Tapestry 2019 by Archmere Academy

TAPESTRY 2019

ARCHMERE ACADEMY’S LITERARY AND FINE ARTS MAGAZINE Dance

Grace DiGiacoma ‘19

Archmere Academy 3600 Philadelphia Pike Claymont, Delaware 19703 302-798-6632 www.archmereacademy.com

TAPESTRY 2019 Table of Contents

Serenity

Matthew Witterholt ‘19 Scholastic Gold Key

A Tinge of Fall, watercolor, Meghan Presta ‘20.................................................................................cover Dance, mixed media, Grace DiGiacoma ‘19.............................................................................inside cover Serenity, digital photography, Matthew Witterholt ‘19..,.........................................................................2 Wrath and Kindness, Annika Siddall ‘19...................................................................................................4 Unitas, digital photography, Anna Garcia ‘21...........................................................................................5 The Hell We Truly Fear, Jack Pawloski ‘19...............................................................................................6 Yeet, acrylic painting digitally manipulated, Kyla McAvinue ‘19..............................................................7 Inextinguishable, Simi Edeki ‘22...............................................................................................................8 Desk Lamp, digital photography, Stephen D’Antonio ‘20.........................................................................9 Weekend Plans, Taylor Gerard ‘19..........................................................................................................10 Envirohypocrisy, Elizabeth Erdy ‘19........................................................................................................10 Eco, ceramic sculpture, Theresa Chua ‘19................................................................................................11 Sunglasses, Katherine Alberta ‘19............................................................................................................12 Tunnel Vision, digital photography, Matthew Witterholt ‘19.................................................................14 Chandelier Dark, digital photography, Stephen D’Antonio ‘20...............................................................15 History, Eric Degenfelder ‘19...................................................................................................................16 Wondering, modeled clay, Grace DiGiacoma ‘19....................................................................................18 Gender, Relationships, and Tradition in John Donne’s “A Valediction”, Katherine Alberta ‘19...........19 Construction Deconstructed, ceramic sculpture/mixed media, Michael West ‘19................................20 A Letter to Brandy Melville from a Fashion-Loving Teen, Alexis Rendel ‘21..........................................21 Girl with the Red Hair, digital photography, Lexie Maloy ‘19................................................................22 Special Relics, Seamus Morgan ‘21.........................................................................................................23 In My Reflection/The Other in the Mirror, Lauren Raziano ‘20............................................................24 Ghost Twins, digital photography, Caroline Donovan ‘19......................................................................26 My Daughter Texts Me, Mr. John Jordan...............................................................................................27 Thank you, Excelsior, Alexis Rendel ‘21...................................................................................................28 Mediaaa, digital photography, Catherine McGonigle ‘19........................................................................29 Could You Be Loved, Jayna Cabry ‘19....................................................................................................30 Haunting Reflections, digital photography, Julia Freney ‘20................................................................30 White Lies, Taylor Gerard ‘19..................................................................................................................31 Prize Cube, digital photography manipulated, Catherine McGonigle ‘19..............................................32 Fiesta, Catherine McGonigle ‘19..............................................................................................................33 Rooster, digital photography, Jianna Tsaganos ‘19................................................................................34 Buggin’ Out, Michael Marano ‘19.............................................................................................................35 Future Letters, Mom and Dad, Jade Bryant ‘19......................................................................................37 Hearts, digital photography, Anna Keating ‘19.......................................................................................37 HELLO!, digital photography, Lexie Maloy ‘19.......................................................................................38 Not a Serious Man, Seth Bale ‘19.............................................................................................................39 Tribute to Franz Marcs, acrylic, Aislinn Smeader ‘21.............................................................................40 Mom-Mom’s Meatballs, Jayna Cabry ‘19................................................................................................41 Entrance to Heaven, digital photography mirrored image, Anna Sanchez ‘19.......................................42 Imagine Heaven, Lauren Kupiec ‘19........................................................................................................43 Reverie, mixed media, Lauren Wilson ‘20..............................................................................................44 My Nirvana, Elizabeth Erdy ‘19...............................................................................................................45

Wrath and Kindness Wrath, As I lay in bed, Scrolling through Twitter, All I see is wrath, Videos of police brutality, updates on terrorism, it blows up my phone The protests on racism, the marches against sexism, it never ends, Everyone in the world, it seems, is filled with wrath, I open up Instagram, All I see is wrath, A girl gossips about another, a boy fights another, The world is overflowing with hatred and opposition, I see wrath Kindness, In a perfect world, Scrolling through Twitter, All I see is kindness, Videos of random acts of kindness, Steve Hartman on the road, it blows up my phone, The charity walks, strangers who help grandmas cross the street, This is what I want to see, A girl commenting nice things on another’s post, a boy boosting his friend The world is overflowing with kindness and equality, I wish I could see the kindness Annika Siddall ‘19

Unitas

Anna Garcia ‘21 Scholastic Gold Key

The Hell We Truly Fear In a dream I meet X down by the river Styx. We dap up and he smiles, Slowly pouring two cups. The drink, night black and cold Matched the scene of our dock. “It’s Dark” I say wincing. As pain followed a hard shallow We discuss pain, dark thoughts, The human mind, mystic energies, And isolation. The boat is approaching. Acting as an hourglass, the moment Fading as we finish the drinks. “Don’t be ashamed of the darkness.” He silently whispers. The boat docks. His tone changes. Almost into poetry “The Darkness is creativity, freedom, power; While light is conformity, and that Conformity, that is the hell we should all truly fear.” Jack Pawloski ‘19

Yeet

Kyla McAvinue ‘19

Inextinguishable A blaze started by a strike of light, spreading from tree to tree, driven by the wind, charring hundreds of acres. The sentinels could spot the trees burning like candlesticks in the distance. The fighters scurry down the fireline, trying to avoid the wall of flames. They create a barren ring, stripping the flame of its nourishment. But, it’s not enough. A flare-up. The fire expands, pushing past all the barriers. Its roaring conflagration kindles standing trees. It engulfs everything in its path. The smokejumpers retreat. The planes drop the retardant, But the inferno cannot be tamed. Simi Edeki ‘22 Scholastic Writing Award Honorable Mention

