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Dear Reader, Welcome to the first 2017-2018 issue of The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine. This magazine has been serving as an avenue for creativity and imagination for students of the Mitty community for the past four years, and we are excited to share this new edition with you. The uniqueness of every student’s mind shines brightly through these selections of poetry, prose, artwork, and other ingenious creations. We hope you enter these pages with an open mind and that you find a sense of solace and inspiration with the words they contain. We wish that after you have enveloped yourself in all this magazine has to offer, you hear the light whisper of the muse in your ear.
Want to be featured in the next edition? The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine will be accepting entries for the next issue (Volume 4, Edition 2) in the spring. Please refer to the MyMitty page under “Clubs” regarding the submission process of poetry, prose, art, six-word-stories, jokes, and memoirs for the chance to be published in the AMHS literary magazine.
The following written works are the intellectual property of Archbishop Mitty students. All ownership rights reserved.
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Letter from the Editors Writing, in its purest form, is the champion of self-expression. Whether through poetry, prose, or even the art that accompanies these pieces, there is a celebration of the individual that we are proud to showcase in this magazine. Now more than ever, it is critical to encourage the pursuit of authenticity and soul-searching, and we are proud to promote that here. This collection is truly representative of the Mitty community: diverse, passionate, and unapologetically raw. We are incredibly grateful to all the contributors whose intimately personal art will move and inspire, and we thank them for their openness and willingness to be part of this experience. When we write, we are given the unique ability to see from other perspectives, understanding lives and experiences that are not our own through a medium different from everyday interactions and conversation. We have the rare opportunity to hear a completely honest self-examination from these authors and poets and artists, ordinary people who we pass in the halls each day, allowing us into their most inner thoughts. Let us listen to what each of them has to say in the hope that through these works we may gain a new understanding of what each of us carries, celebrates, takes pride in, and lives for. As you read each page, we encourage you to allow yourself to truly immerse yourself in what they have created and bask in your ability to connect in a pure and personal way with each piece. Each poem, essay, memoir, photo, or drawing is a reflection of what we are truly passionate about and what draws us into life – that which gives meaning and purpose to our actions, and ultimately, our identities. Through the pages of The Muse: AMHS Literary Magazine, we hope that you can experience this celebration of self-expression and honesty with an open-minded gratitude to all the contributors. Our stories allow us to connect with one another and examine our own lives more deeply. We hope you enjoy the art these students have created and fully appreciate what they have to offer. -- Editors of The Muse
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Table of Contents Title/Author
Page
Privilege- Meraf Sergoalem………………………………………………………..........6 Bad Kids on Christmas- Paige Rosckes…………………………………………………7 Fashion- Emily Ordoñez………………………………………………………………...7 I Want to Cry- Jennifer McDonald………………………………………………..…….8 peak- Sydney Hwang………………………………………………………………..…..9 Sycamore Leaves Rain Over My Car- Ella Garfunkel……………….………………...10 She is the rain.- Amelia Flatley………………………………………………...……….11 Black Gold- Bailey Phoneix…………………………………………………….……...12 For Anna- Audrey Wolfe………………………………………….……………………13 Dream Room 105- Lauren Vu……………………………..…………………………...14 Carolyn- Taytianna Leggett………………………………...…………………………..15 the line that meets you and i- Anika Nguyen…………………………...………………17 Oasis- Aileen Pulchny……………………………………………………..……………18 Scream- Joanne Park……………………………………………………...……………..19 Real- Danielle Slaughter……………………………………………..………………….20 Autumn- Julianne Glahn………………………………………………….……………..21 Brain dump-Keili Fitzgerald…………………………………………………………….22 evening thoughts- Keili Fitzgerald……………………………………………………….23 Windows- Yusra Arab……………………………………………………………………24 Survivor- Paola Moreno………………………………………...………………………..26 The Liberty of Imagination- Khanh Tran……………………………..………………….30 Stay- Priya Vasu………………………………………………………..…………………33 The Tree and Its Season- Megan Paparotti……………………………..…...……………35 Journey- Param Patel………………………………………………………….…………..36 Stuck- Katrina Mancio………………………………………………………....………….37 libertad de expression- Maria Apodeca……………………………………………….......38 on unreturned love- Isabel Newcomb……………………………………………………..40 backwards- Jassen Yep………………………………………………………...………….41 ethereal nature morning shows- Christa Rios………………………………..……………42 vice- Mia Lombardo………………………………………………………………………44 Best Friend: Years 1-10- Audrey Wolfe…………………………………………....……..45 A Pond(erous) Thought- Jassen Yep…………………………………………....…………46 Untitled- Deepa Marti………………………………………………………...……………47 Standard Procedure- Maureen Mailhot…………………………………...………………..48 Jaded- Lauren Vu………………………………………………….......……………………49 i wanna go to so many places- Helen Deng ……………………….....…………………….50 The Haiku for Lefties- Audrey Durham…………………………...……………………….50 This I Believe- Bailey Phoneix………………………………..……………………………51 Why Did You Have to Go?- Salem Dimes………………..………………………………..52 Lights in the Darkness- Kajal Patel……………………………………………….......…….53 Untitled [prose]- Maya Raman…………………………………………………...…………55 6 Word Stories- Iskyas Amare, Priyal Patel, Bailey Phoenix, Christa Rios, Priya Vasu, Vivian Volpe………………………………………………………………………………………...56
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Keili Fitzgerald ‘19 "Privilege" Meraf Sergoalem ‘21 What is privilege? Maybe it's based on the color of your skin Or maybe it's how the hardworking people don't earn as much as the idle. Perhaps it's getting the job because you look a certain way. Does it have to do with your gender? What if it's receiving the higher ladder for an easy climb to the top. Or is it getting to pick a path to walk down that has less obstacles in your way. Is it a lottery that you're born into and only a handful get lucky? So, what really is privilege? I don't know, I can't really answer that. But I do know that privilege exists. And if you are one of the few people who think it doesn't, You are probably a living definition of it.
