Spring 2011 • Southeast Polk High School • vol. 28 issue 1
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^ Eli Horton, 12
Joey Cheers, 12
Spring 2011 • Southeast Polk High School • vol. 28 issue 1
cover photos by Alex Payne, 10
Table of Contents 2 16 Letter from the Editor
Artwork
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A collection of diverse describing giraffes, seasons, wars and video games
Essays and other writings with diverse moods, talking of death and life— even a high school survival guide
Notes about how we got here and what it took to get this magazine published
Poems
Some artistic pieces by students depicting nature, still life, pets, celebrities and siblings, along with some self-portraits
Writings
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A look at some of the most interesting people involved in the arts here
A collection of ads from our very generous sponsors—businesses we hope you’ll patronize
Profiles
Advertisements
A Letter from the Editor: The Ramshackle is back after being in the shadows for nearly four years. There is a long story behind the work that went into making this year’s magazine. This year we brought back the “original” Ramshackle. In the last two years, students in the newspaper class created a magazine called the “Ramshackle Reader” that expanded beyond the traditional literary magazine format. We decided to get rid of the feature stories and focus solely on student writings, artwork and the students behind them. While I was at the JEA/NSPA Fall National High School Journalism Convention in Kansas City last fall, I saw other schools’ literary magazines and knew we had to bring ours back. I talked with other Southeast Polk kids while at the convention and got some of their ideas. We went to English teacher Chris Snethen to get the magazine going again. We did have some trouble getting student submissions, but I got the word that we had enough (maybe a few too many essays) one week before our final deadline.
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^ Jordan Defenbaugh, 11
Megan Langerak, 11
We gathered a crew to help produce the magazine from start to finish in about one week. It took a lot of work out of everyone involved; I am so glad that we got this wonderful project done. We hope that everyone enjoys this year’s magazine. Go out, enjoy the beautiful weather, and read the wonderful writings and view the artwork of your fellow students!
Editor
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Ramshackle Volume 28, Issue 1 Southeast Polk High School 7945 N.E. University Ave., Pleasant Hill, IA 50327 Editor Alex Payne Contributing Editors Trista Tidball Shea McCowen Adviser Chris Snethen Printed by Jostens Publishing
Karly O’Connor Jorie Schutte
The Purple Giraffe By David Gjersvik A long time ago when the land was all green And everyone was happy and no one was mean
He knocked on the door, and out came a rat With blue overalls and an orange straw hat
Lived a purple giraffe with red polka-dots He lived underground so he wouldn’t be hot
The giraffe told the rat that he needed some rest So the rat let him sleep in his comfy rat nest
Every day he came out of the pit He sat in the shade and then he would knit
In the morning they left to find the giraffe’s home The rat said the giraffe couldn’t do it alone
Some sweaters for the beavers, who used them all day To clog holes in their dam that was made out of hay
So they walked and they ran and they sprinted and crawled Then they came upon a hairy old wall
He knitted some socks for the birds with no legs They put them to use to protect their small eggs
They said to the wall, “Please let us pass through” But the wall said, “Hey, I wanna talk to you!”
After the giraffe knitted his last knot He put his supplies in his pocket polka-dot
They talked on for hours, for the wall had no friends He didn’t want the talking to end
He wandered around ‘til he came to the pool Where the piranhas play tag and the pink lions drool
But the giraffe and the rat just had to move through They promised the wall they would visit him soon
He jumped in the lake and took a good swim Then the donkeys came along and said to him...
The two traveled on and saw many great things They saw oceans and mountains, and turtles that sing
“We’re having a party, you must come along Without you, we can’t finish the animal song”
But they didn’t find the giraffe’s little home Confused and weary the pair still went on
So they journeyed across the polka-dot land And came to the place where the party did stand
Eventually the giraffe said to the nice rat “Hey, my friend, I think I recognize that!”
