BROPHY LITERARY AND ARTS MAGAZINE Volume 12 2021
Brophy College Preparatory 4701 North Central Avenue Phoenix, AZ 85012 602.264.5291 blam.brophyprep.org
The 2020-2021 school year was everything but ordinary. Polarizing politics, racial strife, quarantines, and everything in between buried us in uncertainty. With the end of this troubling tunnel in sight, scars will certainly linger because we had to adapt on-the-fly to the lifestyle change. However, there remain plenty of positives. Applications like Zoom highlight ways we can extend conversations with colleagues and loved ones from miles away. Lockdowns have given us an excuse to relax and put an emphasis on our relationships with family. It has even brought the rise in socially distant activities like online chess or a round of golf. This year, without a doubt, was a steaming stew of discordant feelings. This year’s edition of BLAM, Spitball, expresses our emotional pitfalls and triumphs. Selecting diverse pieces throughout the year, Spitball gives a voice to the Brophy student body via art and writing. Most notably, our contests ran the gamut subjects from reflections on a simple sunrise to nuanced meditations on life during quarantine. We promoted far-out methods of producing creative pieces like using two nouns to craft a composition or employing stream of conscience to form a story. Touching on the flurry of feelings we all felt, we asked our students to depict images of chaos and to write a nonchalant food review.
Furthermore, we sought to promote stories that emboldened the voices of our students who detailed their encounters with racism. To encourage the creative personalities on our campus and beyond the Brophy community, we conducted an interview with up-and-coming musical artist Payton Bagshaw ’21 (Page 39) as well as Mr. Jack Flynn, a previous Editor-in-Chief for BLAM 2013 (Page 65). We express our gratitude to the entire BLAM staff, our student artists, our teacher moderators Mr. Damaso ’97 and Mrs. Doud, and the great publishers at Prisma Graphic for making this vision a reality. With the pandemic looming large over this publication, it was challenging to push Spitball to fruition. Of course, we would also like to thank you, reader! There is authenticity within prose and poem—photograph and drawing—and it is because of you that Brophy’s passionate students are heard. We hope our vision of this magazine gleams on every page. Please—sit back, take a minute or two out of your day, and immerse yourself in the diverse collage that is Spitball. Sincerely, Ryan O’Hanrahan ’21 Nathan Zonn ’21
01. Disaster William Barber ’22 09. Nothing But Yellow Andres Valdes ’22 12. The Basics Diego Acevedo ’21 13. But Why? Jason Kelly ’22 16. A Computing Activity John Gauci ’21 18. Feeling Luis Gastelum ’23 19. Here, Pencil John Gauci ’21 22. Growing Up Ari Anderson ’21 24. Forearm Jason Black ’21 25. Who Am I? Michael Yuh ’23 27. Sour Grapes Aaron Blackburn ’22 29. The Beautiful Light Alec Von Borries ’23 30. Glimpses of Gold Ben Coury ’23 34. Here We Stand Xavier Hernandez ’22 47. Not Alone Anymore David Lopez ’23 49. The Wargamer Adam Garcia ’23
52. Habits TJ Munks ’22 53. Haiku John Reyes-Read ’23 59. Looking into Her Seth Deokielal ’23 61. Warmth Aiden Angell ’22 63. Mind & Body Ari Anderson ’21
03. Made in The Abyss Jack Olsen ’21 31. Ignorance Jason Kelly ’22 36. Water That Drips on the Back Nathan Garcia ’21 37. Math as Meditation Quentin Cibulka ’21 44. The Problem with “White Jesus” Nick Pecora ’21 55. Defining Humanity Garrett Van Wie ’22 58. Steam Tyler Weddell ’21
Pg. 4
Pg. 8
02. Rogue Missile Benny Aguilar ’21 04. Sad Reality Biplove Baral ’21 08. Amour Collin Hodge ’21 11. DREAMer Diego Acevedo ’21 14. Girl With the Pearl Aaron Blackburn ’22 15. girl. robot Cole Basco ’23 20. Geometric Cosmos Lochlan Marquis ’22 21. Hear Me Crying Jason Vega ’21 23. Steel Repose Benny Aguilar ’21 26. Flamingo Pudding Cake Michael Motola ’24 28. A Bumpy Ride James Footit ’21 30. Mamba Out but Never Forgotten Cole Basco ’23
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Pg. 21
32. Barcoders Attack! Nathan Zonn ’21 33. Spring Again Ryan Blake ’21 35. A Gasp of Air James Footit ’21 38. SKWEEGEE Micah Schulman ’21 43. Café de Selfié Rajveer Walia ’21 50. Searching Rajveer Walia ’21 54. Fishy Fortunes Adam Acunin ’23 60. Keyhole Quinn Tolson ’21 69. Tonight is the Night Collin Hodge ’21 70. Pavane Collin Hodge ’21 70. Logan’s Spaceship Collin Hodge ’21
Pg. 28
Pg. 32
Pg. 38
Pg. 51
Photography
Features
05. Papago Microcosm Nathan Zonn ’21 07. Zoom Jonathyn Osuna ’23 10. Kirby Sky Swap Alexander DeStefano ’24 17. City People Brayden Abele ’22 29. Swinging Fire Mark Rossbach ’21 46. The Point of Convergence Jake Armstrong ’22 47. Icey Brayden Abele ’22 51. Floating Jake Armstrong ’21 56. Bicycle Built for Two Thomas Joswiak ’22 57. Cityscape Cesar Avelar ’22 62. Pika Pika Benn Budnick ’21 64. Do a Flip Alexander Lewis ’21
39. Melodies Payton Bagshaw ’21 65. An Interview With Jack Flynn Jack Flynn ’13
I. Yard
II. Cell
Corrosive. This is the word which floats in my mind. Acid in a chemistry lab? Weed killer? I wish life was still that simple.
Control. Control is a privilege, used to be earned, now taken… like candy from a baby:
Burnt. No, it’s not a marshmallow which is skewered. But rather, the sweet flesh of man is charred like a cracking piece of wood. The fires, however, burned our souls first. Order. Is subjective, yet so is madness. Order! but true madness, as in an asylum, can have an order. ORDER!... From my swirling insides, a torrential storm, I awake. Another scuffle between two prisoners, too bad the guards always win. Life has become a game, however, only for those which can take it. Heads I win, tails you lose… many know when to fold ’em, * but they never get that chance. *Reference to Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” a pre-disaster song
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“You. Get up.” – an invitation CRACK – (hopefully just one rib this time) “You filthy garbage.” My hand is suddenly wet with spit – I’m not drooling. The warden has summoned me. Seems that power and control are synonyms, and weapons, incisive and accurate, like a scalpel. III. (Bitter) Work “You’ve been assigned.” I think to myself, I thought women weren’t allowed to work. Allow. That’s a privilege – force is the new employer. The warden’s office is lavish: sumptuous chairs, carefree thought. CLICK… His boot bites into the floor.
I look at the mirror with its mouth gaping wide. The vast, other world… Am I happier there?
Rogue Missile / Benny Aguilar ’21 / Pen
I observe: the frown, the sneer of cold command. * Then – a glimmer. The solitary window focuses the sun. An office supply, no, a weapon. Despotism may be a weapon, but a weapon can create despotism. Especially when it’s buried in the warden’s neck... The Great Caesar fell with a knife. Time to channel my inner conspirator. VIVA LA VIDA Except you warden. * Reference to “Ozymandias” by Percy Bysshe Shelley IV. The Glimmer Hope. It’s such a fickle thing. Soaked. My usually red dress is darker now… Crimson. The warden lies at my feet, now, the color of my wings*. Drained… of command… of strength… of... BLOOD.
The sun is now at zenith; the rays beam into my eyes, the elucidation of God. I should be blinded, eyes burning in heavenly fire, yet everything is clear now. Ardent, like fire.
It only takes one match, one light, one moment, to create a glimmer. *A white head covering worn by the handmaids Poem after The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood
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Made in the Abyss by Jack Olsen ’21
“Darling, if we’re to ever meet again in the next life, know that our love will shine twice as bright as it did before.”
that. But... like that, perhaps? Before you can get too lost in the question, you see the sun flicker and at that moment realize what the whisper was saying.
You open your eyes as if for the first time, staring up at a sky that isn’t there. At least you assume you’re looking up, as you can feel the warm, moist surface pressed against your back. You prop yourself up to look around and examine your surroundings, but quickly realize there is nothing there to examine. Everywhere you look, there is nothing, just the infinite black of an abyss.
“Come to me. I won’t be here much longer.”