Desk Lamp

Stephen D’Antonio ‘20

Weekend Plans Hope checks my phone, watching to see if anyone has responded. Giving up, Hope throws my phone onto the fuzzy brown rug and flings itself into my cloud-like bed. Sloth slowly wraps its arms around the mound that gave up on itself. Cocooning Hope from the pain of being let down again. Later, we lounge on the deck out back. The warm sun beating down on us, while the top 40 Summer hits play in the background. Sloth coils its hands around our arms, trying to pull us back inside, to Netflix and binging. Hope lays next to us, switching its legs back and forth, twiddling its thumbs. Hope wonders what the summer has in store for us and if our future is as exciting as we desire. Taylor Gerard ‘19

Envirohypocrisy “The earth is dying,” I say, as I take a sip From a Dunkin’ cup Elizabeth Erdy ‘19

Eco

Theresa Chua ‘19

Sunglasses He bought them in the summer. Because they looked cool. Because his older brother wore them. Because they were expensive, and the number on their price tag directly correlated with his endorphin rush at the cash register. But he didn’t buy them because he needed them; that was the point. They were decorative, flashy, like tinsel thrown on a Christmas tree in a meticulous attempt to look careless. It wasn’t until he slid them on his face and felt the cool embrace of their steel arms against his temple that he understood the point of it all. Deliverance. Asylum. The feeling of a divine ice bath after a hellish double-session of soccer practice in the mid-August heat. He didn’t know how bright, how blindingly bright the world was until he felt the glorious ecstasy of shade. And, in that moment of heavenly bliss, he swore - on his family name, on his vinyl collection, on his life - that he would never take them off. He’d wasted countless years smothered by oppressive light; he would never spend another second in it. Not unless hell froze over. She met him in the summer, when the sun hurt her eyes and the days melted together like M&Ms in a toddler’s hand. His reputation preceded him like that of a prophet foretold; she knew his name and his profile from school before she first laid eyes on him in that intimate beach town. He was always flanked by a flock of fervent followers, disciples dominated by a fear of their own social vulnerability and a consequential need to appear unfazed. They would clamor around the counter of the only dive bar that didn’t check IDs, whispering and winking and watching him like their God and Savior as he humbly presented his open arms on the thick oak coated in shitty lacquer and shitty liquor. He was something of a teen idol, a perfectly-concocted blend of indifference, irresponsibility, and illustriousness, sweet to the taste and cool to the touch. There was an air of mystery in his alluring smirk that drew her to him like a child to a Hershey Kiss - she wanted to tear off his shiny, protective exterior and savor the inevitable sweetness she’d find underneath. He liked how she looked through his filtered lens - her skin tanned, her hair dark, her lips red like the rust on his childhood bicycle. As much as he wanted to kiss her, he first needed to calm the crinkling of her eyelids in the merciless glare of the sun. He returned, this time to purchase for her a domineering, rose-gold pair of heartbreakers that would protect her, that would deliver her to him. And she let him – after a year of ardent work and stress, she was eager to set school aside and embrace the sweet recklessness of the summer. They were lying down on the beach when he slipped them gently onto her face, and there he was allotted a moment of ethereal perfection. A slow, serene smile found its way into her bloodstream and onto her face. She was a summer snow angel, splayed out on their blanket, awash in the childlike carelessness o her baptismal font. His lips curled, satisfied. Better. Girls were always ugliest when they squinted. He tasted like the cherry vanilla ice cream she used to eat on Sunday afternoons when the ice cream man drove by. She had long forgotten the days when she would run from the driveway, abandoning whatever chalk masterpiece she had whipped up, for a scoop of sweetness. She would return to the house, face and hands sticky with the mess of her uncontrolled exuberance, to greet her mother, disappointed with her impulsive indulgence. “I hope the sugar rush is worth it,” she’d say, “When you spoil your appetite for dinner.” He kept his eyes closed and chose not to intellectualize. Amidst the haze of thirst and infatuation, her teeth grazed his lip, a crime of passion. His blood, sweet and rapturous, ran over onto lips. An anointment, a sanctification. She offered her head to the sky and an exhalation escaped her lips. Amen. She told him she loved him, and she meant it. Of course she loved him in his ecstasy, when he was nothing but smiles and caresses and ease. But she loved him in the sunlight, too. When the blistering hot air drove him to sweat shamefully, when his eyes scrunched up weakly in the face of steaming, inescapable truth, when he cried out angrily to the unforgiving world, a forsaken son.

She loved him when it hurt. He told her he loved her. And he meant it, for the most part. He loved her in shade, in coolness, in refuge from oppressive heat. He loved her in the moments of blissful communion, when they had run from reality and found each other again in this painless alternative. He loved her when it felt good. And all of this was good, for the summer. Their heavenly dream depended on the fever pitch of that inescapable inferno that he so desperately wanted to dull - an irony unidentified. But ice cream melts, bicycles rust, and leaves fall with the dropping of the temperatures and the mass exodus from the beach. With the return to school, she tucked away the cool cornerstone of their relationship and refocused her gaze on the future. She reentered the world that she knew before like a prodigal child returning home. Her life was once again bright and busy and bustling with plans, which thrilled her in a way that the shade could not. There was no doubt that this life of exhilaration took a toll on that sedate smile she wore on the beach. Some nights the workload made her sweat - she would collapse over her laptop from an assault by exhaustion and wake only a few hours later with weak eyes bruised by weariness. The stress of college applications tensed her shoulders until she was wound like a little toy soldier, anxious and paralyzed by fear until some divining hand placed her on a path and released her. The hours spent indoors studying and working slowly sucked the warmth out of her skin until her dewy bronze hues of the summer fell to an ashen blush. But she soldiered on through the annual battle against school with a newfound sense of confidence and pride - she could stand on her own two feet because she had him to lean on. On the other hand, he no longer saw a need to focus, to squint nastily at words on a page that filled his mind with worthless knowledge, soon to be discarded. He chose life in the shade. He took refuge from reality and made a home there. He considered the world she chose, the one of full saturation and maximum volume, and cringed at the thought of such avoidable anguish. He watched as she gravitated back to that blistering, bright universe like a child dismounting a Ferris wheel. To him, it was a disgusting fall from grace. The girl he had kissed over the summer was beautiful, liberated from any stresses or fears of the future, adorned with a careless smile and an aura of complacency. This girl he saw at school, she was a door to a different world, an ellipsis to boundless agonizing possibilities. No longer was she a creature he could understand. He wondered, with contempt curdling within in, what was so sexy about this bright, insufferable world that attracted her, attracted her away from him. He suspected masochism, he suspected asceticism, he suspected Puritanism, but nothing could quite explain her willingness to subject herself to such debilitating torture. Eventually, he concluded that she was just plain stupid. When, exhausted and beaten down, she turned to him for support, he offered nothing but a relapse into their summer shade. She refused it, claiming that she loved only him and not some cheap facsimile of happiness, and asked him to join her in the light again. He recoiled, rebuffed her coldly. He told her not to try to change him; he liked himself and wasn’t about to do anything about it. “Not even for me?,” she ventured, doubling down on the love he surely felt for her. “No.” And that was the end of it. It was inevitable, a bowling ball barreling constantly towards them until - crash! - it demolished them, two pins standing defenseless in the face of inevitable reality, too close together to avoid the fallout. He retreated to the darkness without turning around for a last glance, for the light at his back irked him enough. His bastion of bliss, which protected him valiantly from the blaze of the summer sun, overtook the gentle radiance of autumn, darkening his view until he couldn’t make out any of the life he used to know. First the textbooks, then the soccer uniform, until finally the shade had obscured even his family in his eyes. The demigod of dive bars had decayed into a demon of the darkness, a sunglassed satyr of the shade. 13

