Sextant - June 2021

THE SEXTANT Belmont Hill

Upper School Literary Magazine June 2021-

INSIDE: ❏ Short Stories ❏ Poetry ❏ Personal Essays ❏ Woodburys photo by Drew Dummer

EDITED BY: IGAJU AGBA ’22 & JACK HENDERSON ’22

CONTENTS SHORT STORIES “One Hundred and Ninety-Seven Days to Move On” by Caleb McGrath-Sheldrick’21……………………………4 “Double the Man, Double the Fall” by Cam Reirden ’21……………………...…………………………………….6 “Snowy Solitude” by Jack Henderson ’22…………….……………………………………………………………10 “Time Flies” by Jack Winnay ’22 …………………………………….…...……………………………………….11 “An Opera House of Mirrors” by Timo Simonin ’22…………….……………………………………………….. 12 “Questions for the College Board” by Wilton Lawton ’22………………………………………………...…….. 14 “How to be a Soldier” by Tommy Madden ’22…………………………………………………………………....15 “Candy Heist” by Charlie Cave ’22…………………………………………………………………………….…15 “Racoons” by Bert Greene ’22………………………………………………………………………………….…17 “Breadcrumbs” by Michael Salvatore ’22……………………………………………………………………...….18 “Empty Wrappers” by Kevin Jiang ’22………………………………………………………………………...….19

POETRY “Why I Love Baseball” by Jack Winnay ’22……………………………………………………………….……...21 “Distractions” by Sebastian Constintini ’22……………………………………………………………….………22 “Watery Oblivion” by Luca Mezzanotte ’23………………………………………………………………………22 “Iris” by Arec Keomurjian ’22……………….……………………………………………………………………23 “Let Them Stay?” by Igaju Agba ’22………………………...……………………………………………………23 “Cinquain: Black Excellence” by Jayson Firmin ’21 ……………..………………………………………………23 “Stargazing” by Jack Henderson ’22……………….………...……………………………………………………23 “It’s Complicated” by Igaju Agba ’22………………………..……………………………………………………24

“Glass Half Empty” by Tommy Madden ’22……………………...………………………………………………24 “Giraff-ication” by Timmy McCormack ’21…………………………………………………………...…….……25 “I Talked to God Last Night” by Ikenna Ugbaja ’21……………………………………………………..….……25 “Things I Believe - Rewrite of ‘Things I Strongly Believe’ by Rudy Francisco” by Kai Ogenah ’21………....…25 “If the Stones Could Speak” by Caleb McGrath ’21…………………………………………….…………..……25 “Whose backyard is this?” by Timmy McCormack ’21…………………………………………………..………26 “Dear Dopamine” by Sam Freed ’21………………………………………………………………...……………26 “It Gets Cold In Alabama” by Ikenna Ugbaja ’21……………………………………………………………....…28 “Who Is Your Declaration To A Man Never Freed?” by Ikenna Ugbaja ’21………………………...……………28 “Goodbye, Sun” by Jack Henderson ’22……………………………………………………..…………………. 29 “Far Far Away” by William Okurowski ’22…………………………………....……………………………….…30 “Beep” by Matthew Martines ’22……………………………………………………………………………….…30

PERSONAL ESSAYS College Essay (Common Application Personal Statement) by Jalen Walker ’21……………………………….…32 College Essay (Georgetown: Walsh School) by Jalen Walker ’21…………………………………………....……33 “A Change of Tune” (College Essay) by Max Hall ’21…………………………………………….………………33 “Musings of an ‘Angry’ Black Man” by Ikenna Ugbaja ’21…………………………….…………………………34

WOODBURYS Woodybury by Gabriel Klug ’22……………………………………………………………………...……………36 Woodbury by Adam Alto ’21 …………………………………………………………………………....…………38 Woodbury by Jacob Czarnecki ’22…………………………………………………………………………………39

SHORT STORIES

One Hundred and Ninety-Seven Days to Move On

by Caleb McGrath-Sheldrick The first time I ever heard good country music, I was in my coach’s truck, and we were driving from the hotel to the restaurant for some southern fried chicken sandwiches. My coach plugged his phone in the car, and played some Johnny Cash, followed by some Tim McGraw. He turned the speakers all the way up, bumpin the classics loud enough that my family back home could hear it too. I jumped into the back of the truck, folding my thin, 6’2 frame to allow my bigger, older teammates to pile in too. The cool, humid dusk air rushed through my hair and my fingers, the sun was almost set in between the buildings. We took a right turn, then a left, and rounded the corner in downtown Nashville, letting the lights and bustle of the bars on Broadway greet us. Men and women flowed up and down the street like a stream, wobbling around, bubbling, laughing and hollering. Sing-songy voices wafted down from the tops of the buildings. I looked up to see bands playing on the roof decks, strobe lights painting the evening sky. I looked back down the street, noticing solo guitarists picking at their instruments, seemingly begging for tips or a free drink. As we continued, I heard the same Johnny Cash song that we had been listening to earlier as we passed a bar overflowing with people. We kept driving south out of Broadway’s bustle, but the echo of the classics followed us down the street as if to say, “Where are you going? Stay awhile.” It seemed as if the music was speaking to my coach as well, as after a couple of minutes, the tentacles of the music went through his ears into his brain, forcing him to turn around. We jumped out of the truck, the smell of the music drew us back to Broadway like a fresh pie let cool on a windowsill. We meandered our way through the throngs, weaving in and around drunks to try to get into a bar. I looked at my reflection in the glass of a restaurant. My lanky, thin, fifteen year old frame bounced back at me. My dirty blond hair was long, pushed back from wearing a hat all day. Although I am only fifteen, I get mistaken for being a lot older, sometimes even around twenty. That’s what my travel coach saw in me when he had me play up with seventeen and eighteen year olds before I had even entered sophomore year. My fastball is the thing that did it for me. I hit 93 yesterday, making me one of the top ranked players in the country. You may think that I had it good, that I had it figured out, but I don’t.

My mind tends to race sometimes. It sometimes thinks thoughts I didn’t even know I could think.

There are nights that I am tethered to my bed, my thoughts overwhelming me. My brain disconnects from my conscious being, sending me into a downward spiral. I think of my mother. I think of her smile, her laugh, her seemingly endless energy, the car rides to tee ball practices. I think of the cancer that drove its ugly dagger into her breast. I think of the months spent by her bedside, praying for a gift from God, watching my mother deteriorate like a wilting flower. Her heart rate began to decline, her eyes began to flutter. She turned her head, bald from the chemo, we made eye contact, but not really; my vision blurred with tears. I looked back at the monitor to see a straight line, the steady beep turning into a solid.

I looked away from my reflection in the glass to the glowing south beach themed signs above. I turned around, I heard my name called and snapped my head around. Our third basemen, Luca, along with four other of my teammates climbed the stairs to a Wild West themed bar.

“Are you coming?” Luca asked.

“Yeah, sorry, my bad,” I responded. I paced towards the stairs and followed him up through the traditional saloon shutter doors with peeling brown paint.

“C’mon, we needa get you a drink, it’ll loosen ya up, have a good time.” he said over his shoulder. We waded through the sea of bodies to the bar; he ordered something, I don’t really know what it was, and

handed it to me. I looked at the brownish orange drink with two ice cubes in my hand. The pungent scent pierced my nose, the memories of January 5th crashing back on me like a wave at a beach.

People say that you can physically feel your heart break. I can vouch for that. Usually the first couple seconds are disbelief. “There's no way, no chance this happened.” Then the realization, “I’ll never see them again, I’ll never get to see her smile, hear her laugh.” Then the grief. The overwhelming, the gut-wrenching, the indescribable feeling of loss. What happened next I can’t even describe. I honestly don’t remember it. Just black. Just darkness.

My dad in the months after spiraled out of control. He drank everything in sight. There hasn’t been one night since January 5th he hasn’t drank. It’s July 23rd today. The liquor cabinet, which at one time would have lasted him years, was empty within a couple weeks. But I understood how he felt. The whisky on the top shelf above the refrigerator whispered its ugly name in my ear before, prodding me to give in, but I refused; I don’t want to give up like my father. My mom wouldn’t have wanted that.

I snapped out of it to see Luca waving his hand in front of my face.

“You good, dude?” he asked me with a questioning look on his face. “You were just staring at your drink for probably the last two minutes.”

“Yeah I’m ight,” I responded, still staring at the whisky in my hand. “I don’t want this though.”

“You sure, bro? What’s wrong?”

“Listen man, I just don’t want it. My mom would be pissed.”

“Well your mom isn’t here, is she?” He smiled.

“You’re right.”

I fell silent. Being a quiet kid, I didn’t usually talk about my feelings that much, but all of a sudden I found myself gushing everything out. I told him about the months leading up to January 5th, seeing my beautiful mother wilt and succumb to the cancer like a sunflower without water. I told him about the moment she died. The moment I felt my heart snap in two. My dad and his downfall. For the first time, I let someone into my heart, I let someone understand how I was feeling. We put a couple dollars down on the table and walked outside. The sky was dark now, the remnants of the pink and purple fade stripe sunset long gone by now.

“You wanna keep talking about it?” he asked me.

“Thanks.”

We ended up walking through downtown Nashville for nearly two and a half hours that night. He became my best friend on the team, and later my best man at my wedding. We coach our six year old sons together today. He helped me move on. He helped me understand that I can honor my mom through my actions in my life. He brought me out of a dark place and showed me the light; all he had to do was listen.

And for that, I am forever indebted to him.

Double the Man, Double the Fall

by Cam Reirden Unknown Number: Hello, John John: Who is this, How did you get my number Unknown Number: You know who I am, John.

