Eagle's Eye 2016 - Roots by Dalat International School

ROOTS Eagleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Eye 2016

For David Jung, our beloved classmate.

MINGLING OF MEDIUMS . . . 6 OTHER CREATIVE WORKS . . . 28 SENIOR SCRIBBLE . . . 76 A TRIBUTE TO DAVID JUNG . . . 77

THE HISTORY OF EAGLE’S EYE The first issue published at Dalat was on August 1949, underneath the name Pine Echoes. By 1958, the name of the publication changed to Pine Hill Echoes. In 1962, the issue was titled Bamboo Beacon. The first issue of Eagle’s Eye was from 14 October 1964. Regardless of the name, the purpose of each issue was two-fold: 1) to let kids showcase their work to parents and alumni, and 2) to inform parents of what was going on at Dalat. The latter was especially important when 100 percent of the student body boarded, and communication between parents and kids was limited to a weekly airmail letter. Obviously, as this means was often inadequate to let parents know what was going on at school, the paper was sent out. I, John “Tommy” Tompkins, served as collector/facilitator/formatter from 19782015. Copies were produced quarterly for parents and alumni; eventually, these publications went from print to online. My favorite aspect of publishing these updates was to receive letters of appreciation from alumni and parents. The most common article type in Eagle’s Eye was feature writing. Occasionally, one of the students would write an editorial giving an opinion on a topic or a poem. There was also a “Dear Abby”-style column called “Dear Gertrude.” Lastly, there were point/counterpoint columns where kids wrote on two sides of an issue. Archives of these issues can be found on the following link: http://www.dalat.org/site/academics/welcome-to-high-school/eagles-eye/

—By Mr. John “Tommy” Tompkins

EAGLE’S EYE—WITH A TWIST Made For and By Seniors Also in the spring of 2016, Eagle’s Eye became an annually published literary magazine. Each senior submitted one piece that represented him or her as an artist, being within the discipline of writing or the fine arts; the heartbeat purpose is still to showcase student work. But the vision of the Eagle’s Eye is expanded to the following: • • •

representing a Dalat tradition through a collaborative publication that hosts multiple art forms and spotlights creativity and personal flair empowering artistic ownership of senior students by providing a platform to engage in purposeful interaction serving the community by presenting a piece of academic excellence

This year’s pieces highlighted the following artistic expressions: poetry, creative fiction, essaying, news article, photography, painting, drawing, film, dance, musical score. Be filled with joy from their artwork. —By Miss Emily Grad

MINGLING OF MEDIUMS Mingling of Mediums was a project between five writers (poetry and creative fiction) and five students of the fine arts (photography, dance, drawing, and digital painting). Members from each discipline were paired and exchanged an initial artistic piece. Without consulting the other party, each individual responded to his/her partnerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work by creating a new one; in total, twenty artistic pieces were created. The mirroring interpretations of partners are published side-by-side; enjoy these purposeful interactions.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;By Miss Emily Grad

A HIDDEN EMBRACE POEM BY THIZBE BALZER, ARTWORK BY GABRIELA MIMS The art of many sprung from One An art so long ago Thou hath begun To rest in unity Thee would have it be But barrier upon barrier do we humans see For instance, there’s a winter scene One German establishment with a frigid yet flowing stream Leafless branches hover overhead Like a mother’s silent caress when tucking a child into bed The sun fights for reach But Distance has more to teach That though light finds its way Warmth must stand to win the fight some other day “To another place we must go!” Say those who can’t bear the thought of coming snow To a land of warmth, of fullness, of proximity Where Distance can’t say “no!” But Distance says “no” to say “yes” to another Cohesion forms, like brother to brother Seasons come and seasons go And of their implications, everyone must someday come to know For though the Physical is seen through eyes of separation Its systematic bond receives worthy vindication

PIECE BY PIECE ARTWORK BY GABRIELA MIMS, POEM BY THIZBE BALZER Piece by piece I will one day reach the top Thousands of boosts upward But it’s as if I’ve only dropped My legacy I have left behind In many-a-face: saved, pure, and kind But many more remain lost Like a prize ignored after the coin is tossed I run this race to gain So that in the grand scheme I might own a name But beauty is as beauty does When expectations of the World mound over me just because Because better is best Worth, the human safety-nest But safe is never safe Until we establish something more than what’s more-than-often fake We...sorry, I mean I Stand above the rest and wait Await ultimate joy for all This hope I have until I once more realize my fall “Fall where?” He asks, “when you’ve been falling all your life? Chasing your dreams, passions, and duties For who? For no one. For those who like you are bound for heavenly strife!” My head shakes in grief as I lead a life of singular momentum Fulfillment and peace encased in ungodly, human discretion But He gives me, and every one of you, another chance Repent and transform, rise under godly direction And only then will you receive ultimate satisfaction!

