Spring 2012 • Southeast Polk High School • vol. 29 issue 1
t e e Sw s s i l B r e m Sum
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Morgan Springer, 11
Marie Orsinger, 12
^ Cara Maak, 12
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Spring 2012 • Southeast Polk High School • vol. 29 issue 1
cover photos by Alex Payne, 12
Table of Contents 1 16 Table of Contents
Artist Profile
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18
Notes about how we got here and what it took to get this magazine published
Essays and other writings with diverse moods, both fictional and nonfictional and describing who people are.
Find out what is included in this year’s magazine and where you can find it.
Letter from the Editor
A look at some of the most interesting people involved in the arts here
Writings
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24
A collection of diverse poetry describing who they are or what something is.
Some artistic pieces by students depicting nature, still life, pets, celebrities and siblings, along with some self-portraits
Poems
Writer Profile
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Some artistic pieces by students depicting nature, still life, pets, celebrities and siblings, along with some self-portraits
A collection of ads from our very generous sponsors—businesses we hope you’ll patronize
Artwork
Advertisements
A Letter from the Editor:
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^ Shelby Finch, 12
Alex Payne, 12
As the 2011-2012 school year is now wrapping up it is time to display some of our best works. In this year’s edition of the Ramshackle you will find breathtaking artwork and impressive essays, along with the poetry that will sooth the soul. These great accomplishments show what we have done the last year; and as some of us leave to go off into the “real world,” others will stay and a fresh new group of freshmen move up, bringing with them more talent that will grow into more amazing writings and artwork. I am excited to come back and see the great things to come from Southeast Polk. The talent here whether it be on the field in the classroom or out in the community shows we are becoming a great school that should be proud of our accomplishments. We put quality into everything we do and the work in this magazine is evident of that. I hope that you will go out and enjoy the beautiful weather and this year’s magazine. This year we were able to get the magazine done a lot faster than we did last year. We knew what we had to do and we had everything already for submissions. I would like to thank everyone who submitted their work. It was a joy being able to put together this year’s magazine, and as I leave this year I know that this publication is in good hands and I can not wait to see the work from students in future publications. Go out, enjoy the beautiful summer air and take along this magazine and enjoy the wonderful literary works by fellow SEP students.
Editor
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Ramshackle Volume 29, Issue 1 Southeast Polk High School 7945 N.E. University Ave., Pleasant Hill, IA 50327 Editor Alex Payne Contributing Editors Tabi Johannsen Madi Chicoine Collin Boyce Marina Ginther Lane Hacker Adviser Chris Snethen Printed by Jostens
David Gjersvik Hollie Wilson Belle Ward Alex Arechavaleta Jessica Dost
Beat of my
Soul
When I dance the music morphs with me And the melody engulfs me like air Can’t tell you where I am Honestly I don’t know I can tell I’m being watched But it doesn’t register Just the stage and me Together but separate I am a twister Reaching inside to pull Something’s coming out Bending, I prepare To fly across the stage Knowing the music’s within There isn’t a sound But the silence is deafening Filling me up until I bubble over Many thousand eyes watch Finally, I’m here And they’re applauding my art Loud visible noise This is how I move when the music embraces my spirit -Abby Suhr, 10
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The Shadow of
Me
My shadow will always Walk beside me, Linger over my shoulder And dance in the light. My shadow will always be better than me; It’s taller, smarter, more compassionate, funnier, It’s everything I wish I could be. My shadow never makes mistakes. Some days I try to catch up with my shadow; I try to walk as proudly as she does, I try to be lithe and free like she is, I try to be perfect. But I can never catch my shadow. Some days my shadow mocks me, Laughs at my insecurities, Reminds me of my flaws, And whispers all my secrets. My shadow knows I can never be like her. For as long as the sun shines I can never be my shadow. -Emily
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I am
from I am from Comfort Wesseli From the breezy morning, hot afternoon, and cool nights. I am from rich plant baring soil, and hardworking farmers. I am from children setting around and large bowl, sharing a meal. From the rich mouth watering soup filled with tasty sea food, and meat caught by fathers. From late night around a warm fire, as we share stories. I am from busy morning, quiet afternoon, and lively evenings. I am from hard working women, slaving to feed their children. I am from Sunday morning church, with ladies dressed in their best clothes. From a hot congregation, and long sermons. I am from reggae music, the sound of Lucky Dube blasting on my mother’s small radio. I am from early morning farm work. I am from curfews, set by ruthless rebels. From the sound of their guns in the distance of the quiet night. I am from fear of getting shot, fear of dying because of my nationality. I am from refugee camps, full of families wanting the American dream. From a camp, packed with scared families, wondering if they will ever make it to America. I am from a chicken pox and measles infected camp. I am from adventure walks miles away from my home, traveling around town like a tourist. I am from hardship, hunger, and war, but I would never change it for anything. That is who I am. -Adeline Barron, 10
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Love is Love is fragile as a rose it can be there one second and gone the next It grows, flourishes and in most cases dies. The love I feel is like a rose that will never die at times it may fall but it still holds strong. Please don’t make my rose crumble to dust. -Steven Parsley, 11
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ThePit
I fixed my eyes upon the pit And vowed to stay away Yet the blackness called to me From where I wished to stay They say love is one’s folly Another’s key to fame But this wasn’t to be an issue I hated crying games Still I wandered to the pit It held a strange allure It proved a place of mystery I’d never seen before Up to the edge I crept Looking into the abyss Though I knew not what awaited me This chance I could not miss I’ve lived a quiet, secluded life But I longed to risk it all I took one more small step forward ‘Twas there I took the fall I tried to grab onto the ledge Regretting my new fate Instead I just kept falling My efforts were in vain -DJ Terrell, 10
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Differences The dark nights will fade into memories and the sun will shine through the darkness. Although the scars on my wrists will rip open over and over again, the blood seeps through the cracks. The world through my eyes, is different from yours. Soon enough, the rough times will be over and the happiness I once knew will be back again‌ -Ashley Hernandez, 09
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Not from
this world Here the grass is emerald green, And no one is ever mean. Everyone can get along, Everyone sings peaceful songs. No one here has heard of hate, Plus nobody shows up late. Nobody’s ever stuck alone, Or feels like a worthless clone. While elsewhere hearts are breaking, Here, peaceful noises all are making. Wars are never raging here, Plus good friends are always near. No person here can tell a lie, I don’t think anyone’s even tried. No tears here are ever spilled, Nobody’s heard of being killed.