John: I would really like to know who this is Unknown: Jonathan, We met at the club two nights ago on 5th street. I would explain our actions, but your memory should start coming back soon.

John: My memory?

Unknown: Yes, I briefly removed the memory of the last few nights. I hope you don't mind. It was..

Necessary John: What happened? If this is a prank, it's not funny John again: I want to know what's going on. I will call the police.

Pause a minute Unknown: If I would have known you were going to be so hostile, I would I have picked a different target Unknown: But oh well, I'll follow my plan John: Suit yourself John calls the police.

Unknown: Ah yes, The infamous phone call, They won't help you.

John: They are running your number as we speak. It's over.

Unknown: John John: What?

Julian: Call me, Julian.

John: Why John receives a text.

2nd Unknown number: Hello John! This is Julian, your police operator; please call this number. 9191991919.

We will discuss the details moving forward.

At that moment, John finally realized what he was dealing with. This was not a prank call from one of his friends, or even some of his students. This number or man, for that matter, could have all of my information or even my family.

Where did we meet?

What had I told him, does he know my secrets?

So many things were flowing through my brain, I truthfully don't know what to do.

John: What do you want, I'll give anything, I'll pay My mind now raced. How much would I pay him, truthfully I would pay him anything. This is precisely what my parents always warned me about—the prep school life, The Ivy League college. There were many ways for me to get involved with the wrong people or the crazy crowds. In my opinion, I did a great job of avoiding these types of relationships and activities all through the early years of my life.

John: Please, I'm begging you.

Bryan: Call me, Bryan.

Bryan then sent a slew of emojis. There seemed to be a sort of connection between them, but I certainly could not decipher the meaning of all of them. The only thing I possibly thought I could do was put the emoji message into google and see if something perhaps popped up.

What I then saw sent a shiver down my spine.

The message immediately directed me to a picture—a picture of my parent's old cape house that we had sold many years ago. But the closer I looked. The more I realized and recognized the picture. Beer cans in the yard, whiskey bottles floated in the pool. This was the scene of my father's suicide. My father fought with depression and addiction for many years, and it increasingly became apparent when I was a sophomore and junior in college. It all came to a breaking point one day in July of '05. My father had returned from a work trip to New York City when he found himself all alone at the Cape house for the weekend. My mother had been at the airport waiting for me to return from my summer abroad in Italy. This left my father with an unattended liquor cabinet.

Minutes after we got on the Mass pike, We received the call. It was the authorities in the area. My father was dead, suicide from a gunshot wound. Our car instantly came to a stop in the middle of the left lane. My mom was in shock. She could barely mutter out the words of what she had just heard, but once I had the idea, we both sat there and sobbed. From the moment forward, nothing truly has been the same. Losing my father, the role model in my life, crushed me beyond anything I could imagine.

Looking at the picture in front of me brought back all the memories, the picture was the first image I saw when I got to the scene.

John: Why?... Why would you send me that The image began to pixelate and shift into letters quickly. The message read: Meet me here, at midnight sharp. July 21st.

That was the day my father died. This man or woman or agency, whatever it was, knew every single thing about me. I had never been more scared in my life. What about my mother? Where is she? Could they have gotten to her?

I quickly opened my phone; I went to text "Bryan" or whatever the hell their name is. Then the messages and number started to pixelate like the message on the picture. It all disappeared.

My mind now raced in all different directions. I was fighting the battle with whoever Bryan was, but now I was fighting my self-consciousness on what to do.

A few days passed, and I finally came to my decision. My world seemed to be falling apart, and the only way I felt things could get back to normal was to meet Bryan at my father's death site. I called my mother the morning before I left to check on her. She quickly picked up, relieving my stress, and I told her I loved her then hung up.

I felt an intense sadness then come over me. I stared out the window of my small, one-bedroom apartment and felt warm; wet tears start to form on my eyelashes. As my eyes watered more and more while I thought about my current situation. I could never understand why all the bad in the bad things in the world always seemed to fall upon me.

"Your drive will take you three hours and forty-seven minutes."

The time alone made my decision to drive to my old house very difficult. It seemed to take an eternity to get down to the now old run-down house. The once neatly trimmed shrubs that lined the front fence now were overgrown between the fences and vines grew between the cracks in the sidewalk. The windows which provided beautiful natural light and shadows were now boarded up and sported many new colors of fresh graffiti. This house that used to be the safe haven in my life had now turned into more of a nightmare than what I had initially expected. I had arrived about three hours early to inspect the scene and see what type of condition the house was in. As soon as I saw the state of the property, I left immediately. I didn't know what to do, so I found a parking lot. I opened the bottle and started drinking.

Do you remember me, Jonathan?

I stared at the man around my age, something about him looked familiar to me, but I couldn't quite piece it all together. I surveyed his face; I knew I knew this man but from where?

A scar lined his right eye; he almost resembled Anakin Skywalker with the scar.

Then I got it.

The theme of chills going down my spine continued as this may have been the scariest moment of my life.

Timothy Joseph. The man or kid shall I say, that has followed me since the 9th grade at Trinity-Pawling.

Timmy and I had been best friends all through high school, and when college decision time came around, I suddenly had four more years with my' best friend'. At first, I didn't know how to feel about this, I loved that I

would be with my best friend for many more years, but I also was genuinely looking forward to all of my new freedoms of being in New York City. Columbia was my future, but Columbia was now just Timmy.

At first, the college went great; It was much easier to room with someone I had known for many years rather than someone who I had just met. It became much easier to make other friends, and I always had someone to help with my homework while Timmy was around. I had no complaints for the first three years in all honesty.

That all changed; however, when the responsibilities of the senior year came along. I had thought all the competition regarding school had come to a close after taking my standardized tests and class ranks in high school was over, but once again, I was wrong. Columbia pushed all of us to get better and better grades the first semester to set us up with an internship starting the second semester. The class quickly turned into a game, and this was no more apparent than between Timmy and me. Our friendship was now a rivalry, and the only talk we had between the two of us was jawing about what internship we both were going to get.

Fast forward two months. I had been working at Goldman as an intern and was doing such a good job I was nominated to be promoted to a real floor trader the day after I graduated. This position had been dwindled down to two students. I was one, and Timmy was the other. I knew this job meant everything to Timmy, more than it meant to me, but I needed the job. Me having this type of job would ease the burden off of my mother.

Timmy, like my father, had fallen into the drugs and alcohol trail. There was nothing scarier than seeing Timmy after a trip, or when he was drunk, he became very violent and cynical. These actions became more and more common as the decision on who was to be hired closed in. I began to fear for my safety, but I refused to tell anyone as I believed there was still good in Timmy.

Tic. Tic. Tic All I could hear was the clock.

John, are you happy?

John, this is amazing. I'm so happy you'll be working here!

My mind raced, I saw Timmy angle straight for the bathroom after the decision was made public. From that time forward until I returned to my dorm room that night, it was a blur.

The next morning, Timmy was all over the school, and NEW YORK news.

What I saw, I didn't believe it.

It said, he disappeared into the night.

This couldn't be true. I didn't believe it. So I called, straight to voicemail. I called again, Straight to voicemail.

I didn't know what to do. I checked our room for any sort of message or signal.

Nothing.

Snowy Solitude

by Jack Henderson Through the canopy of the snow-covered pines shines the almost full moon, glimmering on the freshly fallen snow. Untouched, unspoiled, the forest is at rest, which is interrupted by the crunch of my boots. Weary, I march on through the darkness, and faintly in the distance, nocturnal forest dwellers come alive. Tiny icicles cling to my eyebrows and my beard like stalactites in a cave deep underground. Head down, I trudge on, trying to keep upright under the immense pressure of my backpack. I was still in disbelief at how I had managed to get lost, but I was beginning to lose hope with no radio or map. …

My hunting party had left early this morning, arriving in the woods before the sun had cast its first light across the pristine forest. My party consisted of two of my best friends and one of their teenage sons. Throughout the day, we did not see a single deer or moose, which was our goal. We continued tracking many sets of footprints in the snow, each leading to nothing. Finally, tired and discouraged, the teenage boy named Chris begged to go home, clearly disinterested with the lackluster hunt. His father and my other friend did not take much convincing from him to pack it up and head home. Unlike the others, my disappointment only fueled my desire to keep hunting because a predator must keep going until the kill. I knew that if an animal was dumb or unlucky enough to cross paths with me I would not miss the killshot because, simply put, I never miss. I would strike like an angel of death, and then be on my way out of these snow-covered woods. Much to my friend's dismay, I informed them of my decision to stay behind and told them I would head back before dark as it is not wise to test your luck after nightfall. They tried to argue with me, claiming that it was not safe to go alone, but I assured them that I would be alright, yet they struggled to leave me behind. My resolve was absolute and no argument from them could have changed my mind, and I told myself that I was not leaving this forest until I got what I came for.

I pressed forward and noticed the sky began to darken as ominous clouds covered the warm sun. As the snowfall increased and my luck remained unchanged, I removed my backpack to look at my map to find my way back. Quickly, I realized that my map was not in my bag as I had let Chris borrow it along with my radio. Fear slowly crept into the back of my mind, planting seeds of doubt that would eventually flourish and sprout. Finally, I determined that to find my way back, I must gain a higher vantage point and look for landmarks.

