The Dome Spring 2023

THE DOME

Managing Editor

Catherine Yan '24

Graphic Designer

Catherine Yan '24

Mari LoNano Faculty Advisor

Cover Artwork:

Evelyn Kim '26

Title Page Artwork:

Cream Chinthammit '23

Back Page Artwork:

Cream Chinthammit '23

Catherine Yan – Eggs

Catherine Yan – Chinoiserie

Clio Turner – The Monster That is a Child

Clio Turner – Ambiguous Jealousy

Kiki Grace – Orange Armor

Tripp Clark – Train Track

Chidera Okeke – Fish Cheeks

MohAmin Abdillahi – Peekaboo

Helena Sihui Hu – Quintessential Cultural Wallops

Helena Sihui Hu – Untitled

Helena Sihui Hu – Ideas That Dovetail Perfectly

Will Hansen – Alone

Angella Ma – Dandelion Season

Angella Ma – Watch This

Catherine Yan – On Beauty

Catherine Yan – FEAR!

Cream Chinthammit – Moly

Anthony Cruz

Hermanos

Kiki Grace – A Bitter Homesick Gaze

Aidan Pesce – Consumed by Sickness

Sasha Sage – Move On

Catherine Ryan – Broken

Tripp Clark – Shaggy

Zamia Barradas – Side View

Milton Jones – Persona Poem

Emile Miller – Shadows

Emile Miller – Newspaper

Catherine Yan – Music

Kiki Grace – I Can See Soldiers in the Above

Zamia Barradas – Antiques

Cream Chinthammit – Pigs

Catherine Yan – Falling

Angela Pham – All You Need to Make the Perfect Daughter

Jenny Lee – Collage Animal

Khiara Threets

Ellie Grimmett

Octopus

6 Feet Underground

Michkael McKenzie

Katy Gappa

Eye

Michkael McKenzie

Zamia Barradas

Jessica Lomo

Why I Push

Harlem

Backroads

Face I

Jessica Lomo – Face II

Jessica Lomo – Face III

Eggs

Catherine Yan '24

At six, if you asked me what superpower I wanted, I would answer without a second thought: Invisibility, of course.

The possibility of taking a gaseous, inconspicuous form made desires such as tasting the acidic hawthorn berry under the layer of crisp golden candy on the bends of Beijing hútóngs, staying awake past my bedtime to watch Nǎi Nai record our daily adventures in her newspaperbound diary or sneaking myself onto a flight to Hong Kong to see Mā give birth to my sister possible – My wish became reality.

A few words of wisdom to my younger self: Part of your dream came true. You are both invisible and hypervisible. In the United States, you’re a hardboiled egg

A small, yellowy yolk engulfed in the overwhelming white...

I built up a layer of membrane, a tan, brittle, protective shell from all the times Mā told you “Never go out alone”, all the times Bà told you “Do not take the subway”. When my parents hang up the phone; they don’t say “I love you” or “Enjoy your day”. Rather, they tell you “Be careful” and “Stay safe” because they see blood on the walls:

They still hear about the largest lynching in American history, where 19 Chinese bodies lay mangled in the streets of Los Angeles.

They know about the only act in American history discriminating against nationality, the one that purged the United States, land of the free, home of the brave, free of the alien yellow boys with slanty eyes and braided hair, the same ones that labored under the scalding California sun to build their railroads.

They read news about the most recent Asian woman shoved into the unforgiving lines of the subway tracks, her last glance on Earth is that of a deer in the headlights, before the subway car travelling at 50 miles per hour batters her, pummeling the air out of her lungs – under the Earth’s surface, under the eyelines of pedestrians. Her body lies there, bent at awkward angles –maimed, battered, broken.

Another corpse. Gone... as swiftly as a chef cracks an egg into a sizzling pan.

She is not the only one. The Singaporean man punched and kicked, shouted at for causing the coronavirus; the Burmese American family with two young children, stabbed and wounded in Texas; The 19-year-old standing on the ledge of the southbound Route 33 overpass outside Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania, holding his hands up in surrender, showing the guns pointed at him that he changed his mind; The six women shot to death at their jobs in Atlanta. Recently, three female employees get shot at the Texas K Town. The shells splinter, the yolks spill out.

Slowly, events on the news become normal. Our forgetfulness becomes benightedness. I notice that my feet are bloody as I walk across the jagged topsoil, staining the scattered shell surface crimson – the American ground that was built upon layers and layers of eggshell debris, shattered to dust over the ages, swept under the rug, the same earth that others walk across without a second thought.

I pick up the blemished pieces and search for meaning, to prove my parents wrong, to find hope for what is to come, but the pile of eggshells at my feet grows monstrously tall, eventually smothering my body, cutting into my soul

Now, at sixteen, 173 feet under the New York City Street, the yellow-green light illuminates my every step against the aged, off-white wall tiles, washing me out under the concrete gray ceiling. My eyes dart left-to-right and then to the cellphone clenched in my fist as the six long minutes trickle by. My eyes hesitate to meet the ominous depths of the tracks below.

I remind myself that the New York subway track is not a burial ground. I stay as far away as I can from the yellow line meant to keep me safe. The steel wheels grind against the tracks. I feel the train’s hot breath on my heels. The L train opens its teeth, and I slide right in – hoping to join the crowd, indiscernible, invisible.

Anti-Asian hate crimes have risen 150% since 2020, and I do not want to be another statistic. Remember, final word of advice: keep your head down, take care of yourself, because broken eggs get tossed away. After all, after using up a dozen eggs– America buys another batch.

Catherine Yan '23 Digital Art

Chinoiserie

The Monster That Is a Child

Clio Turner '23

There is one demon that inhabits all five senses of womanhood. A hissing serpent wound around the farthest stars in our eyes’ galaxy. Spiraling, it sings the words of an impending doom that will eventually define me; the same thing that labels those who've given me life. Even worse than sitting through conversations encouraging dreams of ruffly weddings and lost last names, is hearing about the joys of children I didn’t notice the strength of this song’s grip on my world until one day, breathing and existing became a countdown to what we’ve been told is our collective purpose. By simply living, women are informed that to not bear a child would create a fall on the scale of morality. As if resisting this fate would disrupt beyond the cosmos, creating wrinkles in what was once deemed as beautiful. So she stands in the land of before, holding the power of creation in her right hand, but not the jurisdiction over her own purpose. Sinking further into the mud of the snakes’ theater because failure is entertainment.