Can you guess just where here’s at? If not read on I’ll tell you then. It’s a wonderful place I dislike to leave, a land made only of paper and pen! -Chance Hatfield, 10
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Kenzie Matticks, 10
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^
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E A R T H
Lauren Veigulis, 09
Kristy Adey, 12
Mary Erickson, 12
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^ Rachel Spooner, 12
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^ Taylor Campbell, 12
Kyle Starcevich, 11
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^ Rachel Spooner, 12
^ Claire Kinder, 11
^ Jeremy Harris, 12
^ Briar Dittmer, 09
^ Cate Hosier, 12
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^ Torie Tanyag, 09
^ Jess Short, 12
^ Carlee Cutler, 10
^ Shelby Finch, 12
^ Shelby Finch, 12
^ Alex Arechavaleta, 09
A RT 13 | Ramshackle 2012
A picture is
^ Kristy Adey, 12
a poem without words. ^ Claire Kinder, 11
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-Horace
^ Mackenzie Cox, 12
^ Mia Hughes, 11
^ Taylor Julander, 12
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It is never too late for Art - By Madi Chicoine Meet 18 year old Marie Louise Orsinger. With her big beautiful eyes and quick smile, she is hard to miss. However, what some may not realize at first glance is that she is a budding artist. Orsinger didn’t take any art classes until her junior year; it was her mom who inspired her to sign up for them. “My mom has also been my art teacher growing up. She taught me the basics, and inspired my love for art after watching her sketch.” Orsinger has taken Art I-III, photography, painting and art seminar. It was Art III that really inspired her to pursue a future in it. “I have loved every one of my art classes because the students and teachers are amazing,” Orsinger said. Currently, her plans are to attend St. Benedictine College in order to become an art teacher. “I have always loved the arts, as I have been dancing for ten years and have had sketch books for even longer,” she said. Orsinger finds her inspiration in the people around her. In fact, the
piece of art that she is most proud of is a chalk pastel that she made in Art III that is of her cousin Ava. “I about cried-happy tears, of course- when I finished it.” But even though she is most proud of her chalk pastel, Orsinger currently likes oil paint best. She likes all of the different colors and textures she can get with it. However, she says that her favorite medium seems to change as she tries out new and different things. When it comes to famous artists, Orsinger really likes Van Gogh. She loves impressionist work and is currently trying it out on her latest project. But she doesn’t only admire those artist of great fame. She also says that she loves her teachers. “All the art teachers here have really helped me grow as an artist this year and I have been inspired to become an art teacher after going here,” Orsinger said. Like any artist, sometimes Orsinger’s work doesn’t quite turn out how she would like it to. In those cir-
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cumstances, she usually seeks advice from her teachers. “Sometimes they have me put it up on the wall and get a fresh look at it later on, sometimes they give me their opinion on what I need to fix, and sometimes they just hold it away from me so I can get the full picture and find the problem myself.” Orsinger’s advice to others is that if they find a serious interest in art after art one or two, pursue it. “Take as many art classes as you can fit in your schedule. I did not get to start until my junior year, so I did not get to take all the classes I wanted. But underclassmen, you guys have time, so use it!” Taking chances is sometimes hard to do, but Orsinger is very glad that she gave art classes a chance. It gives her just another way to express herself. “My favorite thing about art is that everyone has their own style, and it is shown in their work. You can find out what is important to a lot of people, and it says something about who they are.”