I slung my rifle across my shoulder and headed atop a hill, and from my new perspectivet, I looked out across the valley. My eyes were drawn below me, and I noticed I was standing atop a steep cliff with a drop-off of about twenty feet. I walked close to the edge, and I peered into the distance. Abruptly, I heard the muffled rumble of sliding rock and ice, and my feet were swept out from under me. Unable to react in time, I fell down the cliff into a soft pile of snow, which broke my fall, saving me from catastrophic injury. Dusting myself off, I counted my blessings that I was still alive but soon realized I was missing my rifle. Frantically, I searched through the pile of snow, but my luck had not changed, and I was unable to locate the main form of protection I had from the beasts of the wilderness. Alone in the woods, unarmed and afraid, I was no longer the apex predator, and with darkness setting in along with snow hailing from the sky, I was truly lost. …

Bone-chilling temperatures bite at my exposed skin. Like a child unwilling to sleep without a night light, I am afraid, but I do not fear my nighttime solitude, but rather that I am not truly alone. I can sense eyes, hungry eyes eagerly watching me just out of my sight. Armed with only my hunting knife, I clutch its study hilt, and I continue my trek through the night.

My eyes are heavy and strained like Atlas trying desperately to hold the weight of the world, but I persevere. The distant howling of wolves stirs me from my daze and sends a shiver from the nape of my neck down through my entire body. The sound-dampening snow slightly muffles their war cries, and their howls faintly echo through the trees. The tall pine trees stand tall as solemn sentinels, simply observing my torment. Clutching tight on my knife, I can feel the life draining from my body as frostbite sets in.

I raise my eyes in front of me, and there is a light in the distance. Through the tall bodies of the pines, I can see it; the warm, welcoming light beckons me forward. Gazing forward in almost a trance, my legs give out, tired from walking miles through the deep snow. Lying on the soft snow, I long to sleep. The snow no longer feels cold; it soothes me to sleep like a warm blanket welcoming me after a long day. As I lose consciousness, the mirage of the light fades, and I am once again alone in the dark.

Time Flies

by Jack Winnay Why Do I Have to Leave Oak Hill? Why do I have to go to private school? What schools should I tour?

What’s Belmont Hill? Where is it? That’s a dumb question. Is it all boys? Do you think I’ll like an all boys school?

When do I find out if I got in? If I get in, do I have to go? When’s the first day of school? Why do I start school way before my friends? Why do I have to wake up so early? Why are my teachers giving so much homework? Why are my grades so bad? “Jack, why are your grades so bad?” Will I ever like it here? When does baseball season start? How did 7th grade go by so fast? Who are all these new kids? How am I already a freshman? Do my grades this year go on my college resume? What colleges will I apply to? Do I even need to think about college yet? “Jack, you don’t need to think about college right now.” Thank God. When are varsity baseball tryouts? Do you think I’ll make the team? Do you think my back is O.K? “Ya, it’s probably fine.” What does the MRI say? How long will it take to recover? Will I miss the whole summer season? I wonder if coach hates me? How different is sophomore year from freshman year? Should I take any AP’s? No more study halls? When do we eat lunch? What time do sports start? Should I go back to football this year? What about basketball, should I play basketball this year? Why does advanced woodworking have to be over? I wonder if Mom will like the table I made her? When does baseball start? Will I play this year? Will I be able to stay healthy? When’s our first game? What’s COVID? How long do we not have school for? What’s Zoom? Are we going back? Nope! What are the rules going to be this year? Do I have to wear a mask all day? Do we actually have to stay 6 feet apart? How long is this going to last? Do you have to play hockey games with a mask? How is it already winter? I wonder what all these new electives are going to be like? I wonder how Creative Writing is going to be? How is it already spring? Is baseball season going to be normal? How is there only 7 games left this year? How is there only 3 weeks left in junior year? How have these 5 years gone by so fast? Is senior year going to go by as fast as these past years? How much am I going to miss Belmont Hill when I’m gone?

An Opera House of Mirrors

by Timo Simonin The first time I heard world-class, emotion-filled Italian opera, I was sitting amid a crowd of 2,000 in a tailored, midnight-blue designer suit that had stains from the slightly salty water that rolled out of my eyeballs, down my cheek, and onto my chest. I shouldn’t have been crying because it is regarded as unprofessional, but I was. My blurry vision made me lose track of Maxime. I wiped my eyes, and he was across the hall, still in his private box. Why would he leave? Surely everyone else was as captivated by the performance as much as I was.

The range of the lead male was sensational; his lows sounded like someone was playing the double bass and his highs were indistinguishable from a woman’s. The vibrato in his voice sounded fuller than any pop singer’s and could express either pain or joy upon command. I must admit, the plot was more interesting than I thought it would be. A knight, Francesco, was forced to duel in an arena and fight for his dignity knowing all too well that the love of his life, Rosa, was forever banned from seeing him. Something all too familiar. But I couldn’t let myself become distracted by the show. I double-checked my suit pocket to make sure that it was still there, and it was. The pistol with a suppressor on the tip assigned to me by a stranger. I suppose that it wasn’t a complete stranger if he was also paying me half a million, but I still didn’t know his name.

Two weeks ago, I had arrived in Austria by train and traveled to a run-down hangar to meet with my boss, who wore a mask and spoke through a voice deepener. He provided me with the customary assortment of guns and gadgets to choose from as we discussed the details.

“You’ll be fine with your regular kit?” he inquired.

“Yeah, it’ll do. Hasn’t failed me in a decade.”

“Talking about regular, I need you to assure me that your work will be up to your normal standard,” he continued, “You can’t let anyone or anything change you. You’ve been a professional for quite a while now, and I assume that you can separate your personal life from your job.”

I had not thought of her since I had left my house. “Thanks for the concern, but I can complete the task.”

“Good. I shouldn’t need to remind you why there was an opening for this job in the first place, then. I’ll see you once you’re done.”

Back in the opera house, the first intermission arrived, and much of the crowd left their seats to stretch, as did I. I looked over towards Maxime, and he stayed seated in the company of his wife and two bodyguards. He sat attempting to seem stoic, but this was merely a facade. He constantly looked over his shoulder as if to ask one bodyguard if everything was still okay, and checked his phone a few times too many.

“Well, not right now then,” I thought to myself. I could take a few minutes off to relax. Maxime certainly wasn’t going anywhere, as his wife was mesmerized by the opera. You could tell that taking her to see the show was some sort of present; while she had her eyes fastened on the stage, he had his eyes fastened to her, watching her smile.

I stepped onto the balcony and felt the soothing breeze that could wrap its arms around you and hug you on the warm summer night in Vienna. It brought me a sense of safety. I felt my suit pocket buzz and reached for my phone. I read “unknown number” on the screen, but there was only one person it could be. I answered the phone and simultaneously realized that when I did so, a small piece of paper had fallen onto the ground.

“Henry?” demanded the deep, distorted voice on the other side.

“Yes,” I replied while bending down to pick up the note I did not remember putting in my suit, “What is it?”

Immediately after the words left my mouth, I looked at the paper. It was in fact not a note, but a polaroid photo. In that moment, the peripheral, buildings and people, weather, city, and mission all started fading and I focused solely

on the image. Time stood stiller than artifacts in a museum. In a millisecond, my mental dam collapsed and the memories flooded back into the foreground of my mind.

I was staring at a picture of me and my wife that she took right before she started losing her hair. That day we had gone picnicking in the French Alps. In the sunny, temperate, and cloudless weather, we ate, danced, and told stories, and she sang while I played my guitar for her. The softness in her voice always seemed to calm me down, and I would give up the world to hear it again. I turned over the polaroid to see a message on the other side.

“You’ll be OK! - N” it read. Nadine. It means hope in french. Well, it used to. She echoed the lie I had been telling myself since the funeral last month, and even in the hospital after the doctors told us that it was terminal.

“Henry…” I heard faintly in the back of my head. I paid no attention to it. I turned the photo back over and just looked at Nadine. Her green eyes that stared into the camera illuminated the picture and her smile had the warmth of a million blankets. Even then, I couldn’t help myself from looking at her; in the picture, I was mesmerized and looking at her while she looked at the camera. It was almost like Maxi“HENRY!” Yelled the voice from the other side of the phone, “I said is it done yet?”

“N-no,” I stammered, “I have not had the chance. I assure you everything will go well.” He hung up. I wandered back to my seat, still only half-present. The lights dimmed, and the second act began. I could not stop thinking about the polaroid. She put it there knowing that this suit was the one I always wore when I went to “work.” But why put it in there? Why not in the house somewhere I would have seen immediately? It certainly would have helped me cope better. Nadine never wanted to interfere with my work, but she certainly would have preferred that I choose another job. On that day in the Alps, she wouldn’t even dare step on an ant that crawled onto the blanket.

I wanted to be like her and have her remembered, and now I had a way. A way out. A way for my wife to leave an imprint on the world. A way to slowly better the world. But I couldn’t, could I? Defying my boss, who surely had the power and means to kill me. I couldn’t imagine a scenario where I escaped unscathed and untroubled.

The lights came back on, signaling the second and final intermission, and I left the mental bubble that I had been in during the entire second act. I looked across the theater, and sure enough, Maxime stood up and started walking towards the main hall. I needed to follow him. I didn’t know what course I would take yet, but pursuing Maxime was a must. He turned around a corner with a bodyguard on each side and headed into the bathroom, the guards staying outside. I followed him while my mind spun in circles like the ballerinas on stage. I stepped into the bathroom as well, the guards unsuspectingly letting me by. It was just us in the men’s room. He went into a stall while I went into my mind to attempt to find some sort of clarity.

I found none. My head clashed with itself and by the time Maxime exited the stall, I was still asking myself, “what is more important?” I approached the sink to wash my hands like Maxime was doing. I pulled out the pistol from inside my left pocket and placed it flat on the sink, pointing to my right and directly at Maxime.

“Shhhh,” I told him with a finger over my mouth. He saw my gun and backed up against the wall, taken aback by the gun staring at his torso. I then started nonchalantly washing my hands, knowing that I had all the time I needed; if Maxime were to call for help, he would have done so already. I slowly peered up into the mirror and then at Maxime. I was looking into two mirrors. One normal one straight ahead, and one temporal one to my right.