I am a woman so therefore, I am a flower. A daisy that needs tending and will eventually stretch to the skies. I am what you see; the peaceful bloom of spring, and the silence of winter. I am here for you. I’m a great listener, or so I’ve been told. As you watch me on this stage, you assume your presence goes unnoticed. But your shadow blocks the sun, the light I need to grow. Time becomes wicked, warped in your stare, slowly killing any of the motivation I had to speak with birds, and airplanes in the sky. If I’m only a plant in the ground, why would you ask me to watch your children. To be a caretaker when I’m still in need of care. The resources of my surroundings should be shaping my strengths, not trapping me as a prisoner to my weaknesses. Why would you water me with this false preparation?

I spoke and I warned you, I am not a good babysitter. Your words are kind but you didn’t wait to think before speaking, as if silence is dangerous. I feel like I have no space for quiet anymore, everyone else’s words fill the empty spaces. I’m starting to believe the world is run by snakes. You’re the one who uprooted my purpose, not listening when I said I wanted to get closer to the burn of the sun. Dreams of touching fire become abstractions that live wildly past the path that’s been drawn over and highlighted for me. Motionless, I thank you for trusting me to care for what is precious to you, as if this interaction is a gift. But I never asked to be given a monster.

I am a woman, so therefore I am evil. I hide in the dark, learning spells that teach me how to be deceitful. My face isn’t real, my nails aren’t real, that picture wasn’t real. My opinions aren’t valid, and those tears have to fake, a pawn in a match of manipulation I never asked to play. As a witch, I must fight the horrors before me of caring for these squishy babies, toddlers covered in snot and germs. I’m disgusted by this interaction, but more than that, I am scared. The future of a child is so malleable, I’m afraid of it melting in my hand. I don’t want to ruin its walk on this Earth, but standing still trapped in confliction, I may already be too late. You call me weak but ask me to be strong. I can’t fight this battle anymore, I’ve seen how its predetermined fate has played out, again and again. Already, the stinging taste of regret fills my eyes. Shame sinks me deeper into this ugly couch you chose to decorate your living room with. By the time you arrive home, I’m overcome with anxiety that I’ll never find my way out of your furniture’s cushions. You let me know that I’ll be a great Mother one day. Thank you, I really appreciate it. I am a curse to children as they become demons of falsehoods, whispering away the doubts of what we all really want: to be our own creators

My purpose was never to contain these monsters, freezing them with ice and leaving them to thaw alone. To hold them captive in the puzzles that contain them. To battle them into becoming their greatest fears. To continue to live in a soundproof garden, gated by a single reality. To remain powerless under your gaze. To never become the truth you're so scared of.

I am a woman, so therefore I am fearless. I exist under the rules of my kingdom, so do not ask me to babysit your children. I am grounded to the depths of the Earth but I am not a prisoner to my roots. In my left hand, I carry the blaze of the sun. A once locked and guarded palace of snakes burns. The ones who chose to find safety in the nostalgia of these excruciating flames, are the same ones who taught me to lie when I’m uncomfortable. So no, I’m not guilty.

Running in the land of after, I’ve become the monster that is a child. Children are people whose mistakes are forgiven and whose futures are bright. But I’m not a toddler or baby, I’m someone who finds happiness in living. I want to exist with conflict and confusion, as opposed to in spite of it. As a child once again, I will hold onto my imagination until it becomes reality.

Ambiguous Jealousy

Clio Turner '23

Mixed media

Orange Armor

Kiki Grace '24

Nomad horses dot the plains of green.

Below a sky of fading blue, an emerging coal drenched cloak. These travelers have orange armor.

Day turns to night as the nomads travel the extensive field. Infinite green.

A field not yet stilled by the new season’s frost.

Along the shore of accumulating rock. Growing land. There is a band of nomad horses. Traveling from one place to another. In orange armor.

Dissolving blue day light turns unsolidified and melts into another day. Into months of orange armor, bold in calm blue broken haze.

Train Track

Tripp Clark '25

Fish Cheeks Chidera Okeke '26 Mixed media

Peekaboo MohAmin Abdillahi '23 Photography

Quintessential Cultural Wallops

Helena Sihui Hu '26

“Dear passengers, you have now arrived at New York, we wish you a pleasant journey.”

When I first stepped off the plane, I knew it was something new, something different.

My airpods were filled with the words: “Welcome to New York~ it’s been waiting for you~ welcome to New York~ welcome to New York~”.

As I gradually went down the escalator, the place that I had pictured multiple times suddenly became clear to me. Just like what my friends have always told me, the boisterous crowds, high skyscrapers – the center of everything. They say that it is the financial hub of the world, a cosmopolitan city, home to NASDAQ, Wall Street and New York Stock Exchange. They say that New York is the city that never sleeps.

At this split moment, scatters of puzzles seem to form a complete image. The depiction of reality contrasts with what I always had in mind. The mix of the smell of perfume scents, odors from boiling oil from the nearby Mcdonald's, and that smell of coffee that everyone seems to have. It was a different culture, a different taste, a different lifestyle, a different world.

“Passengers of DL5652, your flight time has now been delayed to departure at 7:20 p.m.” The sound from the speaker pulled me back to reality.

Now at this corner in the arrival lounge, there was minute graffiti on nearby walls, congenial contraptions nearby the shelf, and devilled Sushi on mahogany tables with unsavory smells.

Indistinct conversations along with slight clicking on keyboards and MacBooks, tapping sounds with sketches on iPads, soothing jazz music along with the crispy crust sounds from focaccias in plastic wrappings. Tapping sounds of stilettos, drip drops from the geysers, and the busy ambiance all throughout.

Everyone seems to be engaged in their little own world of thoughts.

I sat down on a bench near a neglected plant, invigorating myself with a new round of gaming. Waiting for the car that is going to take me to a school down at Mt. Everett, tantamount to the middle of nowhere.

Untitled

Helena Hu '26

Photograph

Ideas That Dovetail Perfectly

Helena Sihui Hu '26

“Just like food, the key factor to decide whether a scenery is congenial depends not on itself, but the person accompanying you.”

“Then what if you are all alone by yourself?”

“Then that’s probably a little romance just for you.”

Thoughts flocked in, the fragments of nostalgic memories jumped into my mind one by one.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, as a performer for the upcoming concert, I had all the time to wander around campus.

With the escorting warm sun and the rare quietness of the lounge on the first floor, time slowly floated away, as if there was only myself stagnating at this moment.

I have seen a lot of dusks, near seas and mountains, but the dusk on this campus is a kind of demure beauty. The wind gently patted the grass and trees outside, and the leaves on the golf course fluttered with the wind, drifting confusedly, as if looking for their homes.

The color of the science building on the right follows the change of sunlight and slowly gets wrapped around the with a golden edge of the light. A faint outline of the moon appears in the sky.

The afterglow also left with the sun that gradually set, leaving nothing behind but my thoughts.

Looking back on the past, reflecting on the present, and looking forward to tomorrow.

We don't need to feel extremely anxious about life, because each one of us exists well and is unique in our own timeline. After all, the lost ones will eventually find their penchants. Seek challenges that may bring you to a fountain of joy, and with that, utilize all that’s around you and indulge in it.

“You have co-authored some of the finest pages in my life story, of many memories I hope to ponder on in the future. As we part ways in pursuing our goals for now, all the best!” were the words that I wrote down in a letter to a dear friend.

We are soon going to be separated, but the mirth and the memories that we created together are real. Nothing gold can stay, but tonight is definitely not the Ides of March.

Alone

Will Hansen '23

Photograph

Dandelion Season

Angella Ma '24 Digital Art

On Beauty

Catherine Yan '24

“Did you apply sunscreen?”

Ma pokes her head through the door and yells down the hallway as I wait by the elevator. I furrow my brow, bus card in hand. “Don’t give me that look, you’ll get wrinkles!” She scolds. The elevator doors glide open as I turn to walk back to our hotel room doorway. Ma drops her golden tube of L’Oréal sunscreen into my open right palm “Spread it out evenly, don’t forget your neck!”

I spin the cap off, flip it upside-down and squeeze the tube hard. The procedure is muscle memory: Rub hands together – make sure sunscreen is evenly distributed, covering both palms. Start by pressing the product onto your cheeks. Then distribute the product with your fingers – swipe back and forth on your forehead, temples, under your eyes, nose, septum, chin, and jaw in lifting motions. Even on your neck, never forget the back. Apply whatever is left over to the back of your hands because a lady’s hands show her age. Still have leftover product? Dab it on your eyelids and nasolabial folds – you don’t want crow’s feet or wrinkly smile lines, do you?

A layer shinier with my sticky fingers wrapped tightly around the golden tube, I dash across the crosswalk with seven seconds remaining on the pedestrian signal

I pant as I halt at Far East Plaza stop – but I’m a few seconds too late. #972’s doors slide shut as the light turns green. I catch my breath as the scalding equatorial heat sucks the moisture out of my throat and brings it to my skin in beads. The sun is a furnace, and I feel my eyeliner, no doubt ruined from sunscreen and sweat, running down my face. My face mask, heavy from sunscreen, clings to my face like squid tentacles. As I wait for #124, #162, #167, #190, or another #972 to stop, Ma’s advice haunts my mind. Her daily reminder: apply SPF consistently, at 30-minute intervals each time, you’re doing your future self a favor.

I think of the BBC documentary Ma showed me about middle-aged women who didn't take care of their skin when they were younger: liver spots, freckles, sun damage, and wrinkles. At the time, I found the facial scan of a woman with sun damage beautiful, even though it showed every imperfection. I couldn’t help but notice how liver spots and freckles looked like stars in a constellation, how the sun damage resembled nebulas, and how wrinkles formed like galaxies. However, after looking in the mirror after being exposed to Singapore’s UV rays, I grew conscious of my skin darkening and a dark freckle forming on the tip of my nose. I grip the golden tube tighter.

#124 arrives. I exchange the noticeably lighter golden tube for my bus card and swipe it on the reader and climb to the second-floor front-row seat. As the air conditioner hums, I gaze out at Orchard Road: the retail heart of Singapore. A mixture of Chinese baroque houses and western 20th-century buildings – luxury hotels, al fresco bars, and eateries in a mishmash of consumerism and conversation. The people who trickle in and out of the buildings are birds of paradise. Even in the blazing heat, middle-aged ladies frequent the streets in their matching Chanel tweed suits, pins, and pearls, and young parents dressed headto-toe in Lululemon push their kids in strollers with Louis Vuitton shopping bags hanging off the handle.

I gaze at this part of Singapore – jam-packed with domed glass buildings with four major shopping malls, full of luxury brands. As the bus lingers at the red light by ion, the most famous of them all perhaps, I see – Tiffany, Rolex, Dior, and Cartier, just to name a few, decorating each nook and cranny. Luxury is a universal indicator of success, to show that you deserve to be envied

just like beauty is. Because who doesn’t want to be beautiful? Society tells women to wear beauty like an asset – a privilege that differentiates them from those without it. So women stay in pursuit of what we do not yet have instead of embracing what we do. Maybe that is why women are so susceptible to the beauty industry drilling insecurities into our brains, which makes our eyes blind to our type of beauty. Appreciation for our beauty is replaced with a monolith of standards, so we put our faces through a series of assessments to define beauty: testing to see if we fit the golden ratio, to evaluate if our faces are symmetrical, to check if we have clear skin, big eyes, long lashes, and thin noses.

I swipe my iPhone and stare at my reflection in the back camera. The hooded epicanthal folds surrounding my eyes – my monolids, are my most prominent feature.

My monolids – the subject of scrutiny by many ballet teachers applying makeup for recitals. My monolids that would swallow every layer of primer, eyeshadow, and eyeliner when I opened them. A nuisance that Madame did not want to deal with, so she smeared on the eyeliner so thick that my eyelids stuck together and the eyeliner almost touched my eyebrows.

The monolids that my cruel elementary school peers in mainland China made fun of with ever-original questions: How are your eyes so small?, Do you only see half of the world? and When are you going under the knife for double-eyelid surgery? Questions I did not know how to respond to. Because I came out of the womb like this. Because I can’t change the way my eyelid pouch slopes and sags over my eyeballs. Because I can’t change how my brow bone is not high enough to create an eyelid crease.

Comments from family friends and acquaintances made things worse. In casual conversation with my parents, I heard things like she’d be gorgeous if she got double-eyelid surgery and have you considered getting it for her as a coming-of-age gift? Maybe the adults knew that the real coming-of-age gift was not the actual event of surgery, but the promise of pretty privilege after you wake up from the anesthesia and the incisions and stitches made by the surgeon’s knife and scalpel heal.

But my parents forbid me from going under the knife. And so, I avoided mirrors, wore hats to hide my eyes, and vowed to become beautiful in eighth grade. Beautiful enough to be ignored and not picked on. Beautiful enough for people to see

what I had to offer on the inside and not the outside

My road to beauty became a vicious cycle. Every day after school ended, I watched tutorial after tutorial to get bigger, more beautiful eyes. I secretly spent my pocket money on double eyelid tape, eyelash curlers, mascara, false eyelashes, and eyeliner. I would doze off with double eyelid tape on, hoping that my eyes would have magically formed a fold by the time the sun rose. Even after I saw Ma’s eyes well up with tears every time she caught me in front of the bathroom mirror, I was relentless in my pursuit.

Every morning, I would wake up early and skip breakfast to apply lash glue to my falsies, wait 30 seconds for the glue to dry transparent, and then pop them on my lash line and cover the lash band with liquid eyeliner – because who would want to look at me at school without pretty eyes? How would I show people that I was worth talking to, that I was worthy of attention? But this strategy failed, for my lashes would start peeling around 2 pm, and the boys in my class would stare in horror as I peeled my eyelashes off.

Inevitably, halfway through the year, I got an allergic reaction from the lash glue and watched as my left eyelid swelled up to three times its normal size. So I laid off makeup for a month to heal my swollen eye, and surprisingly, no one really noticed or cared enough to expose me. I don’t know why I thought people would care so much. Maybe it was anxiety about not being perceived as beautiful – a woman’s defining compliment – and the fear of not being worthy of attention. It was only when I saw the Terracotta Army in Xi’An during spring break of that year. Seeing the clay men row after row – statuesque, grateful – all carved with monolid eyes – affirmed my beauty. Little by little, I began to accept the excess skin on my nose and eyelids that saved my ancestors from snow blindness. My low nasal root, accentuated zygomatic arches, flat- lying eyelids, thick, tight, dark hair, and dark eyes were formed for my ancestors’ survival. The rows upon rows of men, carved to represent masculine power and beauty, were the standard of beauty in ancient times.

Maybe the western invasion and battle losses during the turn of the 21st century made Chinese people shift towards facial features that did not remind them of their roots. Maybe that’s why subtle internalized racism defines half of China’s population’s eyelids as ugly.

My thoughts shudder to a halt along with the bus arriving at Dhoby Ghaut station. I hop off and join the sea of subway goers taking the orange MRT Circle Line. While walking, I take the now half-empty golden tube of L’Oréal sunscreen out of my bag, squeeze a copious amount out, and vigorously rub the sunscreen onto my decolletage and shoulders.

FEAR!

Catherine Yan'24

Digital Art

Moly

Cream Chinthammit '23

Acrylic on canvas

Hermanos

Anthony Cruz '23 Color pastel

A Bitter Homesick Gaze

Kiki Grace '24

I let my feet into that newly worn sand. Shell dust ruffles across my new shoes and leans its back across the cylinders; my soft wool stockings.

I swallow my sour and Close My Eyes

And link with this harbor

I raise a glass of ice tea and we clink

I trail its endless outside edge And give its pit a stone-cold Though brave in its straightforward Bold Blank

Uninterested Blink

And night’s weary climbs up my back.

I itch the scabs

And irritated, I flick my combed swirls of youth and promise Into a full swing of odium and revolt Of The curious eyes

That once upheld me

As they never dare to see since I traversed the current and surrounding clouds projected glaze upon my patient tourist eyes

Again I clink

Again I suffer as I force

Some appreciative internal stutter

Though only what is apparent

Is some cold shudder.

Some outraged blaring outright mindless hopeless brain-powered clutter

Some merchants in the business.

Some boats loyal to their sailors.

Swaying stubbornly in their captive-keeping shallow breadth.

Humble bows and adventurous sails; competent when it's convenient. Perfect heirs. My protruded reflection. My deviant reflection.

Somewhere in the distance

Some godforsaken district

In this harbor all too real.

A tympanum.

Eight lines and a point harness me.

I feel my feet slowly drift. I feel them curve.

My eyes trace the edge of the smooth mahogany

No, it's walnut

Walnut veneer

Graceful brass envelopes the sun that pains my prying homesick eyes

That silver clamshell is suddenly

The sole sun residing over this new colony.

Silver

Draws open and close below the tympanum

And the merchant’s dry hands unfurl tightly around the handles

Our eyes register

The silver draws are beckoning me And serpentine wooden crevices; molding that mimicked the soft current of the harbor that dreary morning peer at me through their fable; their fear reflecting oiled eyes.

The high chest was dreary; weary of its displacement. Like the unworn fabrics of velvet, silk of polychromatic patterns and forthright lace and blunt blue-gray linen unfolding daintily in my side-eyed glare, that rest near

It was propped in a way so it was cleared for; worried for; beholden to its status, standing calmly while others rallied It glimmered in its oceanic way.

And now I look at the golden pine cones that smirk. Looking down at me from the tip of the hefty walnut box. Surely they are fit for Queen Anne. Maybe they will suit me

Or maybe I will find a way to be deserving of this high chest. Smeared in English picturesque

Soaked in that vitality

And suddenly dropped in a harbor that nervously struggles. Alarmingly bubbles like a forest with uncombed rubble. A bearded man with patches of stubble. Drowsy colonials and drowning prospects.

And for all I know its deliverance to this harbor

Maybe where its brass

And Its walnut

With walnut veneer

Is exactly where it ought to be seated high

This high chest

And lay in this perspiring harbor so it may rest.

Consumed by Sickness Aidan Pesce '23 Ceramics

Broken

Catherine Ryan '24

The sentence for rape is not rape. The sentence for arson is not arson. Yet here in America we murder those who murder.

Since nineteen seventy-six, one thousand five hundred forty six people, executed. Five hundred seventy-four people from Texas, one hundred sixteen from Oklahoma, ninety-nine from Florida.

The federal government has its own cases too. Only three executions from Nixon to Obama. But thirteen under Trump’s watch alone. The highest rate in over one hundred years.

Legal death has a way of sticking around in this country.

Under the thumbs of state officials, judges, even the highest court, people have been silenced. We need to execute our promises. Not our people.

Because who is the real the killer when both the state and the convicted are murderers?

America is trapped inside its nightmare of hypocrisy. We want it to be quick and neat.

So the image of death does not stain the mind.

Calm and clinical is best.

It's easier to watch if the prisoner is going to sleep.

Because if the killing takes too long, or its too barbaric, too gruesome, It makes us uncomfortable.

LOOK THE CRIMINAL IN THE EYE. We can’t.

Lethal injection, we worry, will take too long. Clayton Lockett tried to pry himself from the table. After 43 minutes the drugs beat him to it.

Stress shattered his heart.

South Carolina had a solution, Fifty-three thousand dollars to build an anachronistic death chamber, Because bullets are swifter than a lethal cocktail of chemicals.

If you think the firing squad is more humane, You aren’t the one in the metal chair.

Three people aiming their rifles at you, The Target. Fifteen feet away, they stand.

Far enough away to keep a distance, but close enough to leave a mark.

Your ankles, legs, chest, arms and head restrained

A hood covers your head.

An X drawn on your heart. Ready, aim, the order is read.

Gun shots fired.

Now you're red.

Witnesses frozen, Numb behind the glass.

Sitting idle.

Where were the witnesses who said you were innocent?

The doctor declares you dead. Once you are dead, you are free. America is the land of the free. America also gives you choices.

In Missouri, you have the choice between lethal injection or the gas chamber. In South Carolina, you have the choice between getting shot at a dozen times or being electrocuted.

We debate about which of these methods to use.

Some say the electric chair does the job. I say it's “frying someone to death.”

The eighth amendment prohibits cruel and unusual punishment. Is this not cruel or unusual to you?

Where’s the due process?

Where’s the equal protection?

Where are their rights?

We say it makes us feel safer, To have a government tough on crime. Yet it doesn't even work

No evidence that it acts as a deterrent. No evidence that it reduces crime. In fact, the evidence works against it.

Crime rates in capital punishment states are no less than those without it.

Spotlights shine bright on the families and loved ones of the victims who are “owed closure.” But closure is not in the placid, Calm dead body of the criminal, But in the cage, behind the bars, alive, living, breathing, In the thoughts that won't give up, In the self mental mutilation, Existing with it everyday in solitary confinement. More painful than death, but never permanent – only permeable.

We let them transcend to where metal bars are made out of water and guns only shoot red rose petals that scatter like confetti over blankets of viridescent meadows.

When we kill, We give them peace. We let them get away.

I know there are feelings of resentment, hatred, disdain –

A “I want them dead for what they did” kind of mentality when a horrible crime is committed, But we can’t let our aversion toward the criminal stop us from seeing the truth. We can’t let mob rule win. The state should not be in the business of taking a life.

More than half of my country favors these death sentences. No one is on my side.

Just like no one was on Carlos DeLuna’s side

Except for his defender. But even he was called a phantom. The prosecutors, the judges, the police, the investigators, The whole darn legal system was on the other side of the glass.

It’s too late when we finally see him, executed for another man’s crime.

Irrevocable. Irreversible. Irreparable.

There is no room for mistakes when someone’s life is on the line. Yet errors are still made, Some are hidden, Some go untouched, One execution of an innocent man is one too many.

It's not just Carlos DeLuna.

Eddie Lee Howard also knows how mistakes get made.

The Mississippi Supreme Court threw out the false forensic evidence. Twenty-six years on death row for a crime he did not commit Last year he was released from the state’s chains. He’s considered one of the lucky ones. But those chains are still wrapped around his hands. The key thrown away.

Who will give him back those years?

Killing is “good” in America when a jury of your peers decides No matter who showed up that day, Or who didn’t, Your lawyer sleeping, The policeman lying, The confession coerced.

Capital punishment is for the people who don’t have capital. Its practice discriminates, arbitrates. The rich, they hire the best. Lawyers, psychiatrists, private investigators, To explain that drunken rage.

The death penalty is the poor man’s privilege. Because of where they’re from, because of their class, because of their race, What crime did they commit again?

It's like a lottery. Not applied uniformly. Results are up for grabs unlike the guillotine blade before it slices.

When the case is in court, juries tend to point their fingers at the same type of people They are men who likely killed a white person, but they are not white One hundred eighty-seven wrongful convictions on death row. Look who's pointing fingers now.

America likes to be on top, But is this a ranking we want?

Sixth behind China, Iran, Saudi Arabia, and Iraq. Stuck between Egypt and Pakistan.

Western democracies reject executions We are out of step.

Proponents say that killing is cheaper than locking up for life. But appeals take years.

It's not saving money. It's not saving time. It's not saving lives.

Incarceration works. So then why do we keep doing this?

An eye for an eye retribution. We want our revenge. Pulling the trigger, Injecting the drugs, Relishing death, Who are we to say it is just?

A society that embraces life does not kill human beings. We are no better than our own convicted criminals. Maybe even worse.

Shaggy Tripp Clark '25 Photography

Side View Zamia Barradas '24 Photography

Persona Poem

Milton Jones '24

I am a tree planted deep in the earth, My branches reaching high in the sky, my leaves giving birth, To life and beauty, to shadow and rest, I am a symbol of nature at its best. I am a witness to all the lovely things that happen. My growl tells my story of all the years that have gone by, of storms and droughts.

My rings reveal my age and my strength that keep me going. My rings let out all my secrets I hold, both great and small. My leaves dance in the wind, where they rustle and sing happy songs. Like a harmony of nature, they breathe in air and give out oxygen, A life driving force, a precious commodity to begin with.

I witnessed the passing of seasons, the cycle of life and death. I am a shelter for all creatures both big and small. A home for birds, a sanctuary for all animals. I am a tree, a part of earth and a testimony to nature's worth, A symbol of life, I am a tree of growth and renewal. I am a tree. A gift and a blessing to cherish all.

Music

Catherine Yan '24

Gouache

I Can See Soldiers in the Above

Kiki Grace '24

There are mountains in my view. There are soldiers in the sky. Parachutes like perfume blooming into a velvet parlor.

Pilots land on clouds, carrying confusion.

Tracing breaths of wind, carrying fear. The heavens stretch to capture.

Slowly the above withholds wind. And so it creeps and restrains those floating in the sky.

Marionettes reverse.

Yet to reach the maple leaves, green roofs, of these rustic hills and sullen valleys where we wander. And wait for slaughter.

There are mountains in my view. There are Americans in the sky. That new millennium is floating into the traces of medieval bones, a lost reign.

Eager bleeding youth skipping across the hot air

Rising from beneath the soil

Seeking crowning. Cramming, crowding, climbing the chimney of the House of Nemanjic

A Serbian dynasty within our roots.

There are huts on my lane. There are uniforms sinking beneath the leaves of the valley. Parachutes entrenched.

