What Is Love? High Society Winter Edition by Choate High Society

4, ISSU E1

VOLUM E

HIGH SOCIETY

LO HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

L O V HIGH SOCIETY

VOLUME 4, ISSUE 1

March 2014

“I have sworn off of falling in love, but I know that in the morning, outside, in the pale frost of February, all I’ll want is to hold another person’s hand, warm and gloved, in their coat’s pocket. ” w

There is only one thing I can conclude- love is, and shall, remain a mystery to humankind for years and years to come. In this winter edition of High Society, the Choate Rosemary Hall community has explored the most intimate feeling known to humankind, one that can build, or destroy. Within this manifesto, hopefully you can discover a truth of the true value, importance, and impact of love- both familial and romantic. I believe in the miracle of love. It shall touch one and all. I would like to give a momentous than you to Andrea Wang and Taha Anwar who have taken the reins of the magazine this term as I am abroad in France- their laudable work and continuous effort is priceless to me. Juliette Kenn de Balinthazy Editor in Chief

CONTENTS 3

To the Modern Gentleman

3 Love Poems Ali Setaro

How to Disappear Completely (And Never Be Found Again) Brad McPherson

I’m Sorry

Leaving

Advice on How to Love Life, from a Sympathetic Cynic Sophia Swart

Fear of Missing Out Cecilia Atkins

Being In Love

Primal Love

Untitled

Corinthians Love Translated

Married

Short Stories about Ex-Boyfriends

Lessons from Love Esul Burton

Reflections on True Love at Choate Ming Wilson

Thoughts from a Lovelorn Fool

Love on the Cheap Mr. Tom Yankus

Breathe Deep

Anonymous Love Poems

2 Editor’s Note 15 Campus Canvass

Interested in being published in High Society? Please e-mail all questions and comments to Juliette Kenn de Balinthazy at jkenndebalinthazy15@choate.edu, and all submissions to choatehighsociety@gmail.com. All submissions are reviewed anonymously.

Juliette Kenn de Balinthazy EDITOR IN CHIEF Taha Anwar MANAGING EDITOR Andrea Wang ARTISTIC DIRECTOR

Elizabeth Walbridge FACULTY ADVISOR

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

To the Modern Gentlemen Away from her face you cower As a fly crawling out of sight, Your friends you use as tools, Pawns in some superficial game. “Find out if she’s interested,” you say And they will do so, Sending every calculated word by text. Tell me, who is this girl? How does her voice sound? Could you spend time with her, beyond locked lips? Why do you not meet her yourself? Tell me, are you afraid? You taunt the man in love,You call him, “Whipped, Pussy,Weak.” There is no stronger man than the man who gives away his heart. Become this man, She will love you for it. To the man who would still hang love on a wall, and throw knives into its body: Tell me, are you too weak? You say you have no time, You athlete, you scholar, you artist. Yet time you have to play that meaningless game, The hook-up, the carnal fling. There is no time greater spent than time spent in love, So make time you athlete, you scholar, you artist, Make time you fool, Because love is a thing worth making time for. Is it you? Is it Choate? Is it a generation of youth occupying itself Outside the realm of affection? Why live beneath what you could be? I think, therefore I am, therefore I love.

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

3 LOVE POEMS A Poem About A Girl

Sleeping together in Summer

I didn’t clear the table. Two bowls sit side by side, Silver chopsticks still across the top.

Burning sugar Oozing in the pan

Blue-grey eyes peered up at me, Hungry for more time.

Reaching up Hands find your cheeks Grab fistfuls of silk strands

I haven’t changed the sheets. I lie on the bed and breathe deep.

天蓝

Azure; sky blue Your arm is a shield from crisp air We follow the sidewalk and skip cracks I’d be stupid to fuck this up Vibrant blue, quiet smiles, And your light brown hair Whispering across my cheek “Two egg sandwiches, please: Mine on a croissant, Hers on a sesame seed bagel.”

Eyes open For a moment Then lids dragged to sleep When strength comes I greet your lips Slow, like summer heat I’m lucky To feel your smile Even as you dream A wall protects Our lazy love Just cotton in between

By ALI SETARO

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

HOW TO

DISAPPEAR

COMPLETELY (And Never Be Found Again) By BRAD MCPHERSON

he spit on the sidewalk gleams with the essence of the Sun, simply sitting there as countless people walk to and from the SAC. I’m sitting there too, essentially a pile of mucus getting drenched in the sunlight on the grass. The wind is coming in from the north a bit, causing my hair to flow in what I hope is a glorious mane of sexual extravagance. More likely than not, it probably looks like a dog took a shit on my face. She walks up the hill slowly, clearly exhausted from writing her name in the fitness book before slipping away from the Winter X. Despite this, she still ceases to amaze me; her band T-shirts smell of cinnamon and her hair is a crisp golden-brown, as if some omniscient deity kissed her on the forehead and proclaimed her the chosen one. The kick in her step reminds me of every shitty indie band I listened to during freshman year and her laugh makes angels cry. Then, as she walks

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

past the entrance of the SAC, she trips and nearly falls over. I would get up and help her, but there’s a reason they call it “love from a distance”. Besides, after she glances around for a moment and realizes nobody important is watching, she continues on her merry way back to Library without even blinking at the spit on the ground. The next day, Mother Nature decides to bitch fit and temperatures reach a high so sweltering you can smell the boys’ locker room from the PMAC. As such, my water bottle is perpetually full to prevent sudden and disastrous dehydration, and my visits to the air-conditioned dining hall are lengthy. During my free periods, I enjoy reading the fantastic noise. and High Society publications while daydreaming about my crush and filling my water bottle with more tap. When F block finally rolls around, I pick my sorry sticky ass off the wooden chair and head off to English. My crush and I share this class, and every time she sits next to me the butterflies in my stomach punch my liver. Copious amounts

of alcohol usually do that too, which may be the reason why so many people here are alcoholics. We just want to be loved. Mrs. Doavesqus has us reading some novel written in the 1890’s on race relations in Louisiana. Although I find the topic very interesting, I dare not admit it in front of my peers in fear of actually having to contribute to literary conversation. As I enter room 210, I see my crush already sitting at the end of the table, earbuds in her ears, pretending to study the text. At that moment, I take a leap of faith and decide to step up my game and actually talk to her. “Hey…” I say, sitting beside her. “What are you listening to?” Fuck, why would I ask her that? She’s just going to mutter an answer and think I’m a nosy shit. This was a bad idea, I should have sat at the other end of the table and maybe plugged in my own headphones and listen to the depressing Neutral Milk Hotel I always listen to and stare at the ceiling and she

“

The butterflies in my stomach punch my liver. Copious amounts of alcohol usually do that too, which may be the reason why so many people here are alcoholics. We just want to be loved.

turns to me. Her eyes glisten like a sky of diamonds and she makes that cute little smirk. You know the one.