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Bad Kids on Christmas Paige Rosckes ‘21 We wake in the morning filled with glee That Christmas has arrived and we can just see The ground is plastered with a blanket of snow While our minds only think of gifts of gold We race to the tall sturdy tree Waiting for us to kneel on our knees As we open each gift one at a time Our minds are overwhelmed with so many lies We were expecting so much more But we forgot that we are just too poor. Then in the corner of the room, our eyes filled with hope That Santa Claus might have brought something wonderful As we ripped open the sparkling wrapping paper Our thoughts were pondering the possibilities of iPhones and more We finally untied the magical ribbon at once And pulled out a bag of mushy black coal
Fashion Emily Ordoñez ‘19 Two guys saunter into the room Both wearing black bomber jackets One stops to talk to a friend Who is wearing a red sweater Underneath his black bomber jacket
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I Want to Cry Jennifer McDonald ‘20 I want to cry, I do. I want to cry just for you. Because I did this. I took you away, no happiness. Such a guilty conscience. You were brave and dauntless, But I needed to take you away, There’s no way we could have stayed, And I couldn't just leave you there, Since the end would soon be near.
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peak Sydney Hwang ‘19 two months later, i found it in the back of my drawer. the paper was worn, pencil faded and the words spoke to me in her rose perfume i thumbed the corner of the page, debating whether those words were still mine; or some little gut piece, wedged somewhere between my limbs like two, two, three. my will, beating against its cage of Sisyphus, pushed the paper, down once more.
Mia Melo ‘20
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Sycamore Leaves Rain Over My Car Ella Garfunkel ‘18
Sycamore leaves rain Over my car As I pull onto my street The lighting is uneven Bleeding through Holes in the clouds and the branches Mottled leaves fly up my windshield like snowflakes When I park I open the door and stay seated So I can have a moment To feel and hear the wind
Priya Vasu ‘19
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She is the rain. Amelia Flatley ‘20 She is the rain. The frozen flakes that fall in winter, reminding me even when everything is silent, and life is still, and footsteps are gone, and everything is coated in the erie solitude of desolation, that’s reminds me there is beauty in pain. And she is the rain that saves me. When the heat is unbearable, when even the weather is overwhelmingly terrible, and when storm clouds threaten to overtake all skies, she is there to nourish dry ground back to health, and protect the life that relies on her to thrive. And she is the ocean. She is the waves that have tossed me from my life boat, and she was the waves that have pushed me down, threatening to drown me when I breathed for air, and she is the tides that pull me back out to sea, as I desperately try to get away. The water that pulls me back forces me down, and when I think I’ll drown it forces me to look around, and makes me see the danger in the eyes of every storm but protects me, guides me back safely, and makes sure that I will be safe as long as I’m near. And through it all, she is there. She is my rain. She is my storm, And she is my snow.
Sisley Morishige ‘19
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Black Gold Bailey Phoenix ‘20
Her skin has been kissed by the sun And it glows with the color of the earth She is beautiful But society doesn't want her to know Her big round lips and gorgeous nose Are framed by a halo of dark curls She is beautiful But society doesn't want her to know Curves shaped by the rivers of her land Make up her magnificent body She is beautiful But society doesn't want her to know
Bailey Phoneix ‘20
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For Anna Audrey Wolfe ‘18 I imagine how you would love to be a part of a poem in this moving yet immovable form water like, in the glass I choose to put you in If everything brittle in the world were to melt away you would be your laugh malleable and soft you would be movement pulling letters from my throat asking me why I am restless I see you at your most free: you are spinning in the rain on a Tuesday, wrapping words around every part of your body gripping my wrist, sugar spun into cotton candy fluid no matter if you are moving rapidly or gliding You do not sit in a chrysalis of pleasures hoping to stay sheltered against harsh winds you are balletic feeling each pocket of melancholy breathing in each moment thick with joy not a leaf but a bird not a bird but a song not a song but its sound You are singing laughing speaking asking being
Hannah Cheng ‘20
you are watching, noticing strangers’ eyes you are yelling and trying and failing and trying I can only capture shots of you you’re spinning too fast, moving constantly floating away, changing form I am holding a cup hoping to capture the entire
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Dream Room 105 Lauren Vu ‘21
There was something magical about that room. Everyone could feel it. Maybe it was the technicolor love that radiated from the walls, or the laughter reverberating around the room. It could have also been the students milling around, passing the time leftover during lunch or after school. It was all of these things, yes, but it was more. If the whole world could fit into a couple square meters of space, it was there. Different kinds of people from different kinds of places Art from different peoples and several different places Talk of imminent issues that separate the nation Galvanizing them to stop and start facing The problems people encounter we don’t exactly see But see That’s the problem But there That’s where it gets real Spreading awareness like a wildfire Is the only way to conspire Against the evil in the world And to not turn a blind eye to the unmistaken oppression Sisley Morishige ‘19 or making the misconception to forget about the love And to hope with all our hearts that all the disaster will get better Where all the different people Of all the different races From all the different places Have what they need To live In love But how could all that be encompassed in a single room? Maybe it was the smiles that were passed. Maybe the hands that gave support, the hearts that reached out. The memories built inside its multicolored walls. The genuine rivers of tears that fell when it was time to say goodbye. It was all of these things, yes, but so much more. Now I’m scared to go back. Some of the others did. They said the walls were stripped bare of their bright colors covered with words and art. No inspiration, no hope, no love. I fear that returning will erase every memory I have of it and the memories I created there, and every feeling that I get when I merely hear its name. I fear that every memory I have of it will disappear and my heart will become as blank as the walls.
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Carolyn Taytianna Leggett ‘18 A black-haired child with a dark complexion She was a unique bird with glorious feathers Each feather delicately placed on her smooth skin If she had been from another time, in another place, in a fortunate place Her innocent eyes would never be so clouded She wondered why her father was so distant Wondered why there were strangers in her home Wondered why they did not have enough to eat Why her mother was not a bit more loving When she got older she was as glorious and beautiful as she was as a child Her eyes showed hope and purpose She was determined and powerful She flew with grace and pride The shadows of her past would follow her through life Her children then began to wonder the same things that she had as a child Why their father was so distant Why they barely got to meet him Wondered why there were strangers in their home Wondered why they did not have enough to eat It was not her fault, she thought. She was trying to fly, she thought. She turned to bottles and empty loves She wanted to know what it was like to feel love But love hurt and it was violent and empty She felt beat down and lost Seeing her demons from fantasies and thinking them to be her truths She did not know that this would prevent her from flying One more cigarette One more bottle One more love In the reflection of the bottle, were her battered wings Fractured and broken, without hope In her sorrow was light, she thought. She was right. Her granddaughter adored her and loved her She taught her what beautiful wings looked like She taught her how to fly When she passed, Her sorrows,
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Her hurt, Seemed to follow those close She deserved to see the sky And in her death Her glorious feathered wings repaired Beautiful wings Each feather delicately placed on her smooth skin
Priya Vasu ‘19
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the line that meets you and i Anika Nguyen ‘20 It was you and I, together against life itself. War broke loose, and we tried to pick up its pieces for our own wealth. Once the sun had set, we drove around together in a vintage Mercedes, I rode shotgun while you picked up the car keys. We stopped at a place that felt somewhat familiar. It was a spacious but quaint place by which we began to feel peculiar. All the time in the 9world paused at this strange place, But it began to rewind backwards to when you were just a mere basket case. You sat at a curb, dipping your tongue in a bag of chips. I liked to play around with toy engines and Barbie dolls and ships. But, I had given up my recess to join you in your quietness, And the odds were that it had given me all its bliss. I wanted to go back to then, Life already took its toll. You and I had grown up, With all of life’s control. We grew up together, not speaking a word. You were a strange yet familiar place, but you seemed so absurd. So we chased our own ambition, running further away from our own destinies. But I had stopped to look back, and you were just another memory.