JOURNEY HOME ARTWORK BY ELISABETH BROKAW, POEM BY AARON KELLEY

I step to feel the sand on a new shore, As foreign grains make homes between my toes. I’m forced to contemplate the land before, Which means my time in it is at its close. Reluctantly, I look at where I’ve been. Nostalgia soaks my heart, pours through my eyes. Rememb’ring both high peaks and deep chagrin, I mix both smiles and frowns, both cheers and sighs. I’m who I am because of who I’ve been; My choices, passions, loves, and lifelong goals; And also ’cause of whom I have let in; My family, friends, my mentors, dearest souls. It dawns on me that to go down this trail, I have to turn my back on what I’ve known. But when I am thrown down and life assails, Must I push through with strangers, or alone? Fear grips my heart and myst’ry clasps my mind, As I turn to see the mountains look ahead. Will I fulfill my goals and dreams, each kind? Or will rejection dash my hopes instead? But then I pause to hear a simple truth, One I’ll remember well each path I trod: My God is faithful both to calm and soothe. My fear is simply thoughts of life, sans God. Fade fear! My heart has been divinely blessed. I look forward, excited for the new. Though valleys may lead down to deep distress, The peaks will make it worthwhile to get through. Through joy, through pain, through heartache this I know. The God who led me here will lead me home.

A SAD MANâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S LOGIC POEM BY AARON KELLEY, ARTWORK BY ELISABETH BROKAW In sharpest pain comes greatest of respite And deepest wells hold water fresh and cool. In greatest depth is also greatest height And darkest dungeons hide the choicest jewels. Why else would man let shame and heartbreak grow, A cancer, deadly wound that makes him bleed? For if he chose to let his sickness go, Less tender love and kindness would he need. Thus man cuts into flesh and into soul, And covers himself in scars from long past, That one who loves him and his heart consoles Shall find him, keep him, hold him at long last. So man shall keep his ache until they meet, For then, heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll find fulfillment more complete.

DEAR GOD ARTWORK BY BOYIE CHIN, LETTER BY KARSTEN LADNER Dear God, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be who you want me to be. I can’t. I tried and tried so many times. Again and again, I’ve failed. I’ve come home day after miserable day a failure, a sorry failure. I can’t do it. I can’t! You made me, but I can’t be that person. I can’t be the girl whom you made with deep ebony hair and a penetrating curiosity for life. I can’t be the girl who hungers to learn. I can’t be her. Instead, I wear a mask. It wasn’t always like this; I used to be the girl you made. I used to not care what others thought about me. There was a time when I went to school unashamed of who I was, unabashedly pursuing the dreams that my heart beat for. But that all changed. Slowly—ever so slowly—like grass reaching into the sky or my hair crawling down my shoulders. People’s piercing glances began to stab my heart, shredding my tender nature apart. Comments, smirks, and glances hurt so much; but what didn’t happen hurt just as much as what did. I was forgotten—not forgotten but pushed out of everyone’s minds. No one invited me to birthday parties or to the mall or to go out to eat. I heard about great times but had none. I heard so much yet did so little. A stalwart friend that listened to all my sobbing: my pillow stayed loyally by my side when all had deserted me. I looked in the mirror one day and saw myself: thick but short black hair hugged my head like how I hug my pillow at night; a small nose pointed crookedly to the side; tight, pursed lips formed a concentrated grimace; and two invasive, blotchy-red eyes glared at me from that face in the mirror. And so I put on a mask.

