Colombians, they as in the revolutionaries.

Anibal.

3. The belover, A caretaker, a hugger, who gives and gives and gives and gives to the unpaved roads, to the vagabonds, to the visitors. His hands, like his brothers, scratch my skin when he greets me year after year.

Mi vida, mi preciosa, que cosa tan divina.

He’s lost a child, my friend, he saw her draw angels on her deathbed, while he sang her vallenatos.

He took her to the hospital, She has the flu, she will get better.

I cry when we visit her tomb, cleaned each time by her father, a teddy bear placed each year. They told me we were inseparable, that I got quiet when she died, that I stopped talking, that I never asked where she was, that I knew.

We knew.

We should have known.

Narciso.

4. The rebellious, A troublemaker, an insurgent, she was the only one to make it out of the country. She’s the only one of them to ever leave, to ever want to leave. She left with a five year old, jeans, and two plane tickets.

She cried when she got to the airport and realised that she was alone, that her husband would leave her alone for hours,hours, hours, days, with a child who didn’t understand why everything was so quiet, why he could no longer play with his cousins, his neighbors, why there were no empanadas or Pony Maltas.

Mi amor, we live here now.

Laura.

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5. The entertainer, A lover of jokes, beer, and red kitchen counters. His laughter crowds out violence, his humor reunifies the country.

One year, my face froze into a smile, he sang me a song on my birthday.

Noche de las velitas, night of the candles.

He waits by the chipping white metal fence (that have three different locks with three different sets of keys), he hugs me when we get out of the taxi. He smells like construction. His wife buys new things.

She buys a laptop, she buys a car, she buys a phone.

What kind of car do you have? She asks, I respond.

She frowns.

Francisco.

6. The loved, The different one, the sick one, the one who needs new medication to calm his hallucinations.

Once he ran away, once we found him in the Amazon, once he met the president, once he went to Antarctica, once we interrupted his meeting with the Emperor Caesar. Ay mama, he says and recounts the time he saved the world from aliens.

Octavio.

7. The mother, A home base, a safe haven from the storm, a wife. She cleans, she cooks, she does hair for 10,000 pesos.

The one who calls my mom every day, to tell her about what Nacho or Hector did. To tell her about how her daughter got a secret tattoo, or that her son wants to go to the United States.

Her home has one room, but has room for everyone.

She calms her brothers with logic, questions them, Why did you do that? She asks, then fixes the problem.

Ingrid.

8. The conflicted, An idealist, the thinker, a man who has had every job but cannot choose. Who has lived twenty different lives, who loves fully and goes to church every day. Who fights with his brothers, because he is the youngest.

El niño, the boy, we call him, not after the boat that carried the man our country is named after, but because he was born last. Because he got the least amount of time with his mother, because when she died, we all died. When she died, my mom stopped going outside, my uncles stopped going to work, but I started talking and you started listening.

Eduardo Adrian.

Where do we fit in this list brother, why have we left ourselves out? Is it because you have forgotten your spanish? Or because I want to leave home before I turn 30?

Is it because you moved to Gringolandia, married a gringa, want to have white babies, want to have dinner parties instead of rumbas.

Or is it because I was born here.

Because they ask me how I understand them each time I go. How it feels to be American. How it feels to be born in a city where the streets are engraved in gold. How it feels to know English, how it feels to have a passport, how it feels to leave Colombia.

Why have we left Colombia, I never wanted to leave.

Natalia.

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Tell Valerie Carillo ‘20

Untitled Anapaula Rios Miranda ‘21

Do you know where the wealthiest place On earth is? Is it in Washington, Europe, Egypt perhaps? Well you’re close Graveyards.

That’s right graveyards. In a graveyard Are ideas. Never told. Never said.

There’s a recipe never cooked A business never made A book never publish A song never been sang. It’s too Late for them. But not for you.

Tell.

Tell people about your ideas, your Inventions. Tell publishers about this New book you created. Tell chefs about your Delicious recipes. Tell owners about your business Sing your songs out in the streets, where everyone will see and hear Don’t keep it in That bottle of yours Let it out.

Before it’s gone for good.

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Untitled

Untitled

Gianna Mazzei ‘19

Gianna Mazzei ‘19

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Soliloquoy

Crash and Casey

Penelope Sanchez ‘19

Lili Bass ‘19

I wake each morning in pallor’s shadow Tawny skin crowded with iv’ry repulse My eyes won’t will themselves Texas sky blue.