Gabrielle Rivera ‘19
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Oasis Aileen Pulchny ‘19 Where the sun rises quickly and sets ever slowly Where the stars stare, and wink ever-knowingly Where the sky is soft and the sand is brittle Once you’ve left, you'll miss it a little An oasis quenches even the wildest fire And takes your drooping spirits, lifts them higher So sadly, soon the real world calls, it beckons So you depart, but your mind could return in seconds To where thoughts are spoken in the breeze And words could climb higher than the trees Three hours whisked away in three seconds: a laugh And three years spent, cut almost by half Salty ground crunches beneath leather feet And hands touch a sky where earth and heaven meet Deep chasms swirl below but make little noise Neglect a near future, forget about poise But wind sweeps the sea to a crashing wave And sudden currents of ice leave dreams to save As to the surface bobs the bright of reality Come back, go back to sleep, whispers nobody Returning to thought is an Antarctic storm Pulling you out from the comfort and warm Yield a shining mask of unbendable steel No one will pinch you to check if you're real A ghost may as well be haunting the halls Leaning on walls, maimed by the wake up calls But a revitalized spirit sings from within Clearly and clean as a sweet mandolin
Sisley Morishige ‘19
Heartbeats are only heard from inside Because the truest feelings deep down will hide And no one may see them, the beautiful places That your mind could conjure within your oasis
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Scream Joanne Park ‘20 Stop suppressing your anger Your emotions must speak And rampage And take over And roar Keep yelling, keep fighting Because without anger There’s no change And without change The world stays static. Stop suppressing your anger You have a right to scream And stand And fight Don’t deny you were wronged Embrace it Use it Because without anger There’s no justice And without justice The world stays wronged.
Keili Fitzgerald ‘19
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Real Danielle Slaughter ‘21 Elements in life are what make or break us, And it is the elements we choose that determine an effect. We can choose to comply with the artificial, The elements that fake to please. Or we can choose to submit to the real elements; The elements that do not require a change to be full of worth. An element’s prospects are not decided by whether or not it is real or artificial, It is determined by the effect that it has on a human. Humans are what make or break an elements system, And the elements of this system are what make or break humans. The elements of this system are simple; They are all the things in our known world. For example, a phone is an artificial element made to please, And nature is an element that can go unchanged and can still be pleasing. With many elements, a person can easily tell how real or artificial it is, With other people in the world, it is different. Artificial when defining a person is not the same when defining a phone. Artificial, or fake, is why humans can be described in this way. Like every other element of the system, Humans can make or break each other. The more artificial a person, the more that person is not genuine. Real people, on the other hand, do not fake their way through life to please. They do what they want and as they please not caring of others’ opinions; It is these people who are genuine with their acts. In this system, the real and genuine prevails over the artificial and fake; Real and genuine never goes away and lasts forever. Artificial goes away, disappears, and deteriorates over time. Real prevails through its genuine nature and honesty. Artificial tends to satisfy, but only for a limited time. As the world continues to make new artificial objects the real ones remain. So as the world fades and continues to evolve, one thing will remain; The realness in our lives.
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Autumn Julianne Glahn ‘21 There is that time of the year When the morning misses the sun And the air has a crisp, cold, and clear feel to it When the leaves fall, and the trees begin to whisper The sky becomes overcast, with a promise of rain Old dresses, boots and masks litter the floors And skeletons seem to become a strangely popular Decoration? There is that time of the year When the sycamore leaves, smell of cinnamon And turkeys magically vanish Only to appear later on dinner tables When families flock together When a time of stories and apple cider by the fire begins And the old fleece blanket wanders from room to room And then it’s gone Leaving the promise of coming back again to reassure you
Priya Vasu ‘19
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Brain dump Keili Fitzgerald ‘19 Sometimes you draw self-portraits without even realizing it. That’s what I love about art; it flows from your brain in unconscious streams. It creates something beautiful, like its own entity. You have to hold the pen and guide it but you’re not ever fully in control of it. It has its own power and its own ability to express. It warps itself to mean something different for every person. Art heals the wounds that are cut deep into our skin without us realizing it. It heals loneliness and dissatisfaction and depression, all in one. It makes the world beautiful when we think that there’s not much good left out there. My room is covered in the work of other people, in postcards, newspapers, and books. But one day, the walls of others will be covered in my work. In my words, in my pictures, and in my drawings. I have no doubt that I’ll be able to change the world with my work, and that unwavering confidence can sometimes be scary, but I have faith. I’ve always had this self-proclaimed idea that I’m significant to the way the world flows. Ever since I was a kid I’ve expressed that I don’t want to be a waste of space, and as I’ve gotten older, that idea has been further solidified. Who knows, maybe I won’t amount to much, but that doesn’t mean I’m not gonna try to make a name for myself. Not for fame or money, because although those things can be glamorous, they’re not as important as molding the way people think. I want to show people that beauty is everywhere, if one is simply willing to look for it.
Keili Fitzgerald ‘19
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evening thoughts Keili Fitzgerald ‘19 I believe that the sun and the moon have powerful energies, and not just because they give us the light and warmth we need to survive, but because they release vibrations unlike any other heavenly body, even stronger than the stars. As I sat on the warm sand of the beach, I looked past my best friend into the big, cloudless, blue sky and noticed a small, white crescent, hardly visible, but very much there, above us. The sun and the moon both lived together in the sky in perfect harmony, balancing out each other's presence. Those two beings, combined with the powerful current of the ocean, created a net of vibrations that was very much cyclical. I feel recharged with the powers that mother nature has to offer, and wholeheartedly presented to us in those moments. It’s a beautiful, harmonious relationship. Each of these things, the sun, the moon, and the ocean, are bound together by a force that also holds together our fates. My fate is connected to the apple tree that grew in my yard as a child, and it’s also connected to the papers upon which I draw and write and the fate of every person I’ve ever had a conversation or interaction with. It’s a complicated connection, but one that makes perfect sense if you really think about it. Our destinies are all connected by an invisible string that ties us to the rest of the universe. As we breathe in each moment, we’re breathing in molecules that were once inhaled and exhaled by the greats; Matisse and Plato and Einstein and Van Gogh and every other revolutionary to ever cross the face of the earth. But before any of these particles were brought into the lungs of a human or the cells of a plant, they touched the sun and the moon and the stars. Our whole universe is connected by fate. All of our destinies are intertwined.