It’s mesmerizing, you think, and you can feel yourself getting lost, staring into the unending void. It’s jarring and yet, for some reason, nostalgic, to gaze into infinity, not seeing but rather, feeling its depth. Just as you begin to lay back down and close your eyes, the gust of a whisper brushes against your neck. Startled out of your inner peace, you turn around, looking for the culprit of the voice, only to instead find something you hadn’t noticed before. The smallest and dimmest of lights. A white speck, barely observable to the naked eye, but compared to its surroundings, is as brilliant as a shining Sun. A Sun. A… sun. Hmm. You ponder the word, yet you can’t seem to recall where it came from. You know it’s right, no doubt about that, but why it’s right, you can’t seem to wrap your mind around. What is a sun? Not
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And at the realization of this your stomach drops and a sense of urgency takes hold of your heart. You know that you need to get to her before it’s light goes out. You need to go to it before he is gone, and just as you are about to leave to meet her you realize how overcome with impulse and emotion you were, and that scares you. You need to slow down, take a minute, and think this through. You only just got here and you still don’t know where here is or what you’re doing here in the first place. What you need is to examine your options, and so you begin to consider whether it’s worth leaving your little spot in the dark. You’re fairly comfortable where you are. You feel safe and the ground is warm. In all honesty, there’s no real reason to leave. But then again, what reason, what purpose is there to stay? Strangely, this place feels like home, but other than that, it has nothing else to offer you. The voiceless whisper offers you nothing either, only letting you know that his time is short, and it wants you there before she’s gone, before it flickers out. At the thought of that your body shudders, and you feel a stabbing pain in your chest. You know you will lose everything if you let it fade away. Quite strange for a sun you hadn’t known existed until minutes ago, no... days, no
months, no years, no… when hadn’t you noticed the sun? Resolutely, you decide you will leave and go to it. As you shift your focus on beginning the long journey and try to stand, you look down and realize your legs have been walking this entire time. The sound of the gentle pitter patter of your footsteps each time you place a foot on the ground settles softly in your ears now. You had always been walking, hadn’t you? You close your eyes and focus on the sensation under your feet, taking care to keep watch over your sun, should she flicker. You feel as though you are walking on water. Each time your sole lands on the surface, you can feel its texture, the liquid moving beneath your toes, the strange pushback you feel that is warm and soft, yet you are certain is also indestructible. The water is… ah so this is water. The pitter patter of your steps stop, except they don’t, and you reach down to feel the floor. It’s just as your toes told you it would be, warm and comforting, gentle yet unmoving. It’s solid, yet also liquid. Yes, this is your water. The same water you are sure your water is. You take your hand off the water and rub your fingers, confused as they are as dry as before. Nevertheless, you get back up and resume the journey you had never paused in the first place. And so you walk. And you walk. You walk for forever and never start to walk in the first place, for there is no time where you walk. And for every never and forever
you walk on your water, you never take your eyes off the sun. The bright, dim, furious, fading, ever-burning sun. The sun that never changed or came closer for the entirety of all the forevers you traveled. The sun that finally whispered, “You are here.” And after walking for forever you are quite shocked by this change in pace. You blink and look all around you, wondering whether you misheard something in between all of the nothing. You turn to look at the sun that you had never actually taken your eyes off of, and see that it was still the same size. No, it was growing. No, it had always been growing, always getting closer, but also never changing at all. You reach out your hand and find the sun had always been right in front of you, an arms length away. And so for once, you actually stop walking, you actually sit down, and you actually begin to talk. ‘Where am I?’ “You’re here, with me.” Its voice is faint and gentle, and you can practically feel the affection flowing from it with every word. ‘No I get that but, where is here? There’s nothing all around us.’ “Really? I had always thought this place was so full of life.” ‘What do you mean?’ “Well, you’re here, isn’t that enough?” ‘I’m sorry I don’t think I follow.’ The sun remains motionless as it stares back at you. Expecting. Waiting. Finally, after feeling like an eternity,
Sad Reality / Biplove Baral ’21 / Soft Pastel Spitball | BLAM 04
which it probably was, the sun immediately sighs. “We keep doing this, over and over. You go down and find yourself, and always in doing so meet me. Together we are overjoyed. But when you come back here, I have to stay down with part of you, and your part here doesn’t even remember me. I am so dim and far away because you were the one who left me, and I no longer want you in bits in pieces. I want us united as a whole. Life, why do you always leave me all alone.” You are greatly confused by what he said. Nothing seems to make any sense at all. All you are sure of is hearing your sun speak this way fills you with sadness. You aren’t sure why, but you too long to be with it. You enjoyed your time together, she was what gave you meaning, you lo-… Now you too are having strange thoughts. There was never any time together. There was only this. Your sun and the abyss. But then, why are you so sure of this desire. This longing to pull the sun into your chest and fill yourself with its warmth. ‘Who are you?’ His voice is shaky, as though she is weeping. “You have asked me this question endless times. Down there it fills me with such joy, but here, it pains me beyond comprehension. Life, I am Love. Don’t you remember me?”
Papago Microcosm / Nathan Zonn ’21 / Composite Photograhy 05 BLAM | Spitball
As you continue to stare into your sun, you begin to remember. You had met at a baseball field, no in the farm lands, no in the desert, no, in millions of places at millions of times. You were everyone, and yet in every life you lived you looked at another part of yourself and found her, lying in the center. And you had fallen for each other. Over and over again, Life had met Love and they adored each other. They became one. But when part of Life moved on, Love was left to pick up the pieces.
How could you forget? How could you not remember every single moment you spent in each other’s arms? How incomplete you felt without him. How you broke her. You reach up and feel the teardrops that didn’t really exist stream out of the eyes you never really had. You look at your sun, your Love, and realize that she was fading away. Love was weeping now, but these were tears of joy. You couldn’t understand why she was happy. As his light began to get dimmer and dimmer, you desperately reached out to catch her. How cruel it was to reveal to someone everything they were missing and only to then snatch it all away. But by the time you grasp out, like a lie, your sun is gone, and you are left alone in the abyss. You feel the gust of a whisper brush against your neck. “Finally you remember. We can’t move on until you do.” You open your eyes as if for the first time, staring up at a galaxy, a universe, filled with the most brilliant and gorgeous stars you have ever seen. You gaze up in wonder as everywhere you look your sun is there. Countless burning flames cascading across the night sky of the abyss, spanning across all of time and space. Galaxies and nebulas lighting up the dark with their embers. You see Love’s true beauty here. How brilliant it shines. It looks exactly as though it had felt down there. In fact when you look down at your non-existent body to see yourself, you notice that the abyss has returned to darkness, and the galaxy nestles within you. You feel it again. And all you can do is weep. Somewhere on Earth a child is born. It cries and cries. And then, you open your eyes for the first time.
...
“You had met at a baseball field, no in the farm lands, no in the desert, no, in millions of places at millions of times.”
...
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Zoom / Jonathyn Osuna ’23 / Photography
Amour / Collin Hodge ’21 / Digital Illustration
by Andres Valdes ’22 Focus on the road. But I am focused. Remember to get off at the right exit. Speed up a little bit so we won’t be late. Stop at the sign. Slowly park next to the other cars. Okay Get your archery case and put it under the shade. Stand under the tent, it’s hot outside. Help the instructors set up the bails and targets. Say hi to your friends. Put our bow on the yellow rack. Bow our head for prayer. Calm yourself. Take some deep breaths. Wait until the whistle is blown. Stand at the line. Fix our stance; it’s crooked. Straighten the back. Are we trying to miss the target? No. Do we want to get better? Yes. Nock the arrow. Raise up the bow. Don’t pull on the string until the bow is raised completely. Aim for the yellow. Stop moving your arm so much. Our back is getting sore. Release the arrow. But we could also reset without shooting.
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Choose now. Our back is getting tired. Make a decision. I think you should shoot now. My back collapses and the arrow skids across the dirt What are we doing!?! If we’re going to shoot, commit to the shot. Great. Now everyone is looking at our arrow. How embarrassing. That is going to be a long walk to retrieve the arrow. Is the arrow broken? We shouldn’t worry about it. We will only find out later. Forget about what just happened. Take a deep breath and focus on the next shot. Okay. Andres, you must stop thinking so much about the form, the arrow, and what other people think. Just shoot. You already shot so many times. This should be easy. Focus on the yellow. That’s it. Okay, the yellow. Breath in, breath out. Focus on it. Blur anything that is not yellow. Nothing but yellow.