I remember how it used to be so difficult to put the mask on. It was uncomfortable and itchy. My face rubbed raw by the time I finally took it off. I felt as if I were breathing through a twisted straw with it on and struggled to see through the small eye-slots. When I took off the mask at the end of the day, a surge of fresh air hit me like a refreshing hot shower. Although I hated to wear the mask, I hated not having the mask more. Obviously, I made a great deal of mistakes and bumbled my way into a lot of messes; yet despite my awkwardness, the mask worked and people liked me. Two weeks later, I was invited to a party; the next week, I was invited to another; the next day, I was invited to another. People liked the “outgoing” me (as one girl put it) or the “exciting” me (as another put it). I was “fun,” even “crazy.” I forgot my pillow, just like how people had forgotten me. I banished my loneliness with the mask that I wore. Still, something lingered deep within, a haunting whisper and slithering dread. I knew that I was deceiving myself, that I was the greatest of all actors, almost making myself believe that my mask was my true face. I did all I could to bury that whisper in parties, boys, books, movies, lunacy, and whatever else I could find; but during those times when I was pulling my exhausted carcass up the stairs at a time closer to dawn than dusk, when the only voice I could hear was the one beating in my brain, I heard the whisper. And like a stained glass window smashed by a thrown rock, my well-acted illusion would shatter. God, you ask me to take off the mask. You ask me to unearth my buried face. You ask me to look upon the scars of my heart. You ask me to confront the demons that have chased me for so long. You ask me to be willing to get hurt, to be vulnerable, to face my brokenness. I want to, God. How I want to! How I want that peace, that joy, that freedom! But I’m so sick of the pain that throbs, pounding like a hammer upon my head. I have so little left, untouched by the destructive fingers of the viscous and cruel people around me. I can’t. So I’ve numbed myself. When I wake up and press the reeking mask against my face, I hide my heart behind a wall that cannot be breached. Furious glances and biting gossip only attack the mask, not me. I’m still safe deep within my keep. My mask is my refuge and my stronghold, my fortress and my shelter. Sure, it has dents and grooves, but it keeps me safe from the pain that once drove me to my soggy pillow night after bleak night. I can’t face that pain again. God, I’m sorry. I tried to take off the mask, but fear is holding me back. It restrains me not with chains or fetters but with the truth that vulnerability. True, honest vulnerability is just that—being willing to get hurt, to get burned, to get stabbed. And I can’t get hurt, not again. I’m sorry, so sorry.

MY FATHER STORY BY KARSTEN LADNER, ARTWORK BY BOYIE CHIN The beep of the heart rate monitor rouses me from my stupor. In front of me, I see my father, a shadow of the man I once knew, robbed of life by the disease that now leaves him in a coma. Early morning light lets me see the room where he lies. Several bouquets of flowers adorn his nightstand where they have begun to decay. Beautiful . . . if he could only see them. Looking through the window, I see a park, waking from its sleep last night. Trees surround it like a wall with several gardens of flowers. Rushing down the hall next to the room, I hear nurses checking on patients just waking up, and I hear laughter from them as they talk with their patients. So much life in the midst of so much pain. My father lies motionless where he was laid a few days ago. Steady and deep, his chest rises and falls with his breathing like the ocean’s waves lapping at the shore. I watch him. He seems asleep. I can almost believe I am home like years ago, watching my father wake up—and not staring at him in his coma. I scoot my chair closer to his bed, and I hold his hand. Please, wake up. Across the bed, I see a picture that I had not noticed before. From ages past, it shows the time when my family was moving from our first home in Texas to California. And suddenly the memories of my father pour in, and I cannot stop even if I tried. I was eight years old. My dad had just told me that we were moving, and I stormed into my room, slamming the heavy oak door behind me and flopping onto my bed where I cried. I was abandoning my friends. I would never see them again. My parents were crazy to think that I would leave my home, my friends, my school, and my neighborhood. From the depths of my eight-year-old wisdom, I knew that I would never see any of this again. I grieved all that I would lose. It was their fault! My parents were to blame. They knew I was too happy. Of course! They didn’t really care about me. The solution to my problem was obvious: I would run away and live with Johnny. I stopped crying and started planning my escape. I prepared a backpack with all of my survival gear. I stuffed my favorite blanket, stuffed animals, and candy into it. On second thought, I stuffed another favorite blanket inside. I was ready for my great escape. Now, all I had to do was pretend that nothing was wrong. After saying goodnight to my parents and heading back to my room, I waited for several long hours (so I thought) before I crept from prison towards freedom. I eased