Priya Vasu ‘19
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Windows Yusra Arab ‘19 Our windows were only a couple of feet away from each other, separated by an old wooden fence that was tall enough to allow one of us to catch a glimpse of a ceiling or the shadow of our heads. My window was usually open during the day, blinds pulled aside to reveal a net that kept flies and moths from entering my room. Sounds drifted their way in and out as they pleased—sneezes, quarrels, and laughter. The only thing I really knew her by was her sharp directions at her dog to stay quiet or the loud talking from her poolside when her friends came over. And then, one afternoon, I saw—from behind my netted window through hers—a figure reach up towards a ceiling fan to open it. There was a face to the sounds, the movements, but no name, no other way of identifying her. Who else lived in that house besides her and the dogs? I wondered. She had loud guests over the day my brother and I were pointlessly arguing. I don’t care if they hear!” I had retorted angrily when he told me to lower my voice. But now I always find myself wondering— what does she hear? See? Think? From what I heard across our fence, her summer was mostly silent, except on the 4th of July party. Her summer was covered by the same morning and night, except for the evenings, when fairy lights glistened through her flower trellis and floodlights spread on my backyard lawn. My summer was loud, when my siblings and I quarreled or joked, and then broken by silence when we absorbed ourselves in books. Priya Vasu ‘19 My summer was a dimly lit living room because of the bed sheets we taped onto the glass backyard door to block out the intense heat and to cool the space inside. My summer was two days in Arizona and then back to the corner table, where I did summer homework. With each hurriedly written answer,
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wrong question, and wasted second, the sun set and the night fell. The same sunset that she saw through her own window. Would I want to see my life through her window? Was her perspective of my life over-exaggerated, underwhelming, or just right? Right now, I’m not sure what I want her to see through that window. She only sees what she hears—my silence when I’m not in the room, or my exasperated sighs when I’m studying in the room. All my struggles and ambitions go unnoticed by her. If I was crying, she would hear the sobs, but she would never know the reason why. For some reason, I want her to know everything, to understand me and why I was crying or why I was laughing. But she can’t know that, because of the window, the fence, and that’s frustrating. In some ways, a window is good. If there was no window, she would have stopped me from procrastinating with a condescending look, humiliating me into returning to my tasks. She would have stopped me and my brother from fighting, embarrassing us and causing us to lock in our frustration. But because of the window, she’s powerless, yet powerful because she can see and hear everything, and perceive it the way she wants. As social animals, most of us have a constant need to be understood. Yet with society constantly telling us what to feel and think, we’re prevented from openly communicating our thoughts and emotions, leading to an unhappy, unhealthy lifestyle. Sure, privacy is a great thing, it’s a privilege that every person on this planet deserves. But sometimes it’s okay to let your guard down and change your perspective. You don’t always have to view yourself or others through one lens, your lens. You don’t always have to look through the same window.
Wylie Mia Merritt ‘19
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Survivor Paola Moreno ‘19 Dear Diary, Looking back at my life at the age of 39 allows me to really see all the knicks and knacks of imperfection that have surrounded my being. I did not grow up with the privileged life that so many people nowadays take for granted; people nowadays don’t have the overshadowing fear of unsafeness in a neighborhood, of being raped right then and there, or have to witness a bomb exploding at their feet. Most importantly, I was deprived of the freedom to chase my dreams. Especially being a woman, the best possible outcome was getting married and having kids. Don’t get me wrong, I craved those things too. But, I refuse to have my story, the story of an Eritrean woman named Senait, be told as a pitiful one. I always considered myself “a big dreamer, and even the saddest place I could make into a flower.” So, here lies not my tragic story looking for sympathy, but one that describes a survivor. Life in Eritrea, an African country that borders Sudan and Ethiopia, as a little girl was the most beautiful thing. There was an abundance of nature and every kind of tree imaginable. My favorite were always the palm trees because they stood sturdy and ruffled in the wind. And, rain or shine, the colossal mountains never failed to take my breath away. However, the most special thing about my surroundings were the colorful people that populated it. We didn’t have any police or firefighters, which meant that everyone in the community had to protect each other. We all had each other’s backs. It really was a place with nothing, but, as little as the people had, it felt like we had everything, because we had each other. “They could have nothing to eat, and nothing to drink, but they were grateful”; everyone showed gratitude. As much as I blind myself with the allure of my hometown, my mind will never let me erase the violence and conflict that devoured it as well. Eritrea was a place controlled by the government and militia. The military men would watch me with corrupt eyes as I innocently walked to nearby supermarkets to buy bread. Growing up in a war zone, I was constantly disturbed
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by the gentle whines of grown soldiers crying. It made me feel sick to my stomach. They were fighting in a war that they did not stand by or believe in, and all I could do was watch. I do have to give these experiences some credit though, as they are what first instilled in me the idea of becoming a nurse. I yearned for the ability to help people, to help those broken soldiers. I just did not really know what that meant quite yet. I never shared my dreams, my hopes, my aspirations with anyone. Even from a young age “I knew my mother would view these things as threats.” After all, my father abandoned her along with all eight of us and fled to America to marry and have a second round of children. He escaped our town and my mother went ballistic every time she thought I had strong enough dreams to leave her as well. I had dreams to chase. “I didn’t know how but I always prayed to God that He would take me out of that place.” I knew in my mind that I would escape Eritrea eventually, for I had far too many dreams to remain trapped in a place with a victim mentality. I was not a victim. I received a phone call from my father at the age of 13. I remember that conversation like it was yesterday. It was my first time hearing his voice and all I did was listen to his deep, thick accent. He called to tell me that he applied for my U.S. residency, as well as two of my older brothers. Nobody told me at the time, but we were basically smuggled out of the country. My dad went as far as to change my age on the submitted application. He was a smart man, and although I wanted to resent him for leaving the family all those years ago, I only felt gratitude for him remembering me. I knew my mother would similarly perceive the urgency of my fleeing, even if it hurt her to let me go. I came to America with a new sense of self and a drive for starting my life over. Being torn apart from the rest of my family at the age of 16 is something I hope my kids never have to go through. In America, I could barely put two words together in English and had no one to talk to. My mother and the rest of my siblings had not received the opportunity of coming to America yet, and my father, as much as he had tried to remove the gap between us, was never able to. I felt utterly alone. I started to take my faith to a deeper level to comfort myself. In Eritrea, many people were Christians, like me, or
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took part in the Islam religion. The religions lived in unity. Back home “nobody could survive in an environment like Eritrea without something to believe in, or something bigger than what they saw on an everyday basis.� I found peace and serenity in reading the Bible, praying and attending church. Likewise, I started to read more books as they allowed me to truly understand myself, and what I loved. Often, I would sit on my porch under the dim sunlight and immerse myself in the story of a life other than my own. Reflecting, I feel fulfilled and happy to admit that that is how I view the life that I have set up for myself here in America. A good book. Going to work every day and being able to nurse soldiers of the United States military to health is like reading a good book that I never want to put down. I am healing military men just like the ones I hoped to help when I was a young girl in Eritrea; life has a funny way of coming around full circle.