“Fleetwood Mac, have you heard of them?” she says with a voice laden with sugar and honey. Of course I’ve heard of them, but I deny any knowledge of their existence to have an excuse to keep talking to her. After a couple minutes of explaining their uh-may-zing use of softrock elements throughout the 1970s, she hands me an earphone and I get threateningly close to her face. As “Second Hand News” plays, I can only think about how much I’d give for a kiss. When class is around half over, my water bottle is sweating on the table and Mrs. Doavesqus tells us to break into groups and discuss the latest chapter. This happens often, which means more chances to talk to my crush. She turns to me and I turn to her, just like in a shitty teenage romance film. Then she grabs my water bottle and delves deep into the

topics of racism in the South, using my bottle as a handy physical metaphor for her thoughts. Unfortunately, the entire time it looks like she’s jerking someone off, but I’m not complaining. Not that I would want that. But I kinda do. Stop it. Eventually, just as always, F block ends and I return to my dorm in a confused state of emotional affairs. Deciding it’s not worth the trouble, I lie on my bed fully clothed and attempt to nap. Of course, I dream about her. I’m sitting in the Black Box alone, apparently waiting for Friday Night Jam to start. A black grand piano and chairs are scattered throughout the room, with a record player resting firmly in the center. “How to Disappear Completely” by Radiohead is playing. As I let the Ondes Martenot and Thom Yorke’s voice flow over me, she runs into the room crying for God knows what reason. Before I can ask what’s wrong, she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a tight hug, tears dripping onto my shirt. My heart beats softly against her

and instinctively, I kiss her on the cheek. At first, she pulls away slightly and looks up at me with a mixture of confusion and sadness. Then, without warning, she kisses me on the lips, the force of her embrace pushing me onto the dirty floor. The record skips. After a second of shock, she realizes I haven’t kissed back. Without removing her lips from mine, she hesitates. I kiss back harder, and the record skips over and over. I’m not here, this isn’t happening. I’m not here, this isn’t happening. I’m not here, this isn’t happening. When I awaken, twilight dominates the sky outside my window. My blankets are bunched around my feet, indicating plenty of movement during my dream. When I wipe my mouth to get rid of the drool, I realize that I have tears are streaming down my face. The nap didn’t help at all; my body still sags in utter fatigue. Lying in bed with my pillow wet, all I can hear are those lyrics over and over. I’m not here, this isn’t happening. w

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

I’m Sorry

isten, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t mean for things to turn out this way. If it were my choice, if it were in my control, they never would. I tried. Believe me, I tried. I tried to not feel anything; suppressed all desire, all emotion. It didn’t work. None of it fucking worked. It usually does, but this time I wasn’t strong enough I guess. I had to give in. And this is is me giving in. Dammit, I tried, okay? I tried not to feel that sinking feeling whenever I saw you with another guy. Tried to pretend like I didn’t care when I saw you laughing with him. Tried to be able to focus on anything other than you in class. God knows you’re the reason I’m doing shitty in it. I couldn’t help it. “It’s stupid,” I told myself. “It doesn’t matter. Forget about her.” But I couldn’t. I can’t. I honestly thought I could make it go away. I tried not to look into your eyes or think about you, because God knows if I ever did, those butterflies would just come back and haunt me. Here they come again. I believed more than anything I could make it go away. I swear I did. Kid myself over and over again that it was just an admiration. That I care so much because we’re friends and friends care. How come I don’t care about the rest of my friends this way then? I don’t know. I just couldn’t help it despite everything. I couldn’t help that every night before I went to bed I thought about you, hoping you were ok and happy. Sleeping well, not having nightmares. And then the same thing without fail every morning too. First thing I wake up thinking about isn’t class or getting ready for the day. It’s always you. Checking my phone to see if you’ve texted, getting down for no reason if you haven’t. Getting happy for no reason if you have. I can’t explain why you’re different. You just are, I’m sorry. I don’t know. I mean, yes, I guess I do know. I can easily list all the amazing things about you. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met, incredibly kind and sweet, you have flowing hair and eyes that…Shit, I’m doing it again. Sorry, Ignore that. It’s just that… I guess I think you’re perfect. And that’s

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

ridiculous because no one’s perfect but I can’t find anything wrong with you in the months that we’ve known and grown close to eachother. That really scares me. You think I want this anymore than you do? That this is easy for me? You think I’m happy I feel this way? Trust me, I’m not. This is the last thing that I want. The last thing I need. I was already busy as hell before you. You make me want to drop everything all the time. Constantly be there for you. I have my own problems and sadnesses to deal with. I don’t need to be feeling like complete shit and having more to worry about when you’re having a bad day about whatever it is. That’s the problem. I realized I want to put you before everything,

probably told you “IIloved you a million different ways without actually saying the words.

”

everyone else. I can’t afford that, I really can’t. It’s illogical, can’t you see that? I sure as hell can. I just… can’t change it. I want to open myself up to you, be with you all the time and I hate that. I really do. Why me? Why did you have to do this to me? Aren’t there like billions of other guys in this world you could’ve done this to? Hundreds at this damn school even. Why did it have to be me? Why do I have to want to roll over backwards to make you happy? To ruin myself just to see a smile on your face? To want to do anything and everything for you? To willingly open myself up and give everything I am up to you to be able to reject? You should have thought about all that before you did this; thought about me. But of course you didn’t. You weren’t thinking, because you didn’t know. It’s not your fault. I know that. I just want to blame

someone, anyone for this massive mess. You just don’t get it. You couldn’t possibly know the effect that you have on me. I wish you did, just so you could know how it feels for a second, but no. How could you know? Sure, I’m sure you care about me a bit. I’m your pal. How could you not care? You’re just a kind and giving person; it’s who you are. And it’s probably one of the reasons I lo… you know. I don’t want to say it. Because I know the second I do, it becomes real. Well, I guess it’s already pretty damn real at this point, isn’t it? I guess it’s pointless at this point to hide anymore. I’ve been hiding for too long. I love you. You could have taken a damn hint you know. I mean, I left plenty of them. I probably told you I loved you a million different ways without actually saying the words. There’s no way you couldn’t have known or had some kind of idea. I mean, you catch me staring at you like a lot. And I think I made it pretty clear that my life basically revolves around you and you being happy. And I know what you’re going to say to all this. I really do. This always happens with me. I know this can’t work. I know that you don’t feel the same way. That’s why I’ve tried to hide it for so damn long. Because I know once I told you, nothing would be the same. And I want it to stay the same more than anything. I don’t want it to be uncomfortable. I don’t want you to feel weird about sitting next to me or talking to me, because I don’t know what I’d do without you. And that’s why I don’t want to feel how I am. I’m afraid. I’m afraid that now this is the end of whatever we had. I’m afraid that I’ll lose you as a friend now and I know that somewhat having you is so much better than not at all. I don’t know where we go from here. And I usually do. I hate that not knowing, The last thing I would ever want to do would be to put you in a weird position and I know I’m doing that now. I know you don’t want to be rid of me either and I’m putting you in a position of where you have to be. Listen, I’m just sorry.