At first, his absence in her life struck her more deeply than she could have anticipated. She didn’t realize how much of her heart she had given to that fallen angel until he was gone and she found herself reaching out for happiness that was no longer there, phantom pain that hurt something fierce. However, her pain subsided. The joy she lost in him she found in Sunday afternoons drinking tea with her mom, in Saturday mornings spent watching crime shows with her brother, in long drives with classic rock booming through the speakers and her best friend behind the wheel. She found it in herself, in a good night’s sleep, in refreshing showers, in cathartic journaling, in intense cries and hysterical laughter. She reentered the real world, the world of unapologetic brightness, without sunglasses, empowered with all of the worthwhile reasons to live in the light. Katherine Alberta ‘19 Scholastic Writing Award Gold Key

Chandelier Dark Stephen D’Antonio ‘20

Tunnel Vision

Matthew Witterholt ‘19 Scholastic Silver Key Portfolio

History “You might want to write this down, Eric” Hearing my name snapped at me out of my unconscious state into reality, immediately perceiving the 7 words preceding it and generating a response that would keep me out of trouble. “Uh I already did.” Mr. Conway gave me a quizzical look for a second, then went back to teaching. I was busy thinking about sledding on the ice-covered slope near my house as I waited for the 10:08 bell which heralded my sweet release from social studies class, only so that I could head to fourth period, math class. It was 9:42. Somehow, I was a math expert when it came to the time left before class ended, and I knew that it was only 26 minutes until I would be free. I had drawn forty-two stick figures on my paper, and every time a minute passed during class, I scribbled one out. It’s not like I was a special case or anything. I was just as unmotivated as the rest of the class. All of the other boys rarely did their homework, never participated unless called on, and only brought a stack of tattered papers to class, the same way I had. But for some reason, I was always the one who got singled out. I was specifically seated in the front row, not on the corner desk, but one desk from the row farthest to the right so that I was placed directly in front of the place Mr. Conway stood while he taught. I was constantly called upon, not because Mr. Conway thought I knew the answers, but because he knew I wasn’t paying attention and wouldn’t be able to give him an answer. Hell, most of the time I probably couldn’t tell you what it was we were even studying. I seriously never knew when the tests were until Mr. Conway said “Now make sure to use the green side of the scantron,” and I got a packet full of multiple choice questions about… the industrial revolution? Seventh grade history sucked. It was nothing like my sixth grade history class. Sixth grade was full of badass old dudes who went to war with a motley crew of farmers against the most powerful empire on earth, teabags getting dumped in a river, tar and feathers, and screaming bald eagles who picked up the British commanders and fed them to their chicks. Seventh grade was mostly soot, empty land, and houses made of grass. Yawn. Mr. Conway finished talking about the Whig party parade and said something that excited the butterflies in my stomach. “...blah blah blah now collecting your homework.” I paused, then reached for my red history folder, ready to pull the old “I can’t find it in here! Where did it go?” gag. Oldest trick in the book. I’d been using that one since fourth grade. When Mr. Coneway neared me, he sighed. “Do you have it, Eric?” “Uh, yeah. I think, somewhere in here…” The pressure of Mr. Conway standing over me, watching my futile attempt to find my homework was building up and becoming too immense. I had to say something. “Hey, uh, Mr. Conway, I can’t find it in here. If I find it could I bring it to you?” “Come on, Eric, you’ve lost your assignment every single day for the past...I don’t know how long! I’m beginning to think that you aren’t even doing them. Let me take a look at your planner, I want to see what you’re writing down in there.” “No, I don’t think…” Mr. Conway grabbed the planner off my desk and paged through it. As he paged through, a look of horror slowly grew on his face, and I realized what he must be seeing. See, for the past six months, the planner had served as my doodle book, the one I would draw in whenever I was bored in class. That was pretty frequently. What I have done over the course of the year was basically catalog the rise and fall of a stick figure empire in my planner rather than write down my homework. On the pages corresponding to this week, a Marxist stick figure was convincing the oppressed stick figure proletariat to rise up, and next week a full-out figure civil war was going to occur.

He would never admit it, but I could tell deep down, he was impressed. Especially since he was a history teacher. He closed my planner, put it back onto my desk, and went back to collecting homework from other students. Class ended, and I was more excited to leave than ever. But he stopped me on the way out. “What’s the matter, Eric? Is everything okay at home?” “I, uhh… yeah.” “Are you sure? You seem a little… out of it.” Oh really? Well, I’m an easily distractible seventh grader in a boring history class who drank two cans of mountain dew for breakfast and my sugar-caffeine-combo high finally crashed during this class. What do you expect from me? All these kids are usually just as checked out as I am. Do I really make my inattention THAT noticeable? The rest of the day was pretty average. I presented my English project I had started and “finished” during lunch, Mrs. Landry seemed to get really mad at all the little numbers in math class, and somebody started a fire in FCS. After that was all finished, I got onto the rickety 1980’s Blue Bird school bus and headed home. When I got home, I didn’t do my homework. I probably wasted my time on some pointless activity, just trying to get through the generally depressing February afternoon as I did every day. I lived in the middle of nowhere, had no freedom, and nothing to do. The only thing I could look forward to was a trip into West Chester once in a blue moon to go out for dinner, or hope that it would snow so I could try to mutilate myself on the big hill in our neighborhood, plainly out of sheer boredom. I felt like my life consisted of school (boredom) and coming back home (boredom). The next day, I forgot to wear a belt. I wore loose, baggy pants, so having a belt was a must. But, I had woken up late and missed the bus, so I was rushing out of the house to get to school that day. It wasn’t until I was at school that I realized my mistake. Walking around was nearly impossible without being able to actually hold up my pants, and that wasn’t going to happen with a stack of textbooks in my hands. I was okay for most of the day, taking long strides to keep the waist of the pants at a decent height and prevent them from completely falling down. But the walk from French to Social Studies was long. I barged into the social studies room, pants halfway down my ass, startling the whole class and confusing everyone as to why I might be running into the classroom. I finally threw through my books down, grabbed the pants at the waistline, and pulled them up. Everybody was silent and staring at me, red-faced and panting, but silently relieved. Mr. Conway looked straight at me and asked, “What’s wrong with you, bud?” That’s what I’d been wondering, too. Eric Degenfelder ‘19

Gender, Relationships, and Tradition in John Donne’s “A Valediction” When I read “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning” in AP English Language last year, John Donne’s conceit likening a couple to a graphing compass stood out to me as a poignant perception of love. The speaker, about to depart on a voyage, mollifies his fiancée by explaining that she need not worry over his fidelity; the two move together on the same axis, and she anchors him spiritually until he returns home. I appreciated the cleverness of the metaphor, as the stability and support provided by the fixed point of the compass mirror that of the patient, loving fiancé. As a teenager, I am beginning to explore romantic relationships and am encountering various ideas on what makes a couple “healthy”, and literature has provided me with a myriad of examples from which to learn. The couple in “Valediction” epitomizes a sophisticated, stable relationship that transcends tangible desires, and the compass metaphor highlights the importance of support in this symbiosis. However, as I further analyzed the elaborate metaphor, I recognized some sexist implications that jeopardize the validity of Donne’s ideas. Donne explains that the woman, like the fixed point on the compass, remains sedentary as the man moves so that he prospers in his journey, suggesting that women must yield obsequiously to the pursuits of their men. The concept that the woman waits humbly at home while her fiancée enjoys his opportunities to explore and adventure bothers me because it represents a regression in the laborious, hard-fought battle for women’s rights. If I accept Donne’s metaphor at face value, I relegate my role in relationships to the sacrificial sister and humble housekeeper, a detriment to the progress of the feminist movement. However, Donne penned “A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning” around 1611-1612, long before equal pay, abortion rights, and other tenets at the heart of feminism had emerged as hot-button social issues. I believe it’s important to read Donne’s work with respect to the culture and tradition of his time, and judging the poem based by the antiquated environment in which Donne wrote it dismisses many speculative, insightful ideas that Donne poses. Donne often writes to and about women on the same intellectual sphere as he does about men, and the mature, meaningful relationship that the lovers share reflects their reciprocity of intelligence and reason. His writing acknowledges the equality of women relative to other works of his time, and the compass conceit still contains many viable messages that readers should not dismiss. Upon considering the broader, more symbolic value of the conceit, I understood Donne’s true intention that transcends all social constructs and time periods. While the obsolete, patriarchal relationship structure of a bread-winning man and servile woman does not dominate society like it did before, all relationships, romantic, familial, and platonic, inevitably experience imbalances in their financial and occupational opportunities. The “trip” that Donne’s speaker takes could be a job opportunity or a new significant other that provoke insecurity in a relationship. Essentially, Donne entreats his readers to love and support their loved ones unconditionally through the volatility of life; the lovers in the metaphor value their relationship over their personal jealousy and insecurities, which permits healthy spiritual and emotional assurance. This metaphor has both influenced my critical analysis skills and empowered me with the strength to support my friends through the hectic college process. Guided by Donne’s metaphor, I can appreciate the importance of celebrating my friends’ acceptances while finding security in my own success. Donne’s conceit urges unwavering encouragement and loyalty so that his readers can learn to be steadfast support systems for their partners, parents, and friends. Katherine Alberta ‘19

Wondering

Grace DiGiacoma ‘19

A Letter to Brandy Melville from a Fashion-Loving Teen

Construction Deconstructed

Michael West ‘19

Dear Mr. Melville, I, as well as many other teens, love and appreciate your clothes. The styles of your pants and dresses in addition to your branding particularly appeal to me. The classic yet hipster theme shown in your patterns and fashion pieces relates to how I want to dress, without breaking my bank. Wearing your clothes can also boost popularity and appreciation amongst other teens showing that I too am like them, and furthermore dress like them. On a semi-unrelated note, I consider myself a healthy person. I’m a dancer and horseback rider. I workout at the gym and eat plenty of fruits, veggies, and protein. I treat myself with some junk food but generally try to stay away from super processed meals. However, I am not a stick figure or what most people would consider “small.” I’m built with muscle, I am curvy, and although I have a lot of clothes in the size small, most of the clothes I buy are a size medium and a majority of the bottoms I own are a size large. My size depends on the article of clothing I’m buying which spans throughout small, medium, and large. I have never bought or owned an article of your clothing. Though the price is affordable and I do really love the look, I have never plucked up the courage to purchase an article of your clothing. You see, I don’t live near a Brandy Melville store in order to try your clothes on, and to buy your clothes online would be a total risk. Why would it be a risk, you ask? Because you don’t house clothing for people with my body type or size. Almost all of your clothing is meant for people of size small with only a few articles of clothing sold in the size medium, and even fewer sold in the size large/extra-large. Furthermore, not one of the dresses on your website are in a size larger than small/medium. Yes, as I said before I am a size small in some things but to order a size small in one of your shirts (the only thing I am a size small in) would be a risk because I am not flat chested. I see lots of affordable pants and dresses that I would love to wear and fit my style, pieces of clothing that would make me feel confident and badass. However, they are pieces that I could never buy simply because you do not offer my size. My problem is not with how you make your clothing but rather how you size your clothing. The pieces you sell are well made, comfortable, and affordable. Furthermore, your target buyers are teenagers (which includes me). Teenagers constantly feel self-conscious, unhappy in their own skin, and not confident. A prominent topic in today’s society is body positivity amongst teens. However, by selling clothes that will mostly only fit teens in a size small, you are discouraging body positivity. Recently, I was speaking to a cousin who recommended your brand to me as a way to purchase some basic items at an affordable price. I researched your website and found that I mostly would not be able to wear these clothes because you didn’t hold my size or a size that I could be sure I’d fit in. This opened up some deeper worries of mine. Am I fat? Do people see me as a heavy-set person? I know I’m not a size small but I AM a size medium, that’s not too big… is it? All because you don’t hold clothing in my size. I’m sure many other teens who can wear your clothing feel confident in it, and I feel that if I could wear your clothes I would feel good in them. However, the fact that you sell mostly a size small discourages me and quite frankly makes me feel insecure about my own size, and though I can’t speak for other teens, I believe many would agree with me or relate to my situation. So, Mr. Melville, I implore you to stock more sizes. I would love to wear your clothes and I’m sure other teens who aren’t just a size small would as well. Furthermore, you would be showing your support for size inclusivity and body positivity which would ultimately boost your sales, and what business man can say no to that? Sincerely, A teen who wants to wear your clothing Alexis Rendel ‘21 Scholastic Writing Award Honorable Mention