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It is my absolute dream job and I take pride in knowing that a girl from a small city in Eritrea who barely spoke a lick of English was able to get a medical degree at an American university. I know that in my hometown my education probably would have ended at age 8. I view my education as my most prized accomplishment. My education is what truly allows me to enjoy my husband and children and grasp an understanding of their needs. God has blessed me with a wonderful man who I am slowly teaching to put down the bourbon, and two beautiful children, ones that require special attention. Having an alcohol-abusing husband, a blind son and a chronically ill daughter inspires me and teaches me to become a stronger person. And, my upbringing definitely aids me in putting uncontrollable things into perspective. I view my life as a privilege. I do not believe anything in my life was handed to me on a silver platter or placed in my lap. I fought for my dreams, my education, and my family, and in return I received everything that I have ever hoped for. My younger self would think that I’m lying. But, I’m not finished growing as a person. I believe that people are always working towards something and that there is always something more to aspire towards. My journey does not end here, this is merely a checkpoint. Love, Senait
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The Liberty of Imagination Khanh Tran ‘20 From my earliest memories of Vietnam, life was never about what I didn’t have— it was always about what I did. And I had a family: a bond of love, as trite as it may sound, that transcended the material struggles that may have defined our lives for the worse. While we were restricted by the poverty that permeated the lives of most, I felt like I had the relative freedom to make happiness for myself. This all changed when the Việt Cộng regime came to power. As a child at the raw age of ten, hardly understanding the word ‘politics,’ the communist system became my “monster under the bed,” picking off my relatives for reasons I wouldn’t comprehend until much later in life. This invisible force, always under the bed, somehow cast an oppressive shadow over my entire life. Despite having passion for the sciences from the moment I learned to crack open a radio from sheer curiosity, I had no options to earn a degree, become an engineer, or pursue a future where I could be happy. As a child, this lack of a future is damaging: for in young, technicolored eyes, the world is rich, alight with opportunity in every direction and as far as the imagination will stretch. This shadow stole my brilliant hues away, painting the future as dull as the forest-green militant caps that grew more common by the day. After twelve years of oppression under the regime, my family had decided that we would no longer allow the government to curate our lives. My mother, younger brother, and I acquired a coveted spot on a refugee ship to the Philippines, and finally, to a land as fabled as Canaan: the United States of America. It was a beacon of life for hundreds of people, all clamoring and screaming to board a vessel fit for 78. My mother was climbing on with one arm and a leg on the rim of the wooden hull when the boat began its abrupt departure. The government will come soon, they said. And with her new life slipping through her fingers with each lurch of the boat’s engine, tragedy struck: my mother fell into the sea and with her any remaining rations and medicine. The rolling, angry ocean seemed to swallow her, the protest for human life proving futile against a current as indifferent as Việt Cộng. In a mere second, my mother--the woman “who had made a life of poverty seem larger than life itself”—was gone. Poof. The salty ocean air, mingling dangerously with the lingering smell of my mother’s perfume, stung teary, blinded eyes as I clung white-knuckled to my eleven-year-old brother. Of the days following, I remember only the stench of unwashed bodies, the sight of emaciated faces, and the constant drumming of the ship’s motor in my ear. The endless chugging seemed awfully futile—for, although I saw the trail of white foam left in our ship’s wake and felt the salted air whipping my face, I felt as if we weren’t moving at all. The surrounding green-gray waters seemed to pour to the edges of the world—which, for me at the time, seemed hopelessly vast. In the face of the world, raw and without the human façade of control, I felt insignificant. Feelings that had burgeoned inside of me the moment the regime had torn my life’s fabric to shreds exploded into shrapnel, piercing my young and heavy heart.