Another day not being the right shade.

I can’t remember the first time I was told tan skin was dirt on canvas I do recall our first blonde cousin born I find no charm in these wheat field children That are crooned over like living alters, Brown hands unfit to touch the white marble.

They set impossible as a standard, Idolize fairness like a missing god.

Feed self-hate in someone else’s silver spoon They lament their origin, regret home.

Keep telling me gilded strawberry hair Is the epitome of perfection And I argue for the earth-hued alloy Bronze stands its ground, refuses to subside But gold, it bends and fades and melts to naught.

We fear a part of us that was once torn, Wish to uproot ourselves from browning soil Victorian not Aztec, pure not dark, There is a beauty in fading flaxen.

One day I may learn to see grace in gold.

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Rosebud

Blush

Nina Vindiola ‘19

Lake Ransom ‘19

I wake each morning in pallor’s shadow Tawny skin crowded with iv’ry repulse My eyes won’t will themselves Texas sky blue.

Another day not being the right shade.

I can’t remember the first time I was told tan skin was dirt on canvas I do recall our first blonde cousin born I find no charm in these wheat field children That are crooned over like living alters, Brown hands unfit to touch the white marble.

They set impossible as a standard, Idolize fairness like a missing god.

Feed self-hate in someone else’s silver spoon They lament their origin, regret home.

Keep telling me gilded strawberry hair Is the epitome of perfection And I argue for the earth-hued alloy Bronze stands its ground, refuses to subside But gold, it bends and fades and melts to naught.

We fear a part of us that was once torn, Wish to uproot ourselves from browning soil Victorian not Aztec, pure not dark, There is a beauty in fading flaxen.

One day I may learn to see grace in gold.

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Argentine Tears Michelle Rickwa ‘20 he couldn’t have been more than three years past my mere age of ten and yet he is bent over a tar painted backpack and begs for a piece of mercy from those who glide past him. all at once I want his story, needing it desperately to enlighten my curious, oblivious young brain on how this planet can be. for one moment his eyes find mine and I see more despair in his eyes than from a field of fallen soldiers. his untold story tantalizes me to insanity and I have never been more ravenous. his youth is stunning, leaving me both sorrowful and inquisitive about how he ended up on that grimy sidewalk with nothing but a next to empty backpack and his own intelligence. it isn’t that he’s broken or an urchin from unknown; it’s how he sits with nothing more than fierce fragments of faith that someone, anyone, will give him a reason to go on. because of this I release the safety line that is my mother’s palm and I burst through the crowd like the morning’s first rays of sun towards the dark and ever fading moments of night that is the alluring boy. my courageous and glorious charge is caught in headlights as his eyes greet mine once more.

I almost turn and gallop away, as any coward would. yet I can’t bring myself to be another person to walk away from him. he studies me, unsure of what it is I am about to do. his eyebrows narrow, curved by his concern, and it is then I know part of the tale I crave. he clutches his bag in a cracked and rusty hand as if he knows I want something from him, but isn’t sure what it is.

I want to tell him I’m sorry, but how can I? I know nothing. it is then that I am not myself and instead take his hand to let him know that he has touched me in ways he will never know and still doesn’t. he is everything in my eyes, but nothing at the same time.

I am crying in his gaze and do nothing to stop the bleeding from my eyes. his hand is fastened to mine and I am once more the young girl holding onto someone else for protection I don’t know I need.

I am smitten and entwine my frighteningly long fingers with his.

I hold on with all the sanity I can spare, but I ran out of that long ago.

I let myself unweave my fingers from his; permit myself to have one final glance.

I walk away, back to my mother, back to my sheltered world.

I have never regretting anything more.

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Adam Mackenzie Lewis ‘18

This is a piece from my concentration, which is about my brother and sister. A candid shot of my brother is used for photo reference. In order to enhance him as the clear area of emphasis, the background is slightly faded around the edges.

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New Perspective Inés Ortega Flores ‘20 She stayed inside of her room for thirteen days. She spent them reading and blasting music from her speakers. Eating was rare, as was moving. She was lost. She didn’t know what to think or what to do. She was frozen. Chaos had always been a part of her life, but now it was so intimate that she no longer grasped what had happened.

Never again.Never again. Never again could she enjoy the sound of laughter or the piano. Never again could she go to her sister’s performances and truly enjoy the music and singing, the clapping and the laughter. What would she do now that her hearing had ran away so maliciously? And it had all happened so fast. First she was sick, then in the hospital, then her mom began to cry as a nurse told her the news.

But lying in the hospital bed, she did not understand. How could she? All she saw was lips moving in unrecognizable patterns. The shock of not being able to hear the words coming from her mother’s mouth enveloped her. Her world that had revolved around music and sound had been taken away. She truly wished that it was her sight that had disappeared not her hearing, her most precious sense. But there was something worse than actually losing her hearing. She had no idea what would happen with her best friend. With his eyes stone white and her ears refusing to function, she could only see every problem that would inevitably come up. She wouldn’t see him. She could not bring herself to see his lips move yet be soundless. She had also turned soundless. Scared to speak for the fear of not saying what she meant.

If she couldn’t hear what she said, how was she suppose to know if she said what she had meant to say? She locked herself in her room only allowing her parents to come in and deliver food that would remain untouched. She spent most of her time reading but sometimes she would go online and teach herself sign language.

Though she hated being deaf, she found something so beautiful and poetic about talking with your hands.

placed on the doorknob. She turned the bronze handle and pulled her door to open it. It was him. She stared at him and he looked straight forward past her head to the wall. He reached out to grab her and she directed his hand to her shoulder. The hug he then gave her, made her believe that letting go would be as grave as death. When he finally did let go he signed three simple words that left her empty and full at the same time. I miss you. Without thinking she signed me too. Then horrible realization struck her as she remembered that he could not see her sign. For the first time in days, she spoke. “Me too,” she said praying that she didn’t falter. He smiled. And in that moment she knew that losing her hearing wouldn’t be the end of her world as long as she could still see things as beautiful as his smile. Tears started to roll uncontrollably out of her eyes as he scooped her up in a hug. Although her entire world had changed, she still had him. No matter what. She just needed to change the lens.

On the thirteenth day of solitary, she saw the door rattle. Someone wanted to come in. She ignored it turning her back to the door. Three chapters of the book she was reading later and the door was still shaking. It couldn’t be her mom or dad. They always texted her before she came up to let her know. Reluctant, she stepped to the door. She placed her hand and the knob as she thought, Why? Why should I open it?

It’s not like whoever is not the other side of this door can make my hearing return. She was about to turn away and the door shook violently and strong vibrations went up the hand that was still

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A Father Who Leaves Ashley Yeatts ‘20 The world moves so fast, Yet I move so slow.

When I want to stop and watch, Everyone else just wants to go.

Does he wonder who she is?

Her eyes and her smile?

Or maybe he doesn’t care, And would rather stay away for a long while.

He left long ago, He ran far away.

Because the fear inside him, Would not let him stay.

For biologically he left, Way over the hill, But adoption came around, And love her a new he forever will.

They know where they come from, They know who they are.

But as an abandoned infant, All I could do was pray on a star.

The girl used to dream, About who this man might be.

A soldier, a doctor, an actor, Or perhaps a hero fighting evil deeds.

He missed the first steps, Her graduation gown, Her many birthdays, And the days she has been down.

While the world moves so fast, And I so slow.

I will never forget a dads love, And the story I undergo.

They know their ancestry, Their history, their life.

But all I could do, Was think about how I was a surprise.

Still to this day, The, girl, she, wonders and hopes.

But she’s given up on her hero, Her other biological folk.

He missed her smiles, Her story untold.

He will never get to know her, As she matures and grows old.

For people come and go, But love holds fast.

So hold onto your family, Before they leave and pass.

I searched and I looked, For answers unknown.

Wanting to know who I was, From whom I was grown.

He never came back, He never said hello.

And so in her heart, He is buried down below.

For a mistake at sixteen, Not a mistake at all, Will leave the teenage father, Behind a brick wall.

Their love will mean more, Than items ever will, So appreciate it now, Before their body becomes still.

The mother came quick, Her eyes so dear.

But her papa stayed away, In darkness, in fear.

He’s gone and he’s left, And that’s the truth of it all.

Because when a pillar crumbles, The tower will fall.

For the thought of fatherhood, On a teenage boys face, Pushed him far away, With unjustful grace.

Think about your choices, Before you run away, Or you may miss out on a life, With whom you wish to stay.

Still to this day, Her genetics unclear.

But a mother and father, She holds most dear.

He left his darling girl, His one true creation.

To live a different life, Perhaps in a large new nation.

Biologically he left, Before her first breath.

But he may come to know her, Parting from death.

Her first words are a mystery, Her life a myth.

Who she is as a person, From life unto death.

Fifteen years later does he wonder, What would have happened if he’d stuck around, Or does he not remember his daughter, Who was in the womb wearing a princess crown.

Maybe he looks back, To all those years ago.

When he ran from his daughter, When he let her go.

For a father who leaves, And never comes back, Will never know his creation, Her love he will lack.

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Does he ever regret, The choices he’s made.

For a fork in the path, Made him afraid.

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Love is a Snail Elena Evenson ‘18

Untitled Yasmeen Kojna ‘21

Love is a Snail I am a slug.

I move along, No protection, No shelter.

I travel near and far, Looking for the perfect home.

If I happen to come across a shell, I try it on.

Some are quite large.

They suffocate me.

Some are too small.

They choke me.

Some are spiky and draw blood.

I stay away from those.

But some are different.

Some are honey, Warm, even.

I haven’t found a shell like that; But when I do, I will be a snail.

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Electric Katie Jordan ‘20

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Tonight the night is inky and the stars are cigarette burns letting white light in through night’s shroud.

Meanwhile, the bass sounds across the sound and highway like a sonic boom.

Or a heartbeat.

Or a battle drum.

And I feel my pulse with two fingers against my wrist to find that it beats in time.

And I feel my pulse with two fingers against my wrist to find that I am alive.

Truly and actually alive.

And the tires screech and the wind blasts past the open window.

Tonight the lights are brighter, the sounds more frigid, the cliffs (so close that I could reach out my hand to touch from the car) are razors, as if everything is in high definition.

Tonight the world is a sensory overload with emotions raw and skinned of alarm and shield.

It is every moment I have lived, Some that I don’t recognize, Switching and flipping and fastforwarding, Crashing and hurtling like a tidal wave that I can’t keep up with.

And meanwhile, I’m over-sensing.

Overshaken.

Overwhelmed.

Overcome.

And numb.

But meanwhile, my pulse is beating, sonically, and I can’t hear the music over the wind, but I can feel it pounding inside my skull, against my heart, through my veins.

And tonight under the stars and traffic lights and neon–– And tonight amid the dust kicked up by tires–– And tonight between the pages of my memory-flipbook-tsunami–– I am over-alive: Ripped from my body with vitality.

Wild.

Fatal.

Electric.

Ambidexterous Clarissa Clarke ‘21

digital paint; I have been trying to use of mediums to improve my skills. I called it ambidextrous because of the inverted image showing the left on the right, and I used both hands to create it.

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Jade Sophia Nunes ‘18

Untitled Arahi Baloyan ‘19

The stone of the earth pulled from the corners of the unventured land, green and browns mixed together to create a serenity, seeking to heal, ripping up the specks of the earth that go unseen, yet it makes it wanted see a speck of dirt becomes something more when placed in a stone, place it on the skin, and it pulls the pain, yet place a pile of dirt on you and well you need a shower, it doesn’t end there when the water hits the dirt and becomes paste and the mud falls to the floor leaving a residue in between each tile, then months later on a cold day in the middle of the rain It is scrubbed by a two year old toothbrush, and then soon you know a Jade and she is kind and a tad unruly she seeks what some would call the less suggested road, two months into the friendship I began giving the wrong advice seeking the right outcome, the definition of jade as a noun is an angry woman but she isn’t mad she’s almost less mad, meeting jade and touching jade is quite similar, they both absorb your troubles, see what’s different is the girl Jade takes your troubles and releases them onto others.

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Don’t Quit, Even When You’ve Lost

Winnie in the Night Gabriella Bernal ‘20

Ines Ortega Flores ‘20 No matter what anyone says Hold your head high Keep those fist down ‘Cause if you fight You’ll fall to the ground No matter what anyone throws Don’t fight with your fist Fight with your head And fight with your heart You won’t regret what you said In the end it doesn’t matter If you’re smart or dumb Rich or poor What matters Is what you fight for

Inspired by the bear, Winnie

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Untitled

As Free as the Ocean

Daniella Magat ‘18

Gala Aguilar ‘19

I am the sun, the moon, and all the stars I am the light that have guided sailors home; You cannot extinguish me.

I move the waves that erode your beaches I am glowing and I will only burn brighter with time.

Dream higher than the sky and deeper than the ocean.

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Something to Declare Camila Tirado ‘18 Every morning I go to school, I remain silent. I better remain silent. If I make a sound or speak when I’m not asked to, I will likely be sent to an area called “Secondary Inspection.” So when the officer asks my mom or dad “Anything to declare?”

I just stare at the officer and remain silent.

I live in Tijuana, Baja California, Mexico and go to school in San Diego, California, USA. When I decided to change schools from Tijuana to San Diego, the question people asked me most often was: why do you prefer the U.S. over Mexico? It’s not that I prefer one country over the other or that I don’t appreciate the culture I’ve been raised in; the reality is that the school I attend in the U.S. has given me opportunities I would have never been able to have if I stayed in Tijuana.

Firstly, it has opened my eyes to injustice. I have been crossing the U.S. - Mexico border every school day for the past three and a half years and I still feel a culture shock each time I go from one side to the other. It sickens me to see so much wealth and comforts on one side, and extreme poverty on the other. At school, girls often complain that the water tastes funny, that the AC is too cold, or that the cookies sold that day at the cafeteria seemed to be a day old. Back home, I see dozens of people begging for a coin or a scrap of food, I see how violence affects families and destroys lives, and I see kids forced out of school “working” at stoplights and convenience stores to bring some income into their homes. Amidst all this injustice, I remain silent. I stare and remain silent, not because I want to, but because it is not yet my time to speak up.

I am so much more than an ID. I am a gentle woman who is willing to take any bullet that comes my way. I am a scared girl ready to take a leap of faith to follow her dreams and to have a shot at the American Dream. I am a Mexican Adelita who is willing to fight and to stand next to my Mexican brothers and sisters in our country’s struggle against corruption. I am an American citizen who is willing to cross any border to show that no dream is too small and that no person should be categorized as legal or illegal. I am all this and much more. I am fire and wind. I am my DNA and my learned traits. I am loud and alive and vibrant, but I remain silent every day.

When I remain silent and simply shake my head when asked “Anything to declare?,” the officer might think that he or she has authority over me or that I am scared. But I don’t remain silent as a bow to authority or out of fear. I remain silent because I do have something to declare: I have a backpack full of dreams, I am smuggling my culture into the US, and I am trafficking the hopes and dreams of all my brothers and sisters who have been rejected when they wanted a shot at the American Dream. My silence represents all that anger and all my love. It represents my love for the two countries that have raised me to be strong. It represents my willingness to challenge what is and change what too few with power now have the guts address. My silence is filled with a passion that no one sees and that many might mistake for selfishness. But it should speak for the people on both sides of the border, not just for myself. My silence is currently the loudest form of protest I can offer, and it’s one that I eventually want to end and vocalize with actual sound waves. Soon, I want to grab a microphone and be as loud as possible so that my voice can cross borders. Until then, I will remain silent and cross the border like I do every day and stare at the police officer.

Secondly, crossing the border every day has made me find my deeper identity. It’s hard to be questioned every single day by a police officer and to carry documentation that proves that I am somehow worthy of entering one country. Why do “papers” made out of plastic with a chip ingrained in them prove that I have the right to cross a border while some of my brothers and sisters are stopped by a wall? I am so much more than a passport. I am my great grandfather’s revolutionary spirit; I am my grandma’s gentle touch; I am my brother’s anger and my sister’s faith; I am my mother’s thoughts and my father’s sweat.

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A Victim No More

Ink Girl

Solana Martinez ‘19

Gabby Sexton ‘18

Dearest victims, This is for us.

A victim of racism, abuse, Hard labor, unsafe working conditions, Being an orphan, and no pay.

All of us. And more.

It’s not fair and you know that.

Why are there signs that read, “Negroes for sale” outside my window?

No More!

Why do people think that we are objects to sell?

The injustices that we see face to face, shall be No More.

Fixed minds.

No More.

We give for this land and Take whips against our bodies, blood turning The grass red, All for a loaf of bread.

Well I say, “No More.”

The pain we endure, the constant torture.

We were shown mercy But now we are punished?

It’s time to stand and say, “No more!”

We have a voice and freedoms. Bring back hope.

Contradict what they say, For we are one person.

Let our voice be heard, So that we may set the tone for The new American way.

Silence, No More!

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This piece of art was inspired by a Green Day concert I went to and the Green Day songs “Peacemaker” and “East Jesus Nowhere.

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Her Eyes Carried Questions

Still Tucker

Ella Brazil ‘20

Alejandra Torres ‘19

Her eyes carried all the questions ever asked And answered them all as soon as her eyes opened again They drowned in memories of oceans searched And mountains climbed Overflowed with sparks of sunlight And the warmth of a cup of coffee Her eyes hold the whole world Flashing the colors of exotic adventures across the bluest oceans The greenest forests, and the browns of dirt roads left behind When she cries, it rains The forests are drenched, the ponds flood And the sweet/ salty tears drip down her cheeks like honey and caramel The waves splash over her eyelashes Leaving behind droplets that glisten like a spider web after the rain When she smiles, the clouds part The darker rich colors turn golden The sun comes out and her eyes are sprinkled with specks of gold Her eyes bloom like flowers in the spring Her eyes reflect yesterday They glisten with memories and promise They write a story, they sing a song They dance with colors pulled from every place on earth They open so wide but keep the secrets buried behind Her eyes reflect yesterday But her eyes opened up the endless possibilities of tomorrow

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Materials: camera I was inspired by the simplicity of the turtle’s pose and snapped a picture.

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The Eternal City that Doesn’t Look a Day Over Two Thousand Untitled Katya Cerny ‘19 Walking down a thin alleyway and the distant sounds of tires rolling over thousand year old cobblestones and two Nonno’s smoking a cigarette outside of their back doors conversing about this morning’s Lazio vs Roma game fill your ears. The city is quite mind- boggling, look to your right, and there is a beautiful four-story apartment building with a Nonna hanging her family’s undergarments with no shame, walk five minutes down the same street and when you look up you can see a 1st century forum.

This is Rome. Much more than its relics and world famous colosseum. After looking past the travel guides and history lessons you will find a city that has been around for eternity but doesn’t look a day over 2000 with its radiating energy and unapologetically loud personality.

Continue down this alleyway created by one burnt red apartment building to your left with basil plants hanging down from every windowsill and mustard yellow building to your right with a classic eggshell white Cinquecento parked next to a wooden door. Your nose will be filled with the most amazing and delicious smell of a creamy, yet tangy vodka pasta sauce being made for dinner. A group of ten or so year old boys play a game of soccer yelling at each other to move in every which way and moving the ball as if it’s part of them. Once you reach the piazza, you will find hundreds of Romans sipping on strong and revitalizing espresso, the life giving substance of the city– it might as well be put into a 24/7 IV. Greetings from old friends fill the air with “Ciao”and a kiss planted on each cheek. Just when you think the conversations are loud enough, hands begin flying everywhere, each movement having a particular meaning.

After a couple of frustrating games of Sette Bello– a card game of pure luck that somehow always creates intense jealousy and accusations of cheating– everyone begins to walk back home. Saying bye the same way they said hello. They go home to a gourmet three course meal of fresh vegetables bought from the market early that morning, warm and comforting flavorful pasta, and juicy meat, washed down with world famous wine bought from the local market. With a second cup of espresso the city truly comes alive. Families make their way down to the piazza for a paseggiata, to see and be seen. The streets become alive, as if the daytime was merely a dress rehearsal. Music fills the streets with bright stars lighting up the deep blue sky, stars the city has become quite familiar with after thousands of years. People walk hand in hand with a cup of rich chocolate fondente or fresh frutti di bosco gelato smiling and saying hello to friends. Teenagers make their way to the clubs for a night of dancing and fun. The city reflects the personality of Romans; strong, obstinate, exciting, and always welcoming to newcomers. Rome has been around forever, and it doesn’t seem to be going anywhere soon.

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Mary Cardenas ‘20

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Shopping is Shopping! and Shopping is Shopping!

When I Shopped Till I Dropped

Lauren Handy ‘19

Lauren Handy ‘19

While the majority of girls associate shopping with happiness, boys seem to have a tendency of passionately disliking it. The way the perceptions of boys and girls on the topic of shopping compare and contrast each other is important because it highlights the stereotypical truth of one gender preferring shopping over the other.

Of course there are exceptions to this stereotype but almost all of the time making the assumption that girls love shopping and boys hate it ends up true.

The coveted day for deal dashing, getting ahead on your Christmas shopping, and watching aggressive candle lovers fight in Bath and Body Works is what Black Friday is all about. Of course, being the person I am it was essential to my mental and physical health to partake in the day of great possibilities that is Black Friday.

For a girl shopping is a stress relieving, fun-filled magical experience where she can find things she doesn’t know how she was able to live without. For girls shopping is essential to living a life of happiness. For a girl shopping is when you spend quality time with your best friends, taking turns telling each other how cute they look and how they should obviously buy that. For girls shopping is when you get to pretend that you are a supermodel as you try the styles of the season as the crowd, also known as your friends, clap for your beauty. For girls shopping is shopping!

For a boy the very utterance of the word “shopping” sends chilling panic through his body. For a boy shopping is an activity he would never dare to embark on unless chained and dragged to prison, better known as the mall. For a boy shopping brings out pain in a way that is hard to explain, but is felt as it courses through his veins every time he even thinks of it. For a boy shopping is a pitiful excuse for his mother to punish him. For a boy shopping must be approached with survival techniques because he is worried he may not walk out of the store alive. For a boy trying on four pairs of shorts is in no way fun but wasting precious moments of his life that he will never get back. For a boy shopping is shopping!

Although shopping with a boy and shopping with a girl are two different things it is still shopping. Whether you’re a girl or a boy you have to go shopping every now and then. Regardless of liking or hating shopping people need clothes, appliances, furniture, food, essential materials to support their personal way of life. Shopping doesn’t always have to be looked at through a lens where the focal point is materialistic people at a mall buying thingsthey don’t need. If the concept of shopping is altered and seen as the means to fulfilling one’s needs than it is easy to see that both genders go shopping and need to go shopping because shopping is shopping!

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On November twenty-eighth I sprung out of bed despite the abundant amount of pie I ate Thanksgiving night and zoomed to Fashion Valley with my my best friend Maggie Brady. We had a plan and that was to shop. Our plan was being fulfilled the second we started shopping. I was having a splendid time but let me tell you, when you are pushing clothing back and forth on racks, holding shopping bags, you realize shopping is extremely tiring.

Once we dominated the entire bottom floor we were famished. The food court was extremely crowded, and the cluster overwhelmed our already over stimulated state of mind.

We remembered Nordstrom Cafe, and made our way there with tomato soup and grilled cheese brewing in our heads. Our sighs must have echoed all the way to the bottom floor when we saw that the line was out the door. Our complaints encompassed our conversation as we strolled around Nordstroms. I was so exhausted. However, my spirits were inspired, when we ran into friends who reminded us of Boudins downstairs that provided us with nutrients to carry on happily with our day.

After lunch our energy was boosted and we headed to UTC. One mall was not enough.

And so it was the same iconic duo at a different mall shopping with impressive vivacity. Maggie and I love several stores but nothing compares to Vineyard Vines.

Maggie is many things, one of them being a dedicated fan of Vineyard Vines. If I had a dollar for every time she talked about whale stickers, whale shirts, her in whale shirts, boys in whale shirts, whale planners, whale planners that she writes in, whales, whales, whales, I would have enough money to buy all the whale products I could ever want. Now I on the other hand am not so immersed in the Vineyard Vines lifestyle. I had heard about it, I have been given whale stickers before, but I myself had never witnessed their products in the flesh.

Now that I have I find myself talking about whales too.

We concluded our adventure with the comfort of ice cream. I noticed that all the shopping bags I had been carrying left marks on my arms. They were marks that I had never had before despite my experience level in shopping. They were marks that made my arm sore for two days after. They were marks that proved that I had officially shopped till I dropped.

They were marks that I didn’t mind having because as I was outside of Sloan’s all I could think was, everyday should feel this good.

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Untitled Gianna Mazzei ‘19

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ACADEMY OF

OUR LADY OF

PEACE FOUNDED 1882