Special Relics

Girl with the Red Hair Lexie Maloy ‘19 Scholastic Silver Key

I believe in bow ties. I know it sounds silly. A bow tie is just an outdated article of clothing to wear around your neck. It may be that to most people, but it’s more than that to me. My fascination with bow ties has been a part of me since the age of seven when my cousin introduced me to a show he liked: Doctor Who. Doctor Who quickly became my favorite show and a silly childhood obsession. The main character of the show was called the Doctor. He was an alien who traveled the universe in a phone box time machine and fought aliens and always wore a funny outfit, including a bow tie. He had a signature phrase, “Bow ties are cool.” That particular phrase always stuck with me as I got older. As the years went by, my obsession with the show died down. I began to grow up. School became harder, and I had less time to indulge myself in the fantasies I once lived. I grew into other interests, such as playing video games and seeing movies with all of my friends. And when I wasn’t doing things like hanging out with my friends, I was focusing more on school. I didn’t really watch the show anymore, and my love for it had become more of a thing of the past for me. Although I remembered how much I loved the show, I thought of it as behind me. That was until my eighth grade year. My school’s dress code changed, and eighth graders could now choose whatever tie they wanted to wear, rather than the strictly navy blue necktie we were confined to. This was when I remembered the old catchphrase from my favorite character in my favorite show that my life revolved around for years. I looked back into my past and decided to wear a bow tie on the first day of eighth grade. I haven’t stopped wearing them since. They’ve become a part of me, and I never plan to stop wearing bow ties. It could be part of a school uniform. I could wear it when I need to dress up. It could have a floral pattern. A paint splatter pattern. A cheetah pattern. A bow tie will always be a part of me because it has its roots in my past. I wear bow ties because they take me back to a simpler time. A time where I didn’t have to worry about schoolwork and grades. A time when I didn’t have to worry about what people thought of me. A time before my responsibilities surrounded me and overwhelmed me. When I wake up in the morning and get dressed, I always put on a bow tie. It’s a friendly reminder of the childhood I lived and now cherish. I believe we all have something to remind us of our past. While it may not be as silly as wearing a bow tie to school every day, I believe it’s important to have special relics to remind us of the people we once were. Seamus Morgan ‘21

In My Reflection I exist in a nation that exhibits beauty but has hidden pain. Badges, ghastly black with a sleek slate and scorching fire red numbers, placed over what should be a home for love to be harnessed but instead it is replaced by beating drums of jealousy. Every day the echoing of “Beauty is in the eye of the Brother,” reminding us that they are scrutinizing our cosmetic nature. It burns a hole in my heart, knowing those around me are suffering from the barricade of funhouse-like mirrors, all of our reflections are staring back at us, millions of eyes glaring at each other, peering into every aspect of our lives like a circus. We act as entertainment for the ring leader, going around to the sideshow tents to laugh at and critique. The sideshow with the lowest score is displayed to the nation to criticize so that we can feel a sense of power over others because of our beauty score asserts our personal value. Every day I make the trip to the silver truth and scan my defining aspect of my face, the whispering blue eyes with strokes of grey. My face materializes in the silver reflection and next to it appears a list exposing what needs to be repaired, of course my eyes are too puffy from the night of crying. I am stuck here, in a place that expects no heartbreak, no misery, no anxiety, but all I feel is heartbreak from the mirrors destroying my self-worth, the misery from the values placed on our badges, the anxiety to uphold our allure of refinement and beauty of Aphrodite. Those deemed not physically beautiful enough to exist become soldiers for the nation. Their faces become covered and protected from us so that we can’t recognize what they did to them. They destroy their faces, acid wash, unrecognizable, they could have once been our family or close friend, but they are gone now, mind and beauty taken away. Creatures of the government, they are kept away from the city in large mirror reflecting building, when someone goes there I assume that either they treat you like a science experiment to make you perfect or brainwash your senses to become a soldier. We are stuck here in a place of heartbreak pain in the nation that promotes beauty and youthful glow. My twin brother used to walk me to the mirror, his red glistening hair and inviting smile warmed my soul like I just drank a warm cup of tea in the morning after the heater broke in the winter. Every morning on the way to the mirror we used to hold hands like we were kids following each other in line not to get lost. Everyday, he saw the mirror as a sweet silver grey cat: we have to give it what it wants so that it doesn’t destroy our home, tearing away at the curtains and robbing our possessions of those who have been cast away. He believed that this is where you have to live, no matter what we must make it work here. This is how it must be. This world is practically a reflection of a reverse world outside of here. But, they shattered love, destroyed it, ruined the meaning, took him away from me. They said that beauty does not need a partner. They were waiting for us one day at our mirror; they said that he was chosen to help the Law. They escorted him like a convict; he accepted his fate and before he disappeared from my view forever looked back at me, holding back emotion to show me a smile. Even in my tornado of despair, his warming smile made me feel as if everything was supposed to happen this way, that it just has to be this way. They stole the one thing I needed to keep sane here. They made me realize that I can look into the mirror and not see myself for who they want me to be but for who I want to be. If they can melt me into a mold I can break the mold and make it into something new. I disappear into the ghost staring back at me, I, that ghost, drifting between the repressed memories of those I’ve lost. I look into the mirror, my piercing eyes staring into my damaged self, and I repair my self worth, gaining strength to battle my reflection. The tranquility of the silver sea lures me to crack it. I break it, fracturing the glass, blistering the cruel face of value, shards of what used to be the worth of the nation. Shattered glass, shattered values, shattered society. This is how it should be. Lauren Raziano ‘20