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Priya Vasu ‘19
The six-day journey came to a welcome end when I saw birds on the horizon. These simple scavengers, an often-ignored feature of daily living, signaled the glorious beginnings of new life. The sight of glistening seagull wings gave way to the sight of the Filipino flag: the colors of red, white, blue, and yellow welcoming us to a new home. Though there was a language barrier between locals and refugees, the sentiment of universal belonging was shared regardless. Pure, loving human touch—a feeling that had grown all too foreign following the separation of my family—came upon me once again. “The grasping of hands and the warm embraces from a nation I had heard of only through word of mouth made me feel . . . important after feeling insignificant for so long.” More than the nourishment of physical needs, the treatment of the Filipino people quenched a spiritual thirst, an insatiable desire for the basic human liberties we were deprived of in our former home. That is not to say, however, that the physical provisions were not of great importance. The Filipino Society of St. Paul nourished the beaten and broken refugees back to health, filled our stomachs, and made sure that all other basic needs were taken care of—including an education in which I met lifelong mentor, Sister Clarita. “If I had to summarize this woman’s significance in my life’s story, I’d simply say that she taught me to overcome my monsters and take back my freedom.” After having the brilliant hues of hope and belief stolen by my childhood, Sister Clarita brought back into my life the colors with which I could paint the world. As a schoolteacher, Clarita would often sit refugees, young and old, in a ragged semicircle for stories—stories that came not from glossy pages of gossamer worlds, but from the messy, primal, and beautiful reality of life. And though we always began in a misshapen semicircle, we would inevitably press into the center: our sunken eyes wide and eager ears hungry for the triumphant stories of refugees which read like fantasy. Jennifer McDonald ‘19
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Mai, one particular refugee whose story Sister Clarita particularly favored, escaped the jail of her homeland and sought refuge in the distant lands of the Americas. Left without borne advantages of extended family, familiarity with the English language, or financial assets, Mai worked asewing job for a-dollar-a-day and took ESL classes at community college by night. But, despite these common hardships, this fellow refugee persevered, attending Boston University and pursuing a career in engineering. Unlike the typical, one-dimensional stories of triumph, these relatable tales of heroism acknowledged the unjust struggles life’s circumstance have put me in--but, just as well, showed me that I don’t have to submit to the challenges I’ve been born into. And in that very moment, with Mai’s words swirling in my mind with the force of a thousand regimes, I, too, vowed to take a sip of the milk and honey that flowed from modern-day Canaan. I first kissed the air of my promised land on August 20th, 1988. It was more than a physical immigration to new land: it was, rather, an emotional pilgrimage to the longuntouched realm of my childhood. For in the first dawn of my new life, I attained that which I had lusted for—that which I might have died for—from the day I sacrificed my culture, my youth, my innocence. It was a yearning for the building blocks to my own life that had ached my heart for two decades and painted my utopia in red, white, and blue: “and though I had not yet articulated, nor realized, it, I had achieved my American Dream.” For me, the Dream was never about material prosperity or rags-to-riches success. Anything I could ever want in America—in life—was waiting in the terminal gates. Everything was awash in the young light of dawn, dispelling the shadows of my childhood and painting the weathered faces of my relatives in the richest pinks, oranges, and yellows I’ve ever seen. In the smiling, wrinkle-etched faces of the family separated by seventeen years no longer, and in a world once again open to the reckless colors of my imagination, the American Dream—a repressed, primal yearning for the truest freedom of life without limits—set my heart ablaze at last . . . For I know there is no return to the bittersweet memories of childhood: of the steam rising from home-cooked noodles, or the fragrance of the summer blossoms behind my home in Saigon. “I can only move forward, and in that, I have found courage. And in making my own happiness, with whatever the future gives me, I have found freedom.”
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Stay Priya Vasu ‘19 “RYLA is not your average leadership camp. You were all selected and sponsored to be here down in lovely Scotts Valley. We ask that you make the most of your experience. Remember, anything can happen if you believe in the magic of RYLA. Now give it up for Bob the Magician, presenting ‘The Magic of RYLA’!” “Hello RYLA campers! My name is Bob, and I’m a magician. I have been doing magic for about twenty years now. I hope you enjoy my tricks, and remember, believe in the REAL magic of RYLA!” The magic show ended up being pretty cool. But I wasn’t sure if what the staff members were saying would be true. Little did I know that I would experience it first-hand later that following day. I was in the shower right before it happened. For sleeping arrangements, we were split up into rooms of five girls each. My room had Rachel*, Melina, Iona, and Sarah. However, the girls from the other rooms would visit us and vice versa. Tonight one of the girls named Ashley visited us. I stepped out of the shower when I heard voices. “I’m gay. I’ve never told anyone this before, but I don’t know, for some reason I felt comfortable telling you guys. My parents are really conservative and I would get kicked out if they found out. I don't know what to do,” said Ashley. “Keep it a secret. For now. You can come out to them, but do it after college. Your life is more important. But honestly, this is your decision and what I’m saying is just a suggestion,” Rachel replied. Rachel gave more advice to Ashley. But I was still very surprised at what just happened. It was only the second day, and people had begun to let their guard down. It showed me what an accepting environment this was, and I was grateful. Fast forward to Wednesday night. It was a pitch-black night as we silently trudged up the hill single-file. No one knew what was going on and everyone was slightly confused. We trusted the counselors however and ended up in an outdoor amphitheatre surrounded by a small forest. Still not allowed to make noise, we sat down on the damp wooden benches. “Everyone, please close your eyes and do not open them until we tell you to do so.” I shut my eyes. “We are going to tell you a story about…” My thoughts drowned out their words. The week was going by so fast and I was not ready to face reality when camp was over. RYLA was a bubble of acceptance and love. I felt safe and was able to project my true self to complete strangers. The wall that had once perpetually surrounded me was now broken, and I was vulnerable. “...can’t shine without darkness...” Suddenly, I felt droplets of water on my face and arms. “Go ahead and open your eyes!” I opened my eyes. Surrounding me was a sea of luminescent stars— at least that’s what it looked like upon
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first glance. The water turned out to be glowstick, but everyone including me was covered head-to-toe in “stars.� To any outsider, what just happened might seem odd or lame. But to me it crystallized who I was and how I had grown through the past week. I had learned to be a more accepting and positive person, and I also learned that everyone is facing their own challenges. By listening to the struggles of my fellow peers and putting our differences aside, I was able to empathize with them. But ultimately, being present and in the moment was what really grounded me; I put all my previous worries aside in order to get the full experience. I truly am the person I am today due to the immense selfgrowth I underwent during one of the most important weeks of my life. *Names edited to protect identity.
Keili Fitzgerald ‘20
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The Tree and Its Season Megan Paparotti ‘21 The tree with green leaves and blossoming fruits Gets along with spring winds and roots When spring showers bring beautiful flowers It grants the tree magical powers But with these powers come effects Nevertheless, summer is there to reconnect But when the tree withers, yellows, and browns Winter comes around and gives it a crown A blanket of soft snow and glistening icicles Soon the seasons start to frown And Summer gets its shot Fall brings cold thoughts While Winter starts to pout It goes on for far too long Yet the tree will always be there standing strong Awaiting the season's shout
Priya Vasu ‘19
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Journey Param Patel ‘21
We all said we will follow our dreams, we haven’t The thought of fame and riches dashed away That seed within us beckoning to grow, idly parched As we grow old, folding up our dreams The reaper approaches, many regrets accompany it It has dawned upon many, to follow their desire Sadly, as the journey ends Some may not have it, others do That accomplished spirit, residual within dreams
Riley Robertson ‘19
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Stuck Katrina Mancio ‘20 I'm completely stuck between the two; Dwelling in the past and avoiding the new. Where does one go from there? Live in the present, the answer must be, But the future is around the corner, And the past is crumbling under my feet. I'm lost in this marvelous adventure called life, Where your birth is the start and death is the finish line. My past mistakes seem to haunt me still But I can't break, not yet, at least not until I travel the world, soar through new heights, Perhaps fall in love, maybe at first sight. But how can I experience each and every one Riley Robertson ‘19 When I'm trapped in my brain and my shoulders are carrying a ton A fifteen-year-old shouldn't be feeling so down They say I'm too young to be wearing such a frown But I'm stuck, I'm stuck, in this quick sand of a mind Drowning in my own thoughts and running out of time.