In the above there is rain

Miles away there are Germans scavenging. And so in the chronicles of the sky, Pilots of sinking shadows floating into the sullen valleys of a divided Yugoslavia.

We seek the Americans dropping in our valley. Lift them and feed them

Hide them and need them.

We let the soldiers of Yugoslavia. From the deep green, growing, walls of this sullen valley. Shun evil from arriving.

Germans creep in secret. And steadily we seek them. And stealthily we stop them.

There are Americans by the fire. Eating portioned vegetables. Talking to mother. There are American planes to grab them.

And so we are given their hats

Their shoes,

Their eager youthful waves from glassy panes. Pain in relief and in remembrance.

In unity and in bittersweet, rich and robust sadness twisting and fluttering within me, separation

And so we wave with the end of the war.

And there they go to the above once more.

Antiques

Photograph

Zamia Barradas '23

Pigs

Cream Chinthammit '23

Acrylic on canvas

Falling Catherine Yan '24

Digital art

All You Need to Make the Perfect Daughter

On Sale! Buy NOW!

Angela Pham '25

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Hello customer,

Thank you for shopping with us today, here is the receipt for the products that you have purchased that will ensure you become the perfect Vietnamese daughter Please notice that exchanges and returns are not available. The product description and benefits are all listed below. We wish you the best of luck on your life journey. Hope to see you again.

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Item #1: Obedience

Every parent desires an obedient child. Even though it’s tempting to test your brand-new Crayola princess addition markers, please remember that your drawings on the furniture that look like vomit rather than pineapples have already caused mom stress for the entire week. Despite a failed artistic endeavor, utilizing obedience doesn't stifle your creativity, but actually nurtures it in the right direction. As obedience unifies with your childhood, you recognize the importance of listening and following rules: don’t draw on the walls, don’t draw on the floor, don’t draw on the couch. You learn to unleash innovations, creativity, ideas, and pineapple sketches on paper instead of furniture. This product guarantees you the chance of becoming the perfect little princess in your parent's eyes.

Tip: Combine the product with long-term determination to achieve the best results Cost $: Your Negligence

Item #2: Happiness and Joy Special Offer, Buy One Get One Free

As you stand in front of Little Flower Elementary School, your nerves kick in as you let go of your mother's hands for the first time. Your nervousness turns the school into a scary place, however, it is only because you haven’t felt joy. However, in reality, elementary school is a place where you can discover your interests and make friends. You'll miss out on amazing opportunities if you don't purchase Happiness. Happiness is what brought your parents together and a contributing factor to your creation. Since your family has already incorporated happiness into their lives, you can now get a 50% discount on our Happiness service. With happiness as your companion, you are allowed to enjoy spending time with your friends both during recess and in class. This emotion helps you discover the pleasure of being at school, making you feel more at ease being away from your parents' care With happiness on your side, you have formed an unbreakable bond with the girls in your class, and instead of shedding tears when you stumble during recess, you find yourself laughing it off. The contagious effect of your happiness has not only transformed your life but has also brought joy to your parents' hearts.

Cost $: Your Sadness

Item #3: Brilliance Limited Edition

As you enter middle school, the era of competition commences. No longer may you idly linger with friends throughout the day; instead, you must contend with your peers to secure victory in the 24th annual spelling bee. Fortunately, this package of brilliance guarantees your triumph. This stirring brilliance will inspire you to strive for increased intellectual prowess every single day. Brilliance will also resolve all of your difficulties, proffer solutions to your math homework, and uncover all of your Xs and Ys. With brilliance at your disposal, you shall master the art of polynomial factorization, a feat you once believed unattainable. Brilliance will permit you to tread confidently upon the path of life. Most importantly, you shall become the ideal daughter in the eyes of your parents and a child whom they’re proud of.

Cost $: Your Fun

Item #4: Beauty Best Seller

This package contains everything you need to assimilate seamlessly into the life of a teenage girl who yearns to satisfy the gaze of peers and parents. You start with applying lipstick and blush, gradually incorporating highlight and bronzer, which will accentuate your beauty. At the age of 15, you start utilizing foundation to achieve flawless skin and concealer to cover all the hideous scars on your face. However, having a pretty face and a beautiful physical form doesn’t make you fully beautiful. While appearances may captivate, the quality of your character will determine your true beauty. As your librarian often reminds you, "Don't judge a book by its cover.” Internal beauty holds equivalent importance as physical beauty. At the age of 16, you cultivate empathy, allowing you to care for others, but more importantly, you let go of conventional beauty standards and possess self-love. With judgments put aside, you foster confidence to become the perfect daughter.

Cost $: Your Time

Item #5: Mistakes Free

Through mistakes you learn to become obedient, you must first disobey. To experience happiness, you must first experience sadness, to know what it feels like to be truly happy. To achieve brilliance, you may at some point fail in class, but it is through these failures that you learn and grow. It takes hating yourself and feeling insecure before you are able to recognize that true beauty lies in your inner self Mistakes are a necessary part of personal development

Warning: Using this product without the incorporation of a healthy growth mindset will potentially inflict harm upon your ego.

Cost $: Free of charge

Item #6: Love

Free

Tears fill your mother’s eyes when she let go of your hands and sent you 8,768 miles away with the hope of enriching your perspective with the colors of diversity, staining your knowledge with different tints of culture and shades of society You learn from your mother that to love a daughter is to hold her tight but to love her more is to let her go. You learn that your dad loves you today more than yesterday and that your mom will love you more tomorrow than she did today. You learn that obedience, happiness, brilliance, beauty, and even mistakes originate from love. You may not have been perfect in your actions or choices, but your parents' love for you was unconditional and never wavered. Above all, love taught you that you have always been the perfect daughter.

Cost $: Free of charge

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Total Price: Your Negligence, Your Sadness, Your Fun, Your Time

Item(s) Free of Charge: Mistakes, Love

Shipping Address: 245 N Undermountain Rd, Sheffield, MA 01257, Berkshire School, Berkshire Hall, Ms. Pitcher’s English classroom (pickup available during G period)

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Collage Animal

Jenny Lee '25 Sculpture

Octopus

Khiara Threets '24

Ceramics

6 Feet Underground

Ellie Grimmett '25

“Hi, darlin’ are you home? I’m just sittin’ here watching the Hallmark channel. I was wondering if you could come downstairs and turn on the coffee pot for me? Are you home? Oh. You’re in class. Well just come on home when you can. Oh, you are home? Well, can you turn the coffee pot on for me? You’re in class? I see. I’ll just wait until you get home then, I’ll just watch the Hallmark channel. There’s just the sweetest movie on, they fall in love. You should watch it with me darlin’! Oh, you’re in class. That’s right, that’s right. Well, when you get home then. You are home? Well then, can you turn on the coffee pot for me? Okay, alright darlin’. Bye Bye. Just come on home when you can.”