Maxime had my build, only he stood a couple of inches shorter than me. He had a cleanly cut beard that would look like mine if he gave it a few months, and, more notably, he still had a gold circle around his ring finger. It was the trait that meant the most. The trait that made you smile when you looked at them.

“I can’t do it to you.” I broke the silence. Maxime’s expression turned from pale to confused.

He began, “Then why-” “Treat her well,” I interrupted, “please, do it for everyone who can’t.” I picked up my pistol and tossed it into the garbage can on my way out of the bathroom. As I left the opera house, I felt the warm air wrap itself around me like one of Nadine’s smiles. I didn’t know where I was headed from there, only that it was to a better place.

Questions for the College Board

by Wilton Lawton College Board, why are you so difficult? No like seriously, why do you even exist? First off, you can claim to be as fair and equitable as possible, but not even you believe that, do you? There have been countless studies proving that nothing about the AP or SAT is a fair assessment of college readiness, yet you still administer these tests like they are life or death; why? I actually cannot think of a job - with the exception of a college board test creator - where I would use Matrices regularly; so why must whether or not we can use this irrelevant part of mathematics impact our futures? Second, you famously claim to be not for profit; however, it is public information that the CEO of your company makes 1.6 million dollars a year, and the following ten highest-paid employees are all producing well over 500,000 dollars a year, does this sound like a profit to you? I know kids that have been saving money for weeks, sometimes months, just to afford to take the SAT; how do you think these kids would feel if they learned how much these “Non-Profit” employees were making? It is also common knowledge that the higher the household income, the higher the student will score; the line is nearly linear, is this something that has been done intentionally? I just can’t seem to understand the main motives behind administering one test that ranks us in order of college readiness; can anyone provide evidence to back this system, or are we all just sheeple? While the College Boards’ importance during the application process is ostensibly essential, the admissions process is changing, and don’t you think it’s safe to assume that within the decade, your pointless standardized testing will be meaningless and obsolete? So say your farewells, you masters of deception, because you, of all people, should know, the worst thing you can do is fix your mistakes too slow, get it?

How to be a soldier

by Tommy Madden You have to work with your brothers, always prepared for anything that could be thrown your way. You have to put death at the back of your mind, you are not there to protect yourself, you are there to protect the guy next to you. You have to know that you are there to protect the people of Iraq, not fight against them and you have to distinguish the enemy from a friend. You have to know your place, you are not the best at everything, you are not the smartest in the room, but you can make good decisions, and lead, or you can make good suggestions and follow.

Your weapon must be an extension of your body, keep it on you at all times, and never point it at your own man's back. You have to be willing to die for strangers, people you have never talked to, and probably never will. You have to deal with doing the work, but not getting the recognition. You have to be there when the IUD goes off. You have to see your best friend without legs, bleeding and crying. You have to hold him and tell him he’ll be fine, when you know that he won’t. You have to deal with that, sleep with that, and live with that. You have to go home and realize that you’re not still fighting. You have to learn to block the nightmares. You have to think hard, swim hard, run hard and fight hard to be a navy seal, and you have to push through pain, panic and fear, to protect what you hold dear.

Candy Heist

by Charlie Cave Reid had a cold and bitter look plastered across his face. He had only been home for two minutes but his afternoon was quickly spoiled. Maybe he was cranky due to his long day of 5th-grade classes or because his mom wasn’t around to make him a snack but nonetheless, he was especially mad at this moment. He had been looking forward to digging into his sack of candy the whole day. But there it was. Lying on the floor with empty wrappers spilling out of it.

Reid, dizzied by a cloud of rage, heard his older brother, feet stomping down their old oak staircase. The pace with which Drew moved down the stairs unsettled Reid. He almost seemed jitty or excited for some reason.

Then everything clicked inside Reid’s young brain. He turned and bolted out of his room, roared down his stairs like a storm preparing to devastate a village. Not yet reaching the bottom of the stairs, Reid leaped from the third step onto the back of his brother.

“What are you doing?” Drew asked in a bewildered tone.

“My candy!” Reid responded while landing a punch on Drew’s skull. His fingers bent and cracked upon impact, making his question if he was really the one inflicting the pain. “What?!”

“My candy!”

Drew flung Reid of his back. The two brothers stood across from each other panting for air and staring at each other in the eye, waiting for a weakness to show. In one corner was Drew: taller, stronger and heavier than his opponent. In the other was Reid: shorter, lighter, but fueled by the rage that boiled in his chest. Both the boys walked to meet each other in the center of the room. Two titans waiting to battle once again when their dog trotted into the room. In his mouth hung an empty skittles wrapper.

Racoons

by Bert Greene Snickers, Starbursts, Reeces. It was all good because it was all sweet. “This was a good, good night,” thought Devin as he bounced up and down out of excitement. Devin, however, was not satisfied with his already fat stash, he wanted more. He wanted all the candy. Most of all, He wanted to show Mrs. Gual’s class that he had collected the most candy out of them all. Not Terry, not Dominic, Him. As Devin had nearly pillaged Cliff road of all its king sized bars, he straddled over to Lanark, the street that had the second biggest houses, behind Cliff of course. He started with a rather peculiar house, a large english Tudor with glowing windows. Quite inviting. However the yard seemed oddly run down. The weeds were two feet high and the vines were as thick as snakes.

DING dong, DING dong, DING dong, Devin rang and rang, but no answer followed. Frustrated, he reached up and pounded the door with that large metal knocker thing that nobody seems to touch. It shook the house. Still, there was an answer. Devin couldn't help but notice Wrappers, lots and lots of Wrappers, even wrappers to the best kinds of candy, scattered all over the floor. With a loud thud Devin set his candy down to follow this trail of candy around the poarch. The floor creaked as he stepped.

“Ahah!” Devin had found a large metal bowl that looked like it had been thrown on the floor. “Who could have done this?” he thought to himself as he bent over to pick the bowl up from the floor. As he stretched back up he noticed an ominous glowing green set of eyes staring at him from the bush. Stunned at first, Devin retraced his steps backwards toward the front door, frozen with fear. As Devin turned around he saw his own candy ransacked and scattered. Three more sets of glowing green eyes pierced through him as he stood there. Racoons he thought.

Racoons.

Breadcrumbs

by Michael Salvatore

AAAAGHHH! I rushed to the bathroom clutching my fist to hold the blood in. “Don’t drip! Don’t drip!” I repeatedly told myself as I ran over the snow-white rug of my living room into the bathroom. Blood began to stream down my hand as I got into the shower to wash it off.

The water began to wash down my fully clothed body as I washed off my hand with soap and water in the shower. I watched as the rust-colored water swirled around the drain, dripping down onto the pure white tub and staining it forever red. Once my hand was cleaned off a bit, I immediately heard the creaking of the door, making my heartbeat like a steam engine. I could hear my heartbeat growing as time passed. Standing in that shower, I was soaked. Then I heard it.

“Ben! What is all over my carpet?!?” Caroline screamed at the top of her lungs. I sprinted to her aid to find a breadcrumb trail of blood leading straight into our bathroom, tainting the rug.

“Well, honey, I was going to cook us a great dinner and while I was dicing some vegetables…” I raised my hand with a smile. “I was almost done cleaning it off when you came.”

“Oh my god! I think I see bone. I’m gonna call a Doctor.” She rushed to the phone and started dialing for an ambulance. I looked down at my hand and the sight of some more blood bubbling out made me fall to the ground.

BEEEEP! A heart monitor measures my pulse as I wake up surrounded by a doctor, Caroline, and two nurses. “Wha-what happened?”

“You collapsed in your house,” a nurse answered, “and your wife called an ambulance for you. You have lost three pints of blood from that one cut. You’re lucky she called us.”

I looked right at Caroline and have never felt more love for someone in my entire life.

My body became all warm as I looked into her beautiful chocolate eyes. “I’m sorry about the carpet” I said looking down. Caroline let out a laugh.

“It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re okay”

Empty Wrappers

by Kevin Jiang

“I’ll give you my Skittles for your Twix!” shouted Johnny.

“No way!” Emily bluntly shot back.

The brother and sister, dripping from the pouring rain outside, burst through the heavy, dark oak entryway, pushing through the crowds of children still swarming at the door.

Dragging their muddy shoes through the crisp, freshly vacuumed white carpet, they finally found a home for the next several hours, setting up the black market that is post-trick-ortreating candy trading.

“B-but you don’t even like chocolate. Give me the Twix!” Johnny ordered, reaching across the floor for Emily’s pile and munching on an already half-empty pack of M&Ms. Wrappers flew all around the living room. Raised voices and high-pitched whines bounced off of the walls and ceiling. The house bubbled with frustration.

Why won’t she give me her candy? Johnny thought.

Why does he want my candy? Emily thought.

Why won’t these kids just SHUT UP? Mr. Garcia thought, slamming his fist on the table, rattling the empty bottles strewn all over the floor. The room reeked of week-old beer and the scent of an unbathed man. The persistent arguing of the kids was drowned out by what must’ve been Mr. Garcia’s twentieth bottle of the night. CLANG. Another one dropped to the floor.

Arguing and drinking, the two staples of the Garcias, consumed the household. The kids were left without a moderator in their fights, while Mr. Garcia, absorbed in his own reality, downed bottle after bottle after bottle.

“Stop it, Johnny! Those are my Starburst! Give them back!” shrieked Emily as she lunged towards Johnny, grasping at the stolen goods.

Suddenly, the sound of tearing paper filled the empty flat, with the individually packed small squares launching through the air like fireworks on the Fourth. One landed behind the TV. One landed in Johnny’s orange pile of Reese’s. One landed in the trash, already full to the brim

with empty wrapper from the night. One landed on the kitchen floor, making a loud PING noise as it bounced off an empty beer bottle. Another flew in the same direction, but stopped midflight, as if it had hit an impenetrable wall.

