Chez Nous 2022 by Sacred Heart Academy

Chez Nous 2022

vol. XXXIV Secrets

The theme of this year’s Chez Nous edition is secrets. Art in any form deals with the expression of its creator. It is deeply personal as it reveals our emotions and experiences, consciously or unconsciously. I invite you all to continue as we bare our secrets to the world. Dark subjects, such as suicide, are discussed. If you are struggling with mental health issues, please reach out to a teacher or other trusted adult. Annabelle Fry ’22 Editor Chez Nous 2021-2022 Staff Editor Annabelle Fry ’22 Staff Skylar Dittbrenner ’24 Leslie Erreguin ’25 Emily Farrell ’23 Judy Horn ’25 Lilly Hornickle ’24 Layla Jackson ’25 Caitlyn Loughlin ’24 Sierra Martello ’25

Yara Memar ’25 Jocelyn Moehrle ’23 Lilly Murphy ’25 Margaret O’Keefe ’23 Camille Parker ’24 Nalani Washington ’23 Madeline Wuest ’24 Chole Zubah ’23

Front cover by Annabelle Fry ’22 Back cover Abstract Woman by Sierra Martello ’25 Winner of the 2022 Chez Nous art contest

Table of Contents Cruel Femininity by Madeline Wuest

Untitled by Emily Farrell

Rain by Judy Horn

Hair of Gold by Sierra Martello

The Lost Guitarist by Judy Horn

Two Poets by Madeline Wuest

The Crescent Moon by Margaret O'Keefe

The Real Her by Isabella Donohue

Icicles by Aly Albanese

A Silent Walk by Annabelle Fry

Penelope by Leslie Erreguin

Those Summers by Lilly Murphy

How the Cookie Crumbles by Caroline White

The Perfect Dress by Sam Davis

Nice Dino by Bailey Cavallaro

The Old Guitarist by Judy Horn

A Good Thought To Get You Through by Josie McCabe

Hair History by Layla Toomer

Octopus by Vivian Morse

Octopi by Emily Farrell and Caitlyn Breslin

Cruel Femininity Fathers teach sons the language of war, while their daughters are busy learning the language of forgetting their names, mounting their hearts on the walls, and making placid eye contact with the other women in the room. I see you. Do you see me? Desperately clinging to the mind she was given, but pretending to fill it instead with heavy offers and inclinations toward a thoughtless head. Careful femininity- to bite into a pomegranate and feel the seeds in your mouth, to have the sweet juice trickle down your chin, down your neck, to blossom in your breasts. Is this what Persephone felt like? It is watching your mother and becoming one on the same day. It is holding hands with the little girl across the street and saying, don’t make eye contact, just smile and look away. To indulge secretly with oneself, to share stolen glances in the dark and furtive whispers demanding justice: and why weren’t we taught this? Behind every great man there is a mother. Where did she go? The pomegranate is caving in. You’ve outgrown its sweet taste. You long for something sour, strong, for something to burn away your taste buds to make you start anew. This is womanhood, you think, to grow from the very hole I was buried in. Femininity takes hold once more, and suddenly you are the tallest in the room. You are the tallest in the room but everybody else is blind, therefore making you invisible. Everything you’ve ever worked for is standing right next to you, holding your hand, being judged in front of a blind man. There’s nothing for me to even judge, says the man, there is nothing of value standing in front of me. Your hand slackens, your voice weakens, and the pomegranate juice snakes into your throat and squeezes it dry. This is the divine feminine, then. To hold a pomegranate in your hand and decide if it is a poison or a cure. Will you be my savior today, or will you burn all of me until there is nothing left? We are born into a fire, she says, and these flames are our mothers. Madeline Wuest ’24

Untitled by Emily Farrell ’23

Rain A soft weeping from the heavens glitters our evening floor. A single light just for us, a spotlight. It gives life and a soul to the night. Cold, but so warm. The melodies of water hitting road, a chorus of Feet floating through a dance. I stop, as does the night. The world ceases to move. In awe of the stars and their fluorescent light that shines as though putting on a show, I close my eyes, then open, to stale darkness pared with silence in agony for noise, daring to wish, if this could only be. By Judy Horn ’25

Hair of Gold by Sierra Martello ’25

The Lost Guitarist by Judy Horn ’25 6

Two poets rot in their graves Tell me how we got here, one asks. Listen, the other replies. Do you see those forgotten scripts, unraveling stories with nowhere to go? Those were once mine, you see. Instead of those decrepit pages wavering with hesitation, they were once alive- pouring with an invitation, a myriad of minds sprawled in the form of the deepest, darkest ink. Oh. Then what happened? Time. They all but grew old, useless, forgotten. They were replaced with newer writings, newer poems, newer songs. I was supposed to live forever. Why did you even write in the first place? That is if you knew that someday you would be nothing but another headstone on a lawn? Some might say pride. Glory. But to me it was more, it was always more. To see my book in the hands of a child, my words sculpting their mind, it’s surreal. To know that one spontaneous thought from my tiny little brain could be someone else's world, someone else’s tomorrow-it’s what kept me going. And when that stopped-what then? Two poets rot in their graves. You and me. Now tell me, how did we get here? Madeline Wuest ’24 Winner of the 2022 Chez Nous writing contest