Marie Orsinger Photo by Madi Chicoine
Bluebirds
inMyEars By Tara Winecke, 09
Ever since I was six, I have always yearned for something. Coloring bright pinks and dark blues had gotten old, and finding out that Barney wasn’t a dinosaur, but a man in a costume had all gone by like a chilling wind in the fall. I would look around and see big words I couldn’t read or the remote I couldn’t reach. But while my eyes were wandering, I saw it. I saw the piano, the piano that would change my life forever. It was like bluebirds were in my ears. “Mommy, what’s this?” I asked as I ran my hands up and down the piano, running a repeating chromatic scale. “That’s a piano your aunt gave to us,” Mom said, wiping the piano down with Fantastic. I was in shock as I looked down at the white and black keys that patterned up and down the board. I looked down at it, not knowing what it did. Blahhhhh! The piano screamed as I pressed random, ugly notes together. Why did it make that sound? I didn’t know. I pressed on what I now know is a middle C and E and I heard good sounds, not the ones that made someone want to up-chuck their breakfast. “Good job Sarah! I see a pianist in you. Keep trying,” Mom said with a smile. “Sarah bad on piano, its makes me scary noise,” my brother said. Keep in mind, he was just learning the difference between food and play-doh. Fast forward five years and I am crying myself to sleep with my head in the pillows. Some girls at school were mean to me, they called me bad words. Every single word that was said to me was like a dagger stabbed in my heart. “You’re stupid!” one girl said. “You have fat hanging off your sides! That shirt makes you look like a girl that has sex for money,” one said to me as tears started trickling down my eyes. They started laughing, and I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. I felt like the world was thrown on top of my shoulders, and I was expected to hold it up all by myself. “Why are they doing this to me? I always stayed by their side,” I thought to myself as more insults were hurled at me. “You were in special reading, you are just stupid! You can’t read, you can’t even add what two and two is,” Beth said to me. I had taken enough to heart. I ran off with tears in my eyes and hid in the bathroom for a while. I couldn’t believe what had happened, I trusted these people. I trusted them with my heart, the one thing I
didn’t want hurt. I was always nice to them; I had their backs. Why would they do that? I walked down to the band room with more tears in my eyes, but then I saw my trumpet. My beloved trumpet. I grabbed my practice book and played my heart out like I had never done before. The trumpet spoke the emotions that I couldn’t get out myself, the emotions I couldn’t express by talking or singing. It’s these emotions: sadness, anger, confusion, relief, and many more. I knew I had to keep playing. The more I played, the more tears that came down my red face, the more wailed cries that made people stare. I put the trumpet down because my lips felt like they were going to burst. I felt immediate relief; I knew that I was better off without them. They didn’t see who I was as a person. I walked out of that room better than who I was when I walked into it. Music is played around the world every day. It starts simple but ends battles in the heart. Music started something inside of me that I never knew was there. It was my hidden talent. Music has changed my life forever; ask anyone who really knows me: Mom, Dad, Lucy, Cam, Katie, Tammy, Sally, and Mrs. Wilson. Ask them why I am not in special reading anymore or how I always manage to have a 4.0 GPA every year. Listen to stories of my compassion or how my personality has been shaped. I am not being boastful of myself or who I will turn out to be, I am stating what music has done in my life. Having it taken away is like taking the sun from the earth, peanut butter away from jelly, and rain from the flowers. If I didn’t have music, I wouldn’t be who I am. I would be failing all of my classes, I would be in special education. I would be mocked for being who I am, brushed away like a sliver of wood. I wouldn’t be accepted into society as a person and called crap for being born out of my mother’s womb the way I am. People that know music know what it’s like not be be accepted at times, like me; to be hated at times, but know how to get back up again. Music has helped me in school, at home, and with my emotions. I have made friendships that will last a lifetime and gained an older sister figure in the process, Tammy. Music is like an angelic choir that makes the world better; it is like flowers in the glorious rays of sun. Even my heart is involved in music, as it is always pumping out a beat. Music will always be my life; it is the bluebirds in my ears.
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s m ea
n e d d i Hin
S e th
By Madi Chicoine, 12 Water bubbles over mossy rocks in never changing patterns, and shadows fall silently over darkened stones. Bugs race across the surface, tracing delicate ripples in their trails and startled minnows dart to and fro in complex dances. Everything is the same since the last time I visited my creek. This creek, my creek, is a new discovery that is tucked away in the seams of society. The only thing hiding it is the busy lives of the people that surround it. Glancing along its muddy bank, I spot an old worn out tire that is nearly covered by all of the weeds that surround it. It is comforting to see this reminder of human life for although I’m at peace here, it is not home. As I make my way along the creek, sun dappled trees slowly grow larger and cool water forces the banks further apart. I feel exposed, but curiosity for where my creek leads carries me forward. I ponder this term that I have adopted, “mine.” I don’t like this ownership that I want to force upon this land, yet I feel that if I can somehow claim it then I can help protect it from the people who want to molest its beauty. I bend over to take a picture of the way the light reflects on the water and stones when the whoosh of wings startles me. I clutch my phone tightly to my chest for I almost dropped it into what
would have been its watery grave below. Looking up, I see a great blue heron flying off to into the distance. Admonishing myself for disturbing this magnificent creature, I continue along the sandy bank. My security lingers as I delve deeper into this world. Growing up, my parents drilled into my head how the world is a dangerous place, yet I’ve been here alone for quite some time. Although it has been dreamlike, I need to awaken and make my way back. Reaching my car, I slip into the driver’s seat and take off my mud caked shoes. I start the engine and note how lifeless and cold everything now feels. The sounds of traffic are a harsh contrast to the burbling water, orchestral crickets, and cheerful birds that dwell around my creek. Gleaming metal and chiseled stone hold nothing over the vibrant hues of colors that I’d been surrounded by for the last few hours. I walk barefooted up my front porch and slowly turn the key in its lock. Nothing here has changed but something in me has. Things seem to have less meaning, nothing is as real as where I just was. As time passes, however, I easily return to the routine of my banal life, yet a spot deep in my heart still yearns for my secret escape from reality.