“UP TO YOUR ROOMS!”

POETRY Why I love baseball

by Jack Winnay ’22

Photo by Jalen Walker

There is no game like the one I love, You get punched in the face, Chewed up, Spit out, Each and every day.

You fail, fail, fail, and fail again, but that one moment of success; It makes all the injuries worth it.

It makes all the practice worth it.

It makes all the failure worth it.

That one moment: There's nothing like it.

When that tiny white ball, hits that skinny wood bat, Sending a rippling sensation through every vein in your body, All you want is to relive that moment.

But you can’t.

You can’t just relive that moment, because hitting that tiny white ball with that skinny wood bat is hard.

Hard like putting down the scratch off after you’ve lost 20 bucks.

Hard like putting down the syringe after years of addiction.

But just like them, I crave that high, So I pick up the bat each and every day, And swing for the fences.

Distractions

by Sebastian Costantini Sometimes my brain walks away.

Travels to a distant land Sunny and humid. Cold and desolate Sometimes my brain walks away From the sadness, the anger, the emotions Life and death Sometimes my brain walks away.

Like a calculator, it plugs numbers Sometimes it reads words Sometimes it stares blankly at screens Sometimes my brain walks away.

From the ice, the course, the field Sometimes it doesn’t catch the ball or score the goal

Watery Oblivion

by Luca Mezzanotte Lying motionless, Entrapped in dark shadows, Floating candidly, It sits.

Uninterrupted Small ripples forge their way Through muddied waters Motion quickly erupts Breaking the calm water The small creature Launches out of the dark abyss And quickly falls in To the bottom of the darkness

Sometimes my brain walks away.

Sometimes it doesn’t even realize it It just leaves Sometimes my brain walks away.

Never to return Tired of the hate, the wars, the battles Tired of losing Sometimes my brain walks away.

Like a blind man, it wanders, not seeing where to turn Not seeing who to follow Sometimes my brain walks away.

Reminiscing about times that were and never will be again Remembering the happy and the sad Sometimes my brain walks away.

Photo by Drew Dummer Sometimes it looks through the lens and takes a snapshot, like a camera Forgetting some and keeping others Sometimes my brain walks away.

Where does it go?

I don’t even know

Iris

by Arec Keomurjian Scarlet leaves strewn across mud and gray slate, Exposed clay—the crimson scars of torn earth.

A sky of fiery orange and radiant yellow, The horizon’s resplendent eruption, Cloaking the land in ubiquitous warmth.

Intense light beams between dark evergreen, Exposing an array of viridian needles.

Deep cerulean waters glitter below, luminescent, As a field of irises envelops eroded river banks: A panorama of vibrant indigo and bold violet.

Let Them Stay?

by Igaju Agba Like a bird free from its cage or an Elephant free from the zoo The people zooming to get them back to the cage The animals never belonged in a cage Hence the animals can roam free but Everyone dislikes the animals Maybe the animals aren't animals at all So who's to say They mustn't stay Asians, Mexicans, blacks, and Indians, everyone seems to want them out Y?

Cinquain: Black Excellence

by Jayson Firmin Black Brilliant, versatile Assault, biased, dehumanize Will continue to prevail Excellence

Photo by Drew Dummer

Stargazing

by Jack Henderson Gaze to the heavens Celestial beings dance Filling cloudless night

Photo by Drew Dummer

It’s Complicated

Glass Half Empty

by Igaju Agba

by Tommy Madden

So I have this speech impediment where I can't pronounce words that start “I” like “In” or “I’m” properly. I usually pronounce them with a “D” instead.

But let's talk about difference I mean immigrants Honestly I don't like difference I mean immigrants I don't like how they differ so much I’m really not used to that I mean infer so much I don't like how they infer so much They come in like herds of buffalo and think they deserve to stay Their feet shouting as they run into this country Why should we even let them stay I hate when people differ; It's not right I mean I hate when people infer I don't care about what race they are I just hate when people have a difference that could potentially affect me and that difference is why I don't think they belong here No no no no I mean I hate when people have an inference, I hate when people have an inference that could affect me that’s why they don't belong here Or maybe I do mean difference It’s complicated

I hate when people fish for a compliment When someone asks where are my keys Like I’m supposed to know where they went?

I hate when I have to repeat myself I said I hate when I have to, just forget it And when I forget what, uh, I want to stand on a ledge and jump When someone goes in for a handshake And I meet them with a fistbump I hate when someone says hi So I respond But they were just talking to some random guy I hate wheelie backpacks Lift the thing up That’s why they have straps I hate baby on board signs I was going to T-Bone you But now that would just be crossing a line?

I hate when the waiter says enjoy your meal And I respond you too Like they are also gonna eat this veal I hate questions during a show Is he dead, will he live Dude, I don’t know I hate when things drone on

Photo by Drew Dummer

I Talked To God Last Night

Photo by Alex Sousa

Giraff-ication

by Timmy McCormack Giraffes with short necks Had to move out from the land Gentrification

Photo by Drew Dummer

Things I Believe - Rewrite of “Things I Strongly Believe” by Rudy Francisco

by Kai Ogenah A few things I strongly believe: I believe chicken wings are the key to a woman’s heart, I believe Thanos is the strongest Marvel Villain to ever be seen on a screen, I believe Lebron James is the greatest player to ever touch a basketball

by Ikenna Ugbaja I talked to God last night He told me loved me “But God, how do you love me more than I love myself.”

You called, I answered, he replied How are you? He asked “I’m fine” How are you?

“I’m fine” How are you “I’m fine” How are you “I’m- I’m-” I talked to God last night, He told me he loved me “God I’m never enough” Never too this, never too that You’re you, you’re black ... and beautiful and smart and confident and cool and funny and …

You are you “But God-” No buts “But God I-” No buts “But God I- I- I can’t do this on my own” He chuckled, a soft one, warm and thick.

You, my child, are never alone I talked to God last night He told me I loved me\ That’s right, I am me, I love me Astonishingly

If the Stones Could Speak

by Caleb McGrath If the stones could speak, imagine the stories they would tell.

Their eyes watched nearly three hundred years ago as Napoleon grabbed desperately, blindly at power; The stones listened as the mob’s roar filled the boulevards The stones groaned, ripped out Like the Romans to Egyptian crops fifteen hundred years ago

I like the 4 for 4 combo from Wendy’s, but two meats, fries, and a cup of soda for 4 dollars is definitely another way to put me 6 ft down under.

The pointed, stuck up tiles in Versailles watched the masses strike down the heavy, wood and steel plated doors the privileged aristocracy cooped in the gilded cage nowhere to run

I believe the respect black women receive is subject only to what she can offer a man and defending yourself against acts of racism is, unfortunately, the quickest way to make your oppressor label you as “the angry black man.”

The stones sang for a wash from manure lined streets Instead bathed in red If Parisian stones had mouths Imagine the stories they would tell

I believe showers soothe the soul the same way it cleanses our bodies, I believe a great woman can make any man wants to be better in life.

I believe I am my ancestor’s wildest dreams and that is all the proof I need to know that I am meant to be different.

Photo by Alex Sousa

Whose backyard is this?

by Timmy McCormack What exactly is wind?

How did the sun even get so hot?

When birds are chirping what are they even trying to communicate?

Speaking of birds I used to really like pigeons I thought they were brave Curious Funny And you know who else likes pigeons?

Mike Tyson likes pigeons I like cities and pigeons are in cities I’m sure Mike Tyson likes cities too Well maybe not Because I don’t know him Personally of course

Dear Dopamine

by Sam Freed I remember the first time I met you Me, Billy, and James Billy, James, and I...Whatever I stood at the top of the high dive at the community pool I was nervous at first, I mean what kid wouldn’t My thirst built with every new rung of the ladder Looking back, it was probably no more than 10 feet Your brother, you know, adrenaline He and Billy and James gave me the courage to jump My right foot let out from beneath me Your buddy stayed by my side on my way down as I fell into the water foot first Resurfacing, I knew it was you who had come to my rescue You cradled me in your infinite arms and put a smile on my face

Our interactions had become less frequent Jackson held up two brownies, one in each hand “I found this in my brother’s room. You want some?”

But back to pigeons Even though I like pigeons I would never want them in my backyard Because of their reputation dirty Scavengers Homeless?

At least that’s what people say I pity the pigeons Because they are shunned from society By people I’m sure by birds too Well maybe not Because I don’t know them Personally of course maybe pigeons just need a second chance To change their reputation I don’t know though I guess I still wouldn’t want them in my backyard

One big bite It was funny Everything was funny.

I’d never felt your presence more Not laughing like at a joke, I mean the kind that you laugh so hard you can’t breathe You were there by my side making me laugh so hard I couldn’t breathe It’d been a long time since I last saw you That was my fault I couldn’t cut out the time to hang with you while juggling everything You know how it is I’m sure you’ve seen it a million times New job, new girl, new place, new time You were invited to my wedding and waited all day for you to come but you never showed I don’t blame you, I mean who am I to want to put my problems on you I want to apologize. At the time I didn’t know where I went wrong But I found a solution Got some help At least I called it that for the time being I spent my Saturday nights at the poker table Pouring my dollars into your hands and for minutes at a time I would feel your glowing touch You know, you were more difficult to figure out than my wife It was never her fault You came at times I never expected but almost never when I tried to reach out But I remember the day you moved back to the neighborhood Same day Daisy came into this world Quite incredible how 8 pounds fixed our friendship We held her together in our arms And as I looked at her, wailing I saw your spitting image Just like old times

Photo by Drew Dummer

It Gets Cold In Alabama

Who Is Your Declaration To A Man Never Freed?

by Ikenna Ugbaja Would you believe me?