I hang up the phone to text my sister.

“Are you in class?” I ask “Yes.”

“Can you go turn on the coffee pot for Memaw?”

“No sorry. Busy.”

Left with no other choice I leave my computer and as I walk away my teacher's voice seeps all the way downstairs and into the kitchen. I see her, sitting on the couch. Wrinkled skin blending in with the wrinkles in the couch fabric, whatever Hallmark movie she’s watching is on full blast. She looks up to the sound of water running as I fill up the coffee pot. I look into her eyes and for a moment I see no trace of my grandmother, just a blank stare through the frame of her glasses. Her trance flickers for a moment, then fades

“Well, hi darlin’!” Her familiar southern drawl fills me with joy as her voice, unlike her eyes, still hints at lingering happiness.

“Hi Memaw, I’m just turning the coffee on and then I have to go back to class.” I half-say and half-yell to her, at 78 her hearing isn’t what it used to be.

“Do you want to come watch with me? I’m watching the Hallmark channel. Do you have to go somewhere?”

Something within me sighs as I say “Yes. Sorry, Memaw. I have to go back to class ”

“Right, right. You just said that darlin’. I’m sorry. Is the coffee on?”

“I’m just turning the pot on now. Do you know how to turn it off? I really should get back to class. I’ll see you after school though, and we can watch Hallmark together then.”

“Well, come sit here with me darlin’! We can watch it together now.”

Eagerly patting the cushion next to her she looks at me, a hopeful smile spreading across her face but I shake my head no, and suddenly, the woman I was just talking to disappears again

“Sorry Memaw. I have to go.” And before she can say anything, I rush out of the kitchen and up the stairs. My teacher still droning on.

“Hi Ellie, it's Dad. Oh yes, I did call. I just wanted to let you know where everyone is. Mom ran out to the grocery store but I… I um. I’m driving home with Memaw from the hospital. Her back was hurting so I took her in just to make sure she was okay. She is. Don’t worry. Do you want to say hello? Okay good! Mom. It’s Ellie. Okay, honey. Here she is.”

“Oh hi, darlin’! Oh, I’m fine, just fine. Oh, it’s nothing my blood sugar was just low. Oh? Your dad’s just shaking his head at me. He’s sayin’ it wasn’t my blood pressure. Oh, I see. He’s sayin’ my back was hurting me. Well, it feels fine now darlin’! We’re just driving home. Will you come watch Hallmark with me today? Oh, you have class. Okay. Well, don’t be on your phone at school darlin’. Oh, you’re not at school. You’re at home? Do you have school today? Yes? Well, go back to class darlin’. Here Randy. Here’s the phone.”

“Ellie? Is your sister awake? Okay well, make sure she is. Okay, honey. Love you. We’ll be home soon. Bye.”

When I see her during my lunch break she looks different. More fragile. Like I could breathe a little too hard and she would crumble to pieces. She sits next to me and my sister, sandwich in hand, questions on repeat. We sit there, at the kitchen table, and watch as our grandmother disappears, as her soul gets buried 6 feet underground next to the love of her life.

That night my parents urge me to sleep with my grandmother. To her grieving brain the dark feels like a terrifying abyss, monsters from her past lurking in a black room, and in those moments all she wants is comfort. That night as I lay in her room, pretending to be asleep, I hear muffled cries from where she lays. I want to go to her, I want to hug her and hold her and urge her back to sleep as if she is a child with a nightmare. But, I cannot move. There is something about the audible pain that seeps from invisible wounds that makes me afraid. My grandmother, a woman I have always adored, a woman who has never been angry, a woman who would protect me with every fiber of her being is riddled with pain and there was not a single thing I could do about it So I lay there drifting off to sleep to the sound of an old woman’s pain.

“Hi there! Well I’m just sittin’ here with Cathy in the village. Oh no darlin’ I’m not bored, we went to church this mornin’ and now I’m just doing a puzzle with Cathy. How are you darlin’? Do you like livin’ in Massachusetts? Oh good, good. How’s school? Are you gettin’ good grades? Wonderful darlin’! Does Adeline like school? And are you a… sophomore? How’s school darlin’? Oh good darlin’! And you like Massachusetts? Well, I don’t know what I’ll have for dinner, I’m sure I have something in the fridge. How’s school? Oh! You won an award?! Let me find my little black book to write that down. I don’t want to forget that. And you like Massachusetts darlin’? Good, good. Okay darlin’. I’ll let you go. Talk to you soon. Love you darlin’. Bye bye.”

“Poor Memaw.” my mom says as she looks at me in the rearview mirror. Yes, poor Memaw, I think. She's fading, I know that. She’s becoming less and less of herself. She exists without a soul, without a memory, without a life other than the day she lived today and even that is fading. I know she is going. I can feel it in my gut, I know. I know. I know it in the memory of her tears and the permanent dent in the couch from her months of sitting. I know from the pain in her eyes when she knows she should remember. I know she's fading. I know she's already halfway underground.

“I really don’t think she’s doing that badly.” I say and look down to hide my tears.

Why I Push

Michkael McKenzie '25

Cradled in my mother’s arms, I feel the pain of disbelief mixed with sadness streaming from her eyes. Each drop is heavier as they fall, soaking the surface of my skin. Still encompassed in her arms, I turn my head away from the top of the steps where my Uncle stands with a glare infused with rage, to my mother who stands in front of the door with her keys in hand. Though I am present in the moment and I sense that something is wrong, it is too much for my tiny brain to comprehend, so I fall asleep The usual sensation of familiarity I typically feel when I arrive home seemed foreign to me. In an attempt to understand this unfamiliar feeling, I woke up. I realize that I am fastened into my car seat, I ignore the unfolded piles of clothes, the mixed up pairs of shoes, the scattered collection of hangers, and my nebulizer. All of this was in the car with me. I shift my gaze towards my mother, watching her head rest on the cushioning of the steering wheel. She was muttering some phrases which, at first, seemed like empty words stringed together but as I listened more intently, I realized that it was a prayer.