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ME
IN A BOX By David Gjersvik, 11
I know who I am. I know me inside and out. I know where I came from, where I stand today, and I choose to believe that I know where I soon will be. Although I haven’t been living long, I know quite a bit about life, too. I know that we don’t always get along with one another, us humans; I know that life isn’t perfect, isn’t easy. I am privileged to know so much, for I cannot help but think about a day when I might know nothing. The day that I forget who I am, forget where I belong in this world, forget my identity. I try to isolate myself from those thoughts, yet I still find myself dazing off, relapsing into that state of remorseful curiosity. I can’t help but wonder… I came across an idea, once upon a time, that I think is quite intriguing. Let’s say I do forget who I am, and lose myself completely. How on earth would I go about finding myself? I’ve decided that this task would be a dreadfully difficult one. It might take months, years, a lifetime even, to discover who I really am. But also imagine that I have a special tool to help me on my quest. A survival guide, perhaps. I’ve conjured up myself an Identity Kit (I think the name is quite fitting) so that I might be able to quickly restore my identity, should I lose it. I consider it a masterpiece, a brilliant David buffet, for it is simply my life thrown onto a giant gleaming platter (a theoretical one, of course), and it will be the key to discovering me. *** A long, oak table stretches across the room in front of me. It is a sturdy table, built by proficient hands. A plain cardboard box sits quietly on the table, looking at me thoughtfully. I guide my hands to the top of the box, open the flaps of cardboard carefully and peer inside. The box is filled to the brim with various artifacts. There is nothing extraordinary about the objects inside this plain box; they are normal items that any other person would think insignificant. I remember these objects faintly, and know that they are indeed important. A thin layer of dust covers the contents, giving them an ancient appearance. An old, leather-bound photo album, which sits on a throne of vintage knick-knacks, catches my eye. I wipe off the dust with my sleeve and open the cover. A name is inscribed on the first page. David Perry Gjersvik. That is my name. It has always been my name. The photo album I hold in my hands transforms into a wonderful piece of treasure. It is mine. I flip through the delicate pages and see smiling faces. I come across a picture of a young boy sitting at a dining table with a marvelous chocolate cake looming in front of him. Three candles shine brightly. People of all shapes and sizes sit around him at the table. On everyone’s face is a smile, but the boy’s smile is the largest. The boy is me, and this is my family. I look at every single picture in that album; each one holds a special memory
from long ago. There are pictures of children unwrapping presents on Christmas morning, of boys wrestling in the living room, of cheesy school pictures. A part of my life exists in this photo album, a small sliver of my identity. Setting the album aside, I look inside my cardboard time capsule once more. My past is rushing towards me, old memories resurfacing, a forgotten identity unfolding. I take out a faded baseball. Names scrawled in black Sharpie cover every inch of the dilapidated ball; holding it in my hands takes me back… Back to those glorious summer days where the smell of freshly mown grass drifts all around me. A brilliant sun shines down on me as I stand at the plate, waiting eagerly for the perfect fastball. I hear the cheers of my teammates as the ball soars over the dumbfounded outfielders, beyond the baffled fence, to homerun territory. Fans are whooping from the bleachers; my team anxiously waits for me at home plate; I jog around the bases, soaking in every second of it. I sort through my treasures thoroughly, absorbing everything they stand for. A video cassette of The Mighty Morphin’ Power Rangers, partially hidden behind a wooden toy airplane, glances at me. I suddenly fly back to my childhood home and find myself dressed as the Red Ranger. My brothers and I run through the house like little maniacs full of adrenaline, while my mother can only stand by and watch, laughing. We were just being boys, just loving life. How can so much of me be stored in such ordinary objects? I see family pictures, an academic letter, a furry toy dog, a small Bible… a coonskin hat. I remember it all so vividly. I feel my blood rush through my veins, and I feel more alive than I have felt for a lifetime. I know who I am. The only object that remains in my time capsule is an aged Nike shoe box, size 12. The lid is duct taped to the box. Whatever is in this container must have been incredibly important. I reach for the box, but hesitate. An immense part of my identity lives inside that box. It contains my most beloved memories, my biggest accomplishments, the best and worst moments of my ever-changing life. How can I open it, knowing that it may bring back memories so powerful, so telling of my identity that my heart will cease beating? I cannot bear to open it. I replace the small shoe box, and simply stare at it. Someday I will open it. But not today. All of the artifacts lie on the table before me. I look at each one, each piece of my past. I am looking directly into the heart of my identity. This is me; this is who I am. I am David Gjersvik. I have a family. I have a history. I have an identity. *** I don’t know that I have Alzheimers. I don’t know that I am terribly sick. How I have forgotten my past, and the world around me. How I have forgotten my identity. Every now and then, a small spark of who I used to be returns. I become the boy I once was, the man I grew to be, and remember everything so easily. That spark fades too quickly. Although I do not remember myself, my identity still lives on. It breathes as I breathe. It grows as I grow. A part of my identity resides within my core; yet another part remains in that old cardboard box. When I forget who I am, my box is there to help me remember. It never forgets. My identity lives on. It will always live on.