LEAVING I’VE BROKEN UP WITH EVERY PERSON THAT I’VE EVER BEEN WITH. That is to say, I’ve never been dumped. I don’t say this so you can admire my romantic prowess, or to impress you with what must be my irresistible charm that always makes people more in love with me than I am with them. I don’t say this so you look at me with scorn, as someone who never really cared and who carelessly broke hearts. I am none of that. I say this because I want to talk about the pain of leaving someone. There are so many songs and poems about being left—the heartbreak, the questions, the pain. Very rarely does anyone talk about the pain of being the one who leaves. Perhaps, as I’ve often thought to myself, that is because we, the leavers, do not have a right to feel pain. If we are the ones who chose to leave, then why should we get pity for our sadness? First, I want to say that just because I left someone, does not mean I never loved them. I do not fall in love easily. But when I do, it is all encompassing. I will give everything and anything for that person; to make them smile, to help them, to be who they need me to be. I love them madly. But people change, circumstances change, relationships change. And sometimes

love does not last forever. But just because it fades does not mean it never existed at all. I love utterly, with my entire soul. And then, I didn’t. But please, never think that I never did. And it was the memory of having loved so much that kills you, in the end. Deciding to leave someone is perhaps the most wrenching decision you have to make. You have given everything to this person, dedicated hours upon hours to their happiness and success and love. You’ve spent months, perhaps years trying to protect them and make them happy and give them everything. And now you’re deciding to hurt them, hurt them in the worst way possible. And when they are hurting so badly from what you have done, you will have to walk away. You cannot comfort them. You must inflict the worst wound and then leave them to suffer alone. Then you remember the promises. Everyone who is in love makes them. Eternity, forever, mine… the promises haunt you. How can you break them? But you made them as a different person in a different world. And now you’ve left that world and the person who made those promises behind. You try to

convince yourself it’s not breaking them, that it’s just a different person’s promise. But the guilt never leaves. And then you do it. After who knows how long of wondering and trying to convince yourself out of it, you do it. Then you walk away. And you try to hold yourself together because you know you have no right to sadness, not in comparison to what they feel. But on the inside you are caving in. The guilt eats away your heart and your self worth falls apart at your feet because you have become the very monster that society hates. You have destroyed someone you once would have given everything to protect. You feel self-loathing. You question your decision endlessly, you look back at all the happy moments your mind can find and try to piece them together in a semblance of evidence that you’ve made a mistake. But you just sit in your room alone and cry, because you have no right to sadness, you monster. You cannot ask for pity or reassurance. You made this decision and you must live with your guilt. I do not know which is easier—leaving, or being left. But I know that leaving is not always acknowledged to be as painful as it is. It probably never will. Perhaps it never should.

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

Advice on How to Love Life, from a Sympathetic Cynic By SOPHIA SWART

Let me reassure you on some facts: This little shit we call life Will pee on your carpet and Have a weird obsession with trying to bite your boyfriend’s dick off. But you will love it anyways, Because it sometimes does nice things like Cuddle up to you when you’re sad that your boyfriend doesn’t have a penis anymore. This life will stalk you on a seemingly pleasant night And this life will hit you. Hard. When you’re least expecting it. Then as it is flashing in front of your eyes, Your life will mug you And take all of your money. After it all, you may be scarred, you may be hurt, you may be bankrupt… But that pain may get you thinking, learning, questioning And someday you may realize that In life, The kisses last much longer than the bruises do. The laughter is much louder than the cries. And the boyfriend is much better than the penis.

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

FEAR OF MISSING OUT By CECILIA ATKINS

e all want to be part of something, to feel accepted, to know we are doing the right thing, in the right place. This applies to everything from causal social plans to major life events. Am I falling behind? Should I be going after more? Am I perceived as someone who has it together, someone who is making things happen? We want to be the best at life/most successful/most desirable, or at least fit in with everyone else. When it comes to love: we all want to be loved. Need to be loved. When does this need for acceptance become unhealthy? Maybe we’re overthinking love, like it is something to compete for, something to be attained. We let it consume us, we crave the external validation. We develop the idea that “All my friends have x/y/z, what’s wrong with me?” Why isn’t it enough to love ourselves and not worry? Love will come, it might take time or you might have already found it. Don’t worry if you have, don’t worry if you haven’t, don’t worry if you don’t know. It will take forms that could surprise you. Stop wasting time wondering if you’re good enough. Everyone is. Maybe you’re looking for love in the wrong places. Expecting affection from people who aren’t able to give it or don’t know how. Stop looking. Stop panicking. Start living, be in the moment, be present, be alive. What else can you do? All the scheming in the world won’t radically boost your chances of not feeling lonely. You can fill time doing things you don’t care about, pursuing relationships you’re not invested in just to have “something”. Relieve that stress, no pressure exists, it’s purely mental. Love occurs when it’s strived for and when it’s not. So don’t be afraid to take a step back and relax. I know next to nothing about love. But right now, I’m trying not to worry. It might hit me one day or it might be so subtle that I don’t notice until I look back, but I need to be okay with that. Realize what matters is what’s happening around you organically. Let go of what you cannot control. Live and do what makes you happy. Otherwise life becomes hollow and unauthentic when we push ourselves to do things we don’t care about. Do things because you want to, not because you think you should. Pursue what interests you, not what you think you should be interested in.

Being in Love I

love easily. I love people and moments and music. I love a new person every day; or at least, I try to. But love is warm and harmless; it’s dedication without obligation, giving without fear of rejection, faith without dependence. It is not dangerous to love someone. It is extremely dangerous, however, to be in love with someone. Being in love is where everything is questioned. Love is warm and harmless; being in love is scalding and exciting and potentially extremely harmful, like a hot cup of coffee that tastes good until you drink too fast and burn your mouth. That numb, scarred feeling lasts a long time, filling your mouth with a cottony feeling that blocks all taste. Being in love is entire dedication, it is the gift of yourself to another, relinquishing the claim you take over part of yourself and offering it to someone else. If they take it, you pray they will take care of it. Better, if they give you part of themselves in return, you feel as if you have been given the most precious of delicate china. You want to wrap yourself around it as a barrier against the world and give it everything you have. You want to nurture and support it and give it laughter and excitement and life. Sometimes, you give that oh-so-vulnerable part of you to someone, and they don’t accept. Or worse, they take it, and give you nothing in return. They place that piece of you up on the top far corner shelf and forget, let it acquire dust, and pay no attention. You beg and plead for them to let you have it back, but they’ve already forgotten where they’ve left it. You stand there, hopeless, as they move along, unaware of the weight that they carry, and you feel hollow. But sometimes, they give back. And being in love becomes the most rewarding chance you ever took. Because being in love, in its very existence, defies all rules. Being in love is the one problem no mathematician will ever solve; the one poem no one will ever write; the one contract that will never be finalized. Love will smack you upside the head and rock you to sleep. It is your agony and your salve, your curse and your blessing. It is not so much a guarantee for happiness but rather a guarantee for fixation, for work, for change. Being in love transforms not only you but the way you see the world and the way you react to everything around you. How can we attempt to control or categorize such a force of nature? It is the strength of a hurricane. And we must watch it come, hopeless, like the creatures before mankind were hopeless before a storm. We cannot prevent it, we cannot escape it. We can only hope to survive it and try to see the beauty in the lightning and the rain and the rebirth that comes after it. We love because it keeps us alive. In a world that is not fair or just or understandable, we cling to that which makes it worth surviving. We love with our entire beings—it is the gift of being human.

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

Written by a Choate parent

ever one to take much notice as one year melded into the next, i found myself in the newark, new jersey train station this past new year’s eve with three hours to kill and the unenviable task of working on choate’s financial aid forms. bank statements, doctor bills, camp receipts and my patience were strewn across the table, at which I sat, rendering me oblivious to all that was going on around me. i was in a fugue-like state totally absorbed with correctly calculating the answers to the required questions while lamenting what they revealed about my financial condition. an hour or so had passed when i was startled out of my stupor by a soft and shaky voice asking, “do you have any food?” looking up, i saw a reed thin homeless woman with a large and angry sty on her left eye. smiling a greeting, i opened my tote bag offering her its contents. she looked inside at the granny smith apples, luna bars and almonds, shook her head, no, while giving me a big smile to emphasize her plight, and said, “i have no teeth.” i reassured her that was not a problem while i rummaged in my bag for the envelope that held my money. peering inside the envelope at only ten and twenty-dollar bills, my hands pulled out a crisp new ten and handed it to her without another thought. i watched her eyes grow wide as she thanked me and then thanked me again. we discussed her sty and her plans for getting it treated for several minutes. when she showed signs of being ready to leave, i encouraged her to be diligent in finding help, feeling like I was advising and supporting a dear, old friend. as she left, she scooped up the pile of paper i had ripped into little pieces, offering to throw it away for me. with her kindness, my heart opened, shredding my self-absorbed, fugue-like state into as many pieces as the paper she had so thoughtfully offered to throw away. my spirit buoyed, i decided to take a break to snack on an apple and observe what was going on around me. as i caught the eye of an elderly gentleman at the table kitty corner to mine, he tipped his hat to me, got up and hand-

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

ed some change to the homeless man sitting at the table on my left. i smiled at them both and put my head back down to work. when i next looked up and glanced around, i saw that the homeless man was still occupying the table next to me. i found myself asking him if he would like a sandwich to go with the coffee that was now sitting in front of him. the hood pulled up tight around his face and the way he held his chin down, afraid to meet my eyes, when he spoke, muffled his reply. uncertain of his response, i walked over to him, put my hand on his arm, looked him in the eye, and gently asked again, “would you like a sandwich to go with your coffee?” this time his reply was clear, “yes, ma’am, i would”. i coaxed him out of his chair and into the nearby sandwich shop by telling him that i wanted to be sure that the sandwiches i ordered were exactly what he liked best. it was vital to me that he understood that i felt love when i looked in his eye, that he mattered enough to me that i wanted the best for him, that touching his arm pushed on the boundaries of my heart making it swell in welcome recognition. not wanting to lose his precious cup of coffee, he held it in his hand as we approached the counter to view the menu chalked on the board behind it. the saleswoman immediately zeroed in on us, violently asking my friend if he had paid for the coffee. while taking his arm again, i assured the woman that he had and that i would like two sandwiches, exactly as he wanted them, to go. i could taste the disgust she felt for both of us as clearly as my friend could taste her strong, hot coffee. it took a few attempts with his halting, garbled and tangential speech, but slowly and with increasing confidence, my friend told us that he would like two ham sandwiches with american cheese, mayo and salt and pepper on white bread. while the sandwiches were being made, the two of us did our best to chat in his unique way, and i likewise found myself emboldened, rubbing his arm in comfort as he told me that the only time he gets a full meal is on thanksgiving day. with sandwiches in hand, we exited the shop and he asked if i would sit with him while he ate. i replied that i would be happy to but what i really needed to do at that moment was to find a restroom. my friend then shocked me by providing me with perfectly coherent directions to the nearest one. still contemplating the sudden change in him, i set off at a brisk clip necessitated by having put the restroom visit off far too long. as i traveled down the long connecting hallway from the shops to the train concourse, i spied a totally immobile figure sitting cross legged on the warming radiators that graced the walls under a long stretch of windows. in the time that

Untitled If someone said love I’d say your name. If someone said your name I’d smile. I’d smile the smile that The thought of you carries. The smile that brightens At the sight of your smile. The smile that fades When I hear the word distance. They say when you love something Let it go. But why would I ever do that? Selfish, maybe. Naïve, maybe. Optimistic, maybe. In love, yes.

it took me to cover the distance between us, the black hooded figure with grey sweatpants tucked into brown boots never moved. i could not determine whether it was man or woman, white, black, red, yellow or brown, for no skin was exposed, it was completely turned in on itself. it sat there, stock still, eerily still, inhumanly still, so still that i was unnerved to my core. registering that i had actually felt a chill run up my spine as i walked by it, i hesitated, then stopped in the steady flow of human traffic causing it to bend around me as i weighed my options before making a decision. although the rawness of its condition was severe enough to stop me in my tracks, i had to go back. i circled back with steps that sounded much more confident, as they echoed off the well worn floors, than i felt inside. walking directly up to it, i still could not detect who was sitting in comatose silence in front of me. petrified now, i leaned in and asked in a very small voice if there was something it needed or if it wanted me to get help. i found myself holding my breath as i looked for any discernable sign that it was even alive, but there was none. after my heart beat loudly a few more times without receiving a response, knowing i was completely out of my depth, i moved on. on my way back from the restroom, it was still there, physically unmoved but immensely moving to me, i had to try to break through to it again. when i approached it from the other side, this time there was movement, a steady stream of tears fell from eyes i could not see, darkening

Corinthians Love Translated Love is patient, love is kind. She stole my heart, she twists my mind. It does not envy, it does not boast, How can I not when she draws close? It is not proud. But with her I could cry aloud, “I am yours, and you are mine.” It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, I would tear apart the sky, would it stop my heart leaking. It is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. My faults she locks away, concealed beneath her songs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. To her I give my everything, my future, and my youth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. My love deserves my life; she can have it, to the very last year. its sweat pant covered knees. in its tears i felt the raging power of niagara falls but also the dewy moisture that escapes the eyes of the groom as he sees his bride for the first time. i felt it, i felt it all, i felt it all so strongly that without hesitation i leaned in and whispered, “i love you.” it was me whose voice was now soft and shaky when i returned to my table and acknowledged my friend who was just now finishing his last pickle. a very well dressed gentleman sitting on my right spoke up asking me if i had found the restroom without any trouble. uncertainly, i said, “yes, thank you.” he responded that he had born witness to my recent interactions and that god provides for those who provide for others. i replied that i was not the one who had provided, but rather, i had been the one fortunate enough to be provided for. he nodded knowingly at me, and once again I put my head down and set to work. a short while later, feeling proud that i was close to completing what i had set out to accomplish, i allowed myself to lift my head for a few moments to watch the television that was playing high on the wall in the center of the dining tables. as i did, i found my friend standing on my left talking to the space between us. his lucidity had vanished leaving his speech once again halting and muddled. while waiting for him to lasso his divergent thoughts, corralling them into understandable sentences, my eyes wandered off aimlessly scanning the crowd. with a sharp intake of breath, i spotted it slumped over at the table directly in front of

me with its feet on the floor and its head resting on its hands. losing all interest in what my friend was trying to say, i studied it and could now discern that, at a minimum, it was a female, youngish and african-american. as soon as my friend took a breath that allowed me to interject, i asked if he thought that she needed food, too. in his round about, lumbering way he said an emphatic yes. i excused myself and went into the sandwich shop where i was met by the saleswoman who looked the same, but wasn’t, as this time she offered me an open and welcoming heart. with a slight smile and a nod of her head, she asked if i wanted two more of the same. i said yes, waited, paid for the sandwiches and left. upon leaving the shop, my heart sank to discover that both my friend and she were gone. brown paper bag in hand, i frantically searched the immediate area without catching a glimpse of her. stubborn determination rose in me as i quickly set off toward the warming radiators in the long hallway where i had first seen her. as i turned the corner, i saw that they were empty, as empty as the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. i then weaved my way through the throngs down to the restroom i had visited passing many others i knew needed her sandwiches just as much, but they were hers, i had to press on. i went up stairs, down corridors and around bends looking for her until i was no longer certain where i was or from which direction i had come. i was on the verge of believing that she had simply vanished into thin air.

dejected, i started to make my way toward a uniformed police officer that i could see in the distance. as i continued my approach, i saw that he was engaged in a lively conversation with a woman who was laughing and gesturing in a way that told me they knew one another well. when i was about ten paces away from the pair, i halted – totally and completely stunned - as my brain struggled to make sense of what i was seeing. it was she, transformed into an attractive, spirited young woman who had a story to tell a friend. feeling disoriented, i waited uncomfortably for them to finish their conversation then awkwardly approached her with brown bag in hand. seeing her as she was now, i felt foolish as i offered her the bag introducing myself as the one who had spoken to her while she sat on the radiator in the long hallway. she looked me straight in the eye and energetically shook my hand while launching into an apology about the way she looked and how she was dressed. she said that she hated to be seen in public looking the way she now did as not too long ago she was a very sharp dresser who had a good job. all that changed, she went on to say, when she began having schizophrenic episodes but had no health insurance to pay for treatment. with no affordable treatment available to her, she first lost her job and then the apartment where she lived. she then apologized for having been in a “crazy state” when i spoke to her and seemed to take it all good-naturedly in stride. her explanation restored my composure and equilibrium and i assured her that there was no problem and that it was all good. i said good-bye, and while walking away from her, took one last look over my shoulder at the trappings of the old me that i was leaving behind on the slush covered floors as i walked into the new year lighter, freer, and full of love. i knew that the afternoon i spent with my homeless friends in the newark train station was a powerful one, but i did not realize just how powerful until reading iron gusto, a blog by hannah khan, who attended choate several years ago. in hannah’s blog entitled, for i was hungry, she states: “In my favorite book as a child, Speaker for the Dead (by Orson Scott Card), someone describes the power of acknowledging our mistakes. It is a powerful thing, “telling the story of who she was, and then realizing that she was no longer the same person. That she had made a mistake, and the mistake had changed her, and now she would not make the mistake again because she had become someone else, someone less afraid, someone more compassionate.” after digesting hannah’s wise words, i realized that i, too, had made a mistake. i chose to marry a man who perfectly replicated my childhood experiences with my grandfather

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

PRIMAL LOVE CONT.

and father - well-loved personalities with abusive sides they kept perfectly tucked away from the public eye. while living my mistake, i was at first charmed and drawn in, then entrapped, controlled, and abused. i became worn down, broken, trod upon, kicked to the side and discarded - my only use being to act as the receptacle of his anger. eventually, i decided that i would not make the same mistake again. deliberately and inexplicably, at glacial speed, i began to spin a healing cocoon of self-love in which i slowly morphed into someone else, someone less afraid. i inhabited this chrysalis stage, that to others appeared to be a time of sloth and inactivity, for what often felt like multiple lifetimes, knowing all the while that i was being determined and diligent. it was my homeless friends, spending a long winter’s afternoon in the frigid newark train station, who finally allowed me to see that i was someone more compassionate, someone who believed in herself, someone who loved herself, and because i did, there was simply no other option but to believe in and love them, too. i had made a mistake. my mistake changed me. now i would not make the mistake again. i had become someone else, someone less afraid, someone more compassionate. my metamorphosis was complete. but it was hannah’s wisdom in, now i laugh at how the world changes me, that completely unleashed the floodgates of love for me. she said, “I think the more we can let the world change us, the more connected we feel to it, then, and only then, can we see where we fit

into the project of moving the world in a direction we want to go.” her words allowed me to see that my experience at the newark train station was extraordinary because of the profound love i felt for my homeless friends. in them, i recognized both my abusers and myself. i knew first hand their dejection, depression, frustration, hopelessness, hunger for affection and human interaction, rejection and the sense of being viewed as worthless. their situation was compounded, if not entirely caused, by mental illness that was untreated and uncontrolled just as mine was with my grandfather. impulse control was missing for them as it was for my father and his violent temper. for that one afternoon, we were all there, abuser and victim, inhabiting the same space, the eyes of the homeless, the window to their souls, the place of connection where we all simultaneously inhaled one breath and exhaled the totality of experience for us all. what does this mean for me? at first, i thought it meant i was destined to work with homeless people, that i felt a particular connection to them. while this may be true, upon further reflection, a deeper yet simpler meaning emerged. we are all one. we are all connected. we are the sum total of our experiences and how they intersect with the experiences of others. our intersections can, and do, change us. at times they are so profound that we are forced to be fully present while feeling truly and deeply connected to one another, a part of the all. barriers and boundaries fall away effortlessly and what we are left with is a primal love, a love so

pure and unencumbered by expectation that it courses through one’s veins like velvet, folding us into it’s softness and comfort creating a state of being that is at once sharply focused yet ethereal and timeless. the world has changed me dramatically. how i experience this most deeply is in the knowing that these changes have allowed me to look beyond my decades of abuse, feelings of alienation, mistrust, self-loathing and worthlessness. it took the eyes of my homeless friends in newark to startle me into the realization that like them, i too, hold god, and all it’s goodness, in my heart to be accessed and shared with compassion and love each and every time my eyes meet myself in another’s. i believe this is how outward differences dissipate. i believe this is how walls are broken down. i believe this is how peace triumphs. i believe this is how love prevails. i believe this is how we evolve and experience what it means to truly be human, humans made in the image and likeness of god, humans who bravely pay homage to the god within by fearlessly loving the god without. for me, it is this truth, the truth that produced a fundamental change in me, that i know can change the world, one very small, yet very significant intersection at a time. how i spread this word, is where i fit into the project of moving the world in a direction i want it to go. wish me luck and, if we are ever fortunate enough to meet, may you find yourself in the primal love I hold for you in my eyes, the window to us all. w

LOVE ON THE CHEAP By Mr. TOM YANKUS “LOL” “Luv Ya” “We love you!!” As we stand armpit to armpit at the base of the stage stretching our desperate hands toward a union with the sweaty hand of a visiting star who has deigned to spend an evening preening in our midst, we proclaim our love and fidelity competing with the rhythmic cacophony from the ubiquitous speakers that blast throbbing bass lines to underscore our heartfelt sentiments. If this isn’t love, what is?