Would you listen to me if I told you, “It gets cold here in Alabama”?

Days when you yell “hello neighbour!”

And their eyes freeze Mouths purse themselves up like a black youngins’ walkin by Nose scrunches within itself, shoulders push within themselves Blood starts to boil, and ice over soon after A side glance and a blink or two A harsh exhale Ice crystals on a twitching mustache I tell ya, it gets cold in Alabama Sometimes you bundle yourself up at the crack of dawn The sun beating down on your tired and worn out face You must never take off your jacket Cause when you hear that “Stop! Hands where I can see them!”

When he bends you down, feeling each pocket, each fold, each want to convict you When he slams your head on the warm tarmac, and reaches for his side When you glance up in terror, and see that Alabama sun, And a pink tongue, happily frolicking from side of a grin to the other As if he’s sitting in the stands, watching the texas longhorns on opening day You don’t remember ever buying a ticket It gets real frigid in Alabama So cold you can’t feel your fingers, like pneumonia is soon to follow So cold that you leave your porch and wander the forests A flickering light, the warmth you’ll find White hoods, pointy and sharp, glide around like spectres

by Ikenna Ugbaja We hold these truths to be self evident, That all men are created equal…

Except for the black man at the traffic stop All men are created equal…

Except for that little black boy murdered Reaching in his bag for soda pop Mother crying for her son that never came back from the corner shop I guess not…

That they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights: Life without parole, Liberty to waste away in my ghetto, and Pursuit from authorities systematically made against me In the name of the U.S of Amen to the Jesus that you pray to Cause my Jesus would never agree to the discrimination you are familiar to, but To secure these rights governments are instituted among Men, Deriving their just powers from…

The consent of the governed?

Yet the governed never consents to the murder of unarmed women Now you gotta make a sudden decision whether she needs those pills Whether she can afford those bills, cause “Black Women Are STRONG!” but not like an animal More like, “That’s what her mother taught her” That’s what Rosa taught her, that’s what Claudette and Angelou and Davis taught her, so Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for Light and transient causes; But black bodies riddled in the streets with bullet holes is no light cause But my black wife, my black daughter, my black sister after I kissed her Feeling afraid that they won’t be called in for a job cause of her long locs and dark skin is This “long train of abuses and usurpations”, so Best believe patience is running thinner than Jefferson’s love for

“Sweet home Alabama!” Tim Mcgraw shouts somewhere in the distance Lord, I’m coming home to you Your hands itch and twitch and sting for that warm, inviting flame Until you notice A dark shadow, strangely familiar Swaying to and fro, above the embers “A southern man don’t need him around anyhow” Would you still believe me?

Would you listen to me if I told you, “It gets cold here in Alabama”?

dark wine, yet It is their right, it is their duty to throw off such government, still When black boys and men, girls and women congregate to exercise their 1st amendment rights They’re given hard lefts and rights, K9 bites, and helicopter lights But when white protestors besiege the capitol they’re greeted with open arms, turned over palms, And the scene is calm…

Such has been the patient sufferance of the american negro Who knows if i’ll get to see my child grow Dreams left unfulfilled, That this nation still has not rose up and lived the meaning of its creed: We hold these TRUTHS to be self evident, that ALL men are created unequal, in fact.

So I ask you, who is your declaration to a man never freed?

Goodbye, Sun

by Jack Henderson

Photos by Drew Dummer

Vibrant iridescent turquoise Reflecting and refracting the glaring sun rays Far out, white caps churn Approaching swells appear unassuming, Retaining their glassy composure, Until they shatter on the sand Petite sand pipers retreat from the menacing surf As the sun grows tired, it sinks lower in the sky Eager for a rest until the next day, It retreats behind the horizon Ignited by incandescent light Now a fiery crimson, melting into a deep violet To the sun, I say farewell, Until our next communion

Beep

by Matthew Martines The day every middle schooler dreads the most A day which they beg their parents to skip Not finals Not the school dance, but “The FitnessGram Pacer Test is a multistage aerobic capacity test that progressively gets more difficult as it continues.”

A highlight of the day turned immediately into a lowlight When the gym teacher uttered those cursed words The beep test, as it was nicknamed, struck fear into the hearts of the students “On your mark. Get Ready. Start.”

Beep The first few laps were quite a breeze Slowly strolling between the walls of the gym Like a typical day in gym class Beep Drops of sweat were few and far between Like raindrops during a heatwave As the casual walk turned into a forced jog Beep The laughs and jokes Turned to poker faces and stoic concentration Beep Gasping for air like there was no oxygen left Some of the unfit students had enough Beep Panting, panting, panting Trying to catch their breath, but it was too fast for them Beep Now the elite athletes are left, kids in peak physical condition Also, the kids that try way too hard in gym class Beep Sweat dripping down foreheads Beep Two kids remain

Far Far Away

by William Okurowski So let's talk about Star Wars for a second You are telling me that monks in robes Fight guys with yellow eyes in robes With really powerful flashlights About how to deal with emotional drama.

You are telling me that entire wars With millions of soldiers on each side Spreading the entire galaxy Could be solved if these groups of people Agreed on how to deal with their anger issues.

You are telling me that All 12 movies, tv shows, and games Would be solved if the characters Went to group counseling...

Wow. It may be ridiculous to hear but To be honest, that doesn’t sound too unfamiliar, Actually quite close to home.

The seemingly insane conflicts held in Star Wars And damaging effects that they have on the entire galaxy Are something similar to what we experience everyday With a united nation, Falling to shambles Because of similar discord In our country Like in Star Wars, We have two sides, The Democrats and Republicans Who paint each other like villains, Trying to prove the other wrong.

We have lost the realization, of how riots and killings in the streets could become a daily norm, Imagine that Imagine seeing these horrible events so much That it becomes the normality That’s the type of country we are living in The type of country I do not want my children to live in.

And no if you were wondering,

Beep Battling for bragging rights Beep Coming down to the wire Beep One is desperately trying to keep up Beep Scratching and grinding every lap Beep Like he would choose death over a loss Beep About to pass out Beep He finally broke down, and his legs stop churning Devastated as if his parents found an atrocious report card Ending his chance for the title The exasperated crowd erupts As if the Celtics hit a buzzer-beater

I didn’t forget the raids to invade our capitol building Not far off from Order 66 if you ask me…

And all of this is just because of the hatred and misunderstanding both sides feel for each other.

And for what.

All of this killing, hatred and violence To achieve what…

I’m not really sure If we do not want to end up like the Jedi, Slaughtered by lies and hatred And make the universe that seems “far far away,” a reality We must come together, Put down our lightsabers Go to group counseling In unity As Americans Rather than Jedi and Sith To must make the country that I once loved, Great again.

PERSONAL ESSAYS College Essay (Common Application Personal Statement) - Jalen Walker It’s impossible to count how many times I’ve heard my mom say, “Come pickney, gwan and show me ya moves” in the past 17 years. Ever since I was younger and finally surpassed the Lullaby Classics by Baby Einstein stage, the sonorous soothing sounds of reggae music have rung throughout the four walls of our house. Listening to artists like Beres Hammond and Buju Banton takes my parents back to Jamaica and St. Thomas. It reminds them of the sweltering heat and fond memories of their youth. Likewise, it gives my twin sister, Jovanna, and I a chance to connect with our roots and appreciate the rich culture that the Caribbean offers.

It’s easy for me to be proud of my background and proclaim that I am part Jamaican and Caribbean Islander.

Traveling is a way that my parents have made an effort to ensure that I recognize our roots. I’ve been to St. Thomas once and to Jamaica three times. I love returning to these places with my parents. It feels oddly satisfying being welcomed by people I barely recognize who miraculously remember me from when I was a likkle pickney (little child). But, I admit, sometimes it’s hard. Sometimes, I feel gravely out of place and out of touch with that part of my identity.

Since we were younger, Jovanna and I have been referred to as American pickney because of how much we resemble typical Black Americans and interact with that part of our background. For me, that title is both comically and, unfortunately, well-deserved. I mean, I’ve never liked fish, I don’t have much skill for speaking patois, and I’m not a particularly good dancer. Although trivial, these things contribute to the occasional identity crisis that leads me to question how the Caribbean fits my identity.

I reflected on that thought this past February, after spending a few days in Jamaica celebrating my grandma’s 90th birthday. As we drove hours to get to the airport halfway across the island, I spent some time gazing out the window. Usually, driving through Jamaica along cliffs without guardrails can unfailingly make my mind race and get my blood pumping. But during this ride, my mind was fixated on evaluating my connection to the island. I thought about my grandmother; despite the thousands of miles that separate us and the years between my visits, she doesn’t let that come between us. I reflected on seeing countless individuals I couldn’t recognize who said they remembered how much I used to suck my thumb when I was likkle. I wondered how I would stay connected to this beautiful island, and all of these people when I’m older. How will I feel welcomed and at home when my dad isn’t able to reintroduce me to relatives or when I look to bring my children there in the future?

Although it’s hard to know the answers to my questions, I understand that staying connected to this part of my identity is an important step towards answering them. Caribbean culture has influenced many aspects of my life, but the most significant impact is in the way I interact with music.

Music has always been an integral part of my life, and I can credit my upbringing for that. Taking after the musical taste that my parents imparted to my sister and me has been the perfect way for me to feel connected.

Despite my inability to play any instruments--aside from the recorder, barely, thanks to my third-grade music class--music is essential to me. Almost like meditation, music can ground me in the present moment and give me space to evaluate the things that matter in life.