my door open and tiptoed along the hall and down the stairs. Freedom beckoned. I opened the front door, and slipped through the last security. I shut it quietly, turned, and walked. “Isn’t it a nice night, son?” my dad asked. Spinning around, I saw him sitting on a lawn chair watching the stars. I gulped at the ball of anxiety and wiped my sweaty hands on my pants. “Uh huh.” “Where were you headed?” I panicked. What should I tell him? I had to think fast, but, suddenly, all of my wisdom vanished like my cereal at breakfast. I sighed. “Johnny’s house.” “That’s a bit far, isn’t it?” He looked at me, not with a furrowed brow nor threatening scowl but with caring eyes. “It’s pretty cold tonight. How ’bout I drive you over? Then you wouldn’t have to walk.” Even though I was still fuming at him, I didn’t really want to walk so far in the dark when it was so cold. I bit my lip, pondering my predicament. “Have you said goodbye to Mom yet? I’m sure she’ll miss you an awful lot.” Mom, I hadn’t thought about her. I started tapping my foot. Running away didn’t seem as good as it did before. “Why not you think about this some more over here with a blanket?” my dad said, motioning toward the empty chair beside him. I was cold, Johnny’s house was far, and I didn’t want to leave my mom or my dad after thinking about it. “Dad,” I said, trying to sound grown-up, “I, I . . .” I couldn’t finish my sentence. All of my anger melted as I thought about my family and looked at my father who watched me with kindness flickering in his eyes. “I don’t want to run away!” I called, covering the distance between us in a single leap and hugging him tightly. “I’m sorry I yelled at you and tried to run away.” “Jimmy, it’s okay. It’s okay. I know how hard it is to leave all that you know. I’ve done it before. I’m not asking you to do this all by yourself. I’m asking you to trust me. Sometimes, you might not understand why your mother and I are doing something, but you still need to trust us. Do you think that you can trust us now? Can you trust me, son?” I looked up into my father’s eyes and saw the inviting warmth of my father’s love. Beep. The heart monitor beeped, and the memory faded like the sweet taste of ice cream after the last spoonful. Still lying motionless on the bed, my dad slept. His face, sallow and sunken, had not lost the gentleness that I had known growing up. I stood and stretched my legs. I opened the drawers beside his bed and found a small brown box. Its old hinges groaned as I opened it. Inside, I found several letters from Mom, photographs of friends, and a tattered red ribbon. I lifted it gingerly and read the words: ‘Great Effort!’ The memory of a speech competition from long ago hit me suddenly in the gut.

I was thirteen years-old. The car hummed as it sped along the freeway. My parents chatted while I cringed in the backseat, unable to banish any thoughts of my impending doom from my mind. A month ago, I had seen a flier about a speech competition my school was hosting and had signed my name on the dotted line, even though I had never competed in a speech competition before. What I thought was a small competition became a massive affair complete with prize money and a guaranteed large crowd of staring eyes. I breathed in and out deeply, but still a burning knot twisted deep in my belly. I had practiced diligently for my speech, but the unrelenting fear assaulted me. After parking the car, we walked toward the auditorium, and my mouth grew drier and drier. Inside, hundreds of people sat, chatting amongst themselves. I said a nervous goodbye to my parents and sat with the other contestants in a separate section. Tapping my foot anxiously, I watched as the master of ceremonies, a small, round man with a nose much too big for his face, welcomed the audience and invited the first speaker. The competition had begun. The seconds ticked away as if they were hours. Sweat streamed down my back and no amount of wiping could dry my hands. Occasionally, I stole a glance at my parents who sat beaming from their seats. I looked back at the order and realized that I was next. I felt the fear of a man riding a roller coaster that had just reached the pinnacle of the track, a moment of relative tranquility followed by a rush of adrenaline as the roller coaster plummets at breakneck speed toward the ground. In short, I knew that I had volunteered for the doom that I was about to endure. After a much-too-brief applause, the master of ceremonies welcomed me to the stage. My breathing, now an erratic attempt to force oxygen down my lungs, reminded me of an electronic dance music song. With quivering legs, I approached the podium and looked across the sea of penetrating eyes. I took a deep breath and tried to begin, but the anxiety stopped me short. Stuttering, I tried again, but the words fled any attempt of mine to reel them in. The audience stared as my fumbling attempts to speak failed. My brain had failed me. The ocean of hungry eyes swirled in front of me, and my legs soon became lead. I began to drown in dizziness. If I waited any longer, I knew that I would faint. I fled like a coward. