The Criterion Ardsley High School Volume xxivv
By
Gabe Biolos
Hello readers!
Staff List:
It doesn’t feel like June; the weather can’t decide whether it Advisors: wants to return to the early days of April or jump ahead to Mrs. Moleski the middle of July. In a way, this indecisiveness has saved us Mrs. O’Brien from the tendency of heat strokes from the stuffiness of the English wing--a new record for the club! But the occasional Editors: sunshine reminds us that summer is at our fingertips.
Ilana Goldstein Caitlin Smith
Although at times the school was a like pressure cooker ready to pop, this school year has been a lovely one. School isn’t just about completing the curricula on the syllabi but Designer: about learning the skills that cannot be taught in a class Taylor Margolies room or by a textbook. Like any other year, we experienced a few obstacles which hindered our development of the Staff: magazine. But did we let those obstacles really block our Nimrat Kohli way? No. As vectors of creativity we don’t let challenges hit Nicole Rich us right between the eyes. Instead we take our instruments, Kathryn Richards our paints, and our pens to transform those UGH-worthy Lauren Sanfilippo moments into protective shields of art, music, and writing. Even though we did not face adversity and conflict, we have Contributors: Evan Aaron, Anonymous, observed that all great work stems from such factors. The Gabe Biolos, Christina Bordioni, Criterion and the pieces featured in it are our shields, dis- Kristin Bova, Celia Castellano, Natalie plays of our strength and thought. Cheung, Caitlyn Chu, Kaitlyn Cramer, Hallie Cronin, Kaya Das, Mary Gold-
We would like to thank the lovely ladies who helped us stein, Hayley Hoffman, Sami Hutchinthis year. Thank you to Kathryn, Lauren, Nicole, Nimrat, son, TJ Lyons, Mrs. Tiffany Moleski, and Taylor for giving this club extra spunk and for makK.c. Montgomery, Matthew Evan ing meetings laughing sessions. Thank you to our advisors, Moody, Julian Oks, Priyanka Patel, Mrs. Moleski and Ms. O’Brien, for your guidance and sup- Stephanie Reda, Maddy Rich, Cara Roport this year. Thank you to everyone at AHS who supports sado, Sam Rusoff, Shaw Schiappacasse, Lexi Simon, Caitlin Smith, Nick Tong, this great club and has done everything to help us.
Louis Waxman, Jayde Xu, Leon Yu, And to our readers: thanks for opening our cover and enjoy Emily Zhu Special thanks to Dr. Haubner, Ms. the following pages. Kiesler and Mrs. Rosen, and the entire English department for all of their ~Ilana Goldstein and Caitlin Smith support this year and every year. We Editors-in-Chief would also like to thank our school’s chapter of the National Art Honors Society and The Panther Voice newspaper for their willingness to collaborate with us.
Table of Contents Works of Writing
6 am by Shaw Schiappacasse……………………….......2 K.c. Montgomery………………………………………6 Our Culture of Conformity by Julian Oks……………...7 Nick Tong……………………………………………....8 Anonymous Submitter…………………………………9 Our Existence by Leon Yu……………………………...10 Obsessive Compulsive Disorder by Tiffany Moleski........11 The Talk by Christina Bordoni………………………...14 The Ninja by Cara Rosado……………………………..15 The Angel on The Ground by Matthew Evan Moody......16-17 Outside the Box by Caitlin Smith.……………………..18
Works of Art:
Photography Pieces:
The Front and Back Cover by Caitlyn Chu The Inside Cover by Gabe Biolos Jayde Xu……………………………….1, 19 The Flower by Jenna Montag……..…….3 Emily Zhu.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4 Natalie Cheung..........................................5 Celia Castellano…………………….......6 Photobooth by Helen Garcia…………...7 Fire and Ice by Sami Hutchinson……...8 Nicole Mattos………………………….9 Lexi Simon...............................................12 Maddy Rich.............................................13 Kaya Das……………………………...15 Caitlyn Chu…………………………..18
Hayley Hoffman……………………………...1 Priyanka Patel………………………………..10 Hallie Cronin………………………………...11 Center Stage by TJ Lyons………………….....14 Kaitlyn Cramer………………………………15 Evan Aaron…………………………………..16-17, 20 Louis Waxman………………………………..20 Sam Rusoff…………………………………....20 Stephanie Reda……………………………….21 Kristen Bova………………………………….21 Mary Goldstein………………………………21 TJ Lyons……………………………………...21 Riya Dave…………………………………….21
By
By
Hayley Hoffman
Jayde Xu
1
2
Shaw Schiappacasse
6 A.M. Walter Henry Young stood, his hand squeezing the glossy black handle of the gas pump,