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TheDarkness By Tabi Johannsen, 12
“The Darkness crossed the land with a sickly, facile grace. It took a matter of days for the thick, black clouds to cover its entirety. The once beautiful land turned into a sickly, diseased, ravaged plain where the Dark Knights took control. “The Dark Knights were cruel and ruled with an iron fist. Their peremptory wills forbade any of the natives from defying their orders. If one was foolhardy enough to attempt to take on the knights, he would not be spared from the harsh punishment that awaited him. “The Dark Knights ruled for many centuries before the Light came. The Light shone from the East, but it could not match the power of the Darkness. A fierce war broke out between the Light and the Dark, but as neither could withstand being in the other’s territory, a middle ground was created for the w…” ***
“Grandmother, you can’t keep telling the little ones stories like that!” I said, interrupting another one of her mad stories. “Oh, come Adda, it’s the truth of our history,” Grandmother replied, looking up at me grimly. “It’s only a legend,” I said, getting a round of collective groans from the children for my critical comment. “It’s a prophecy, Adda,” she replied. “Prophecies are never true,” I retorted. “What’s the prophecy, Grandmother?” a small, curly-haired boy asked. “Toland, you have heard this story a thousand times,” I sighed. “Well, I want to hear it again!” he whined. “The prophecy states that there is one who could put an end to all the fighting, one who could restore the Balance between the Light and the Dark,” Grandmother went on, staring straight at me. “One who can travel between both lands, but who hails from the Dark.” I rolled my eyes, walking toward the door to get my cloak. “Toland, come on, we’ve got duties to attend to,” I said, wrapping the blue cloak around my shoulders. Toland groaned as I ushered him out the door. “Why do you think you’re the only one who can’t go out into the night without catching your death?” Grandmother asked, standing to give me a long, hard stare. I didn’t answer as I walked out with Toland, slamming the door behind me. “Addy,” Toland asked, taking my hand. I winced at his name for me. “What did Grandmother mean by that?” “Nothing, she was just trying to scare me,” I replied. “Well, did it work, Adda?” he asked, looking up at me with big, green eyes. “Nothing scared me, Toland,” I said, glancing at the starry sky. It was strange that the stars were still out and uncovered at this hour. Usually thick, black clouds have come in, shielding this land from the sun’s light. I felt a bright glimmer of hope bloom in my heart. I wasn’t the only one in these dark lands to feel the hope that came with the sight of the stars; I was just the only one to deny it. We were never supposed to hate this dark, we were supposed to find it helpful to ourselves, but many of the children and even some of the adults and elders of the circle are afraid of the Dark, of who or what could be lurking in the Dark’s shadows. I was brought out of my nightdreams as I ran into something hard. I looked up at what—who—it was. Rade, the Dark King’s head general. Quite a feat for not being a day over twenty. Rade turned to glare at me with his hateful, dark gaze. I felt all my limbs freeze, and I was vaguely aware of Toland quickly ducking behind me. “S-sorry,” I stammered, taking a wide step away from him. He said nothing as he continued to glare at me. I pulled Toland away and quickly resumed our trek to the stables. I looked down at Toland to see if he was as shaken by the encounter as I was. You never want to anger one of the Dark Knights. They were much fiercer today than they were centuries ago, when they first arrived on this land. At least according to Grandmother. They were rarely kind to their own people, let alone to peasants like Toland and me.
Toland didn’t seem the least bit afraid now, though he had quickly hidden his face behind me not a moment earlier. He was staring back at Rade and I risked a glance back. The general was staring up at the sky, as I had been doing. His face was partially hidden from my view, but I couldn’t quite tell if he was stricken with worry or if it was with a slight twinge of hope that he stared at the sky with. Maybe my eyes were playing tricks on me… I glanced down at Toland again, surprised to find him staring at me. The smirk he held on his lips was incredibly foreign on his childish face. “What?” I snapped at him. He returned with a knowing look. “He likes you,” he replied. “And you like him, too.” “What? That’s absolutely mad, Toland. You’re young and don’t know what you speak of. Where would you get a mad idea like that anyway?” I said. “Grandmother,” he replied. “She also says that if a boy likes a girl, he’s mean to her.” “The Dark Knights are mean to everyone. Besides, you shouldn’t believe everything that Grandmother tells you,” I said. “And why not?” Toland asked, sounding offended. “She’s old and crazy. Be thankful we aren’t her blood relations,” I answered. In truth, Grandmother had no blood relations. No one knew who who she was, or where she came from. She wasn’t even sure herself. It was believed that she was alive when the First War began, nearly a century ago. The second part to the theory is that she was the daughter of a maiden of the Light and had been brought back as a prisoner, yet she did not freeze in the cold of the Dark as Light Guards always had. She was allegedly young and able to adapt more easily, as the story goes. I just think she’s a woman beyond her years who has a fascination for storytelling. Toland seemed to have a fascination with Grandmother’s stories, really any for that matter. Toland and I found each other—or, rather, he found me—when we had both been put into Grandmother’s care. The children who no longer had any parents due to the war, starvation, or just the cruelty of the Knights, were put in Grandmother’s small home. Toland was only four when he had been put there; I had just turned fifteen. In another two weeks, I’d be leaving Grandmother’s care and starting a new life as a maid or a governess, whichever suited me best, in the Dark Palace. Toland was less happy about it than I was, as he had already adopted me as his elder sister. It took me about a year to get used to him calling me his sister. I just look at him as a kid who needed to be looked after, and as he’d already claimed me, I might as well take on the job. It wasn’t much of one, as he was a rather wellbehaved child. “Hey, Addy,” Toland said, breaking my thoughts by pulling on my dress. I bit my lip to keep from snapping at him for calling me that. I simply looked down and forced a smile. “You know, Rade comes to Grandmother’s house a lot. Mercy told me so.” I chuckled. Mercy was five, not yet old enough to begin his duties, so he stayed with Grandmother all day. “How do you know he’s telling you the truth?” I asked. “He told me yesterday when you took me back home after the pony kicked me in the head,” he replied, pointing to the dark bruise on his forehead. “Did he now?” I asked, curious as to why Rade would be talking to him. “Yeah, he said he’ll be checking in on me a lot.” With these words said, I finally understood, and my stomach roiled. I felt incredibly sick at the thought of Rade, the fiercest of the fierce, coming to check on him. When Generals and members of the army came to ‘check up on’ the younger boys, those boys were soon on their way to the barracks to be trained for war. Those who went off to war either never returned, or else they could never lead a happy life, scarred by the horrors of war. The Dark Knights cared not for the young who fought and died. Toland was the proper age to go off to train, if it suited him. Seven.
21 | Ramshackle 2012
n e t t i r w d n a h By Claudia Diaz, 12
When I was seven years old—just a schoolgirl who loved books, monkey bars, and ice cream—my mother gave me an envelope, a simple four by six inch rectangle, with my name written in her fluid cursive. Besides the annual birthday cards, it was the first letter I received. I was delighted by this folded notebook paper, filled, stroke after stroke, with dark thick ink. Immediately, I treasured this letter beyond all others—I knew whatever it held was specifically for me, and for me alone (my sisters had not received similar envelopes). It was special, and it made me special. I was convinced its contents were important; there was some fanciful reason my mother chose to communicate through written word. Rather than speculate about all the incredible secrets that this wide ruled paper undoubtedly held, I carefully slid my index finger under the triangular flap, controlling my bubbly excitement enough to stop myself from ripping the envelope open—a note like this had to be kept in good condition—and moved my short finger in a “U”. I pulled the paper out, unfolded it, and began to read. In the note, my mother praised me for my good, and still improving, handwriting. She told me that it was better than the penmanship of the essay writers she saw at the ACT-grading center in Iowa City. She was proud of me for my hard work in school and encouraged me to diligently practice my penmanship. I was flabbergasted—all I had to do was write prettily and, poof! My mom was proud. Confused but grateful, I hugged my mother and ran to the room I shared with my two sisters; there, I tucked the note away in the safest place I could think of: my sock drawer. I felt the note was a secret, and needed to be treated as such. This letter, which my mother does not recall writing, impacted my seven year old self deeply. For the next several years, whenever I erupted in a fit of tears or anger—whether it was due to an argument I had with my sisters, a game lost, or a rough day—I dug through my socks, found my note, and read my mom’s praises. Even the sight of the envelope, when I grabbed my socks in the morning, could boost my spirit. It also resulted in an obsession over penmanship: I worried my mom would retract her praise and deem my handwriting unworthy; I feared what other people thought of the form and shape of my 26 letters; and, I paid all too close attention to my classmates’, sisters’, and teachers’ penmanship. Then, I began to emulate the people’s styles I liked best. I studied and copied my aunt’s written words. I wanted to be like her: unique, creative, and strong, and her handwriting reflected who she was, with its uppercase sharp, bold, and clean lines. I practiced writing like she did, but it did not suit me. My imitation of her confident strokes was weak; it took me too much concentration to form a poor look-alike. All I created were sloppy and uncertain letters, a bad reflection of who I thought I was and who I wanted to be. In third grade, still in search for a handwriting style that matched my identity, I was forced to write in cursive with no respite. Though I wanted to enjoy this form of writing that connected me to generations of good writers, brilliant philosophers, and official signatories and worked to command the new style that was thrust upon me, I never became the cursive artist I wished to be. I yearned for the day when my writing would do more than convey ideas, but would reveal my character through the curve of a “B,” the swerve of a “J,” and the height of a “Y.” The letter was a seed that was fed by my imagination to form an idea, a philosophy I held most strongly during my elementary days. I believed handwriting and identity were closely related. I had not read anything about graphology—the study of handwriting, and how it reveals elements of person, including personality, attributes, and talents—but, I understood penmanship to be directly correlated with character: since my mother praised my handwriting, I was a good girl, and chicken scratch must only belong to careless failures. Consequently, as my handwriting changed, my identity
began to form, emulating people’s traits and shifting with time. As I mimicked my older sister’s likable, joyful countenance, my “m” mysteriously adopted the flamboyance of her “m” that appeared every time she signed her name. As I listened to my fifth grade teacher’s suggestions, my “w’s” edges became increasingly sharp, resembling my teacher’s slanted critiques in the margins of my poems. Upon my grandmother’s visit and her instruction, my “r” began to stretch and blend with the letters around it. Though the transformations in my handwriting occurred slowly, each step or miniscule change resulted—not only from my wish to keep my handwriting acceptable to my mother—but from my fluctuating ideas of who I should be. By no means did my handwriting dictate who I was—just because the tail of my “g” was markedly larger at 9a.m. compared to 1p.m. did not mean my identity had changed—but I felt it reflected whatever was inside me. I thought my handwriting was a key; with it, the world would know the basic identity of Claudia Ivana Diaz. Thus, at ten years old, when I had a very weak grasp of who I was, my handwriting was inconsistent. Furthermore, since I had strong notions of what people expected me to be, I made my handwriting please certain people, merely a symptom of the quest for approval that I, and everyone else, experiences. At my core, however, I was my parent’s child. My handwriting was proof. Qualities of their handwriting could be seen in my own; likewise, the morals and attitudes they taught me dictated my actions, reactions, and ideas. They taught me to be responsible and respectful; they showed me how to be loving and caring; they encouraged me to be independent and steadfast. As I grew, these traits became an increasingly larger part of my identity and my search for a handwriting style seemed less and less important. Yet I kept my handwriting an adaption of the people’s handwriting I admired and expectations I thought existed. Though it took years, I eventually dropped all pretenses. I was tired of making that “m” behave the way my sister’s did. I was weary of making my “w” sharp and my “r” stretch. I lacked the energy needed to create a half-forgery, half-original style. It was easier to simply let my hand glide freely across the white expanse, pencil trailing along, marking the page in lines, swirls, and dots. Only when I relaxed my notions and concentrated less on expectations did my handwriting become mine, and the same occurred with my identity. But by then my “natural writing” and “natural self” already contained lessons from my teachers and traits from my parents and peers. Like my handwriting is comprised of different people’s styles woven into my own, a composition of traits of the people I admired and the knowledge I accumulated have contributed to my identity—as the “C” that begins my name resembles the “C” my aunt made so my assuredness resembles my aunt’s confidence. Now, ten years after I received the letter, I realize my mother was not pressuring me to develop a handwriting style that would be the envy of the world; she was sending me a message of her love for me, her faith in my ability, and her pride in her daughter. It was not meant to be the cause of a decade search for a style that would reflect the person I thought I should be. The girl who wrote the kindergarten story entitled The Cat and Dog could not be recognized as the author of “Comfort,” a freshman paper. She, who fastidiously copied and erased her first set of cursive letters, was quite different from the teenager who scribbled notes in AP Biology. Though the appearances of letters are distinct, the person behind them is the same. From The Cat and Dog to “Comfort” I am ever as imaginative and hopeful in my writing. From cautious cursive to hurried fragments I continue in my eagerness as a student. And through it all, my mother continues to love me, believe in me, and become increasingly proud of me. Through it all, I learn from my teachers and peers. Through it all, my identity solidifies, and I become the person I was born to be.