The Other in the Mirror The other in the mirror There’s a ghost in the mirror staring back at me, Wanting me to notice what is wrong Wanting me to know that I am trapped in Piercing eyes staring into my lost soul Reaching to find if the reflection is real It consumes me The flames of the eyes leap into the silver truth Fracturing the glass, blistering the cruel face of value Shards of what used to be the worth of the nation An idea that will never be. Never happen, I am stuck here They judge They take and take and take those we love are gone One bad day and you are gone Where’d you go? I thought we’d last forever Where’d I go? I’m lost Lauren Raziano ‘20

My Daughter Texts Me from Scotland, she’s in school there telling me Jimmy Page looks cool in the trippy photo she attaches from 1972. She’s a throwback, art history major, telling her ancient father that Zeppelin is the quintessential 70’s band like I didn’t know. Her random messages are sporadic: she lost her phone, v embarrassing but found in the bathroom 2 days later. Who pees with their phone in hand? She attaches a Spanish painting from Copenhagen of a weary Christ crucified; she asks me if I’ve read Camus’ The Stranger, have I heard Tracey Chapman’s “Fast Car” and can I send her some cash, I’m short this month. I picture her by the Scottish sea, the wind in her hair, her earbuds in, skipping her Italian class. I see her walk the beach humming Chapman’s mantra: I had a feeling I could be someone, be someone, be someone Mr. John Jordan

Ghost Twins

Caroline Donovan ‘19

Thank you, Excelsior Super Heroes aren’t for girls. That was my understanding as a child who was brought up idolizing Cinderella and Belle. Boys play with action figures, and girls play with dolls. However, in the seventh grade that idea changed completely when I was introduced to my Excelsior and the universe he has created. I never really paid attention to the movies or comic books that showed off strapping heros in colorful costumes saving their sweethearts from the villains. Then I watched The Avengers for the first time in seventh grade, and something clicked. Each hero had a distinct backstory, different pasts, and relatable characteristics that I could understand and admire. I even developed sympathy for the villain of the story which compromised my position of whether I was on the bad side or the good side. Later I discovered that there were more films, each of which further explained the backstories of the heroes and introduced new up-and-coming heroes, villains, sidekicks, etc. My heart had become captivated by this universe that seemed similar to my own, yet more supernatural and exciting. Massive gatherings, events, and movie premieres have brought your devout fans together. A community of people gathered together for no other reason than to celebrate your legacy and work has power that can rival even the most populous political riots. I’ve never met most of these people I’m celebrating with, but it doesn’t matter. We have something in common that will never change: our love and loyalty to you. We share war stories of past gatherings, compared our cosplay costumes, and theorize about future comics and movies that have yet to come out. I’ve been introduced to some of my best friends during these gatherings, all thanks to the community you’ve created. Furthermore, the experiences and opportunities given to me are beyond what I could have ever hoped for. Meeting my idols, people I’ve looked up to since this all began, have created memories that I could never possibly forget. So thank you, Excelsior. The stories you’ve created hold a special place in my heart and have impacted my outlook on life. I’ve learned from the mistakes and victories of your characters, and as they have developed, grown stronger and more powerful, I feel I have too. The Captain taught me compassion and loyalty to my loved ones, and to question events or ideas I believe are wrong. The Trickster showed me the importance of family; how we always need someone to have our backs and to never take that for granted. The Widow encouraged me to keep up my strength and dignity, especially when people attempt to knock me down. The Genius Billionaire Playboy Philanthropist taught me leadership, how to take command of a situation, to never back down from a challenge, and to take the opportunities presented before me. Most importantly, all of the heroes you created, Excelsior, taught me teamwork and the power of friendship, as cliché it may seem. No matter the differences, race, religion, gender, everyone is accepted in your world of heroes. In my opinion, there is something that we can learn from you, not only from the stories you’ve created, but also from the lessons you’ve taught us in patience, gratitude, and humility throughout your life. You will remain immortal through the legacy of your stories, but also through the legacy of your people.

Mediaaa

Catherine McGonigle ‘19

Alexis Rendel ‘21

Could You Be Loved

White Lies

“You ain’t gonna miss your water until your well runs dry.” - Bob Marley

My phone dings at 4:30 pm a text from Bella, my other half, Sending a funny meme. I switch my attention away from my sleep-inducing physics homework. I tell myself I’ll just take a five-minute break. (yeah right)

Constantly pressuring you To be something that you aren’t Always thought you were gonna Be someone he would miss But he ain’t your Reason to float on water Because you ain’t gonna float until You are the reason your Mind is happy and well So that when he runs You won’t be left out to dry

I open the text and read the caption and look at the video, A cat sits by the edge of a pool, the person behind the phone sneezes, and the cat leaps straight into the air and plummets stomach first into the pool. Unable to breathe from laughing, I try to type a funny answer, Me in history class last year, I end up deleting it all. I open my Instagram app and scroll through my timeline. Nothing, nada

Jayna Cabry ‘19

My dog barks at the window, breaks my trance-like state. I look at the clock Five thirty. A whole hour I never even found a meme to respond with, Instead, I found baking videos. I’ll tell her my phone died. Taylor Gerard ‘19

Haunting Reflections Julia Freney ‘20 Scholastic Gold Key American Vision Nominee

Fiesta (after Paul Zimmer) As I walk through the rooftop garden of the luxury Manhattan apartment building, I observantly take note of the various interactions during this dream of a dinner party. The piano exerts a soft melody played by the one and only Ludwig van Beethoven, while Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain, and Amy Winehouse stand, each with a glass in hand, conversing over their membership in the 27 Club. There goes Heath Ledger, looking different without the makeup of the Joker, approaching Robin Williams to conspire about a possible film and maybe share a joke or two. Across the rooftop on the dance floor, Shakira dances the salsa with Selena Quintanilla, sharing thoughts regarding popular hispanic music. Picasso speaks softly with Billie Eilish, a random matchup, but they seem to get along nicely, due to their similar interests in seeing the world from an odd perspective. Everyone seems to quiet down, due to a utensil tapping on an expensive glass of champagne, coming from the one and only Pitbull. Mr. Worldwide drunkenly proposes a toast, filled with slurring and messy wording, but his intentions were there. He then exclaims, “Are we all havin’ a good time!” and the intro to his hit song “Time of Our Lives” follows, and what once was a luxurious dinner party has now turned into a vibrant celebration. Catherine McGonigle ‘19