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libertad de expresión Maria Apodaca ‘20 Immigration is the reason I am right here, right now. You might feel like asking me, “why should I care?” or “how?” Well let me try to sum it up for all of you. There’s this rich love that all humanity shares; believe me, it’s true. It's the reason as a nation we celebrate so many vibrant cultures and incredible people. And yet some of 'em still act like we’re some disgusting bug, a beetle… Love is the reason we find it entertaining to share our stories from the past with one another. Love is the reason we all have the capacity to love each other. Loving so hard our sister and brother. But, sometimes capacity just isn’t enough. Sometimes, we wish we didn’t need to be super tough. We choose who we give our love and care, It shouldn’t be about our color or our hair. Every day on the news we hear of a riot, a strike, vandalism, a shooting. More fires, broken glass, people dying, or looting. The color of our skin does, but should not determine how we are to be treated. Never again should people wait hundreds of years to be free, and— Most importantly— where did our pride go? Where did we hide it when they said no? Our beautiful dialect stopping at the edge of our lips, our shouts of blissful freedom turned into hands on our hips. Since when should it be regulated who I hang out with? You, who try to close my mouth, shut me out like a locksmith? No. Since when should anyone be persecuted for the life they dreamed of living? All those who the whole world on a plate have been given— They are immigrants too. They might even be living lives fuller than yours! They’re building a loving family at home, but still doing your chores. They’re the people that society sees but, well, ignores… I am the people that society sees but ignores. We’re flipped upside down just because of stereotypes and stories that clearly aren’t true. We wish there was a constant source of positivity that we could cling to. We’re told to go back to a country that some have never seen. “Well, don’t you all like to cook and clean?” Haven’t you gotten the clue?
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We’re all just. like. you.
Riley Robertson ‘19
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on unreturned love Isabel Newcomb ‘18 all my life I have never let myself feel comfortable in my own skin the second my heartbeat starts to sound familiar the moment your touch reminds me of home I shed that skin like a winter coat changing habits like the leaves change color my body betrays me as my feet teach my heart escape routes a roadmap for abandoning those who have stayed as I glance up to the tear-stained sky for a breath, I allow my palms to kiss heaven before I leave behind everything I ever let myself love oh god of the empty voicemail inbox oh god of the unlocked back door teach me to walk upon air so that my footprints might not remain upon the hearts of those I have left behind let me slip silently back into the night so by morning they will have forgotten I was ever here
Keili Fitzgerald ‘19
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Grace Wagner ‘20
backwards By Jassen Yep ‘20 siht ,noissecorp dnarg siht ni i ,efil fo hcram layor eripsa ylno nac -egaruoc eht evah otsdrawkcab klaw ot
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ethereal nature morning shows By Christa Rios '21 6:40 a.m. – 10.20.17 – friday as i stepped outside of my cottage, there was barely any sun. i just saw blue-grey shades and spots above. the crystal rain was pouring from the heavens and the sky. even the happy weather wasn't giving a try. flowers were still closed. trees were still sleeping. i felt the chilly, frightening wind crawling and creeping. several clouds were walking in a laggard pace. everything was working with effortless grace. this show was not going well. this scene was boring and not fine. i went back inside my cottage, and crawled back to bed, supine. 8:20 a.m. – 10.20.17 – friday i walked out of my room. i went outside once again. guess what was finally gone? the dreary weather and rain! so, i gazed above at the beautiful aurora-sky. birds greeted one another as they chirped and flew by. the petrichor that spread was a pleasant fragrance. huge trees and colorful flowers
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did an amazing dance. it was too beautiful to watch. was it all a dream? next, the blazing sun stole the show and started to beam. the sun made the sky very aesthetic. it was like crayons melting from heat from its vibrant colors swarming around. its iridescence made my heart skip a beat. soon, all of the colors and the artsy craze calmed down, and they all went away. that was a really captivating show. this scenery was ephemeral, but it made my day. later, the evening ballerinas would perform i would see the luminous stars and the celestial moon. however, i knew these ethereal nature morning shows would come again to my place soon.
Sydney Chancey ‘21
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vice By Mia Lombardo ‘18 my problem is that i idolize my heroes. i look up at their golden faces, aspiring to reach their heights, but all the pedestals i place them on are the same, all carved from the same curved ivory. my heroes fall, as i knew they would, and know they will; lying, cheating, gambling, stealing, betraying, dying simply because it is in our blood to lie, cheat, gamble, steal, betray, and die. some of my heroes lounge in gilded towers that upon closer look are rough pebbles painted over to look debonair, yet others face shadowy demons and monsters, all while a knight’s plumage casts stony shadows over their faces. all of my heroes are not heroes at all, are men that are living but not surviving in this plaguéd land, besieged by fate and tempted by this Golden Apple. my problem is not that i idolize my heroes, but that i pity them.
Priya Vasu ‘19
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Best Friend: Years 1-10 By Audrey Wolfe ‘18 There’s a shade of violet to your voice it sounds like linen the air around me is dishwasher warm and I only smell my childhood banana bread and wet pavement trampoline hesitation and getting blasted by a water rocket up my nose I hold your infant sister and some notion of vocation builds in me we watch the same movie every week for a year and each time I look at you, I’m home
Keili Fitzgerald ‘19
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A Pond(erous) Thought By Jassen Yep ‘20 o l one l eaf f l loating on a qu i et stream, how fa r ha ve you (weary) trave l le d fr om wher e you came?
Grace Hammers ‘21
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Untitled By Deepa Marti ‘19 My spirit, formed from the ocean, drifting along I hear its soft heartbeat against the turmoil of tomorrow I, now surrounded, feel welcomed by the waves I smile at the stars in the sky, just to watch them shoot away The rain beats down, but I find comfort in the darkness of the sky No stars to let me down will be found The warmth of the sun once again surrounds the nation of all While a burst of lightning interrupts, I try my best to stay a constant I know one day the skies will only be white and then it will be fine But, I have no control over tomorrow and can’t help but let the grass grow Drifting along to see what is to come
Sisley Morishige ‘19
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Standard Procedure By Maureen Mailhot ‘19 I want to stand where the borderlines congrue, And that's the greatest difference between me and you. Why am I not allowed to have my own thoughts? Why can't I let my words fly like weightless astronauts? What makes your opinion more valid than mine? It's as if I'm expected to be silent and resign. You constantly have to show off your superiority, As if you're somehow better for having more than me. Oceans to Split, Mountains to Move, "Behold fellow humans, I've got something to prove!" It's my opinion that it's a matter of fact, We're traveling alone down the very same track. Why can't we all live alongside one another, regardless of our type? Maybe one day we will, when the time is ripe.