22 | Ramshackle 2012
SelfPortrait By Miranda Ethell, 12
It is hard to wrap one’s mind around the idea of space. Our planet is just a speck of dust in an infinite amount of space, where there are infinite amounts of specks. On this speck lies everyone and everything I have come in contact with, fallen in love with, fallen out of love with, fallen in hate with, communicated with, etcetera. Then there is me. I am a human surrounded by other humans who identify me as whatever they please. There are hundreds of things that I could be identified as – a friend, an acquaintance, a classmate, a student, a senior in high school, a sister, a daughter, a granddaughter, a cousin and so the list goes on. To me, I am Miranda Ethell – just another one of those humans who lives a short life and eventually dies – disintegrating into nothing. My physical appearance is a significant part of what identifies me as me. I am five foot, three inches tall. I have long, red hair and pale skin. My right ear lobe is noticeably smaller than my left. I have short, stubby legs and brown, almost black eyes. However, these features don’t really help in explaining where I have been and what I have done. You see, on the front of my neck, there is an indented scar from when I was about three years old and had to have my throat drained. Then, there is another one of those scars on my forehead which I got from bashing my head open on the corner of a bench. My right arm is scarred from shoulder to hand. I’ll start at the shoulder, where there are three small scars from where I underwent arthroscopic surgery to remove excess tissue so I could play softball again. As you move down the arm, I have burns from my hair curler, and scratch and bite marks from my newly acquired miniature blue heeler puppy, that I named Maya. Those features, however, are only a small part of who I am. Why do I do what I do? That is yet another thing that forms my identity. Maybe some people wonder why I won’t play any infield positions in softball without wearing my facemask. It is a preventative measure because I once ended up in an emergency room with a broken nose, smashed out teeth, and a concussion after being completely knocked out by a ball while I was pitching. This is also why I tend to be sensitive to loud noises, due to the amount of concussions I have undergone since then. I also refuse to eat kiwi of any sort because I was once poisoned by kiwi and threw it up for the next 48 hours of my life, while stuck in my bed watching Titanic. Keep in mind I would rather cut off my arms than throw up. You might wonder why I cringe to the idea of going to the bathroom in a porto-potty. That’s because of the time I dropped my cell phone in one, not to mention another unpleasant experience including a
poorly up kept porto-potty. I am kind to everyone and I treat everybody with respect because I hate people that do not. I hate the words, secrete, excrete, slippery. I take a pill each day because if I don’t, I become a socially awkward, easy-to-anger maniac. I don’t like people touching my feet, nor do I like feet in general. I find them to be awkward-looking and somewhat gross. I do not put on socks unless both of my socks are matching. If I can’t find a matching pair of socks, I do not wear socks. I like to call myself, “the grammar nazi” because when people use poor grammar it makes me want to gouge out their eyes. I am morbidly terrified of the dark, and every time I watch a scary movie, that fear is exacerbated. For no apparent reason, I love getting my ears pierced. I can’t really put my finger on why, but the excitement of having a new hole in my ear always gets the best of me. Thus, I have had a total of nine piercings in my ears. During my life, I have achieved many things of which I am proud of. For example, I once jumped 1,124 times on a pogo stick with no breaks. But, that doesn’t even come close to summing up the amount of things I take pride in. The summer before eighth grade, my softball team won state and I earned the game ball, due to my outstanding pitching performance. I have hit numerous home runs as well. Though I have recently chosen to close the softball chapter of my life and focus on my future, a lot of what has formed my identity is softball, and that will always be a part of me. It will always have a place in the back of my mind, and will always bring a little smile to my face. During the crazy times of my life – and even the dull moments, I have always had those people whom I could always fall back on. My friends don’t really define who I am, because I do not identify with just one group of friends. I guess you could say I kind of jump around. My family, however, is my whole life. A lot of people might see me as, “Larry Ethell’s daughter” or “Kim Snelson’s granddaughter, or maybe “Rachel Ethell’s older sister.” But that’s all they know. They don’t really understand how unusually close my family is and how weird we are. But they are a part of me. They helped shape me into who I am today. Hell, I have their DNA in my blood. Now I am going to zoom out. My characteristics and tendencies are only a tiny, microscopic segment of the world, the speck of dust that resides among the millions of others. In reality, I am just a human. I’m not out to save the world, or make a difference – I’m here for the experiences that shape my identity because eventually, I will just be a part of the earth.
23 | Ramshackle 2012
He was born to be a Writer - By Madi Chicoine “I love how writing allows you to release the creative juices inside of you.” Junior David Gjersivik has been writing since he was able to hold a pencil. While he doesn’t plan on pursuing a career in writing, it is one of his passions. Gjersivik explores his writing in various essays and short fiction pieces that he writes. He likes the shorter works because of all the ideas that can be fit into that one small piece. However, he didn’t always focus on those types of writing. “I started out with poetry but switched in junior high because classes required more essay type writing. But I ended up
liking it.” To supplement his outside writing, Gjersivik has also taken English Connections, Comp. I, Communications, Pop Fiction, Creative Writing, and AP Comp. Gjersivik gets his inspiration from one of his favorite authors, J.R.R. Tolkien. “I like him because he creates his own world, but unlike other authors, he takes it to the next level. For instance, his books have their own history and language.” He also writes from past experiences and what he calls “creativeness.” Along with that, Gjersivik is looking forward to college life and writing about what that is like.
24 | Ramshackle 2012
“My favorite thing about writing is the emotional release of just letting your voice be free. I also love when something I write turns out really well and I am able to get good feedback from others.” Writing is something that he plans on continuing the rest of his life. Some advice that Gjersivik wants to give to others who aspire to write is to “just start writing, put pencil on paper. Whenever I have ‘writer’s block’ I find that just spurring out sentences that relate to what you’re trying to write about helps to get you going.”
David Gjersivik Photo by Madi Chicoine
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