Prize Cube

Catherine McGonigle ‘19

Buggin’ Out

Rooster

Jianna Tsaganos ‘19

“Today we are gonna watch this thing called a Jelly Telly, you guys will love it I swear.” It was just another ordinary day in Exploring Sacred Scripture, encompassed in the warmth and coziness of what was at the time, the bowling alley in the Patio. Mr. Mengers was about to show us a video of the plethora of ancient Bible stories of the New Testament and Old Testament and how we could incorporate them into our readings and also our lessons. “So Mike, what did you think of the video?” Mr. Mengers said, after a bit of time went by. “Do you think we should keep them around?” I tried to haphazardly answer this question that seemed so simple at the time. It would have been easier, however, if my focus was on the video instead of the gargantuan bug flying around up above the ceiling lights. I couldn’t help but stare, frozen in fear at the horrifying thing. I did everything I could to make sure it came nowhere near me because if it did, I knew I’d probably have to leave the room because of how scared I was. You’d be right to think that this is just totally dramatic, as one might conclude, there is so much more to be afraid of then some bug that probably got lost and got himself stuck inside. My 14-yearold self would most definitely disagree though, only because bugs were and still are one of my biggest fears, and this was just the tip of the iceberg. The whole class looked at me, awaiting my answer to Mr. Mengers’ question. I really had absolutely no idea how to answer because I had no idea what the class was watching during what seemed like forever of me staring at that bug. “It was pretty cool actually, I really liked the video a lot,” I said, totally grasping for straws because I didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. Mr. Mengers nodded assertively, as if to commend and approve my answer, and turned his attention back to the class once more. After a few moments, Mr. Mengers happened to focus his attention back to me. “What’s wrong?,” he asked, looking in the same direction I was. Realizing that I was heavily focused on that bug, Mr. Mengers said, “Would you look at that, a stink bug in our classroom!” and somehow came to the conclusion that it indeed was a stink bug. I pushed my chair back in an effort to move even farther away from that demon, watching as the entire class turned their attention to the bug as well. Seeing that I was clearly bothered by the presence of the bug, Mr. Mengers said: “Don’t worry, it will just bite you a little bit, that’s all.” He laughed jokingly as if to mock me. At this point, the entire class knew that I was actually a 4 year old inside of a 14 year old’s body, simply because of my reaction to what was happening. I just couldn’t take my eyes off of that gosh darn bug, fluttering around like it owned the place. “I have a great idea!”, Mr Mengers exclaimed, “We need to give him a name!” I really hoped he was being sarcastic because the only thing on my mind at that time was trying to decide whether or not to launch my pen at the thing, hoping it would somehow land a direct hit and knock the bug down so I could squash it and live a peaceful life once more. Soon after this, the class began polling names to give the bug seemingly to mock me, as if the bug was somehow our new classroom pet. “Henry!,” Mr. Mengers shouted, “His name will be Henry, it’s decided!” Man, this was the total opposite of how I thought this would go. “Can we please just kill it?” I said, seeing the perfect opportunity to once again attempt to catapult my pen at the bug. “No we cannot, do not go near Henry,” Mr Mengers stated. Fear turned to bewilderment, as I was extremely pressed about why not a single other person in the classroom was as ready as I was to erupt into chaos to get this bug out of here. The answer to this question might just be the fact that I was extremely dramatic, but that’s besides the point. 35

The bell then rang and I booked it out of there, almost in a full sprint to get away from the bug. My friends even called my name for me to wait up, but it was too late. Mr Mengers’ laugh in the background, most likely directed at me, was the only thing that I could make out as I hightailed away from the Patio. The next day came and I prayed to the Lord that the bug wasn’t still in the classroom once it was time to go to class. When I made my way to class that day, I realized that my prayers were answered, it was a miracle. As hard as it was, I searched everywhere for the bug before everyone else came in, hoping that this miracle wasn’t short lived. I was relieved to find that the bug was no longer, my life was back to normal and I could now enjoy my learning once more. Mr Mengers walked in and, despite him not knowing if Henry was still around, shouted: “How’s Henry doing, is he still living it up?” I looked up and saw him staring at me, quietly laughing and chuckling to himself. Henry was, thankfully, gone, or so I thought. The next day came along and my nightmare came back to fruition: the bug was back. I could not believe my eyes, as the bug was fluttering in the same spot as it was two days prior. I wanted to immediately leave once more as soon as I saw it return. I sat as far as possible from the bug that day because I just couldn’t deal with the paranoia that initially consumed me when the bug made its grand entrance on the first day. The days went on and, to my surprise and total relief, I saw the bug less and less. It’s almost as if the bug just flew out somehow and didn’t look back. Don’t get me wrong, I was a happy camper now that the bug was finally gone, but it only made me think of where it went and how its disappearance was so sudden. From that day forward, Mr. Mengers constantly cracked jokes about the event and how it went down, simply because of my utterly melodramatic overreaction. He still makes the jokes to try and egg me on and poke fun at me and despite the fact that I cannot say that I miss that day or quite frankly will ever miss that day, the jokes are definitely funny and in some ways, warranted. After all, it was just a random bug that wandered into our classroom one day. A little, stupid, random bug. I guess you could say I was buggin’ out that day.