Kirby Sky Swap / Alexander DeStefano ’24 / Photography
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The Basics by Diego Acevedo ’21
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DREAMer / Diego Acevedo ’21 / Prismacolor
TRANSLATED TRANSLATED TRANSLATED TRANSLATED TRANSLATED TRANSLATED TRANSLATED TRANSLATED TRANSLATED TRANSLATED
After Jamaica Kincaid No no no, it’s the, it’s like you’re saying it with a “uh” at the end. Thee, no no no, come on bro this is like the simplest word. One more time (thuh). Get your shoulders off the table and look at how I move my tongue and how it touches my teeth. Thuu, Diego take a deep breath and stop crying Mom can’t help you. Lets go over the vowels, you are getting better at those, ah, eh, ih, oh, you… okay, okay, the alphabet 5 times, but Mar…. Nonono, if you want to be ready for school you have to learn some English Diego, they’re going to tear you into pieces if you don’t. Now 5 times, and slowly. Okay ….. That was decent, now talk to me in English, and none of the gibberish crap. Ask me about my day. How day is? Close, close. I’m surprised you remembered the translation, it’s actually “how is your day” but I’ll take it. We gotta make mama proud, okay? Okay. Now, alphabet 5 more times.
FROM FROM FROM FROM FROM
SPANISH SPANISH SPANISH SPANISH SPANISH SPANISH SPANISH SPANISH SPANISH SPANISH Spitball | BLAM 12
Pick up a pencil or a keyboard. Ok. Just start writing. About what? Anything that speaks to you. How do I know what speaks to me? You just kinda feel. I’ve never felt something speak to me before. Ok scratch that, just write something you enjoy. Something I enjoy? Yeah, poetry, fiction, your own life stories, whatever. I could write about that, but it wouldn’t be very good. It doesn’t have to be good. What’s the point of writing if it’s not good? It helps you write better. How? Experience. How will that make it better? You’ll have more points of reference. That doesn’t matter if none of it is good. Look, I’ll read it over for you. How will you make it better? Not necessarily, I’ll just give you my own ideas. But then it’s not my work, how can I be satisfied with that? That’s egotistical, input from others is important. How do I know they’re not wrong? You don’t, but you could be wrong too. The blind leading the blind. That’s pessimistic. It’s realistic.
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Just write something first, okay? I still don’t know what to write about. Look for inspiration then. Where? People, books, tv, anywhere really. Will that make my writing good? I don’t know. Then why? Because it might. I don’t want to do something that just might work. Do you even want to write at all?...yes. Then just start for Christ’s sake.
Girl with The Pearl / Aaron Blackburn ’22 / Pencil After Girl with a Pearl Earring by Johannes Vermeer Spitball | BLAM 14
01110011 01110100 01101100 01110011 01110100 01101100 01110011 01110100 01101100 01110011 15 BLAM | Spitball
01110000 01101001 A 01100010 01100001 Computing 01101100 01100001 Activity 01110000 01101001 01100010 01100001 01101100 01101001 01110000 01101001 01100010 01100001 01101100 01101001 01110000 01101001 by John Gauci ’21
girl. robot / Cole Basco ’23 / Pen
01110011 01110100 01101100 01110011 01110100 01101100 01110011 01110100 01101100 01110011
01110000 01100010 01101100 01110000 01100010 01101100 01110000 01100010 01101100 01110000
Programming was one of those things that always seemed to captivate my interests. Ever since I was in middle school and was becoming rapidly acquainted with the workings of computers, fabricating the software that millions of people rely on for business applications like cybersecurity and engineering seemed like a natural consequence of my growing propensity for technology. Of course, interests are not the ice cubes that never get picked out of the freezer. Rather, they are the vines growing down concrete, where the general direction is known, but the small branch-offs help to shape the idea of the whole. High school was definitely the sort of fertilizer that helped this growth. Firstly, it threw me headfirst into object oriented programming with learning Java. Instead of serving steaming hot plates of spaghetti code that appealed to my middle school cerebrum, I was constrained to construct software that had a logical flow to it. Next, in middle school, I found math to be pretty neat. But in high school, math became interesting with its adulteration of the what were once forbidden concepts of zeroes and infinities. And it became clear that this stuff could no longer be done on the accountant’s calculator. So that is how I found myself trying to program a computer algebra system in C++. A computer algebra system crosses the canyon between human and computer mathematical capabilities, by giving the calculator ways to perform certain algebraic manipulations. However, the challenge in designing the skeleton for this system is not a trivial one. In most cases, when you are asked to solve a problem for a class, your mind stares down a plastic tube. You stick to what you know, what you have been taught, and even when you deviate, you can see if you are going to clear the trees before you land. However,
with a project like this, you are not just finding an answer, you are building the solution. Due to this, I learned that the most important part of programming is not sitting in a chair, staring at the blistering white or charcoal gray themed development environment. Rather, it is the type of rhythm that is created while I pace about, mulling over how to jump over the infinitely tall hurdle, and eavesdropping in on the pattering of my feet slapping the marble navigating the possible ways to synthesize human ingenuity with technological prowess. I get all these ambitious ideas: What if I did this? No, how about that. Well not exactly, but if I changed that little part, maybe? Nah, too complicated. What about this…And then, not too long later, reality hits. I am only a novice, and I have no serious qualifications. I have to settle on something feasible, within my limits. The desires of piecing together this intricate, complex, flexible, and optimally performing software subside. Perhaps one of the more irking parts of this process is wishing I was more experienced and capable, and could have fleshed out an idea that was more formidable when I first came across it. Nevertheless, I transition into the second step of actually pouring out whatever idea I had in my head into the keyboard, and onto the computer. From this point, everything seems to flow downstream. Sure, it involves some thinking, and there are hitches and rocks also in this stream, but these are small compared to picking which river to cruise down in. The actual working of the code can sometimes be tedious, but finishing up a certain functionality always gives a sense of reward and satisfaction. However, the sense I get is a hollow sense, for the most difficult part is yet to come. Here is probably where I spend most of my time “programming”. After all, putting the effort into typing up the program is one thing. Making it work is another.
01101001 01100001 01100001 01101001 01100001 01101001 01101001 01100001 01101001 01101001
And so, the frustration ensues. For one thing, C++ drops off the training wheels and pins the effort of managing the program’s memory onto the programmer. Therefore, I do check to make sure my program is not seeping out memory that could in theory cause serious issues. After all, I do not want the software to have a leaky roof, should a rainstorm come through. Though combined with my inexperience, this process of ensuring good code results in what I would say is an error fest. Running through the code line by line, and methodically checking the changes of the values of multiple variables to find out where I accessed some bit of memory that was off limits not only requires a keen eye, but determination and patience as you miss the one minute consequence of a single entry in a sea of code not once or twice, but ten times over. Then I realize that this is has to do (which it doesn’t). I continue on with the next stage of th only half of the battle, and my code also has to do what I want it to do (which it doesn’t). I continue on with the next stage of this demanding process. The clacks of the mechanical keyboard are the only thing that is heard. A pause. Silence accompanied by quiet breathing. Click! The code stops executing on a line that has a little red stop sign next to it. The addresses of variables change. Click! Stopsign. 0x005AF8C0 Click! Memory pointers swapped around like a telephone switchboard. Countless calculations and computations occurring under the hood. Then it all comes to a screeching halt. “Exception thrown: read access violation”. The clicks stop. No keys are pressed. The air is filled with a soft sigh. The cycle repeats.