filling up the tank of his dull green Corolla with the kind of absentminded apathy most often associated with overcast Sunday mornings. He wore black leather shoes that hadn’t had a shine in them since his father had worn them in 1973 and argyle socks that had been out of style for even longer. His shirt was buttoned improperly such that his collar rose higher on the left side, but not quite high enough to obscure the shiny purple bruise covering his left eye. His glasses hung from his shirt pocket, lenses cracked, and he squinted in the early morning light, the punched side of his face throbbing and puffy. Terrance was right-handed and wore a rather large ring that doubled as a bottle-opener. Walter wondered whether Terrance still would have been as aggressive if he had made use of the ring less often. He wondered if the party would have gone differently if he hadn’t acted so friendly with Alice, if he hadn’t tried alcohol for the first time in his life and, with his newfound liquid courage, confessed to the girl of his dreams in front of her equally drunk boyfriend. Walter rubbed the aching side of his face and sighed. Probably. He glanced at the screen on the side of the pump and watched the price rise steadily. $24.57…$25.79…$27.10 …$28.35…$29.12…$29.56…$29.94…$30.04. “Every fucking time” Walter muttered, screwing the gas cap back on with a grimace. His face stung but the most of his pain came from the pit of his stomach, a deep, nervous, uncomfortable pain commonly associated with forgetting assignments or watching car crashes. Alice didn’t love him. Hell, she didn’t even like him. She had laughed like everyone else when he said how he really felt about her. She had cheered like everyone else when big manly boyfriend came to her “rescue”. She had booed him out of the party like everyone else. Walter sat inside the car and looked up at the felt-covered ceiling. He knew what would happen next. She would come into school on Monday crying about the latest problem in her relationship and would apologize for her actions over the weekend, blaming the alcohol she seemed to have limitless amounts of, and promise him up and down that it would never happen again. She would look up at him with big green eyes wet with tears and ask him for his help, knowing that it was never really a question. And, like every time in the past, she would expect him to go along with it, assuring her everything would be okay and listening to her vent about Terrance until the process just repeated itself. Walter turned the key and the Corolla spluttered into life. The radio turned on and Anthony Kiedis’s voice told Walter to give it away, give it away, give it away now. Walter smiled. Alice had never liked the Red Hot Chili Peppers; she always complained that she couldn’t dance to their music. Walter’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Speak of the devil. Enclosed in the little green bubble on his message screen was “We need to talk I need your help call me please love Alice”. Walter stared at it, not so much offended and not at all surprised. The phone in Walter’s hand started ringing, the ringtone overlapping unpleasantly with John Frusciante’s guitar solo. Walter looked down at the name on the screen and then up into his rearview mirror at his bruised, purple eye. He could just barely see the outline of a thick ring high up on his cheekbone The first song finished and “Can’t Stop” came on. Walter’s Corolla stayed idling in the empty gas station. Outside, a few birds started to chirp. The neon lights of the gas station had switched off in the face of the rising sun. Walter Henry Young’s finger hovered over the ignore button, then clicked it.
By Jenna Montag
3
4
By Emily Zhu
By Natalie Cheung
5
6
K.c. Montgomery Pick your chin up For yourself more than anybody. Everyone goes through massive changes; Some good, Some bad. It’s okay, You don’t need to constantly be strong. But when you’re walking With your chin down Just pick it up. Easier said than done But trust me, The road is easier when You focus on the distant road ahead Than focusing on the obstacles Directly in front of your feet.
By
Celia Castellano
Our Culture of Conformity Walking to second period gym skimming through unseen text messages, simultaneously breaking through people talking with each other on my way. I hate to see people talking in groups, huddling around each other forming circles of obliviousness; listening to whomever speaks the loudest; to whomever is narcissistic enough to believe their ideas are worthy of audibility; to whomever is willing to speak so fearlessly in exchange for a moment of attention and acceptance; although their feelings of acceptance may be transitory, the imprinting of their ideas remains in the heads of their foolish
“Photobooth� By Helena Garcia
listeners who are too afraid to seek a thought that contradicts those of the pronounced. ~ Julian Oks
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8
“Fire and Ice� By Sami Hutchinson Pain radiates out of me like toxic fumes, poisoning the ones I love and causing endless doom. I scream and shout for the world to stop, waiting for the day that I pick up the pieces of my shattered self. I need an intervention. A miracle. A song. A soothing escape to travel far away to a place where to forget is to be free, and freedom is my priority.
By Nick Tong
They define and outline but if you look close enough they give you a chance to pull them apart and look not at the lines, but at the words that are deep inside: Scared, broken, and defeated.
From an Anonymous Submitter
By
Nicole Mattos
9
By Priyanka Patel
*This poem can be read forwards and backwards Our Existence. We existed for nothing. No one will ever say that We succeeded. We knew that We failed. We didn’t think that We could do anything. We always believed that We had hope. That wasn’t true. We were hopeless. But there were some people who believed that We still stood a chance.