I know I’ll never grow too old for my mom’s, “come pickney,” and the dance-offs that follow. Because moments like that, fueled by reggae music, remind me to appreciate my family’s past and always be proud of my roots.

College Essay (Georgetown: Walsh School) - Jalen Walker Insularity and a collective lack of willingness to cooperate and collaborate are issues that have stunted human progress and blighted our most significant achievements in a world where globalization is ever-present, as seen in our international communities. It appears as though we've left behind the ideals of true collectivism when they do not correlate to positive economic outcomes. It is common for our leaders and motives to focus solely on competition and prestige upon the world stage in a way that is continually proving to affect countless aspects of our lives negatively. This has blurred our collective worldview and encouraged us to accept thinking in provincial and tribalistic manners. Consequently, we fail to recognize the benefits of becoming global citizens and do not fully embrace the plethora of differences that connect us to create an intertwined quilt of humanity.

I believe that the issue of embraced insularity contributes significantly to the amplification of many critical global issues, including climate change, poverty, and security. All of which are issues that the governments of the world consistently attempt to attenuate, or ignore, in displays of self-sufficiency. But, above all else, if we hope to collectively overcome these challenges and refocus the positive trend in human progress, we must champion increased international consciousness and foster genuine global cooperation.

Despite this issue's broad and historically enduring nature, its solutions, although nuanced, are straightforward. Firstly, as most habits are learned and not innate, early education worldwide must be improved to expose students to cultures, backgrounds, and perspectives different from their own. Indeed, most educational systems currently make a substantial effort to do just this. However, education regarding unfamiliar people and cultures often focuses on violent, tragic, and widely demeaning subject matter. By broadening the scope of students' educational experience and understanding of people unlike themselves—we will produce empathetic, receptive, and broad-minded thinkers with positively expanded worldviews.

As it is a commonly held belief that "children are the leaders of tomorrow," making this effort to augment educational practices and pedagogy is imperative in our fight against the issues that continue to plague humanity.

Nonetheless, it is essential to assert that this responsibility cannot be hastily relinquished to future generations. We must collectively bear this responsibility, acting concertedly to take bold action and change the course of history—and that begins with the leaders of today.

The second most significant solution to this issue is for world leaders to not only recommit to fostering unity in efforts to improve our collective well-being but also to reaffirm their commitment to the betterment of humanity. In the past, concerted attempts were made to emphasize these notions, but those efforts often come in the wake of calamitous events. Frankly, considering what we're up against—challenges like global warming—it would be undeniably remiss for the world's leaders to follow suit and proceed in a stagnant and unimpassioned manner.

These are the keys to overcoming the issues that global insularity and tribalism present. We all play a role in reconstructing the sentiments that influence how we interact with different cultures and perspectives. International cooperation and collaboration are the true keys to improving humankind's condition and, once again, allowing us to aspire to continue our advancement collectively.

A Change of Tune

by Max Hall My music taste used to lack diversity. I listened to the same rappers over and over and almost never strayed from my musical comfort zone. It was mirrored by my real world attitude as well; I was content to live without

enough exposure to the real world, as my predominately white private school allowed me to enjoy. Without knowing it, I desperately needed a variety of perspectives in my life. So when late sophomore year I decided to listen to a folk album from the early 90s, I surprised myself just as much as someone who knew me would have been.

In The Aeroplane Over the Sea. This unconventional album title accompanied by a weird cover normally would have thrown me off, but I promised myself I was going to keep an open mind. I sighed and pressed play.

Gentle acoustic guitar and soft drums surrounded me as a pleasant, chill vibe set in immediately. I could feel my eardrums opening up, almost like they were unlocking a new soundwave. Where had this music been before? Why had I not realized music could make me feel this way? My questions unanswered, I settled in for the 40 minute ride.

The lead singer emotionally belted lyrics ranging from sex to family issues to the overarching theme of how much he loves Anne Frank. Yes, the Anne Frank that died 50 years before the album was written. I didn’t understand it much the first time I heard it, or the second, or the third, but I knew it was poetry.

The album opened up so many doors musically for me. I explored new genres and took in new stories from different decades, like the Beatles or Radiohead or even Lana Del Ray. While I still often reverted to my trusted rap, I now saw my musical options as a wide open, geographically diverse expanse rather than an enclosed tunnel with no exits. I began to apply this thinking to my everyday experiences as well. I would pick a random stranger on the street and imagine their music taste, then fill in the blanks about their backstories using my first assumptions as a baseline. The middle aged guy in front of me in line at Starbucks? I decided he was nostalgic for 90s Alt Rock, yet could be appreciative of lyrical hip hop as well. He probably blasts Kanye pulling up to his job at an accounting firm. Does he? Probably not, but it was fun to imagine, and it opened my eyes to how much of a person’s story could be told through their music taste.

I applied this new game to my school as well. I began to realize I needed to supplement the perspectives I was getting from my mostly white peers and faculty. I began to challenge beliefs and think for myself, no longer assuming my school’s administration had the right idea. I conducted outside research on important topics and realized that my school’s good intentions did not always result in progress or impact.

All of these things helped me build a new way of approaching everyday conversations. I no longer assume I’ve accounted for every side of a discussion. I simply accept that there might be things I won’t be able to understand or that I haven’t experienced that can be valuable for the other people present. I listen as best I can, because I might hear something new and different that will open my ears and expand my perspective. Maybe someone’s story will sound like The Aeroplane Over the Sea to me: Unfamiliar, unrelatable, yet still powerful, still poetry.

Musings of an “Angry” Black Man

by Ikenna Ugbaja Frankly, the eccentricities of rambling words cannot encompass the running pain pouring from these bullet wounds. So to you, I write this so that you may understand my being. So to you, the blue life that apparently matters so much more, the blue life that conveyed his hate through a knee and seven shots, maybe you will see I am not the man you claimed me to be. You hate me for things that I hated about myself, things that were unfounded and untrue. Since kindergarten I was taught and have internalized that black is unsightly, bleach on dark laundry.

Little Laura and her “African booty scratcher” comments, small Sean with his “Where’s he at? I can’t see him” remarks when the lights flicked off. Candidly, I wrote them off as acceptable, acceptable because these words were the same words I repeated to myself in the mirror. That’s right, unlike other kids that repeated Bloody Bloody Mary

in front of the mirror, my demon was internalized. This demon ripped and tore through my manhood and enthusiastically grazed on my blackness. “Am I too black for my white classmates?” was the common dilemma for children my age, though my psyche added another question, “Am I too black?” In my young eyes, I perceived that not only was I “too black” for my white classmates, but my dark skin was even too much for the ones I supposed were the most like me. At the age of 8, I had been well accustomed to daily pushes from behind, exclusions from playing catch during recess, and many more. Night after night my eyes poured over the bathroom sink, red and puffy from hours of crying, pinching my nose inwards with my fingers to try and make it less bulbous. Night after night, I contemplated leaving this world and never coming back again, escaping into the dreary night that is death, or at least what my young mind could grasp of it. Still I chased that idea that maybe one day, if I tried hard enough, I could somehow shed this ugly skin and grow a whiter and cleaner one. Skin that would bring my father back from his grave. Skin that would stop my mother from working two to three jobs a day every hour of every week, and gently drop her into the delicate hands of wealthy rapture. Skin that would cause an officer to recognise that I am NOT a threat, that would help him understand that my hands were NOT reaching for a weapon. It was then that I started to believe that if I sounded more “educated”, it would help strip off the “dirty skin”. I read books like Harry Potter: The Sorcerer's Stone and others, not because I wanted to improve my grammar and vocabulary for classes, but because I wanted to move farther and farther from my skin color. It was not until I turned 17 that my eyes began to open. One Sunday afternoon, I came across a quote by the late actor Ossie Davis that said, “I find, in being black, a thing of beauty: a joy; a strength; a secret cup of gladness.” For years I thought that the color of my skin was an impediment to my dreams, something that I should be ashamed of, that I should hate. This same skin shone itself to me in a new light, one that gleamed bright and true. For days after, I repeated to myself three words: Black is beautiful. I wish I came to that realization sooner. I wish that the bullet you shot had waited just a little bit longer.

But I lay there, breath slowly wasting away, wishing for what could have been. Love that outshined the prickly darkness that was your hate, all but too late.

WOODBURYS Woodbury by Gabriel Klug President John F. Kennedy once said, “We must know all the facts and hear all the alternatives and listen to all the criticisms. For the Bill of Rights is the guardian of our security as well as our liberty.” This quote is from an America that no longer seems to exist, I’m not talking about the Cold War era or the push for equal rights, but the civility that used to accompany American politics. The civility that inspired the citizens of dozens of nations to turn to the democratic process of governance. The competition of ideas in American government that pushed for a better nation, from Democratic Roosevelt's New Deal to Republican Eisenhower’s grand infrastructure plans. Tragically, the age of policy for the good of the American people seems to be at a close and the market of progressive ideas has been shuttered.

In the place of competition for new progressive policies and plans, a monopoly has formed, a monopoly that preys on the citizens of America. This monopoly has grown fat with the tumor we call partisanship, the notion that the Democratic and Republican parties cannot work together. And perhaps nothing defines this growth of partisanship better than the first 2020 presidential debate. It was less of a debate and more of a debacle, something you would see in the Balkan states not the United States of America. The two, party nominees, like a couple arguing in public as their relationship continues to deteriorate. Bystanders watching and whispering to one another; as Trump derailed the so-called conversation and Biden struggling to demonstrate his agenda. Unfortunately, it was not as simple as a date gone wrong, just your average dose of supercharged partisan politics; as the whole world watched the two potential leaders of the free world exercise their freedom to not cooperate. A truly underrated moment in the history of 2020, the debate defined everything that was wrong with partisanship, personified by its parties’ leaders. On one hand a party too timid and confused with its policies, on the other hand a party fueled by anger and discontent with the system, neither giving the other room to cooperate.