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City People / Brayden Abele ’22 / Photography
by Luis Gastelum ’23 Yet to get this feeling I feel like I’m trapped in this room Feeling like I’m not breathing Going through the ceiling Raged with anger going boom Yet to get this feeling Permanently bleeding Swept away with a broom Feeling like I’m not breathing Feeling like I’m grieving Seeing him stuck in a tomb Yet to get this feeling In the mindset of disbelieving Here just left to assume Feeling like I’m not breathing Trying to get to sleeping In an eternal loom Yet to get this feeling Feeling like I’m not breathing
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by John Gauci ’21 Each day, I make sure to find your location on my desk Checking the extension of your graphite tip I see the protrusion your muddied eraser As I wait for the day that it no longer wishes to show itself Nevertheless you remain ready for another day of use Of being pressed firmly into the alien substance Shedding a bit of yourself Until you starve for another thin dowel Meanwhile, you continue to serve me well As I go about my academic ramblings Filling page after page of equations Marked with the gray juice that defines you Yet your existence is in question Not of your own failings, but of the improvements of others Advancements that bask in technological grandeur Tower over your measly linear form Thus, the time is approaching When you will be left to spoil in the sun And while the truths of tomorrow may not be written on paper The fruits of your capabilities will be remembered forever
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Geometric Cosmos / Lochlan Marquis ’22 / Spray Paint
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Hear Me Crying / Jason Vega ’21 / Prismacolor
Growing Up. by Ari Anderson ’21 The ancestors watch as I read their words The dry ink illustrates our collective life The bubbes and zeydes beam with pride He has his eyes on me. The only ancestor I’ve known, the tzadik, my pop He was with me when I felt שכינהfor the first time I look back at this moment And I can only think of him. By the time I understood his place in the world Why the man was so goddamn special He’d already left. They say I became a man that day Start fasting Be in the מניין But how do I live up to what he gave me? I don’t and I can’t. I wrap his tefillin around my arm. The first time since three Chabadniks did it for me
I say the prayer(s)
Feel the presence Shake like the Kohanim do when the רוח הקודשhits But all I feel is longing for the days before I became a man. It was so much easier when Him and the community were one thing. So much easier when he said the prayers for me. So much easier when I was confident in my lack of knowledge. Now, I’m confronting the Divine without him But I do it with his help. Because I could never do it alone We could never do it alone. I’m far from the first to question our tradition Like the milkman before me, I find balance. Our history keeps us together I guess that’s how we’ve persisted Antiquity bonds the diaspora like eggs to matzo meal In my youth none of it made sense But now I realize The ancestors watching my every breath Are just looking out for me Spitball | BLAM 22
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Steel Repose / Benny Aguilar ’21 / Pen
by Jason Black ’21 Meat, your vile existence tempts humans. You take many forms, all so delicious, you turn man to beast. They want you, Meat. They want to cook you up, they want to watch you wriggle. They want you to burn into the perfect shade of red. The thought of chewing you, of tearing you apart, of grinding you between their teeth until you become a slimy paste, it soothes them in the most horrific way. I want you. I want to get drunk off of your blood. I want to rip your tainted flesh apart. I want to creep on my hands and feet and stop your heart with my teeth. I am meat. You are meat. You are me. How long until I consume you, too? Spitball | BLAM 24
by Michael Yuh ’23
Recalling my entire life, from when I was a baby to now I struggle to think of something I truly love or want to be It’s hard because my sister and brother know their passions, I don’t know how And on top of that, since they are both in college, all eyes are on me A walk in the park, and quiet night at home A place to think, to recollect my thoughts I need some time to gather the ideas in my dome After all, one’s identity is not something to be forgot Finally a conclusion, a happy end? I smile, and I am able to continue on with my day What did I learn? What new knowledge did I gain with the time I spend? What I learned is something we all should know, and I will now say It is ok to not be certain of my future, or what I want to be Because no matter what happens, I will always be ME.
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FLAMINGO
PUDDING CAKE Flamingo Pudding Cake / Michael Motola ’24 / Digital Illustration
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Sour Grapes How can nature yield to humanity when forced to do so?
The men, still unbroken; angry
How can you tell the wind to blow or the clouds to rain?
No hardship is too grand if the men are still whole
Is the fruit sweeter when directing it to be?
We leave these scorched lands for a new beginning
Will the crops resurrect now that you believe they will?
A land of orange trees and white stucco mansions
No, the world does not care for your hopes and pleads
A land where no silver cattle can defile
She is tempestuous, reluctant in her afflictions
We hope to find a land of vineyards and prosperity, all we find are sour grapes
Many try to bend her to their will, rape her into submission
Grapes which are pulverized, their juice taints the golden gates
She does not, hence, overpowers her transgressors
The mansions of promise have now become Hoovervilles
Her Tears – Flood
These sour grapes have become the bitter wine of injustice
Her Anger – Fires, Eruption
The monster has won
Her Fury – Drought, Pestilence, Death We are left for dead, some betray their own
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A Bumpy Ride / James Footit ’21 / Prismacolor Spitball | BLAM 28
THE BEAUTIFUL LIGHT by Alec Von Borries ’23 As gold as the sun Shining so bright She helps everyone A beautiful light
Hates all violence Peace instead She is not frightening Always a step ahead
Kind and smart Making us better A really big heart As soft as a feather
Help me with anger Help me forgive Give me the answers Help me to give
Beautiful and lovely Forgiving and peaceful Does not care about money Loves all people
I give you my love And friendship too You are from above Help me be like you
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Swinging Fire / Mark Rossbach ’21 / Photography
GLIMPSES GOLD by Ben Coury ’23 Lathered in Gold sat the baby on top Droopy robes with a hint of riches With patterns marking the mother’s clothing The gold Necklace laying around neck Sat the mother and child in a large throne While the mother with shoes And the child with bare feet Looks of peace and well-being smothered their faces Both with crowns full of gold With a globe in the hand of the mother Eyes opened wide The hairless upon a head of hair Dark skin with reflections of light Sat the mother and child on a throne full of gold As I surrender my stress and fear and anguish Comes peace in return With welcoming and kindness From worry and despair To Worship and Prayer
Mamba Out but Never Forgotten / Cole Basco ’23 / Marker
Ignorance by Jason Kelly ’22
Edward dragged two fresh bodies through the abandoned street. “How much longer until it’s my turn?” he thought to himself. He trudged through the cobblestone streets, past abandoned carriages and doors with several locks each. Past burning piles of bodies and scattered belongings no one bothered to pick up.
The child’s body hung over his shoulder, and he dragged the man’s body behind him. Killing them would have been more traumatic if it had been his first time, but he was desensitized to it. They were infected, so an early death was really the most merciful thing he could give them. Better than if he had let the plague consume them entirely. The man had understood that it was thanks to him that the kid never had to suffer the fear of impending death. He was a good man. He should not have died. Edward tried desperately to push it out of his mind. He knew it was inevitable. How long would it be? A month? A week? Maybe even tomorrow he’d be in the same position as that man. He wanted to curse the government for sentencing him to death with their “community service,” but there was no point to it now, he was a dead man, his clock was already ticking. He arrived at the once-lively plaza where the main bonfire was kindled by hundreds of people who would have played and talked in the very same space. There were other men there as well, bound to the same fate as Edward. A few were huddled in groups, some were drinking, there was no one to stop them. What kind of insane supervisor would act-
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ually want to watch over a job like this? They would much rather be home and safe with their families, just like every other sane man, but not everyone had a choice. Two more were added to the flames.
“Hey th-*hic*” said Mitch to Edward, his eyes pointed vaguely in Edward’s direction. He started to walk over to Mitch. “You *hic* wanna drink?” He sloshed a half-empty bottle of something. “I’ll pass, thanks.” Edward eased himself onto the bench next to Mitch. Mitch had a problem. Edward had tried to get him to take his mind off it in ways other than drinking, but to no avail. Edward sighed and casted an empty gaze at the ground beneath him. He couldn’t linger long, not without his mind wandering. whisper.
“Ignore it,” he said to himself in what was a
The sound of Mitch beginning to gulp down the rest of the bottle snapped Edward back to reality. Edward heaved himself up from the chair to check on the other groups, there were a few more drinking, and one group playing cards at the picnic table. He walked over to the card-playing group. “Have you all done your rounds today?” One paused and looked at him. “Why do you give a shit?” “I’ll take that as a no.” “Ok mom.” “Just check your damn zones.”
He wanted to scream at all these slackers that their job was important, that they had to focus. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do that to men who knew their fate was sealed. He had to pick up their slack. Edward wandered back into the streets. No one here. Just the crackle of dying flames and the buzz of insects. The smell of death permeated Edward’s nostrils. He was doing his job right. He was the only one who understood the importance of what they had to do. They were all dead anyway, he just didn’t want to regret anything in his final moments. He was helping people. Because of his actions, there was someone they wouldn’t have to execute. A long pause where even his thoughts were silent. “Ignore it,” he said to himself. A piercing pain shot through his skull and he staggered to a railing. Maybe he had overworked himself. He would need to get some water and sleep when he got back, that would fix it. But he had to check the zones assigned to everyone else, he didn’t have time to lose. He regained his balance somewhat and staggered through the street, carefully checking the alleyways in spite of the pain behind his eyes. “Ignore it,” Edward continued through the streets, no one here. He noticed something on the windowsill. It was horrific, the infection had fully taken root in that girl. She was passed out, he should end it before she woke up, make it somewhat peaceful. He took out his knife. Knife? He didn’t
remember picking one up. His gun was gone. Whatever. This would do. He carefully stepped up to the unconscious victim and placed his knife through her throat. He tried to slice it quickly, but it got caught, she squirmed. He drove it in. The squirming stopped. He dragged the fresh body back to camp. Where was the bonfire? Where the Hell did they get all this food? Why was no one acting like it was strange? Someone had screwed around. In only two hours they managed to mess up the camp this much. “Hey, Mitch! What is this?” Mitch got up slowly. Edward had woken him. “Ed?” “Sorry to wake you, do you have any idea what’s going on here?” “What the Hell…” “So you’re just as surprised as me, maybe we should ask around, if you ask me some of these guys seem close to succumbing, maybe they’ve started to lose-” BANG! Something had pierced the back of his throat. He tried to curse, but no words came. “Guys, we’ve got another one.”
Barcoders Attack! / Nathan Zonn ’21 / Digital Illustration Spitball | BLAM 32
by Xavier Hernandez ’22
Spring Again / Ryan Blake ’21 / Oil Paint 33 BLAM | Spitball
Here we stand hand-in-hand, Against the world once again. A history forged by steel and war, Made us resilient and strong. Reasons we must never forget, To ensure that we too belong.
Are we not normal if we share a different type of love? This love we dare to speak, But reminded every day that we are only a freak. But this particular love we share, Nourishes us and inspires us, It enables us to care.
We stand in rooms with sewing machines and dirty laundry, They look at us and think “That’s all they’ll ever be.” What if we wanted to be more DO MORE, We’re sick and tired of cleaning the floor. We dream of reaching higher places, But we are stuck here with our “disgraces.”
Are we not normal if we wear dresses or suits? Clothing advertised for men or women only. We want to wear our clothes with pride, To celebrate our diversity and style. Live with commitment to equality, And lead every day with a readiness to smile.
Are we not normal if our skin is a different color, Its beautiful shades consume the light. They do not see our beauty. No, they only see their white.
When did there become countless boundaries? Why can’t we live our lives happily and free? That is all we ever wanted, To live our lives without being daunted. But here we stand hand in hand, Against the world once again.
Are we not normal if we share a different type of love? This love we dare to speak, But reminded every day that we are only a freak. But this particular love we share, Nourishes us and inspires us, It enables us to care.
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A Gasp of Air / James Footit ’21 / Soft Pastel
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WATER THAT DRIPS ON THE BACK by Nathan Garcia ’21 When I was 1 month old, my family and I went to Mexico. We just couldn’t seem to ground ourselves in the US, so we went to Mexico and stayed there for about 3 years. When I was there, I started picking up Spanish. We came back to the US — to Arizona — to seek opportunities once again. And we were able to find something, so we stayed here. I had started learning Spanish in Mexico, but since I was in the US, I started learning English as well. Since I was learning two languages at the same time, my speaking became not-so-great. I tripped up on words more than other kids and my pronunciation was worse than others. When I went to first grade, I remember my brother and I were going to a new school because we had moved houses. And there, at that school, I had no friends. I would sit at recess by myself and I would get funny looks. During class, I would be embarrassed because of my pronunciation and my accent. I wouldn’t get completely laughed at or teased, but I would get chuckles or giggles. But I vaguely remember hearing the term “wetback” for the first time. I didn’t know what it meant at the time but a few years later I found out. “A derogatory term for a Mexican living in the US, especially without official authorization.” Words like this or racist encounters don’t really affect me because I’ve realized that I’m much more than words. But I’d like to share a story. Whether the story is fiction or nonfiction is unknown.
“Wake up mijo,” my dad shouted. I looked up at him with eyes barely open as he peeked through the door. “Today’s the big day.” I slowly got up from the floor and put on a shirt. “Are we gonna eat first?” I asked, with a bit of an attitude. “No. We have to go, ahorita,” he said as he looked outside the window. “Ya llegaron, hurry up!” I quickly put on my shoes and followed him outside. A truck was parked in front of the house and we hopped onto the trunk. “Ready?” he asked. I wasn’t, but I knew it was something we had to do. We drove for about 10 minutes and then I slowly fell to sleep. I had a dream that I woke up surrounded by water. All I could see was nothing but water. No matter how far I ran on the water or how far I looked, there were only large bodies of water. Suddenly, we stopped and I woke up. And as we got out, all I could was dry land: a desert. It was 5 am and it was somehow still hot. As my dad and I, and some other middle-aged man, started walking, we heard the truck drive off. We walked for about an hour or two until we could see something in the distance. A huge wall. As we approached it, my dad told me, “We have to climb this, mijo. And once we do, we run. Run like our lives depend on it. Until we find a place to hide. Got it?” I felt nervous. I felt as if my stomach had begun eating itself. We arrived at the wall and we started to climb.
Just as we started reaching the top, we heard. The sirens. The men yelling at us. We made it over the wall and we started running. Running with everything we had. We ran for about an hour until we felt like we had lost them. We had reached water. A huge body of water. And I felt nervous once again. We had to cross it. We began swimming and I felt as my body was aching and in pain. I was so tired. I turned to look over at my dad and I realized I couldn’t see him. I felt panic. I yelled out, “Dad! Dad! Papá!”. But there was no response. I felt my heart drop to my knees. Suddenly, I woke up on a small boat. And all I could see around me was water. I looked far and I rowed and rowed but all there was, was endless water. And I cried and I cried. And I yelled, as I felt the wet tears drip down my back.
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MATH AS MEDITATION by Quentin Cibulka ’21
I feel my peripheral vision slide out of focus as I become enthralled with the paper and pencil in front of me. My ears leave the building and go somewhere I don’t even know. My hand has the instinct to run through my hair as I consider my next move. My foot twitches, my hand at the ready, my breath steady, and my brain the last to join the party. Bang. My brain at long last puts two and two together, and I have my answer. My answer would look like a foreign language to myself a week ago. I think to myself that if I were to show my younger self the confidence I possess in an Honors Pre Calculus class, I would be dumbfounded. But nevertheless, I have it. I have swagger in math. Math is a valuable gauge in order to check on myself to see how I am doing. There are certain tells in my mood that are dead giveaways. If I get frustrated while doing it, then I know there is something lying under the bed in my life that needs to be freed. If I get distracted, then I have too many things going on at once and will try to take a step back and go to the little math box in my head all alone. If I am getting a lot of the answers wrong, then I know that I need to slow down and focus on one thing at a time. Math may just be a bunch of numbers, but those numbers can tell the story of my life. A lot of people think numbers and analytics are impersonal, but I think in the right context they can be used to tell the truth. I had never been in tune to the language of math, in truth, I never liked math, I always had an affinity for it, but had never dove into it until junior year in high school. Mr. Granger opened up a whole new universe of interest because of the way I watched him
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have fun with math. I never had a teacher make a joke about math. After that, math class grew to become my favorite subject. I looked forward to math class and did my math homework first every night. I think it is weird to say that when I am doing math I am relaxed and let myself accept the peace and tranquility that comes with it.
But nevertheless, I have it. I have swagger in math. As a result of my new attachment to math I began to get better grades in the class and the success made me like it even more. I am a complete sucker for validation, it is one of my insecurities; however, the black and whiteness of the answer in math fulfills that need so that every time I look at the answer key after I finish the grind of a new problem and see it is correct, I can feel my heart do a little heel click. On the contrary, when I get a problem wrong I know that there is an immediate fix in my work to savor that same sense of accomplishment when I get a problem correct. Man-oh-man I love a tricky math problem with all kinds of twists and turns, the harder the problem the
more joy I find in peeling it back with my unyielding brain. Sometimes after a mystifying problem I whisper to myself, “Wow, I enjoy math” and sit back and laugh because never in my wildest imaginations was I a person who not only did not mind to do math, but wanted more problems. For the most part, I do math to keep my math grade up enough to receive an A. In the consistency of homework every night is where I learned to love learning math. Math is amazing because it is never ending, once I master one topic the next one is already underway. All the skills build on one another making it so that I may never settle in. Math humbles me because it towers over my limited intellect. That is exactly what I love about math though, one minute I am snickering at the simplicity and the next I am jolting back to the eeriness of the unknown. Throughout most days, the unknown is what I am most concerned with. Math seizes my attention and helps get me locked in. When I am on a roll in math it is as if all my limbs, nerves, and organs are attached together in harmony, dancing through problem after problem with the grace of a seasoned ballet professional. I flick a bead of sweat off my brow with my wrist and get up from my chair slow. I straighten out my crooked spine from the hours of work. I shut my notebook with all my endeavors of the day inside it, and have the utmost peace and sense of accomplishment for the day. I pick up my pencil, as if in slow motion, and tuck it into my pencil pouch. I zip it up and turn off the light.
SKWEEGEE / Micah Schulman ’21 / Digital Illustration
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PAYTON_BAGSHAW_FEATURE.exe
BAGSHAW_INTERVIEW_TAKEAWAYS.exe “I take inspiration from melodic rap artists such as Juice WRLD and Iann Dior, as well as some pop/ alternative influence from Aries and Tame Impala ... I try to tell heartfelt and meaningful stories with some intentional ambiguity so that the words apply to a wide audience.” “The key ingredient to great music is genuinity ... any song that comes from the heart and tells a genuine story that the artist feels needs to be shared is a great song.” “I categorize [my music] as melodic rap, pop, and hip-hop in that order. While I don’t really fit into one genre, I think the rap/pop family is fairly accurate. However, when I make music, I am not trying to make a certain genre of music. Rather, I am simply trying to make music that I think sounds good. I love what I make, and I think it works well sonically.” “Music in and of itself is inherently very good and pure. I also know that music is my biggest passion in my life right now. For those reasons, I intend to continue on the same trajectory as an independent musician for as long as I can.”
BAGSHAW_ORIGIN_STORY.exe
BAGSHWA_NEWEST_SPOTIFY
“I have been playing music most of my life. I started learning piano at age 5, and I have continued ever since. Around age 10, I had progressed enough skill-wise to begin composing my own piano music. At the age of 12, I became interested in the production of electronic music and began making beats on my laptop. Both of these remained a hobby of mine throughout middle school and high school. When I first started making beats, they were mainly EDM inspired. As I began high school, my interest and style evolved into more hip-hop influenced music, until it reached the melodic hip-hop style I have settled on today. Last March during the beginning of online school, I decided I wanted to take my music skills to the next level by attempting to write and record songs. My first few songs were horrible, but I enjoyed the process and continued trying to improve my skills for most of 2020. By January of 2021, I felt I had reached a skill level where I could begin publishing some of the music I wrote. This was when I released my first single, ‘STARS.’”
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BAGSHAW
Y_LEAK.exe
W_INTERVIEW_TAKEAWAYS_CONTD.exe “I usually write based on movies. I think of impactful movies that I have seen and then try and place myself into scenes within the films, specifically emotional moments. Then I will craft a story based on how I assume the characters are feeling.” “I plan to write about some of my own experiences in the future, but for now writing about other stories and fictional characters allows me to build my confidence as a writer and not put the limit of my own experience on my creativity.” “I am a believer that the sonic profile of a song is its most important facet. By ‘sonic profile,’ I simply mean how the song sounds as a whole. In my personal opinion, the way that the instrumentation and melody interact is more important than the vocals or lyrics. I personally believe how a song sounds is more powerful than the message behind it.”
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Café de Selfié / Rajveer Walia ’21 / Oil Pastel
the
PROBLEM With White Jesus
by Nick Pecora ’21 43 BLAM | Spitball
If I were to speak of a Jewish man from the Middle East who lived thousands of years ago, what image comes to mind? Is it the image of a white man with blue eyes and long, wavy hair? Probably not. Yet there remains a widespread belief, particularly in the United States, that Jesus of Nazareth was a white man. The Son of God, according to Catholicism, Jesus is said to have hailed from Nazareth, a town in what is today northern Israel. Despite this, he is depicted in countless movies, books, art, and schools as someone who would appear to be of Anglo-Saxon descent. The stubborn belief, in the face of all evidence, that the human manifestation of the divine is a pale white man could, consciously or subconsciously, reinforce existing attitudes of racism and white supremacy in some corners of Christianity. The all-too-common depiction of the historical figure Jesus Christ as a white male is a harmful ethnocentric tradition perpetuated by many Western Christians that is simply not based in reality. The image of a white Jesus has been perpetuated so frequently in Western Christianity, that many have come to accept the purported whiteness of Jesus as a matter of record. In Heart of Darkness, a novel by Joseph Conrad that tells the story of an expedition to Africa from the perspective of a European colonizer, a similar phenomenon is seen regarding the dehumanization of the native Africans. The native Africans are so consistently referred to as “savages’’ that their “savage” nature becomes a matter of fact in the mind of Europeans. In fact, a fictional government agency known as the “International Society for the Suppression of Savage Customs” was formed and “had entrusted [Kurtz, an ivory trader] with the making of a report, for its future guidance” (Conrad 64). The existence of an organization with such a name suggests that the “savage” nature of Africans was not considered a matter of opinion or interpretation, so much as it was considered a matter of record. Similarly, depictions of Jesus as being white are so widespread that many think of these images not as interpretations of the divine, but rather, as historically realistic representations of what
Jesus of Nazareth looked like. It is, of course, not inherently dangerous to suggest that the central figure of a religion is white. However, when there is no historical or archaeological evidence to support that notion, such depictions do become problematic. The insistence by certain sects of Christianity in the United States that the human incarnation of God was a pale, blue-eyed man, speaks volumes about the biases that can exist within such circles. The perpetuation of this false image in Christian schools, particularly Christian grade schools, can be especially harmful since humans’ minds are most impressionable during childhood. In her TED Talk titled “The Danger of a Single Story,” Nigerian writer Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie recalls how reading almost exclusively European literature during her youth shaped her view of literature and of the world, saying “because all I had read were books in which characters were foreign, I had become convinced that books by their very nature had to have foreigners in them, and had to be about things with which I could not personally identify” (Adichie). Adichie, like almost every child would be, was not capable of critically considering at that age that her books were not necessarily representative of reality, and therefore, took them at face value. Similarly, children who are repeatedly told and shown that Jesus of Nazareth was a white man will accept that likely falsehood as a fact without a second thought. There simply will never be a definitive answer to the question of Jesus’s appearance. Nobody had cameras back then, and the purported Son of God did not populate an Instagram feed. However, there are clues that can lead humans of the 21st century to a rough conclusion regarding the appearance of Jesus. It is true that God or the Creator can take on different forms to different people. After all, “[W]hat is good among one people is an abomination with others,” says the character Uchendu in Chinua Achebe’s novel Things Fall Apart, which follows the happenings in an African village before and after the arrival of
white European missionaries (Achebe 141). In the context of the novel, Uchendu is referring to the differences in African cultures, but the adage holds true regarding images of God. Different people are comforted – or for that matter, can be put off – by different visualizations of the divine. Some use feminine pronouns when referring to the Creator, while others use masculine pronouns. Some view God as a white man with a Dumbledore-like beard, while others view God as an amorphous force that exercises omnipotent reign over the universe. These are all valid interpretations of the divine. However, a clear distinction has to be made between God the deity and the historical figure Jesus. Historians almost universally agree that, regardless of whether or not one believes in the divinity of Jesus or even believes in his teachings, Jesus of Nazareth was in fact a human being who lived in the Middle East and was crucified roughly 2,000 years ago.
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The appearance of this human should not be subject to interpretation the same way the nature and appearance of God the Creator is. While we do not know definitively what this man looked like, historians and scientists can and have offered informed representations of what he may have looked like. In 2001, the BBC used remains from thousands of males who would have been Jesus’s contemporaries 2,000 years ago in his region of birth to create a computer-generated image of what a Galilean man of that time might have looked like. The image certainly did not look like Jim Caviezel, a white actor of Western European descent who portrayed Jesus in the 2004 Mel Gibson directed film The Passion of the Christ. It also didn’t look like Claude Heater, the white actor who played the same role in Ben-Hur, directed by William Wyler and released in 1959. Rather, the rendering depicts an olive-skinned man with short, dark hair and a short, dark beard. Science backs up the argument that Jesus of Nazareth was not, in fact, a pale, white man. The fact that many in Christianity continue to insist, against all historical evidence, that Jesus was white, conveys the unfortunate unwillingness of some to admit that God could take a human form other than that of a white man. Should those who continue to claim that Jesus was a white man take a step back from the images they have been fed their whole lives through works such as The Passion of the Christ and Ben-Hur and consider the historical context within which Jesus lived, they would likely reach the conclusion that Jesus did not actually look the way they think he did. For some members of the Christian faith, the realization that the man they worship as the Messiah every seventh day at church was dark-skinned could even break down some racist tendencies they may hold. That God, the all-knowing creator of the universe, would choose to reveal himself to humans on Earth in the form of a dark-skinned Middle Eastern man would almost certainly be evidence enough for some white Christians that people who look as Jesus of Nazareth did are by no means ethnically inferior. The longer the false and ethnocentric notion of “White Jesus” is perpetuated in American culture, the more difficult it will be for such people to let go of those tendencies.
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The Point of Convergence / Jake Armstrong ’22 / Photography
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by David Lopez ’23
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I recall being a recluse, only talked to for a sense of ridicule I can’t count how many times I was called an imbecile Years past, all is forgiven There may be forgiveness, but not all is forgotten As if nothing’s changed All the negative comments come back rearranged
By the same urge to get some laughs or a few high fives It is true, we’ve known each other our whole lives I understand now that it was only teasing And as we look back now, we fall on the ground, laughing and wheezing These are my friends, a band of brothers The best people I know, there are no others No matter how bad it gets, I can’t become mad Because without them, I would be truly sad
Icey / Brayden Abele ’22 / Photography
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THE WARGAMER by Adam Garcia ’23
I do not have the same interests as people my age. I don’t have a love for sports or any social events. To me, those are hard things to be able to gauge. I have my own ways of being content. Most people look at what I do with interest. But don’t care to stay for the story. The knowledge in my head is the clearest. Along with my ever-growing inventory.
My legion prepares to march into battle, Their black armor shining in the table’s light. From the soldiers there was a soft rattle, As they prepared for the looming flight.
The roll of the dice was fair, As I imagined gunsmoke filling the air.
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Searching / Rajveer Walia ’21 / Marker Spitball | BLAM 50
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Floating / Jake Armstrong ’21 / Photography
HABITS
by TJ Munks ’22
You will fidget With your bracelets, An instinct of yours, To alleviate your dashing mind. You will cover Your mouth When you laugh. You will jump And give a Bright smile When you are excited.
You will point your Small index finger, And shake your arm, When trying to prove A statement. You will scrunch your nose And close your eyes, Just to be funny. And when blood Runs through your cheeks with compliment, You will run your fingers through Your hair and tuck it aside, All while looking away, With a bright smile. When you are nervous, You will emphasize Your vowels. Spitball | BLAM 52
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Fishy Fortune / Adam Acunin ’23 / Pencil
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Defining I went in search of humanity, I traveled across the terrain, I found a girl with hair like corn lying in the grain, Her hair was long and rippled gold and as I gazed across the plain, I thought to myself, I found humanity, this blonde, white strain. I left her in the cornfield for my search was not complete, Humanity beckoned me, its music danced in my heartbeat.
Humanity
I traveled to the mountains, a rocky, treacherous way, I found a man with bronzed skin gleaming, beautiful as a fay. And as I looked at the silvery lands, far off mountains topped with snow, I thought surely I know humanity, surely it must be so.
by Garrett Van Wie ’22
But then I thought to myself, I know not humanity, with its varied shades and tones, And when the battle was over, and the crew had plundered all, I must keep looking, must keep searching, for I feel this ache inside my bones. I thought to myself, humanity is here, in the calm after the brawl. But then I thought to myself, I know not humanity, with its many kinds of attraction, So I journeyed to the seashore, battered by the waves, I must keep looking, must keep searching, ’till humanity’s not an abstraction. I found a crippled woman, praying over graves. She blessed her fallen love, and tears fell from her jaw, When I reached the other shores, in a land far-off and strange, She was damaged, sad and broken, but was a human too, I saw. I found a person praying, thinking silent thoughts could cause the greatest change. I did not speak the language, I knew not this person’s God, And as I gazed at the blue world, with tentacled creatures concealed within, Yet nonetheless I muttered along, thinking it was beautiful, albeit odd. I thought to myself, this must be the end, where humanity has been. And when the person finished their prayer, and bowed before retreating, But then I thought to myself, I know not humanity, with its varied shapes and sizes, I thought, this must be humanity’s hiding place, I’m glad we are now meeting. I must keep looking, must keep searching, ’til humanity arises. But then I thought to myself, I know not humanity, with its many kinds of faith, So I sailed across the waters, with a fearsome pirate crew, I must keep looking, must keep searching, or this unknowing will be my wraith. The captain kissed his husband, ’fore the battle would ensue. Steel swords clashed often as the pirates had sailed, So I went in search of humanity and traversed the world around, Blood flowed, boats sunk, but the captain prevailed. Of what I saw, I’m not quite sure, I guess humanity’s yet to be found.
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Bicycle Built for Two / Thomas Joswiak ’22 / Photography Spitball | BLAM 56
Steam
by Tyler Weddell ’21
Cityscape / Cesar Avelar ’22 / Photography
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I open my eyes for the first time in a couple of minutes and look at my surroundings. Large white and beige walls around me and a short pathway leading to a shut wooden door. I glanced over the foggy mirrors before returning my gaze to the showerhead above me. The steam emitted from the warm water has completely taken over the room and my vision was blurred. But that didn’t matter at the moment. My mind went back to enjoying the sensation of the warm water striking my body.
whether that be 8:00 or 11:00, I reward myself with some alone time I said to myself mentally.
“It really has been a while since I’ve had this type of time to myself,” I thought in my head.
A weekday schedule has almost become robotic to me. Wake up, eat, go to school, do homework, eat, rest, watch tv, eat, sleep, repeat. It’s so easy to miss the little things that go on because of this. Being able to appreciate these things more by giving myself time to reflect, instead of taking them for granted has been nice.
Normally I find myself doing one thing after another, but at this moment in time, I found myself completely still and relaxed. Appreciating the warmth, and letting my mind think freely. Visiting jovial old memories, thinking about the future and its many possibilities, and much more runs through my mind. It’s a nice break from the stress of the current world. I have so much going on in my life right now. College applications, writing papers, and completing other tedious pieces of work are all on my mind. I try and get myself to take breaks in between each of these tasks, but always find myself doing everything together in one sitting. I take mental breaks every once in a while, checking my phone and all the other stuff that we teenagers do, and after that, it’s right back to work. I swear it’s unhealthy for me to keep on doing work this way over and over, but I find myself doing it anyway. Though it’s a pain to do, I tell myself that I’m going to have to do this later in life, might as well get used to it. Who knows when I’ll get done. I’m all over the place when it comes to timing. But when it is done,
I grab my iPhone from the shelf located next to the shower and turn on some tunes. There are so many things going on in a single song, it’s nice to enjoy every little detail that’s easily missed. Enjoying the variety of percussion in the background, the subtle drumming, all of it. Once again, I find myself returning to my thoughts.
I think about how my life has been great and all the amazing people I’ve met, and other times I think about how it could be so much better in so many ways. But then I remember that I’m in no position to complain because there is that one kid that has to work his ass off every day just to scrape by. That one kid who would give anything just to be able to see their parents one more time. That one kid who grew up in an abusive household. That one kid doing grueling work every day in poor conditions and not wanting anything more because, in the end, he has his family.
an activity that it’s the only thing you can think about. Then I remember, my favorite team is playing tonight. My mind fills with worry, wondering how they can scrap with one of the best without their star. And just like that, I find myself once again beginning to stress. I’ve found that it’s easy to be concerned about all the little things. I find myself doing just that every day, unintentionally or intentionally. The worries about tomorrow’s big project, or the result of tonight’s game, or the big test on Friday… they are all expelled from my mind when I’m in the steam because when I’m in the steam, I’m completely relaxed. That’s why, whenever I have the chance to retreat to my bedroom and hop into that white and beige room with the wooden door, I do it without question. Water begins to trickle down from the showerhead. The subsequent drops begin to fall slower and slower until eventually stopping. At the same time, the steam starts to settle and footsteps can be heard. A young man walks out of the room.
Preparing for the final stretch, I turn up the heat a bit more to conserve as much warmth as possible before stepping out of the shower. I think about something more pleasant, remembering the importance of keeping a calm mind, and basketball comes to mind. I think about working out and putting up shots, and how fun it is to get so locked in, to be so consumed by
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by Seth Deokielal ’23 Sitting peacefully relaxed helping people Bronze as a penny Holding the globe as her own world Wearing the dress of many worlds As she holds baby Jesus to comfort To show the sign of peace and wholeness The crown standing tall on the top of her head to show royalty The comfortable chair to show and offer comfort. Baby Jesus crown showing the royalty he will grow to have. The hard structure to show toughness Her long hair represents the humanity of women The shoes show the work and sacrifice To her, I bring of all my holdbacks and regrets in life. The regret of holding in problems The problems of being too quiet The problems of going through hardships Sitting in front of her listening Listening to the sounds she is making Listening to the soft words of Joy The call to let my problems go and to forever relax Listening to the peace offering she smiles And watching as she gives me a fairwell.