10
~Leon Yu
OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE DISORDER On Fridays my mother cleans all day; scrubbing the floors, Disinfecting the bathroom with such urgency as if while cleansing the sink, tub, toilet, and tiles she is cleansing herself. Washing away the past, To forget what her uncle did to her when she sat on his lap, And to forget what her father did to her mother as she lay next to them in bed. One of ten children. Fighting to be noticed, fighting to feel
By Hallie Cronin
some pure affection. I thought she didn’t love me. I never knew she just didn’t know how. I think about this when I pick lint off the rug And hairs out of my brush. ~Tiffany Moleski
11
12
By Lexi Simon
By Maddy Rich
13
By TJ Lyons
“The Talk” By Christina Bordoni
I knew it was coming. In fact, it was just a matter of time before my parents sat me down and delivered the infamous line, “We need to talk.” I kept my cool, my façade up like an invisible barrier only I could see. I distanced myself, went to another place as they began their pitiful spiel. Dad was moving out. I could visit him anytime I wanted; we’d go out to dinners once a week, and so on. Meanwhile, mom would have to get another job to support the house. Now she’d be home by seven at the earliest and I’d have to tuck Peter into bed by myself. I wasn’t really listening, of course. I was spacing out, and, because my parents knew me oh-so-well, they said my name a few times before I re-entered reality. “Annabelle, Annabelle, Anna-” “Yes, yes, I’m here.” I said groggily, as if I had woken up from a midday nap with a sour taste in my mouth which never feels right. This didn’t feel right either. “Please listen, Annabelle. Your father and I agreed, and we’ve decided to let your grandmother move into the house, to help ease some tension.” I blinked once, twice, three times. What? Mom hadn’t spoken to Grandma Emma in easily six years. Whenever I questioned her about it, she’d always dismiss the subject quickly and mumble an insult under her breath when she thought I was out of earshot. I wasn’t. Still, I didn’t say a word, but made sure to keep blinking, so they’d know I wasn’t off in my own mind. “Are you okay with this? Annabelle? Annabelle?” My mom was growing exasperated by my silence, so I finally spoke. What came out of my mouth, though, I did not realize until it was too late to take back the words. “Yea, yea, mom sure I’m okay with this. Is that what you want me to say? Smile, pretend I’m happy just to make this whole thing easier? Well it’s not! It won’t be easy, not one bit. Even if I pretended I didn’t care, that I was fine, it would just cause more problems in the long run. I’m not okay, I’m not. I’m not okay with any of it. Why would I be okay with the fact that my parents are splitting up? And what about Peter? He’s only five! How am I, or you, going to explain to him that the only image of love he’s ever known is gone? So to answer your question, no, I’m not okay. I wish you and dad got along better. I wish I was a better daughter. I wish we could be a family again.” And for a moment, just a moment, a glimmer of understanding flickered in their eyes and I knew it was going to be okay.
14
THE NINJA by Cara Rosado He has no name, No status, No features. He appears out of nowhere, Hardly ever seen, Face covered in black. Nobody knows why But he hides himself, As he mustn't let anybody know Who he really is.
By Kaya Das
The ninja saunters around In the night, In the light of day, In the very blinks Of the morning sun. Years later, His clothes have become tatters And little by little, The ninja's profile Becomes visible.
By Kaitlyn Cramer
Who is the ninja? Why he simply Wasn't ever a ninja at all.
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The Angel On The Ground She saw the golden gates before her now through two opaque veils - never to be lifted again. She soared ever higher above the ground that chained her to a life of debilitating pain, a life of constant suffering, a life of perpetual fear, a life of suffocating doubt‌ a life of sorrowful death that made the sky above her seem so heavenly, as if it was her only escape from the hell that tormented her every day. In the burning red fires that surrounded her relentlessly, she still shined through in pure, clear white, radiating “Live, Love, Laugh.â€? The shell of her body would remain on this Earth while her mind swam with the dolphins in the oceans before her, or galloped with the stallions in the sweeping fields around her, or soared with the doves in the sky above. Her aura would brighten the darkest room, and replace any hatred and sorrow with nothing but love, nothing but love.
My mother was an Angel on the ground‌ the only difference now being that she truly has the wings to soar above the shell that imprisoned her peaceful, free soul. I was her life, and now her legacy, her words, her voice‌and still her loving son, her loving son. I am my words, my voice, and my future, I am her words, her voice, and her future, I am her legacy. - Matthew E. Moody
By Evan Aaron
17
18
Outside the Box Their scarves, their shoes. Their blue, their blood. Their pants, their passion. Their shirts, their soul. Their rings, their race. Their life as a group. Originality fades, Uniqueness burns. Discoveries extinct. Time Scapades. Lives rise. Adventures absent. It’s the same CD Instrumental or synthesized, Choir or soul, Rock band or concert band. Not different, But a different take. Enlist in the original classes, Attend confidence lectures, And get a PhD in Yourself.. I can hear the herders calling, I can hear the mobs rising, I can see the box closing. Hurry, Or you’ll be left outside the box. ~Caitlin Smith
By Caitlyn Chu
By Jayde Xu
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