No matter how you look at it, left or right, Democrat or Republican, the debate exemplified how US politics simply don’t work with the system in place. But the problem is much, much bigger than one policy debate.

It is an analogy for the nation, for homes and communities across the nation. As President Lincoln, the man who saw how ugly division can be once said; “A house divided against itself cannot stand”. Yet houses are divided against one another, family dinners tense and conversations around politics even tenser still.

The ideas of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, and therefore equality and safety for all people, regardless of creed or color, have been manipulated to be partisan issues, and both parties are guilty of this, “My right to protest does not apply to another person’s right to protest.” Fortunately that is not the case, everyone is equal. That’s the strange beauty of democracy, an inane protest against an issue such as a mask mandate has the same right to assemble as a protest centered around being harassed by the police when walking down the street.

Both protests should be deliberated and listened to, but unfortunately both are shunned. This is the political polarization that is downright dangerous. We live in the United States of America, not the divided States of America. All I hear is, “Compromise isn’t possible”, “Bipartisanship is a thing of the past”, “Insert party name is what’s wrong with America”. Well, that’s where the pundits and politicians are wrong, when you’re a child you are taught to learn how to compromise, from the earliest of ages. If a kindergartner can compromise, why can’t the leaders of our nation in Congress?

Bipartisanship cannot be a thing of the past, it must be the way of the future. If a bill is appealing to all sides, that should be applauded, not shunned for not being “radical enough”. If a party is what’s wrong with America, then why do a large percentage of voters continue to choose it? Yes, there are a lack of options to choose from, but instead of complaining and accepting defeat, we should work to improve the system in place.

So, you might ask yourself, what should we do? In this nation we live in, the idea that fault must be blamed and pinned on the “other”, the other race, the other gender, the other party, has grown. Meanwhile, the concept of reaching across the aisle has faded. The truth of the matter is, the problem hasn’t stemmed from one person or one party, it has come from all of us, from not making the effort to see the other perspective, for not trying to understand the motivations of others, and for not listening to the plight of others struggles. So, cooperate.

Cooperation is a force for good, America needs roads, lets pass laws to build them, not with tiebreaker votes, but with overwhelming support. No person should live in poverty in the United States of America, lets give hand to those in need. Climate change is a problem, there’s no denying it, so let’s fight back, with bipartisan agreements that push forward initiatives without leaving our carbon energy workers behind. And no, we won’t agree on everything, but it’s high time we started to agree on something. So, let’s start by solving the bread-and-butter issues facing our great nation.

I urge you, take the time to understand the other side, think about the reasoning of others, and most importantly make your own connections, don’t solely listen to social media, or the news, or your local politician, draw your connections. If you’re bold enough, follow a politician across the aisle, if you’re a Democrat, follow someone like Mitt Romney, you might find out some of his policy goals are quite similar to yours. If you’re a Republican, perhaps research some of the ideas that Joe Biden has to reshape the nation, at the end of the day he didn’t come out of retirement to destroy America, he came out of retirement because he knows the nation we can be. And take the words that John F. Kennedy said to heart, “We must know all the facts and hear all the alternatives and listen to all the criticisms. For the Bill of Rights is the guardian of our security as well as our liberty.”

Woodbury by Adam Alto It was a simpler time, hanging out with my boy Liam Hogan in eighth grade, not a grown thought in the world. We could entertain ourselves for hours in his yard, which, being in the city, consisted of a pathetically small patch of grass with a sickly cherry tree and an adjacent driveway shared by four or five cars. Every weekend played out like a Phineas and Ferb episode; we would sit under the cherry tree and do nothing until something presented itself, which, due to our boundless imagination, usually didn’t take long. We played God with ants, hit wiffle balls over the neighbor’s fence, and just about everything in between. The wait was particularly short one day when I arrived to see that the house next door had been gutted and stripped for renovation, the exposed yard cluttered with debris from the inside. We argued about whether or not the decrepit structure was on the verge of collapse and decided that the only way to know for sure was to go in.

We realized quickly that the inside was musty and dank as all hell, the air choking us with what was probably asbestos. We looked at the power tools and wood strewn all over the floor for a while, taking in the smell of dust and rot. We made our way up the crumbling stairs and tried to open the door to what looked like a second-floor balcony, only to find out that there was no balcony, just a thirty-foot drop to the pavement below. We spent the next four hours crushing plastic lawn chairs with a foraged dumbbell thrown from three stories up.

From then on, every visit to Liam’s house was the opposite of a Phineas and Ferb episode. We knew exactly what we were gonna do every day, and, rather than build things up, we helped the renovation by tearing things down. The house was waiting for us with outstretched arms, and we found strange comfort in the rot and splinters and mud. We used power tools that we didn’t know how to use, hit rocks and wood with pickaxes, and threw anything we could find out of the windows, just being general menaces.

As the weeks passed and we grew closer with the house, we began to realize that it was changing. Suddenly, new windows were installed, rotting stairs replaced, and the collapsed deck repaired. That didn’t deter us, however; we just started exploring other parts of the house, throwing rocks far away from windows and landing hammer swings on everything but the new stairs. This pattern continued over the course of months, and our decrepit shack began to look more like a house with each passing visit. Walls were put up, concrete poured, balconies installed, ancient deteriorated wood replaced, and we slowly stopped being so destructive in the house in fear of doing something even more unintelligent than trespassing. Before long, the house looked nothing like it did when we first met it. It had lighting, gas, plumbing, and an amazing roof deck; there was nothing left for us to throw around.

One day, the doors were locked. After over a year of visiting the house, it was taken away from me. It truly was the end of an era, and life was a little bit duller after I lost it. After that, the house faded from my mind, but I’ve been thinking about it more and more recently. I feel like that house and I have a lot in common. I’ve been under construction for my entire life, and only now, with graduation just around the corner, do I feel some semblance of completion. Similar to the house, however, these changes towards completion are bittersweet. I’m not as needlessly destructive as I was four years ago; I have to be more thoughtful now, which is a shame sometimes. The future excites me, but at the same time, there’s a lot that I love about my life up until this point that will be completely different. Seeing all new windows on the decrepit house was interesting, but I was robbed of throwing massive chunks of debris out of them, nor could I vault over the window frames on the first floor like a badass. Unlike the house, however, I don’t plan on locking my doors and keeping away those who have been with me throughout the process.

I’m sure every senior out there feels what I’m saying to a degree. Huge changes are on the horizon, whether we like it or not. We’re all under construction, and graduation will bring us one big step closer to being complete, overhauling our architecture and strengthening our existing foundation.

Woodbury by Jacob Czarnecki What do you think of when you hear the word “tomato”? Do you think of a lack of flavor and a fruit undeserving of that classification? That’s what I used to think of when I heard the word tomato. But now, when I think of tomatoes, I think of the most delicious and most diverse food on the face of this Earth. If you’re looking for something sweet, savory, tart, or anything in between, I guarantee that there is a tomato for you.

The tomatoes of today aren’t like the tomatoes of before. Most of the ones that you’ll find in the supermarket are varieties selected for uniformity, size, and shelf life, with the flavor department taking a back seat.

As a matter of fact, scientists have found that modern tomato varieties lack genes for flavor that are present in wild and heirloom tomatoes (heirloom meaning seeds that have been passed down for generations). Tomatoes at the supermarket are also often picked when green so their flavor compounds aren’t fully developed. But, tomatoes that you can find at your local farmer’s market put the flavor department in the front seat, not the back seat. And what’s better than supporting our local farmers?

If you’ve been to a farmer’s market, you’ve probably noticed that tomatoes aren’t just red. Yes, you heard that right. Tomatoes aren’t just red. They can be red, pink, yellow, orange, purple, white, green, black, and streaked and striped. Being a part of my town’s community garden has allowed me to see all these beautiful colors. As soon as August comes around, tomatoes are the talk of the town. We share and admire each other’s harvests, and there is no conversation starter quite like tomatoes. I’m not sure what’s better: talking about and sharing the tomatoes or tasting them.

Tomatoes have a rich history. For hundreds of years, they were thought of as poisonous. In fact, in 1820, a man named Robert Gibbon Johnson from Salem, New Jersey, attracted hundreds of onlookers from far and wide to watch him simply consume tomatoes: “The story goes that Johnson bit into a tomato, some onlookers fainted, and, with Johnson suffering no ill effects, the tomato industry in America began” (LeHoullier, 19). Isn’t that incredible?

But my favorite tomato story is that of M.C. Byles of Logan, West Virginia, whose nickname was Radiator Charlie because of his radiator-repair business. Radiator Charlie spent many years developing his legendary tomato, known as Mortgage Lifter. In the 1940’s, he sold the plants for a dollar each and paid off the $6000 mortgage on his house in six years. If any of you have any mortgages or loans you need to pay off, I suggest that you follow in the footsteps of Radiator Charlie.

Tomatoes are magnificent. They come in all sizes, shapes, colors, and flavors, and each tomato has its own unique story. I hope next time you’re at a farmer’s market or a local farmstand, you try one of those beauties. Your taste buds will thank you for it. And even better, I hope you may become interested in growing your own tomatoes.

If you would like to talk tomatoes with me, I would absolutely love to. And if you have no interest in tomatoes, I hope you consider starting a garden. It is the most wonderful and rewarding time-honored activity. Whether you’re growing vegetables, flowers, fruits, or herbs, you can start as small as one pot. And if you’re afraid that you don’t have a green thumb, try growing mint. It’s harder to kill than to keep alive. So I say to you all, get outside, plant those seeds, and eat a tomato. Thank you.