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Keyhole / Quinn Tolson ’21 / Digital Illustration
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Warmth by Aiden Angell ’22
This is how you chop firewood, as you glance around to check your surroundings, seeing that no one is near, you pick up your ax. Unclipping your sheath and setting it down on the table beside you, the ax now the most dangerous thing in your vicinity, you go forward and prepare to swing. Easy as pie let’s get this done with. Sometimes it amazes me just how stupid you are, “STOP”, and you do. What now? I point to the piece of wood now replacing my leg. The small details are the most important, feet spread wide the log slightly in front of your stance, the ax raised above and beside your head. As you swing down you make sure not to lop your foot off, don’t wanna be like me. Hitting the wood in the middle barely doing any damage you look to me. Stupid wood. Hit about 3 inches from the edge of the wood instead... you try again. A clear split running straight from the tip of the ax. Dislodge it. You hurry, eager to steal what little life this log has left. Slam. The ax strikes the wood once more. The look on your face, still uncomfortable but better. Grandpa take a picture! The joy in his eyes, I see myself. Snap. The picture is taken. Later it would be right next to the one with me holding my leg.
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Pika Pika / Benn Budnick ’21 / Photography Spitball | BLAM 62
Mind & Body by Ari Anderson ’21 This sack of skin sun and bone flesh and blood a forever conscious contained in a feeble vessel my body is a duct-taped rear fender a thrice-robbed Honda Civic yet we drive on autopilot the finest software installed in an obsolete hard drive neural connection like zip ties no permanent fix yet it, holds the soul together while the mind travels each step I take I will close the distance cold feet on shaky ground gravel beneath dirty toes filthy instability I find myself anchored to discomfort my eternal attachment
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this old soul of mine has been right by my side Pain, Patience, Passion we’ve endured tenfold and over again this old soulless mind is lost but not adrift simply seeking to find what was once mine
Do a Flip / Alexander Lewis ’21 / Photography
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Eventually, we started trying it out on our own. He would run around with his camera and we would do personal writing projects together for our own short films. It was through that experimentation process that we discovered how much we really did like film. By senior year, he and I were touring film schools together before we ultimately went off to separate coasts. I share a similar experience of not discovering my passion for art until freshman year of high school. I feel like I’m up against kids who have known they want to do this stuff since they were three years old. Mr. Jack Flynn ’13 is a Brophy alumnus and previous managing editor of BLAM 2013: Remixed. After attending film school at the University of Southern California and working subsequent freelance jobs, he found opportunity on the research and development team in the upcoming Elvis biopic set to release in June of 2022. The movie is directed by Baz Luhrmann, the eyes behind Romeo + Juliet (1996), Moulin Rouge! (2001), and The Great Gatsby (2013). Mr. Flynn is currently residing in Australia, as the biopic was filmed on its famous Gold Coast.
When I first got to USC, one of my best friends was this guy who had been doing international film festivals since he was around twelve years old, and he had been really into it as a little kid. My other best friends, though, were people who had never made anything until their college application video. While it’s great to have all that foundational knowledge, college evens experience out fast. Higher education is a completely different game. What matters more is what you do there and how you express yourself as an adult. It’s a creative field — it’s ultimately about your creative voice, your style, and what you want to say and develop.
How long have you had a predisposition towards film and writing?
How did BLAM help you develop confidence in the film industry?
I always really liked writing, but it wasn’t until freshman or sophomore year of high school that I started thinking seriously about film instead of somebody who enjoys movies just as an audience member. I hadn’t really thought about it too seriously as a career path, but then I met Sam Wolff ’13, who was another Brophy student and had an interest in cinematography. The more he and I talked about movies as a shared interest, the more it snowballed.
I’m really grateful for the skills I learned through BLAM as it ends up relating to film. There are so many elements that end up translating in unexpected ways, like the similarity between BLAM editors and professional developers giving notes to writers. Also, all the graphic and layout skills I learned doing BLAM have been used in every job I’ve ever had. I’ve created pitch and development docs with that same design skill set.
It’s super important to understand typography and how to arrange information on a page that is not only digitally pleasing, but also hierarchically competent. Any job is going to have you present information in a visual form, and being ahead of the game in layout is such a hidden weapon.
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What major shifts have you noticed transitioning from freelance work to a full-time film studio? I had done freelance research, I had done ghostwriting for YouTubers, I had sold a series and written a set for its first season, although it never got produced. To go from those types of small gigs to supporting a director like Baz on a movie of this size from early drafting days through production has given me so many insights as to how large-scale movies are made in comparison. Getting to see Baz’s own creative process has been really inspiring for me, too. Watching such a seasoned luminary work in his comfort zone is incredibly educational.
I went a little internship-wild during school, and I initially found an opportunity at Toby Maguire’s production company, Material. While there, I met some guys who had worked with Baz before on Gatsby, because obviously that was a movie Maguire was in. I stayed in touch with their supervisor long after the internship, and he ultimately offered me a position on Baz’s movie. The more I grow up, the more I realize how much relationships and connections really matter, especially in the entertainment industry. Totally. It’s so much about relationships and somebody’s ability to vouch for you, whether it’s your skill in creative writing or otherwise.
Here’s a quintessential question: What’s your favorite movie? There are so many. Movie-wise, I love Hedwig and the Angry Inch, Betty Davis’s classic All About Eve. I love horror films, so I’m a big Cronenberg fan — Videodrome is up there, too. If I think about the movies that really got me into film, it’s The Wizard of Oz. During high school, seeing Black Swan and American Beauty sparked my interest as well. I also reccommend Planet of the Vampires, The Red Shoes, The Handmaiden, and be sure to check out Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance. The more diversity there is in what you watch, the better.
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Do you have any advice for an aspiring film student at Brophy? For anybody at Brophy who’s interested in film or television entertainment, if you can, get a Criterion Channel subscription and intentionally seek out old and diverse movies. Be sure not to discard plays, either. If you want to work in entertainment, you can’t be a snob about media format. Whether it be literature or musicals or digital internet uploads, consume it all. Find what you like in each of those fields. Figure out what your favorite kind of old movie is! From 60s protoslashers to 80s body horror flicks to 50s Hollywood musicals... whatever it is, get involved. Also, if you love a movie, be sure to rewatch it until you get sick of it. You’ll pick things up every time you see it again. Study it and find the script if you can... there are so many resources for film research online. Join communities that provide you materials to educate yourself more. I really wish I had exposed myself to more live theater while I lived in Los Angeles. I think I had only seen a single show during my time there. Be intentional about seeking new material to love, and always be active in exposing yourself to every genre.
By Nathan Zonn ’21
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From left to right: Tonight is the Night / Collin Hodge ’21 / Digital Illustration Pavane / Collin Hodge ’21 / Digital Illustration Logan’s Spaceship / Collin Hodge ’21 / Digital Illustration Spitball | BLAM 70
For the 2020-2021 year, the Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine is enacting separate policy decisions for General Submissions, Contest Submissions, and specific policy for BLAM staff members. I. General Submissions: The magazine will permit an unlimited number of General Submissions from each member of the student body. This does not ensure, however, that every piece will make it into the magazine— even if each submission is of “high quality.” The amount of pieces that will be allowed in by each respective student will be dictated by the number of artwork and writing pieces we allow into the final cut. A single student’s volume of work within the magazine will not account for more than five-percent of the whole magazine. II. Contest Submissions: Each student will only be allowed one submission per contest. Any additional submissions will be ignored entirely regardless of quality. A student can, however, win multiple contests. Scoring in contests will not change for a student even if they won prior ones. III. BLAM Staff: As in past years, BLAM staff cannot submit to contests. For General Submissions, however, each member can submit up to two pieces (this can be two writing, two art, or one writing and one art). As long as they do not make up over five-percent of the magazine, one or both of the staff member’s submissions can be put into the magazine if rated high enough.
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Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine is a student-run publication that seeks to be a platform for student artists and writers to express their artistic passions. It serves to provide a collective voice for the student body and showcase the excellence of the Brophy community. BLAM puts on events throughout the year to allow students to share their work in unique ways. These include events such as the annual Fine Arts Extravaganza and the Poetry Out Loud competition.
Designers used Adobe InDesign CC, Photoshop CC, and Illustrator CC to create the 2021 issue of Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine. The dimensions are 8 inches by 10.5 inches. The body copy font is Adobe Garamond Pro in 12pt. font with a 14 pt. leading for poetry and 10 pt. font with a 12 pt. leading for poetry. both varying in sizing and leadings. The cover art was designed by Joe DiTullio ’21 and Nathan Zonn ’21. Printed by Prisma. © 2021 by Brophy Literary and Arts Magazine. 4701 N. Central Avenue, Phoenix, AZ 85012. ALL rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without permission. ALL images and literary works are property of their respective artists, reproduced with the permission of the student.
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