“God you hear me. I put Michkael before you dear Lord. Forget me Lord, cover him dear Jesus.” My mother has always prayed to God but this one seemed a bit different, it was more of a cry for help. As I look out the window, I realize that we are no longer in the backyard with the gray blocks of wood fitted tightly together fashioned with a roof at the head. No, we are stationed in the empty parking lot of a deserted “Wendys.” I was 4 years old. The heat beaming from the sun subtly kisses the middle of my forehead, as I slowly open my eyes. The familiar smell of cleaning agents and sick people weave in and out of my nose, with each breath. I struggle to rise from my lying position, realizing that I am bound by the IV pierced into the protruding vein in my right arm. Feeling a familiar sensation of warmth resting on my leg, I shift my gaze from the machine monitoring my heart, to my sleeping mother. As if she hears my worries, her head slowly rises and turns to face me.

She looks different: The corners of her eyes bleed a light red, she wears an ironed blue-striped button-up which differed from the one she wore the last time I saw her, and the circles around her eyes have darkened. I wonder how long she’s been waiting for me to wake up, I wonder how long she’s been worried, I wonder how long she hasn’t eaten, I wonder how long I’ve been making her wait. How long? As if she hears the clashing of thoughts in my head, she reaches for my cheek and rests her hand there.

“It’s alright. It's alright.” Though my eyes have become blurry due to the tears welling up at the bottom, I can make out a smile across her face.

…

The oxygen in my lungs is being stripped. It’s becoming harder to breathe. Everything is moving slower, like a slow motion film.

…

People wearing blue outfits burst into the room They have a panicked look on their faces and they’re talking with each other while looking at my monitor, but for some reason I cannot hear them, Oh those must be the nurses? Why are they here?

…

The fluorescent smell of my mother’s perfume lingers in an invisible silhouette in place of where she originally stood. Where is she?

…

I start to regain my sense of hearing.

…

“Hurry up! He’s losing consciousness!”

…

“ Grab the oxygen tank!”

…

“Stay with us kid!”

I was 6 years old.

To this day, I still get flashbacks to all of the sleepless nights I had out of fear for my safety.

“Michkael we’ll come for you in the middle of the night, take you out of your bed, tie you to a chair, and brand you!” Even though I sat back and laughed like it didn’t faze me, internally I was mortified. This happened during the summer of 2022, when I attended a camp in Nantucket. I was training to be a caddie, and I was elated. Not only because I knew that I was going to be making a lot of money which would help out me and my mom but I would also be meeting many interesting people. Although I had never shied away from work, the struggle of this job exceeded my expectations. I didn't expect it to be too difficult because I have never been intimidated by hard work, but it turned out much worse than I had imagined Over the weeks, the experience that I had been dreaming about for months had become my worst nightmare. Everyday, I would wake up at 6 am and get ready to go to work for about 4 hours unless I had gotten a double loop which would be another 4 hours, totaling 8 hours. I would eat, check in with my mom whenever I got a chance, go to sleep, repeat. I knew that it wouldn’t be easy being one of the few black people in Nantucket, but it didn’t scare me. Unfortunately, I was antagonized daily by my white peers and most surprising, I was faced with the same hate and discrimination from white adults which made it unbearable. Day in and day out, the hate increased but I concealed my pain behind a smile. I didn’t want them to see that it hurt me. As the days went by, my smile started to fade little by little. And the once snarky comments started to turn into increasingly hateful speech, which began to match their actions. My clothes started to get pulled out of my locker, stomped on, and my bed routinely got flipped. My normal routine had changed to getting up, going to work, not eating, not calling my mom, picking up my clothes, folding them, putting them back in my locker, flipping my bed back in position and making it up again. A month of camp went by and finally I found the courage to tell my mom that it felt like I was selling my soul for a dollar mom had been constantly praying for weeks because she said she just could not understand what happened to her happy and confident son before I knew it, I was on the ferry home the next day. I was 15 years old.

I am 15 years old. The rustling of the fall leaves sing as they wisp by my ears. The aroma of sweet potato pie and Starbucks’ pumpkin spice latte fills the air. There is a slow melodic sound from my shoes that matches the rhythmical pattern of my pace as I walk up the steps of “Berkshire Hall.” While walking up the steps of my future, I remember the nights in the car, I remember the nights spent in the hospital, I remember the nights spent in fear of my life A smile forms across my face knowing that despite any adversity I face, I will make it through. Finally reaching the top of the steps, I pull open the main doors and walk through them. I push through the sea of people that fill the entire lower half of “Berkshire Hall” and find my way to the front. Our Head of School enters the atrium–taking “center stage”– looks directly at me and greets me.

“Welcome.”

Eye Katy Gappa '25 Graphite drawing

Harlem

Michkael McKenzie '25

Harlem.

Let me start off by saying.

No, this will not be an extravagant piece like Langston Hughes.

No, this will not be a letter to the people like W E B Du Bois

AND.

No, this will not be an invigorating story of identity like Zora Neale Hurston.

This is just a reminder to myself and those who are depending on me.

That I am no poet, I am no singer, I am no musician.

What are you? Why are you here?

I can’t exactly articulate that in words but I can reveal my passion and show you how much I do care.

I will make a statement.

AND.

I will set a new standard.

Oh no! Not just for me!

But for all the little brown boys and girls who are struggling to find their identity.

I tell myself that I will be something and the world will know my name.

I dare to dream aloud and put myself in the conversation of fame.

Or will they refer to me as insane and force me down - preventing me from winning?

Deep down in my soul I know this isn’t God's intention. To have some live free while the rest of us live in frustration. Afraid to walk straight because we keep looking over our shoulders

While "others" walk boldly - as they are confident in the fact that they can live to get older.

Breaking all the stereotypes and limitations that were set in place, but now we’re left picking up the pieces after all doubt has been shattered.

They say the voice of the black man should never be heard.

These situations have presented so much pain and hurt mixed with frustration. But I comfort myself when I remember - my thoughts are bigger than my actual situation.

Remembering that God's love is for all regardless of the infused melanin in my skin.

Thankful to know that I too have the opportunity to dream big.

And Win.

I'm glad I'm just a black boy who is merely delivering a word of encouragement.

Motivation.

And reminding you that your voice matters.

So when you see me soaring. Just know that I am living my truth as God intended. Free just like the next man. I just want you to know the audacity of my freedom was all a part of God's plan.

Backroads Zamia Barradas '24 Photography

Face I

Jessica Lomo '23 Sculpture

Face II

Sculpture

Jessica Lomo '23

Face III

Sculpture

Jessica Lomo '23

THE DOME