Keili Fitzgerald ‘19
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Jaded Lauren Vu ‘21 We live in a world, so big and broken Stone cold solitude, of words unspoken Colossal but crumbling People stumbling over the fumbling Of the thoughts rumbling in their minds Humans mirror the superficial smiles refracted upon one another Too blinded by the harsh reality of the cruelty of humanity they crack Breaking the illusion against actuality The shattering cry of millions unfamiliar with belonging Frantically biting onto morsels of false security Devouring the impure loving, hindering their longevity But their teeth are the gateway to their demise The latch of lies people surmise to be true They blame the universe for their own isolation and the deforestation Of their hearts What once was a forest, fresh and flourishing Wilted into an abandoned garden Uncared for and forgotten They grasp for footholds but flail, hanging Searching, seeking Finding peace only by falling deep into the depressing depth of their death Only then are they satisfied But if only you could see The look in their eyes So big So broken
Sisley Morishige ‘19
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i wanna go to so many places Helen Deng ‘21 i wanna go to so many places all at once whirling through them like a thunderstorm experiencing lushly different sensations being able to say, “i was here.” i wanna offhandedly insert big words in conversation as brilliant & intelligent as an educated person ought to be artfully making the most of my mind using it to inspire i wanna be a manic pixie dream girl even though they are seen as frivolous & silly, they live a fulfilled life with the purpose of being all you’ve ever wanted beautiful & charming & worth it i wanna be someone who can win people’s hearts without ever letting them in mine (if that isn’t magic then i don’t know what is) who can let go of insecurities, instead making way for new confidences who can inspire others to become better who can articulately express their soul i am becoming someone. but am i becoming who i want to be?
The Haiku for Lefties Audrey Durham ‘19 Keep on telling me What is right and what is wrong But I’m left hande
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This I Believe Bailey Phoenix ‘19 I believe that It is essential to never give up. Giving up prevents future opportunities That are knocking on the door, Waiting for a chance to come in. It dignifies that you are weak and That you have no will to Persevere and conquer. Love can be found in all places. It is seen in the way he looks at me And in the way he hugs me. It inhabits close friends, Fighting for you through thick and thin. It floats among the wildlife, Nurturing the mind and spirit. Family relationships are important. Your family is the one that will Love and support you. They should and will be Your rock and your base. Don't take advantage of them. The arts are the best way of expression. Without poetry and music, No one would know what thoughts Rip through my head on the daily. Here I can let my true colors Fly without doubt or regret. This I believe.
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Why Did You Have to Go Salem Dimes ‘19 I know that time says it’s near for you to go But please don't, don't leave me all alone All along you cared for me and loved me But I guess this is where you need to be I ask myself every night.... Why did you have to go? You may be gone, however you are still in my heart Although you’re not here, your presence is still warm in my life, like a fresh loaf of bread in the morning Even though, I'm still looking up to the heavens mourning… Why did you have to go? I know that God took you for a reason unknown And that cause I may never know.... Still I continue to pray and beg for you to come home. Why did you have to go?
Priya Vasu ‘19
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Lights in the Darkness By Kajal Patel ‘19 Teachers and children arrived blissfully At Sandy Hook Elementary School, Unaware of the horrors that would unfold. Unexpectedly, the man arrived. His clothes were as black as his soul, His mind was unsaved from evil’s grasp, Step by step he crept through the school, Peering through every window. His bullets spread like wildfire, Leaving wails of despair in his path As he stripped the life, dreams, hope, And innocence of those around him, Especially the children. It was two am at the Pulse nightclub, Filled with the LGBT community, Former marines, as well as employees. A man opened the door, rushed Straight in, shooting everywhere he could. His eyes burned with hatred; Killed all that he saw and led a massacre Against his own people: The human race. A cacophony of bullets ricocheted Off of walls and tables, Filling the place with fear. Ending as many lives as possible, Tearing through the club as The chaos erupted, People scrambled to get to safety. Music from a country music concert Electrified the air. Police officers, couples, and college Students danced away into The obsidian night. Hearing the music from The thirty-second floor of his room, A man began his merciless Slaughter of hundreds of Innocent people. Bang! Bang! Bang! The ceaseless assault of bullets was
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Heard from a mile away. He used many guns. Chaos ensued, People screamed in despair, Their grief was felt by all. Round by round, minute by minute, truck after truck, The bodies and hopelessness increased. To help the hundreds of injured, the helpers were Brought to an overcrowded hospital. This continued on until the Man’s last moments And then, It ended.
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Untitled [prose] Maya Raman ‘19 My mind is a world of color; it is swirls of fire and deep, cold oceans and sundrenched flowers. It is full of scarlet and sunset orange, of mustard yellow and forest green and purples so rich they could be Thanksgiving food. Every time I speak, a hue leaves my mouth, only to be replaced by a brighter one a millisecond later. My colors are beautiful yet chaotic; they invigorate me but make me want to tear my hair out. When I get mad, a harsh rainbow flies out of my mouth and papers itself on the sky, vivid yet fleeting. Is that why screaming is so therapeutic? Without the colors I am calm, but I am bleak. Gray. With them I am a frenzy. But I can’t do anything to get them out of my head. All I can do is paint them onto the surface of the world.
Hannah Chang ‘21
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When everything falls, love is there. Iskyas Amare‘21
Jump into the deep, vast unknown. Priyal Patel ‘21 “Hands Up! Don't shoot!” Gunshots heard. Bailey Phoenix ‘20 Come back. I miss our conversations. Christa Rios '21 common side effects: nausea, anxiety, drowsiness Priya Vasu ‘19 Dreams and nightmares seem the same... Vivian Volpe ‘21
Abigail Adame ‘21
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Archbishop Mitty Literary Magazine
Moderator Kevin Brazelton Proofreader Janelle Kroenung Administrator Keith Mathews Editors Nichole Lim Mia Lombardo Sophia Scott Stephanie Jue Emily OrdoĂąez Aneri Bhatt Isabel Newcomb Taytianna Leggett Elizabeth Mau Rachel Min Paola Moreno Julia Pratt Maureen Mailhot Joanne Park
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