42 minute read
Poetry and Photography
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
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. 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
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
Photo by Drew Dummer
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
Stargazing
by Jack Henderson
Gaze to the heavens Celestial beings dance Filling cloudless night
Photo by Drew Dummer
Photo by Drew Dummer
It’s Complicated
by Igaju Agba
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
Photo by Drew Dummer
Glass Half Empty
by Tommy Madden
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 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
I Talked To God Last Night
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.
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.”
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. 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
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
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
Photo by Drew Dummer
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
It Gets Cold InAlabama
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
Who Is Your Declaration ToAMan Never Freed?
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?
Photos by Drew Dummer
Goodbye, Sun
by Jack Henderson
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 FarAway
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.
PERSONALESSAYS
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.
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.
AChange 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 byAdamAlto
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.