Many different animals had gathered right there There were monkeys, and tigers, and coconut bears
He looked at a pond where piranhas were playing And noticed some beavers that were sadly saying,
They had hats made of noodles and feathered kazoos And a boxing match against the kangaroos
“I’m afraid we can’t live in this dam anymore, It has many holes, and our sweaters are worn”
There were trampolines, and games of all kinds They had all the food that you ever could find
He couldn’t believe it, he’d found his way back To his underground home, thanks to the nice rat
Bing bongs, and pizzas, and walakadoos Then when you get thirsty they had apple juice
He saw he was needed, so he knitted a knot He made sweaters for the beavers who needed them a lot
The purple giraffe had a wonderful time But he had to leave when the big clock struck nine
The rat built a shack that was made out of sand The purple giraffe even gave him a hand
The party is over, it’s time to return To the underground pit the giraffe calls his home
The giraffe was back where he was meant to be His mind was happy and his heart filled with glee
Across the tall mountains and over the creek The purple giraffe trudged for week after week
At the end of the day the animals said good night They slept ‘til the morning all cozy and tight
The poor giraffe had gotten all lost What’s the way home? He had forgot
When they woke up, they went to the wall Where they chatted and laughed and played racquetball
So on he traveled across the green land ‘Til he came to a shack that was made out of sand
And the animals lived great in the land that was green Where everyone was happy and no one was mean
^ Emily Hart, 12
Conversation
Poem
Dear softball, You are so perfect and round. But why do you sometimes jump out of my glove and land upon the ground? Why must you become dirty after the very first throw? I like it when you’re shiny and new, When you don’t slip out of my hand. I get butterflies in my stomach as you head toward my bat. Feelings of joy when you make it over the fence. I love to throw you with all my might. I love to catch you with my glove, Your colors so beautiful and true. Dear softball, I love you! -Jordan Veatch, 09
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Chicken Scratch
I suppose the best way to describe it is chicken scratch. Unchangeably atrocious, It flicks and scrawls erratically In such remarkably small letters That one might mistakenly presume it to be Hiding. But perhaps if one looks hard enough, and squints their eyes, and tilts their head, Not unlike the tilting of our days since, These illegible words, These unidentifiable markings, Sing so clearly of a backyard love, Now lost. The smoke fleetingly permeated by a quickbeat blues Through which one strains to see Red. - Shea McCowen, 12
^ Emily Hart, 12
I Cut
I cut the squishy cube, lay it on the hot pan. It sears and browns against the heat. Tofu - Corrina Slings, 10
^ Jeremy Harris, 10
Rusty and Broken Rusty and broken Laughter fills our fenders old We are obsolete - Corrina Slings, 10
^ Joey Cheers, 12
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Seven Seas Tin, tin, tin
Metal swords clashing together in the pouring rain Twisting, turning, and dodging the sharp, deadly weapons Sweat and blood trickling down their faces Tired and out of breath The battle quickly coming to a tragic end Captain Thomas cried out as he fell to his knees William smiled triumphantly for he knew he had won - Mackenzie Osgood, 09 ^ Karly O’Connor, 12
Spring
the days get warmer and the sun is cut longer I think spring is here - Staci Dippold, 09
^ Lindsey Ogden, 12
Halo playing halo reach I pwn all the noobs giving no mercy - Staci Dippold, 09
^ Makenzie Shumate, 12 6
Life is a
Novel
It keeps going on, page after page Even if it looks like you just began Sometimes you see an error in between the lines Once in a while you come to a blank page and You have to guess what will happen next You count the pages to see it’s been made into a movie And see if any of your friends have read it You come to a world and you do not know its meaning You read a page and cannot remember the last time you felt this way The author seems to know everything Until you reach the ending and all is revealed for you The conclusion is calm, reflective, and closes all doors The last page is what brings us peace and to a full circle And makes us realize the full meaning of the story - Ryan Pierce, 10
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Crash
Lonely Autumn
Through the median Where no car should ever be We sailed over snow Out of fear we held on tight To our seats and memories - Jessica Wilson, 11
A rugged hillside, Broken shack stands alone, Water seems to glow. - Jessica Wilson, 11
The
Truth?
Does the truth have a secret? A half-known lie and memory? Does the lie have a truth? an unbelievable sense of honesty? Keep your mind clear, embrace your thoughts, share freely, love the new changes of trust - Sydney Hanson, 09
Junkyard in Winter The snow has fallen. On deceased and shattered cars. And untrimmed foliage. - Jessica Wilson, 11
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Chair It’s empty The chair where he should be It’s so typical One who waits for him to show Will never move on - Jessica Wilson, 11
Black and White
^ Megan Quick, 12
Black and white Colors so bright. The most you get, Can be day and night. should stars not shine, read carefully. Wish upon the star you want, and share. Thousands of wishes thousands of stars. Should the sun blind you read carefully. Close your eyes, and feel the warm. Thousands of eyes, a blanket so wide. Should the sun not blind nor the stars shine, read carefully. - Sydney Hanson, 09
Civil War
Injured men all around, Every one of them wearing a frown. Gun powder on their clothes, The horrid smell fills my nose. Soft mud on my skin, Gunshots that make my head spin. Lots of blood inside my mouth, All because I defended the South. - Jordan Veatch, 09 ^ Shea McCowen, 12
Fall The yellow leaves glow As the sun creeps from below The birds are chirping - Rafael Mayorga, 11
^ Karly O’Connor, 12 9
Through My Eyes - By Trista Tidball -
Writing might sound like torture to some, but for senior Natalie Pratt the feel of paper beneath her pencil is exhilarating. “I have always loved writing,” Pratt said. Every writer has a past that influences the type of writer that they become. “Throughout high school I have gone through events like my dad’s motorcycle accident and my mom getting cancer,” Pratt said. “Those instances have made me more mature and ready for life.” “I wrote an essay on my dad’s accident and, because of what I have gone through, I feel like I can write with a more mature attitude,” Pratt said. With her high interest in writing, Pratt has taken numerous writing classes like Creative Writing, AP Comp, Comp I and Comp II. She completed all of those classes with an “A” average. Along with her writing classes, Pratt has also completed many other English courses with the thought that in the fall she will be attending Iowa State University as an English major. “After I graduate I hope to have a career involving writing,” Pratt said, “possibly as an editor. Though, most people think I will end up being a teacher.” Deciding what major to undertake is a big decision and for Pratt the decision was easy. “Throughout high school I have taken
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many different classes but my favorites have always been English,” Pratt said. “I haven’t been as interested in anything else, and if I am going to do something the rest of my life, I want to enjoy it.” Along with writing, Pratt also enjoys psychology. “I plan on having a minor in psychology because I enjoy that class and it’s also very fascinating,” Pratt said. Heading off to college, Pratt has high hopes and is looking forward to her future in a writing career. What follows is an excerpt of Pratt’s favorite essay that she has written titled “The World Through My Eyes”: I stood in a hospital room entirely too large for just one patient. No sheltering curtain, no privacy, no way to hide that I was crying. The thud of my father’s heartbeat sounded through the machine connected to his chest. He lay there, wide-eyed, with a mask covering his mouth. He looked me in the eyes. The longing to acknowledge that he knew I was there seeped from his eyes like a waterfall, but he couldn’t speak. I lingered next to him, wishing I had such an excuse to not speak, because I knew not what to say. The persistent beep of the machine kept drawing my attention; that sound the doctors wanted so desperately to slow down. It stayed around 180, against the doctors’wishes. I watched as they put different medicines into his IV, stating milligrams and medical terms I couldn’t understand.
My mother grabbed my arm, pulling me away, and I reluctantly walked. She brought me to his things, all stuffed into a white plastic hospital bag, and to his helmet. I looked down at his blue beauty, now cracked down the top middle and the face shield, blood smeared artfully across the top. If I have ever felt my heart break, it was in that moment. Scared and lonely, I knew things would change forever. I had never seen my dad vulnerable until that day. Aside from a vague memory of him crying when my grandma died, my dad has always been tough and I’m not even sure which parts of that memory are fact and which my mind has constructed. My dad’s accident was like a kick, shoving me down the road of maturity with a jolt. My dad had open-heart surgery, and my mom – stable as always – was by his hospital bedside each day. Even after just recovering from breast cancer, she was like a rock. Then there was me, left with little support. I will never forget the day after my dad had heart surgery. My sister and I visited him while he was recovering in the intensive care unit. Breathing tube still shoved down his throat, he was tired. I greeted my dad, looking into his frail eyes. He held his hands up to his throat and looked at my sister. Over and over, he silently pleaded to have his breathing tube taken out. He would have begged if he had had the strength. Like a child, I stood there helpless; unable to fulfill the one wish my father wanted.
Natalie Pratt Photo by Trista Tidball
Yoliana Alrobei Photo by Alex Payne
Kuwait inspired - By Alex Payne -
Coming from Kuwait City, Kuwait, junior Yoliana Alrobei brought a taste of the creativity that is so native to that area with her when she moved from her country to Iowa, when she was six years old.
“Yoli is really good at graffiti and drawing, but mostly at graffiti. She has to be so perfect in her lines and what she draws. In my opinion she’s the best I have ever seen, honestly,” freshman Kylie Warner said.
Alrobei moved to Iowa so her father could get a better medical back treatment and her family just ended up deciding to stay. She says that it was very different and confusing at times but she was able to adjust to it after a while. Going to a bilingual school in Kuwait helped her with her transition into life in Iowa. She was able to learn English there along with Arabic. Alrobei started attending school in the Southeast Polk district when she was in the second grade at Centennial Elementary.
She said that there was not a lot of graffiti in Kuwait that she can remember. She remembers it to be a very clean, creative city and she discovered graffiti in the United States Alrobei has been drawing since she was able to talk.
Since Alrobei grew up in Kuwait City, greatly known for its population’s creativity, she was immensely influenced by the art when she was living there, but it was when she moved to the United States that she first noticed graffiti-style art. She immediately was drawn to it and soon became hooked.
“Art has been by her side all of her life,” Alrobei’s mom Gege Aoun said. She said that she has had courses with every art teacher at the high school except for Anne Otte. “For the youngest student in her class, she’s sure the most talented,” freshman Montana Tiffany said. Most of the time Alrobei’s ideas for her art pieces just come to her mind randomly and she immediately has to draw them out. It is a way for her to get her mind off all of the stressful and drama-filled things going on around
her and just helps her to relax. She is almost unthinking during the process and she loves to see how her artwork turns out. Seeing the finished product is her favorite part of drawing. Her brothers and sister adore her and think the world of her. “She’s an amazing role model to everyone who surrounds her,” Tiffany said. “For markers, I love ChartPak, Copic, Sharpies and Prisma. For pencils I like Prisma Grafite,” Alrobei said. “The rose pic with chalk that I did in Art III,” according to Alrobei is her favorite drawing. Even though she is considered a talented artist, she says she wants to go into the medical field. She says she might consider a career in the fine arts but she’s not really set on a decision yet. “You can’t just learn graffiti, you have to practice it and have a heart for it; it’s a passion,” Alrobei said. Paige Thomas and Jorie Schutte contributed to this article.
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Through struggle comes inspiration - By Jori Schutte -
One article of art can hold multiple interpretations and feelings to people, and an item of art can be so much more than a decoration piece to an individual. Art can hold a varying amount of emotions and memories in accordance with how a person connects and feels toward the piece, but there cannot be art if there is no artist. Mackenzie McClure has been intrigued by art since she was a little girl. At the time of her parents’ divorce in 1998, McClure’s creative mind was in overdrive and she needed a good distraction from her family’s situation. Her solution was to have her mother enroll her in an art class so she could learn to draw. “Art started out as an outlet for my emotions and then it quickly turned into a form of addiction,” McClure states. Over the years, her natural creative mind turned into works of impressive art and she had found a talent that would help take her through a rollercoaster life. McClure has taken numerous art classes, including many her at school. In total, she has taken eight out of the eleven that the school offers, growing and habituating her art addiction and talents. McClure comes up with ideas for her art pieces through how she feels about her everyday encounters and experiences. She expresses her feeling about these encounters and experiences through her artwork. One way McClure is constantly representing her feelings is through a chalkboard wall in her basement bedroom, which she had asked her mother for. “The times I change the drawing in my room is
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constantly depending on how I am feeling at that certain moment. If I am angry, I draw about what is making me angry and when I am happy I draw the things that make my personality show. Currently I have the Marine Corps emblem on my on my wall because I had gotten into a fight with my Marine boyfriend. He called me like he always does, and we got into an argument about the choices he made on the job he had in the military and ended in when we went into a cool-down mode (meaning they decided to take a break from talking so they both could calm down before the argument escalated) and I drew the Marine emblem on my wall because I was upset and it became my outlet because the Marines was the subject of our quarrel and I was upset at him. Being able to draw calmed me down. It also helped when we talked it over later because I had taken my frustration out on drawing the emblem, making it so I could finally open my mind and agree to his choices because it was his dream.” Currently McClure’s artwork has carried out a military theme, especially focused on the Marine Corps. This is much due to the fact that her boyfriend of five years, Paul Aurand II, joined the military in July of 2010 and graduated from basic in October of the same year. So far McClure has made a clay head sculpture of Aurand and is currently working on a pencil drawing of a Marine folding a flag. Not having the choice of seeing her long-term boyfriend and only having phone contact created many frustrations and fights between the couple, which triggered her creativity for any given project.
Aurand is currently stationed in California and deploys in June to Okinawa, Thailand, Japan and Australia. He was trained as a USMC machine gunner and is 20 years old. Like many other couples, Aurand and McClure have their typical relationship issues, but add the fact that they rarely see each other and there is a whole new set of problems. Most high school relationships seem to go down in ruins because the couple cannot see each other for a week or two. “One time he was coming home for a visit and I had not seen him in a couple months. He also had not even given me the slightest hint of his return. I went to the airport expecting to pick up my grandma, and then all I saw was his sister and brothers coming down the escalator and behind them at the top of the escalator were his parents, and they split apart and there he was standing. “As he came down the escalator, and I just started bawling my eyes out because I was so happy and surprised to see him. What got to me the most was the fact that he didn’t say ‘I love you’ or ‘I’ve missed you’ but instead just said ‘hi’ with a little smile on his face, but it was still just so special because I got to see him again. We now continue a little joke by just saying hi every time he comes home, which is just like our own secret code.” Those kinds of emotions are what McClure hopes her art can elicit in other people. Showing how McClure feels about a subject and putting it into one of her artistic creations puts her own personal feelings out into the world.
Mackenzie McClure Photo by Jorie Schutte
^
^ Joey Cheers, 12
Chelsey Julander, 10
^ Belinda Nguyen, 12
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^ Alyssa VanFosson, 12
Cara Maak, 11
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^ Kylie Rabe, 12
Shea McCowen, 12
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^ Megan White, 11
Makenzie Lewis, 10
^ Maddie Eastridge, 09
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CULTURES IN ONE By Mariana Vega, 11
English is my second tongue, although I consider it my main language. It astonishes people that I come to school speaking English and switch cultures at home speaking Spanish to my family. When I first moved to Iowa, I was put into an ESL class. I felt judged by my own ethnicity that I was put into that class, even though I speak English better than Spanish. In elementary school, I received a certificate that acknowledges me speaking English fluently. Of course my mother misplaced it when I needed it to show the ESL teacher, to prove that there is no need for me to take that class. So, she made me take an hour-long English comprehension test to see if I passed the English material. Naturally, I did pass. Being able to speak Spanish, I decided to take advantage of it by taking the Spanish foreign language class. Some people view it as unfair for it is an easy was to get an A and my father views it as being lazy. Sure, I can speak it fluently, but that does not imply that I write it just as well. I’m taking the class to master my own tongue, not to show off in class with my natural Spanish speaking skills. I do actually learn in there just as much as anyone else taking a foreign language class. I get nervous over a Spanish test just as I would over a math test, for example. I enjoy taking Spanish for it’s the only time during school in which I don’t have to do anything in English. Being born a first generation Mexican-American, growing up was confusing for the class of the two cultures. I didn’t take much notice living in a heavily populated Latino environment in California. All of my elementary friends were first generation Mexican-Americans as well. We spoke Spanish at home and at school. Since the majority of the school consisted of bilingual speakers, our classes were bilingual, but conversations between friends during recess were spoken in English. Most of our mothers were stay-at-home moms while our fathers were out working to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads. But for the most part, they were working to give us a childhood they never got to enjoy. My father only got through elementary school, and after that he was out on the streets in the early hours of the day selling gum or working at a relative’s panaderia or a bakery. My father was cheated from the right to an education, but it wasn’t his choice. Having nine siblings and being one of the oldest, he has to help out his father to keep feeding hungry mouths. My mother’s situation was just about the same. She as well had nine siblings and only a few of them made it to college. In Mexico, it is the man’s duty to provide for the family while the woman’s duty was to stay at home cleaning, getting the kids ready for school, and having a well-prepared meal. Just like any other parent, my parents hoped to give my brother and me a better life than what they had. This is why they came to America as a young couple. I feel very fortunate compared to what 20
my parents had or did not have growing up. As children, both of my parents had basically one toy that they had to share with their siblings and had only a pair of shoes to wear until they were so torn apart that they had to get a new pair. Being born on American soil gives people rights and opportunities, but it is up to us whether we take advantage of them or not. So, every day since elementary school dropping me off and until this day, my mom says, “Échale ganas mija,” meaning “give effort, my child.” My mother, after sixteen years of living in a country in which English is the primary language, still struggles with it day in and day out. Going to the grocery store with my parents was embarrassing as a child and still is to this day. My mom would ask me to tell the employee stuff she wished to say herself but she speaks English very hesitantly, grammatically wrong and with a heavy accent. Because of her linguistic difficulties, she also makes me make the doctors appointments by phone, call in for school and translate at parent teacher conferences. Sure, my parents cannot speak English with ease, but they know enough to be understood. I always tell my mom that she needs to practice speaking her English, but she is too shy to. I believe it’s because she’s too much of a perfectionist and wants to speak English as perfectly as she cooks her delicious enchiladas. I have to admit loving coming home from school and being greeted with a warm meal my mom prepares effortlessly every day. It’s such a luxury of getting to eat traditional Mexican food. It’s not the kind people buy at Taco John’s or students get for school lunch. Their poor imitation lacks flavor and is nothing to compared to what I get to eat at home. One of my first friends I made here in Iowa loved coming over to my house, for she knew that she would get to experience part of my culture and get to devour Mexican food while learning a bit a Spanish here and there. She was one of my first gringo friends. Iowa is completely different environment from California. During my junior high days, I was one of the only Mexicans being surrounded by only gringos. I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb, so I tried speaking my best English in a “white girl” voice hoping to fit in just like any other student in junior high. I’m not ashamed of my culture for it is what makes me who I am. I’m proud to be a Mexican-American. I like having dark features, thick curly hair and naturally tan skin; it’s different from the blue-eyed blonds I see every day. It’s still a struggle feeling like an only one at school, even if no one treats me like it. Even still, there are times where I really feel like a minority and brief moments of people being ignorantly racist. For the first time in my life, I have cried for the judgment I received because of my ethnicity, but my mom would comfort me at home saying to prove them wrong with my character and studies to erase away the gringos stereotyping of Mexicans in America and “Échale ganas mija.”
This Believe I By Shea McCowen, 12
Death is incomprehensible. It gives no mercy nor distributes any special treatment. Not one species, race, or family is immune to its intrusive familiarity and decisive finality. Death, in fact, could be described as the common denominator of life. To truly live, we must accept that one day we will die. All we can do as humans is try to not think of ourselves as ticking time bombs, make the best of it, and perhaps learn to accept and laugh with death.
fist attempt fails miserably, it sets the wheels in motion, minutely struggling forward to the progress of yielding to compliance and truth. And, though sometimes arduous to understand, the best parts of life can grow from the worst. This concept would be unfair to expect someone to just inherently know, as we grow up with naïve understanding that good comes from good, and bad from bad, and eventually we begin to realize that it is never that simple.
My father died at the age of 40, a little over a year ago. That December, he hit a patch of black ice driving home with a friend and the car in turn hit a tree. The next six months, including his and my birthdays, were spent at various brain injury treatment facilities in Iowa. I miss him with every fiber of my being, and sometimes it is very overwhelming. He was the reason behind my morals and the backbone of my personality and humor. Certain wounds just cannot heal, and one might go as far to say that they never should. Despite this, I find myself laughing about the good things far more than crying about the bad, and the importance of creating positivity from negative events and allowing humor into dark times has become very important in my life.
Whether it is a lesson learned or a mended personal bond, awful events can have surprising results. For example, while my father was in the hospital, my uncle began to date one of the nurses who worked there and, just a few months later, they were married and had made a home together. We must find humor in stances like these or surely grief and anxiety would be as insurmountably difficult as achieving immortality itself.
I am not always good at this. Actually, I am incredibly pessimistic and an avid worrier. Give me any illness and 45 minutes of downtime and I will have convinced myself and everyone in the room that I have “it” and that it is possibly fatal. There are also times when I have decided to stop hoping since hope cannot be crushed if it never existed. What is crucial, however, is just trying, for even if that
Chuck Palahniuk once wrote, “We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever; the goal is to create something that will.” No one can cheat death, but we have the memories of those who are gone for as long as we have the strength to remember them. To lose someone you love is tragic, and like the discordant note of a song, it brings harsh change to the melody. We cannot compose our own life, but must flow with it. I think of the good times, the bonfires and blues concerts, of morning whistling and grandma kisses, and laugh. I smile, for I must, and create a window of light in the darkness. Evening shining through the deep curtains of circumstance, laughter’s muted glow will help us to find our way. In this, my belief is unshakable.
^ Alex Payne, 10 21
Chad’s Declassified
l a v i rv
l o o h h Sc
Su
Hig
e d i u G
By Chad Pingel, 11
Entering high school, you may feel overwhelmed and out of place. It is going to be okay. These are natural feelings that every incoming freshman has. You might be worried about your hair or who you sit by at lunch, but these thoughts are troublesome and unnecessary. You might be worried about hazing or bullying, about fitting into the right group, about the bigger upperclassmen who dominate the hallways like large animals protecting their territory. But more on that later. This is your orientation. This will serve as your guide to high school. It will show what you need to achieve to become successful, how to stay alive amidst the hustling crowd, and most importantly, how to become somebody. To be successful in high school you need to set personal expectations. Some of you may have never even heard of this phrase, but it will come to you in due time. To help explain this personal concept we can create an example– the ideal student. Let us name him Chad. Now Chad wants to succeed in life past high school by getting a good education to sustain a quality family, job, and lifestyle. In order to do this, Chad formulates a plan and mindset to be the best in everything he attempted. He felt that by being the best possible, he would be guaranteed success in life. This essentially is what you should attempt in high school: challenge yourself, learn to the fullest extent of your abilities, seek assistance when needed, fulfill all obligations (such as homework), and arrive to participate daily. Sucking up to teachers helps too. These instructions may seem like a hassle or even too complicated; however, trust me, they work. The next part of this guide is about how to stay alive in the jungle they call high school. First off, as a freshman, you are the complete underdog of the social hierarchy that already exists. When you enter the building for the first time, you will most likely only know a trace amount of its inhabitants, excluding your fellow classmates. This puts you in a completely new situation where it is literally survival-of-the-fittest as you struggle for the acceptance of strangers and a sense of belonging among the many species roaming about. Be careful. Amidst all of this confusion and identity searching you can lose your way and even change as a person. This is the harsh reality of high school. Without a strong willpower, conformity can drag you to the confines of hell as you compromise your values and morals to maintain the acceptance of your “friends.” Shockingly, students drink and smoke in high school even after they have taken the DARE (Drug Abuse Resistance Education) pledge. How
dare they?! Maintaining who you are is the most important part of staying alive in this ravenous jungle. Never compromise. The last and most important part of this guide is learning how to become somebody. No one wants to be the kid who walks across the stage on graduation day with people wondering who you are, with no cheering or acknowledgement of your struggles or achievements. The first step is to be a leader. As a leader, people know you as opposed to you knowing them. As a leader, you carve your own path instead of following someone else’s. As a leader, you earn respect and recognition from those around you. The second step is to practice good character. Recalling the Six Pillars of Character might be a long stretch for you and it might sound corny, but adding trustworthiness, respect, responsibility, fairness, caring, and citizenship to your personality will make you a more charismatic person. While you might make some enemies for perhaps being a so called “goodie-two-shoes,” it is worth it because the people who matter do not mind. A third step would be to find your place in the jungle of high school society. In this step, either fitting into a group or being a person with no definite class works. Befriending those with similar interests is a key to being known because you would rather be acknowledged by a small group rather than none at all. The last step would be to make a name for yourself – personal branding. Building a reputation is perfectly acceptable as long as it does not conflict with your character. The goal is to be the kid who people have all heard of, but that a select few actually know personally; the kid that can get his hair cut and still retain his identity; the kid who can go through hell and back and still be a pillar of conviction and determination, a role model for those around him. I hope that you have found this guide helpful and enlightening. As part of the carnivorous jungle myself, I practice daily all of the advice that I have just preached to you such as becoming successful, staying alive in the hallways flooded a thousand times over by drama, and building a reputation for myself. I am who I am because I followed these steps. High school is an influential part of everyone’s life. Hence, I felt it was quite necessary to share my evaluation of these strings which control our identity. Enjoy the next four years during this magnificent time in your life; they go by quickly.
Tragedy Revealed By Julianne Johnson, 12
Can an object have significance? Most people might not realize it, but everyone has a special object that symbolizes a part of their life. My object is a door; it is just like any other wooden door with a brass knob, except for all the holes. This particular door took a beating in moments of rage and confusion that exploded for months. This door, (it is a miracle it is still on its hinges) is a constant reminder that there is a tear, an open wound in our family. It unlocks sorrow, anguish, and a tragic death. This place that once reeked of cologne and sounded like a free concert now smells of dust and the silence is piercing. No one has been down here in two years except for me, when I feel the need to remind myself that he actually existed and I am not making it up. I run my hand over the crack, every bust in the wood, each one telling a story. I can hardly breathe from the spiritual sense that merely two years ago he occupied this area of the house. It was once filled with laughter and full of life, now it has become more of a dungeon, chaining me to this identity I now possess. Anger, infuriating pain, builds to the point where, at the drop of a pin, he would erupt. Like a volcano, he would head for the door, looking for a way to let the feeling loose. One punch, two, another, a kick; the raw emotion takes over. Then too tired to move, he would rest, red streaming down his hand. Was it enough to last? To know how much anger, confusion, and self-loathing one person has to endure to feel like ending it all. How do you get that lonely and no one notices? Was it too much for one person to handle? Was it family, the girlfriend, school, or self hatred? No one knows. His mind was set on making the pain go away, forcing the feelings out. A battle to the death was going on within him that only ended in heartache for the rest of our family. I wonder if he had thought about how it would affect the rest of us or what would happen next. The person I was closest to, my best friend, my blood, my brother, the one person I did not want to let down, in the end let me down when he did not choose life. His death affected me in every way possible. I ended up turning to things that were not me to deal with my own pain and it only hurt me more. As I grew more and more dependent on the alcohol, it only hit me harder when my fantasy wore off and reality set back in. I was left in the dark without a flashlight, and no way out. I would sit for hours staring at this door, asking why, and trying to piece things together to make sense of it.
When the sunlight hits our house the right way, the light shines through his window and the door would light up like stars on a summer night. The light would seep in through these holes, and for a moment I could almost feel his presence right beside me. I would feel safe again, as if nothing could touch me, and I was free of the guilt I carried, free of the pity of others and the constant stares. I was simply free. I am living proof that there is light in the darkness. When I thought it was the end for me, I found light. We all experience those hopeless, dark times, some more than others, but what separates us from the rest is how we choose to handle it. We are stronger and better to have gone through it and lived; to help the rest who are stuck in the darkness, we show them that happiness is one-hundred percent possible. A door that has beaten to its breaking point can be torn down, replaced, and made new. Like the door, I have been beaten and completely destroyed inside, and when I thought I had reached my point of breaking, I found hope. Although it is not as easy for a person to “replace� themselves like a door, turning your life around starts with a choice. Choose life.
^ Ryan Nolan, 12
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Hotel Reminiscing By Ryan Ruffcorn, 11
Stream of Consciousness I haven’t had an easy life that’s for sure. I gazed upon my old hotel, its 20 stories were my babies. I loved each and every nook and cranny of this place…. “But now look at it,” I say to myself It’s falling apart, it’s boarded up, my hopes and dreams are crumbling. It is the thirty-first anniversary of the closing of my beloved hotel. I started walking towards the door dreading what I know I will find on the other side. But I must continue, it has become a tradition, you know. I unlock the old locks and push open the doors with a creak. I see my baby the first day it opened. People are walking around in awe of the beauty that surrounds them. They are all talking in excited voices and enjoying the atmosphere. I look out upon the ruined lounge, its once comfortable chairs are torn up and homes for mice. The exquisitely carved tables are lying in splinters about the room. I look towards the gently sloping stairs that had hosted so many employees for the yearly photo. I see my favorite 0 ayne, 1 chair sitting in its customary place by the ^ Alex P enormous fire place. I turn towards Jeffrey, “You know you really need to get that girl of yours reined in.” Jeffrey just chuckled and sipped his drink. “This wine is excellent my friend!” “Jeffrey, you know as well as I do you cannot change this subject.” “Ah yes, I suppose I do.” I shake my head to clear the old memories as I walk towards the reception desk. I lean on the counter the way I use to do when I first opened up in 1923.
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I lean on the counter as I watch the mayor walk in the door. I have my favorite grey pinstriped suit on along with my father’s pocket watch. “Greetings Sir! And welcome to the Magnificence!” I brush a tear that is working its way down my cheek. I put my whole life into this place I think to myself sadly. I push off the polished marble counter and go around behind it to my old office. I look around it, it has suffered least from the years of disuse. Hah! Because you’re in here every year you old kook. I take a seat in the worn leather swivel chair as I pour myself a generous portion of scotch from my desk. I look around the room, on the wall is a picture of my beautiful wife. The tears come back again. “Hun, you need to drive your car around back so we can pick up Mr. Bronson.” “Ok, honey,” Helena says to me with a smile. I down my glass of scotch and pour myself another as memories of that night come back in a flood. BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! I run towards the commotion in the back, pulling out my snub nosed revolver. I get out the back door in time to see my car turn down Broadway and speed away. I look around and see her… my wife Helena…laying in the alley with bullet holes in her chest. A sob escapes me as I remember. I get up from my desk taking the bottle of scotch with me. I stumble around in the dust coughing as I kick it up. Tears are streaming down my eyes as I make my way up the stairs. I pass people I’ve met over the years working here. I pass Mrs. Cathleen and Mr. Rodson, I pass my head chef Yankov. They all look at me with anguished faces as I stumble and fall to the floor at the top of the stairs. I look up with tears in my eyes at who I know to be standing there. “My sweet Helena, how I’ve missed you.”
n i p s e h
S G SIN
MU of a
t o l C
By Karly O’Connor, 12
The smell of fabric softener is overwhelming as my tiny arms cling with all their undignified might to a baggy pair of men’s briefs. Thus has been my life so far, not a particularly glamorous one, but easy enough. Sure, we’d all rather be holding on to dainty tablecloths or elegant blouses, but the things people want dried with the scent of air tend to be quite vulgar. It is as if they don’t know they have neighbors, who have a show of their delicates every day coming to and from their own houses. My elegant and refined manner of thinking is not shared by most of the clothespin community. They snicker and make jest of the double D cups they support, or the lady of the house’s skimpy under garments. It’s disgraceful is what it is, and I can hardly bear to look the women in the face when she comes out to collect the laundry. They don’t seem to realize we have a job to perform professionally here; not one ounce of respect is shown. I, at least, pretend not to notice the large brown stains that have recently begun to crop up on the saggy rear of these briefs. One must learn to take pride in one’s profession. It’s not like we will have any purpose for much longer, what with these newfangled machines that wash and dry clothes without hardly any human effort. Indeed, it will be a sad day when the sun finally sets on air+-drying laundry on the clothesline. Yet perhaps we will still be needed by fresh air enthusiasts or “Go Green” supporters who dry laundry in the style of the old world.
My attention is drawn away from my current task by a commotion across the line. The two clothespins holding up the women’s garter belt (really now, one should really dry clean such things) have begun to laugh rambunctiously as two adolescent boys make their way across the lawn. The familiar one hides his face, while the features of the newcomer break into unbridled joy. Perhaps the ridiculous, and promiscuous, woman is asking for attention to be paid to such intimacies; she’s been rather desperate-seeming lately, ever since the man’s undergarments have steadily grown larger and messier over the years. I bring this to the attention of my adjacent clothespin, Harriet; a rather cynical and crass pin in my opinion. “I think our dear Bonnie has dropped off the bonk wagon, don’t you?” Harriet replies to my observings. “Harriet! How can you say such things about our employer?!” I exclaim, unable to keep the shock from my voice. “Oh, do calm down, I remember you used to be quite fun. Perhaps you forget you’re holding up a pair of soiled briefs….” Harriet retorts, silencing me for good. I shan’t respond to such rude prodding of my character. So here I’ve been, and here I shall remain. Enjoying the fresh breezes and smell of detergent, detesting my company and the soiled garments it is my duty to hold. 25
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