Future Letters, Mom and Dad Dear Mom & Dad, Life would be a lot easier if we stopped arguing all the time. What goes around comes around, right? Also picking favorites between your children is not cool (looking at you mom). And I’m sorry for being mean, but if you just chewed with your mouth shut we would be best friends I swear! Dad, I know you want to say goodnight but there is no reason to come in my room six 6 different times to say it. And please knock - I cannot stress that enough. And lastly, I love you too and I am always thankful for everything you do, even if my actions sometimes say otherwise. Sincerely, Your younger daughter Dear future children, Please work hard at school as long as you are trying your best then I will be happy. Life will be easiest if you talk to me and we are friends. We are definitely going to argue, but never go to bed angry at your family. Have fun with your friends but don’t get caught. Never be afraid to call me when you need help. Get a job and learn to be self-sufficient, but don’t lose touch. And I love you, always remember that. Sincerely, Your mother Jade Bryant ‘19

Michael Marano ‘19

Cheers Grace DiGiacoma ‘19

Not a Serious Man I won’t ever forget Saturday morning basketball games at St. Matthew’s– My father would pick me up in his truck, and drive us to breakfast at the McDonalds on Kirkwood Highway before the games. Never used the drive-thru. My dad works a lot– has always worked a lot, probably like many of yours. When I was younger, I mostly saw his serious side. He would wake up at 4:30 each morning and would not return until 7 in the evening. My father is a homebuilder, and, inevitably, the 2008 market crash left him with even more hours to work when I entered elementary school with three older siblings and two younger. I saw my dad as a sort of workaholic through young, carefree eyes, 9 year old me unaware of the stress and effort behind the early mornings and late nights. I never really began to understand the complex nature of being serious or relaxed until I got to high school. In my home, it has often been my father’s job to be serious in a sense, whereas I’ve always seen my mom in a variety of circumstances and moods. Typically playful and calm when she would pick me up after school each day, and perhaps a bit more serious when I would hide dirty clothing under my bed. Looking at my parents side by side, pre-pubescent Seth had a tough time seeing my dad as the relaxed type. Of course, I’ve seen lots of my dad by 18, and I know he’s not all that serious. Really he’s a lot more like me then I ever realized. I’ve often found it difficult to conflate being serious, behaving in a sort of “closed” hardwork mode, with an overtly friendly and slack attitude, the way I get when I can’t stop cracking jokes or want nothing more than the leisure I’ve got right then. A one-foot-in-one-foot-out approach has never felt comfortable, and I’ve learned when either is appropriate from my father growing up. That is all to say, those tasks I’ve applied myself to have often felt very committed and focused, while those which I have only gently worked at have certainly fallen flat. I have never witnessed any of my father’s efforts fall flat. The most diligent man I’ve ever known is not a serious man, but a tirelessly persistent one. He’s taught me to chew with my mouth closed, and to pick weeds from the yard with precision; to treat my younger sisters well, and to work with a purposeful mind. Seth Bale ‘19

HELLO!

Lexie Maloy ‘19

Mom-Mom’s Meatballs (after Sandra Cisneros)

The English translation of my name is “God is Gracious.” Gracious means compassionate, kind and courteous. In Hindi, my name is spelled जयना and translates to “bringer of victory” and “good character.” After attending Kairos 47, I learned the calamities of my actions and the importance of being gracious and having good character. I am named after my mom-mom, Joanne. The queen of grace and good character. A woman who never leaves the house without looking polished and put-together. She left the house wearing vintage Givenchy coats and her makeup perfectly applied. Mom-mom is both kind and compassionate to everyone she meets. My mom-mom is God-like. Always providing for her huge Italian family without question. Whether it is with the $50 in each of the thirteen grandchildren’s Christmas cards or her famous homemade meatballs. She even bought my brother Dorothy’s red slippers when he was little because he was convinced he needed them. She knew he didn’t need them but she wanted to show him she accepted and loved him. My brother grew up to be a proud member of the LGBT community. I like my name. It is unique and no one else I know has my same name with my same spelling. My name is what defines me. My family and best friends call me Jane. If someone calls me Jane, they know the true and authentic Jayna. The girl who isn’t always striving for perfection and the unfiltered sense of humor. My friends suggest that what makes me unique is that my laugh sounds particularly like a hyena. Hyenas are unique and vital for African ecosystems. They drive off larger predators. Maybe even considered a “bringer of victory.” They are nocturnal animals and live in family groups. Like a Hyena, my family is also extremely important to me. I am unique and not afraid to be myself. Jayna might be gracious but Jane definitely isn’t. Jayna Cabry ‘19

Tribute to Franz Marcs Aislinn Smeader ‘21 Scholastic Gold Key

Imagine Heaven (after Paul Zimmer) I sit with Secretariat in a horse stable. We are listening to old Taylor Swift’s light country, A breeze stirs through his red mane, I can hear Big Red’s steady breathing. Dolly Parton has gone to the house for a drink of lemonade, Brian May lightly plucks the strings on a guitar The sky is a light blue. Lady Gaga slams on the piano, Pablo Picasso, Vincent van Gogh and Leonardo da Vinci set up easels, The band is warming up in the studio: John Lennon, Paul McCartney, Ringo Starr, and George Harrison The Norbertines of the Norbertine Abbey will chant. There will be more poems from Rupi Kaur. My heaven is the smell of clean laundry, just taken down from hanging outside in the salty air down the shore. The sound of wind chimes shaking in the breeze, Rainstorms on a summer’s night. The loud laughter that fills our dinner table, And the view of the sun setting by the bay. Lauren Kupiec ‘19

Entrance to Heaven

Anna Sanchez ‘19

My Nirvana A breeze carries the faint sweetness of lilac into my dreams I wake up, and cool grass tickles my feet as sunshine warms them This is Nirvana, or at least my share I walk across a lawn speckled with windows of light and shadow Ice hits my feet, and I am in a stream The miniature waterfalls trickle and rustling leaves stipple my eardrums. I continue. I continue until I arrive at my destination for the day Lazily strewn blankets warmed by their bed of sunshine There, I see Sylvia Plath and Sharon Creech Two women whose works comforted me in my time on earth. Creech, who brought me peace through a world similar yet different enough from my own. Visions of young artists, teens exploring adolescence, familial love and disdain Plath accompanied me through my later, darker times She befriended me in a world I did not entirely understand And I felt heard. Together we basked and laughed and poured from a clear glass pitcher We ate strawberries sprinkled with sugar And felt no need to discuss the mundane matters of the old earth And conversed only in the indistinguishable Forgetting the pains we wrote in life. Elizabeth Erdy â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

Reverie

Lauren Wilson â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 Scholastic Gold Key

Tapestry 2019 Editorial Staff Brian Carbajal ‘21 Riley DeBaecke ‘19 Sophia Liston ‘20 Alyssa Pierangeli ‘21 Assistant Editors Caroline Antunes ‘20 Phoebe Brinker ‘20 Alexis Rendel ‘21 Layout Riley DeBaecke ‘19 Copy Editor Sophia Liston ‘20 Faculty Advisor Mr. Stephen Klinge Thank you to... Ms. Jody Hoffman and the Art Department Mr. John Jordan and the Creative Writing Class ...and all who submitted work to Tapestry!