The crescent moon illuminated the shallow pond, yellow light reflected off the subtle ripples. He liked the way the water moved under midnight light, so rhythmic and even. He thought that if the pond were a woman she would be sacred and quiet and every creature in nature would worship her stillness. But she was just water and he was just man. Whenever his busy city life would come to be too much, where even in the silence of his apartment echoed vehicles and voices, he would come to visit her. She was an hour’s drive out of the city and deep in the forest behind his childhood home. Past the willow tree, through the clearing, there the pond. Even in the shadow of night, his feet guided him straight to her. It had been months since he last came to sit by the pond. He had almost forgotten about its holy silence, but the events of the night had led him back to her shore. The whole day had started off wrong with a thick mist that covered the road and wet dew that stuck to his glasses and frizzed his hair. And then in the office, he had sworn it was today he would get the promotion. He even wore his best suit and after five years he surely deserved it. But it was the son of the boss whom they celebrated that day. On the drive home, he held in tears as his head pounded like a heavy heartbeat and he didn’t know why every red light seemed so much longer. Then at dinner, Marjorie took his hand into hers and looked through him with her opal eyes. “James, I don't think it's working out.” He didn’t know why he still paid for dinner. Laying on the faded blue couch, surrounded by cramped furniture, piles of dirty clothes, and unpaid kitchen table bills, James wondered what it was that was keeping him here. He was miserable at work and had been making the same callous salary for years. Marjorie just called it quits. His apartment was more expensive than it would ever be worth and he hadn't felt fulfilled in months, maybe even years. He knew it was time to go. There was nothing left for him in this tireless city. Past the willow tree, through the clearing, there the pond. She breathed her peace into him and he finally felt at ease. By Margaret O’Keefe ’23

By Isabella Donohue ’25

Icicles by Aly Albanese ’23 10

A Silent Walk The rain pit patters on the folks below Overpowering the noisy dusk A daughter and father stroll through the park As the rain continues You can hear the squeaking of their shoes the smell of the earthy droplets on their coats Feel the dampness of their clothing Yet Neither utters a word to the other Silence fills the gap between them but contentment lies in the decision An understanding that transcends words The mere presence of the other is love So, they saunter on Passing the puddles and wet leaves Reflections of before To glorious colors that paint the sky Walking on the edge of the sunset As home is in reach By Annabelle Fry ’22

Penelope by Leslie Erreguin ’25

Those Summers I can only remember those summers When the whole day was spent outside As old cardboard boxes became castles And sticks became swords The world slipped away I love to remember those summers When we rushed to the window to watch the sunrise The world was only as big as our front yard And the future was only tomorrow I fight to remember those summers Where the scariest things were monsters But there are no swords to hide behind Now that the castles are gone By Lilly Murphy ’25

How the Cookie Crumbles

The thought of the cookies my brother and dad brought home gave me a greater thrill than greeting them after their trip. I was very antsy to try the new cookies they brought. My mom told me that I had to eat my dinner first before I could taste the majestic cookie. I reluctantly agreed. Every swallow of my chicken, which on any other night I would savor, felt like swallowing an elephant. My mouth couldn’t keep up with my mind’s orders to rush. After a long thirty minutes, my mom delivered the treasure, practically in slow motion to the eyes of a sugar-addicted rising fifth-grader. There it was, the taste of heaven I had been fantasizing about for the past hour had arrived on my princess platter. The chocolate oozed out producing an enchanting aroma of fresh-baked goodness that awoke my taste buds. The cookie itself was the perfect shade of golden-brown. White chunks that I had never seen before in cookies drew me in even more. Before I knew it, the cookie found itself in my little mouth. I was right. It was cookie heaven. The chocolate had the perfect melt, and the white chunks gave a new wonderful taste. The taste remained, but an odd tingly sensation began in my lower lip and on my tongue. The words that came out of my mouth began to sound the same, so I rushed to the bathroom to see what was up. I looked in the mirror and saw a girl I had never seen before: one with an elephant-sized lip. I was so startled that all I could do was scream. “How could such a good cookie do something so bad?” I thought to myself as I gazed into the mirror.

By Caroline White ’22

The Perfect Dress

Everyone knows that once high school comes around, the stress of prom dress shopping starts. It sounds like such a fun idea at first, but the truth is, it’s not fun at all. I have never been one to like dresses. In my opinion, dresses change a person into looking like someone they aren’t. There is something about wearing a dress that makes a person look pretty and innocent. I find that to be pretty silly because no person should rely on an outfit to feel good about themselves. Walking into the store, I was overwhelmed with dresses. There were so many options, and I had no idea how I was going to pick just one dress. It only took a few “I like it, but just not on me,” until I finally found the one. The gold and shiny dress, full of sparkles that twinkled when touched by light, caught my eye. The first time I put it on, I wanted to take it off. The color just seemed so standoffish for me. I pictured myself walking into a room and immediately all eyes would fall on me. That was exactly what I wanted to avoid. I tried on other dresses but none grabbed my attention. I decided to try the gold dress on one last time before I called it quits. Putting it on again was a game changer. It was one of those moments when you had to get used to it, and that is what happened. I noticed I liked it more than the first time. The gold worked with my skin tone and it lit up my face. The color didn’t look as bright as before and it was perfect. My dad still cracked jokes about how I looked like a disco ball, but I didn’t care. I had found a dress that matched me and I was going to enjoy wearing it.

By Sam Davis ’22

Nice Dinosaur

My brother had large, puffy green dinosaur slippers. If you put the slippers on, they made a loud stomping sound every time you stepped, fully transforming you into a prehistoric creature. One day, when I was around age three, I wanted to be the dinosaur, so I borrowed his slippers. I decided that this was the perfect opportunity for me to expand my theatrical genius. I walked down the stairs to find my dad towering over me in the family room, ready to support me in my dinosaur endeavors. I decided that my character would not be like other dinosaurs. My dinosaur would be nice. I communicated this plan with my father. “Nice dinosaur!” I said, my voice proud and excited. His silence troubled me. Did he not understand the character I had developed? I was nice, an outlier among the other scary dinosaurs. I repeated myself. “Nice dinosaur.” My father told me to walk for him, and I stopped for a moment, attempting to comprehend how my character would respond in this moment to allow the plot to progress nicely. I stood still with my eyes blank and mouth wide open, still contemplating, when my dad reworded his request. “Come here!” he said excitedly. I realized then that a nice dinosaur would do as told, and decided to allow this moment to provide some indirect characterization within the scene. I stomped over to him, the slippers booming as a result. My dad screamed in terror at the noise, which filled me with rage. Did he not understand? Did he still not realize that I was a nice dinosaur? That I was not dangerous? I repeated myself again, smiling through the anger to emphasize my character’s kindness. “It’s a nice dinosaur.”

By Bailey Cavallaro ’22

The Old Guitarist If not taste If not touch If not sight I need only To hear music Painted in blue shades Sounds of joy Now gone Melted By the arctic color Of gray notes Though fingers tremble And the wind blows cold All I need Is the guitar that I hold My voice Less than a whisper As people pass No eyes meet mine Fear Of the old The torn The broken Hold their gaze A barrier of life

Between them And me Though fingers tremble And the wind blows cold All I need Is the guitar that I hold No life is left for me But music Soft sounds Tinting the world for thee No arm Do I need to be held For she has me My sweet melody Though fingers tremble And the wind blows cold All I need Is the guitar that I hold My one possession Though untuned And unclean None of these matter To me Tis the only world that be

By Judy Horn ’25

A Good Thought to Get You Through! At night when everyone was calm and serene Listening to our favorite show Sitting on the floor around that big old radio Then a loud siren rung, one that the whole town could hear Interrupting our peacefulness… We ran to close the curtains and turn off the lights. We gathered blankets and hurried downstairs to the basement where no one would know we were there And as we sat in complete darkness with nothing to do… “It’s just a drill, so don’t be afraid. Pick a good thought to get you through today.” We sorted through our thoughts to find the best one… A USO dance, yes that's the one! Dancing was the most fun…Often times, it was the only fun That little light that got us through the week Waiting for a soldier boy to come up and ask, “Will you dance with me?” It brought hope and joy but also sorrow and grief For we danced with the soldier boys who were about to leave They wanted one last dance before they said their goodbyes And we obliged… Dancing the night away to jazz music so loud In that USO dancing hall made of red, white and blue Those soldier boys stood tall in their stiff uniforms They were about to go off into the unknown… Some of those boys talked as though they thought war was a game And they could win as easily as winning my praise Though really they were anxious about what was to come So I danced with them until we forgot about war all in all The siren sounded once again We made our way back upstairs and to bed The blackout was done, the war was still on But fear not for at the end of the week, we shall dance till our troubles are gone. By Josie McCabe ’23

Hair History by Layla Toomer ’25 19

By Vivian Morse ’23 Octopus artwork inspired by Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird. Lamott says that writing, “is a little like putting an octopus to bed. I think this perfectly describes the process of solving various problems in your final draft. You get a bunch of the octopus’s arms neatly tucked under the covers—that is, you’ve come up with a plot, resolved the conflict between the two main characters, gotten the tone down pat—but two arms are still flailing around. Maybe the dialogue in the first half and the second half don’t match, or there is that one character who still seems one-dimensional. But you finally get those arms under the sheets, too, and are about to turn off the lights when another long sucking arm breaks free.”

By Emily Farrell ’23

By Caitlyn Breslin ’23