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

Short Stories about

Ex-Boyfriends

Back in middle school, the “dark ages”, you had a unibrow and a mustache. I doubt that was normal for a 12-year old. It was one of those really dumb middle school things where we slow danced and barely spoke to each other face-to-face. But I guess there’s a first for everything. w

Our timing was always off, and the forces of the universe were much stronger than we could control. You flew halfway across the world to see me. We got matching tattoos but yours faded. While the cube on the left side of my hip is darker than ever, you did a shitty job and it came out resembling a blob. Sometimes you made me feel stupid but most of the time you made me feel like the happiest person in the world. You’re kind of gay and kind of straight and very confused. You’ll secretly always be my favorite ex. w

I used to stare at the fan on your ceiling while you nibbled the peach. Our hands were always stitched together, and the way your fingertips delicately traced over my skin used to make my bones quiver. It still does. Oh god oh god oh god it happened all over again. I just felt like I was being fucked really, really hard and thought, “maybe something is wrong with me”. Your little brother hit on me on the bus, and that was awkward. I think the stuffed toy you gave me for my birthday was from McDonalds, and I’ll never forgive you for that. What color are your eyes again? w

I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who’s weirded out by the indirect threesome we have going on with your best friend. I learned that it’s impossible to be friends with benefits because I fell for you hard; it was like being hit by a swerving bus. You’re incapable of getting hurt, and I envy you for that. I made you a mega-playlist titled “you’re the arctic to my monkeys”; clearly, you brought out the cheesy side in me. Two weeks had never felt shorter. There was always potential - room to love and room to hurt.

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

If you could marry any “Vicki LiPuma” Anonymous ‘14 “Juliette. Just to piss off Minesy.” Anonymous ‘15 “Andreas Pipenburg.” Andreas Pipenburg ‘15 “This girl I knew at camp. I forgot her name. Jacqueline something, I think. Because she was cool.” Anonymous ‘17 “I would marry Sandy Cheeks because she’s the only female I know. Pearl Crabs doesn’t like me anyway.” Spongebob Squarepants “I know this is cliche, but someone who makes me feel complete and whole. Someone who I feel like I could never be without. Someone who is dedicated to what they do and who loves me for me. My life goal is to be happy and I feel that with this person in my life, I will finally be happy. And yeah we may have arguments and not get along all the time, but at least I know that we’ll share a love that is stronger than our disagreements. I haven’t found this person and there is still a lot of time in life, but I can’t wait to meet you--whoever you are.” Hopeless Romantic ‘17 “Nobody, Batman works alone. Playboy Bruce Wayne couldn’t let anyone in on his secret. Unless gay marriage was legal in Gotham, then definitely Robin.” Batman “If I could marry anyone, I wouldn’t marry anyone. I know it sounds strange, but it’s the truth. In marriage, people have to make sacrifices for one another. You have to compromise about what TV shows to watch, who picks up the children, when you can be home, etc. It’s much simpler to be alone and choose what to do by yourself. When you get married and have a family, you lose some of your independence and free will because you need to look after your family and you have more responsibility. It’s better to enjoy life single, and ready to mingle.” Anonymous ‘16

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

one, who would it be? “Wendy. I can’t afford diamonds but I’d give her an onion ring.” Ronald McDonald “My boyfriend because I love him and he’s rich.” Anonymous ‘15 “Stuart Sommers – Who doesn’t want to be the First Lady?” Just one of his many secret admirers

“Ben and Jerry” Virginia Ogden ‘14

“The sophomore with the white and black Oakley backpack… unsure of his name.” Sophia Gantenbein ‘14 “Myself. I don’t need another person to make myself whole. I am a complete set, even when I’m by myself. I don’t need a storybook lover to save me or be the piece of me that is missing, because no part of me is missing other than my desire to marry. Marrying myself would encourage the self-love that I’ve struggled with in the past.” Anonymous ‘17 “I believe marriage is a social construct that we are pressured into and falsely told that it is the equivalent of ‘love’. It’s unreasonable to think that everyone will find one person that they will want to spend their entire life with. Obviously, it is possible because it has happened, but not for everyone. Humans are constantly changing, so it is rare that two people will change together and work together in a mutually beneficial way (they may still love each other and not work). So I probably wouldn’t marry anyone. But I’ll end up with someone for a long time and we might have a kid or 5 and raise them, whatever. We’ll see how it goes. To answer the question, if I could marry anyone in the world, I have no idea who it is cause I haven’t really met anyone I like that much. Maybe just my best buddy, we could be the town’s platonic lesbian mom duo.” Sophia ‘15 “My ex girlfriend because I cannot spend a minute for the past three months without thinking about her.” Anonymous ‘15 “Your mom.” Bob ‘16

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

LESSONS FROM

LOVE

Inspired by the poem“When Love Arrives” by Sarah Kay and Phil Kaye

By ESUL BURTON

first saw Love when I was seven and alone, sitting on a bench in the middle of a strip mall. My mother had told me she was going to come back soon, that she had a little errand to run and that I should stay here until she came back. I had no concept of time at that particular moment but I knew that soon wasn’t supposed to feel this long, wasn’t supposed to feel this sad. Love saw me first and then I saw her. Love was older, much older. She took my hand and I followed her. Something about stranger danger and don’t take candy from people you don’t know and all that bullshit was in the back of my mind, but I was in awe of Love’s beauty. And her grace. Love was so very graceful. She helped me find my mother, who was somewhat vexed at the fact that her midday “errand” in the abandoned women’s restroom with the handsome Olive Garden waiter was interrupted. Love gave me a little wave then she walked away.

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

That’s when I first learned that Love was both fleeting and unfair. I saw Love again later, when I was fourteen and had acne, blonde highlights, and a pair of black Doc Martens. Love was my age and she wore her, now brown, hair in two long braids that ran down her torso. Love was bouncier and less graceful, but awe-inspiring nonetheless. She wore striped socks up to her calves, and had a charm bracelet. But Love was still Love and she forced emotions in me that I had yet to discover. But Love didn’t notice me, or if she did, she was indifferent. Love and I were different people. And I wanted Love more than she wanted me. At fourteen, Love taught me my next two lessons: that Love was cruel and that Love could hurt. Love reappeared when I was nineteen and in college for film. I hadn’t seen Love for a long time and thought I would never see her again. I missed Love but had accepted her disappearance as proof that I

was not meant for Love and Love was not meant for me. I was introduced to Love at a bar two blocks away from my school. It was a small, shady bar, with worn out pool balls and a skinny bartender who wore plaid shirts everyday of the week. Love and I both had fake IDs and we laughed amongst ourselves. Love was studying East Asian history. Love smelled like perfume and flowers. Love wore purple glasses. Love was small but not too small. Love was smart. Love was perfect. Love was flawed. Love taught me many things when I was nineteen. She showed me that Love could be exciting. Playful. Kind. Faithful. Erotic. Different. But Love also showed me that she could be puzzling. Dark. Stubborn. Burdensome. Difficult. Critical. Most of all, Love was selfish. I was selfish. Love was unforgiving and so was I. The final time I met Love was when I was nearing middle age. Love was bigger around the middle now. She had met other people, had fallen for them, had married them, had fought with them. Had divorced them. I could easily have been one of those other people. But Love stayed. And Love was finally real again. Love was never easy but Love was Love. And I was still me, just a little older, just a little grayer. But then Love got sick. She withered away and sometimes it was hard to love her because all I could think about was her leaving me. Again. But I still did because it was so hard not to want Love. So hard to dismiss her. So hard to leave her. But Love left first. I wasn’t there. I was at work when Love passed. The phone rang minutes later. I slammed the phone on the floor afterwards. When it didn’t break, I threw it again and again until it was just pieces of glass and metal on the rooftop where I was taken the call. Love turned up later and proved me wrong. I couldn’t see her anymore, couldn’t touch her; but I felt her presence surrounding me. I knew Love was trying to teach me one last thing. That Love was always right, even when it seemed like she was wrong. Love had never truly disappeared. I just wasn’t paying attention.

Reflections on True Love

at Choate By MING WILSON

Love is patient like the prefect who unreservedly attends to the admittedly pesky needs of her prefectee.

of hurting, of neglecting, of lying, of flattering, of seducing, of peerpressuring;

Love is kind like the faculty who does not say “No!” to the needy soul, who sympathizes with the struggles even if he believes in standards, who agrees there are lessons more important than the cut-and-dry deadlines, who seeks to wholly develop young minds ¬– opportunities to teach the lessons of life, to model passion for their subject, to not excuse sloth yet also display mercy.

Love rejoices with the truth and is sincere. Even the piercing, hurtful, OFFENSIVE truth, if it really is The Truth. One of our special program speakers said we don’t want to hear the truth; we don’t want to hear that a dress does not look good on me or that we suffer from our materialistic culture. I don’t want to hear that I can’t control much of anything or that society will not progress by human hands. I don’t want to hear that I failed, that I made an irrevocable mistake, that I have hurt someone. But nevertheless, I would rather live in this truth than live in a world of lies.

Love does not envy the standing ovation, the shining trophies, or the popularity of others. Love does not boast its own standing ovations, its athletic victories, its Model UN accolades, and Love certainly does not boast a misguided sense of superiority based in matterless pixels and words. Love is not proud of paying full tuition or being on scholarship; conquering women or attracting men; being beautiful or pitied in relation to race, creed, sexual orientation, background, knowledge, politics, religion. Love is not rude (crude?) in the dining hall, in the dorm, to the stranger, to the friend, to the freshmen, to the senior; to the face or behind the back. Love is not self-seeking and does not pursue others solely for his/her own gratification–physically or emotionally–for no human can ultimately satisfy such all-consuming desire. Love is not easily angered when leading rehearsals even if others are talking or not paying attention or making mistakes or actually innocent. Sorry guys. Love keeps no record of wrongs no matter how egregious the crime, how subtle the offense; no matter how hurtful the backstabbing or dumping or neglect. Don’t our own “record of wrongs” fill libraries as well? Surely Love does not benefit from grudges, rivalries, vengeance, or nurtured hurt. Love does not delight in the evil of forsaking, of publicly humiliating,

Love always protects the secrets given in times of confidence; always trusts, wearing heart on sleeve; always hopes in the face of hate and exclusion; and always perseveres through wintered relationships or responsibilities. If I say the funniest witticisms or can play a thousand instruments, but have not love, I am only a harsh and piercing noise. If I can understand all subjects, become well read in all books, develop all technologies, give all insight, be cultured in all cultures, but do not have love, I am absolutely nothing. If I devote myself to impoverished communities or die for my country, but have not love, I gain nothing. If I agree with everything on this page, but attempt Love on my own, I will become a Pharisee and a hypocrite. w

But who am I to tell you these things? You know these to be true, yet we have all failed countless times. The question is who can follow everything listed and refrain from judging others? Who can live out love unless love first dwells within? And so I promise, I am nothing more than a beggar trying to tell other beggars where the food is. I beg of you: realize your hunger, beg, and find Love.

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

Thoughts from a Lovelorn Fool

feel myself falling slowly in love. I don’t know why, I don’t know if it is love or simply attraction, I don’t know if what I feel is real or true or anything. But I feel something and whatever this something is, it feels different. Maybe it’s the way he talks to me, the way he listens, his neck slightly crooked but seemingly straight, his eyes focused, the encouraging nods. Or the way he gets so excited, his emotions and thoughts bubbling over and overwhelming me. And then there is his smile, constant and contagious, his happiness almost too much to handle. He isn’t perfect but he is so very real. He thinks, he understands, he emphasizes, he loves. He loves a lot. Maybe not me, but he loves other people. He cares about everybody and everything.

We communicate in words. But that doesn’t mean I trust them. I love words, I love language, I love talking, listening, reading, writing. But words are hard to trust. When I write, I lie because most of the things I write about are fictional. I embellish and I fantasize. The experiences I write about, the people I write about are unknown to me, maybe because they don’t exist or because I am young, too young to know things, too young for people to assume that I should know these things. So who is to say that when he and I speak, write, and talk into the late hours of the night that what we say is honest? People wear so many masks. We wear masks so we can be polite, caring, calm, quiet, respectable even when we don’t want to be. Sometimes, in the middle of conversations, it hits that what I am experiencing is real. I have distanced myself from my own experiences to the point that I actually had forgotten that I am living this life, that I am here, that these people are my friends, that those people are my family. If I am not sure of who I am or whether I am showing my true self to others, then I can’t be sure that others aren’t doing the same. I can’t be sure that he isn’t doing the same thing, that he isn’t another mask-wearer. Love is complicated, uncertain, and fleeting. I am scared to open my eyes and see it, to feel it, to know it. But I am still falling in love nonetheless. I don’t know if he is. We love each other as friends, we trust each other, we know

MARRIED

each other. But love takes many forms. And I’m not yet sure if one form carries more value than another. He is so nice, so caring, so gracious to everybody that this could all be made up. A figment of my hopes and my imagination, my desire and my dreams. I wonder if I am an exception or the norm in his playbook. So it’s no surprise that love is cruel because even when it is right in front of us, close enough for us to grab, it still manages to run away, still manages to evade us. Maybe what I fear most of all is the fact that this isn’t what I think it is. That what I am feeling isn’t love because I am unsure of what falling in love consists of. That he will become just another footnote in an anthology made of people that I will soon forget. A small scribbled name on a piece of paper that will wound up in a recycling can and molded into something else. A hope, a thought that disappears under the mountains of new ambitions and dreams. I don’t want him to become another nobody because he doesn’t deserve that. But the chances are that he will. Which is the saddest part of this whole affair. That fact that it won’t last. So why do I try? Why do we all try? Why do we take risks? Why do we set ourselves up for failure, for sadness, for more endings than beginnings? It seems like madness that we choose to finish more stories than we can start. Maybe it’s because we feel a need to experience. We want certain things, certain people because we know life won’t be as rich without them. Maybe I want to risk it because it will be good, no-- great, while it lasts. I really hope that holds true. Here is to love and to lovers. Here is to heartbreak and the heartbroken.

I’ve been married before. Once. We were lying down on the grass outside and he asked me if I’d marry him and I said yes so we walked over to the little booth on the side of the field that was handing out certificates and we signed our names and he put the tiny, cheap “gold” band on my finger, but I couldn’t get his ring to fit on his finger, so he had to help me. Then we signed our names, and he gave me an appropriate three-second long kiss. The witnesses gave us the paper, and our honeymoon consisted of self-made snow cones and an exotic trip to the same field we’d come from. We lay back down on the grass with our rings and flavored ice and we talked, and he told me I was beautiful. And I whispered in my mind that I loved him but I didn’t say it out loud because no one wants to get hurt, even if they’re married. So we sat in the grass and just thought about how much we loved each other even though we wouldn’t say it.

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

It was a very happy marriage, one of the happiest moments of my life. We did not vow to love, cherish, obey, or honor. The moment was much too precious and fleeting for such divine, everlasting promises. All he did was place a simple ring on my hand and I placed one on his and we looked into each other’s eyes and thought that thing that neither of us would say. Then we lay back in the grass and pretended that nothing had happened, like most couples do so marriage doesn’t put out the spark they always had. But we lay side-by-side and talked about anything and everything and the light caught the gold on my hand and I was happy. I was very, very happy.

My father died when I was three years old. Sometimes when I can’t sleep at night and I feel out of place in my skin, I crawl into bed with my mother. I wrap her arms around me and ask her to tell me stories about the man I never got to know. Even with sleep weighing her words down I can hear the longing in her voice; I can feel the pain that must be tearing her chest apart at the thought of what she lost. “Love is out there, baby,” she says. “Go out and find it before it’s gone.”

ii.

My mother wears red lipstick and high heels every day. She walks with a straight back and a high head, shoulders back and hips swaying. She says, “You want to be like me, sweetie, like snow: beautiful and cold. You want to be like an oleander: beautiful and poisonous.” She taught me how to build walls and keep up my defenses. She taught me how to have soft hands and wrists of steel. She taught me to never kiss a boy on the lips for fear of messing up my lipstick. My mother says that love is made for movie screens, not for girls like her and me.

iii.

I was seven when a boy pushed me down on the playground and skinned my knees. My teacher laughed and said, “He probably has a crush on you.” It’s been years since then and I’ve figured out that boys will be boys, that boys don’t know their own strength, that I shouldn’t have provoked him. I’ve figured out that he means it when he says he loves me even though he says ‘I’m sorry,’ in the same breath. He means it when he says it won’t happen again and that it was an accident. He loves me, he loves me, and boys will be boys.

iv.

My grandmother has been married and divorced three different times and doesn’t like to wear rings anymore. She says that some people aren’t meant to stay forever; they sometimes come to make you a better person and then leave. “Heart break isn’t the right name for it,” she says. “Hearts don’t break; they bruise and heal and learn to beat again. Don’t be afraid to get hurt.” My grandmother taught me how to sew my heart onto my sleeve with precision. She taught me how to sew a wound shut and keep fighting.

My dad sings loudly and out of tune in the shower every morning. He wears socks that don’t match and shirts stained with dinner from the night before. He tells me that love will find you when it’s ready, not when you’re dressed in your Sunday best and are out looking for it. “Love will find you when you least expect it,” he says, “and it’ll knock the air out of your lungs, so breathe deep while you can.”

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

Sentiments from an

Anonymous Poet 7 Days of Love

Clocks

At Monday’s lunch you shook my hand We danced on Tuesday with the band Wednesday saw us at the park We kissed on Thursday in the dark Friday, bells began to sing On Saturday, I got a ring And Sunday, dressed in white and blue I held your hand and said, “I do.”

Can you outrun The dying sun That washes away the past? I didn’t believe We’d really leave. Thought today would always last.

We’ll live there forever Our friends all together Where the sun never sets in the sky We’ll have all of time With your hand in mine There’s never a need for “Goodbye”

But the sun will set And those I’ve met Will leave like the fading light. And memories Like wilting trees Will crumble in the night.

But you can’t outrun The dying sun Our time is condemned to be through. They say that we’re home But they should have known My home was with all of you.

Simple Gifts To live a life of endless bliss Cannot compare to one’s first kiss. To own to the earth and the sky above Cannot compare to one’s first love. Trinkets, tokens, bits of lace, Cannot compare to your embrace. A mansion on a private isle, Cannot compare to your sweet smile. I don’t need gifts to be delighted, So long as love’s not unrequited. And though it beats them all for greed Your love’s the only gift I need I’ll Show Myself Out And who am I to sit and wait In love’s cruel grip that feels like hate? No sir, I leave this love behind It’s only brought an unsettled mind. Why should I suffer, let my heart burn For a love I know shall not return? No sir, I’m flying from this golden cage That’s brought me only tears and rage. Summer Love Your love, that took my breath away Returned it just as fast. Your kiss that made eternity Was never meant to last.

HIGH SOCIETY, march 2014

If we could stay, Relive the day, Would you come and live with me? We’d pause the clocks, With all our thoughts Still focused on being free. So take my hand Run as fast as you can We’ll see how much time we can steal. Turn back the past Make the moments last You can’t even tell it’s not real.

Infuriating

Promises

Do you know how infuriating it is To love you? To wait up all day Hoping you’ll get online? Do you get that it burns Every time I look at you And realize That you’re not looking at me? When I see someone else Make you laugh And feel my blood boil in anger Because I should be the one Making you smile? When I hear you speak And feel jealous When your words aren’t directed at me. I walk specific paths in school In the hope That I’ll see you. (not that I’ve memorized your schedule.) And when you do finally talk to me I’m tongue-tied And silly Foolish Wishing I knew what to say. Do you know how infuriating it is To love you? But the worst part Is that I don’t know If you love me, too. And until I know for sure That you don’t, I’ll keep waiting And hoping And being jealous Of your smiles, laughs, and words. I’ll keep dreaming That maybe someday You’ll think it’s infuriating To love me, too

I promise I won’t break the chain Or the heart it hangs from I promise not to drop the hope That’s holding on to someone I swear that I won’t lose the faith You taught me to hold on to I swear I won’t forget the love I felt when I first saw you I’ll try to not accept the words They whispered when I failed I’ll try to cover up the stains That all the teardrops trailed I’ll give you everything I have If in return you’ll catch me Together we can brave the years, Together we’ll be happy

Life Preserver So I sit down across the table. You glared me, and I watched the cars pass by And all that crap. And our life is terrible, because We have no money We’ve been together long enough that we’ve stop being surprised Our childhood dreams were a lot easier When they were still completely out of reach. And we don’t know what to do. And people are telling me it’s time to move on Get over with you. Change something. But through all these nightmares, you were the only person, The only ray of sunshine, The only warm cup of coffee in the morning, That kept me going. And now it’s still going bad And we’re still confused And afraid. And they’re telling me, Me, who’s out drowning in the ocean To throw away my life preserver. Never.

HIGH SOCIETY, MARCH 2014

L V

Here is What I Wish They Said “...Give yourself up to carnal pleasures and taste the ripe fruit of being eighteen and in love with the promise of goodbyes, but remember that you are always looking for someone that you can say Hello, hello, hello to without ever worrying about the front door shutting behind them for the last time. Love and be loved. Everyone is human. Hold your aunt in your arms while she cries on your front lawn. Don’t let your father go out to watch the movie he wanted to see with you, alone. Everything goes back to how much you see, how much you feel, how you lasso your heartstrings around others. There is a world outside your window where wind chimes know your name better than you do. Fall in love so often that you can’t tell where you last left your heart. Let me hold you in my mouth and make love to your senses. Remember: you are only human. Remember: you are not the skin you were born into, but something tenfold, a thousand leagues deeper than that. “

-Shinji Moon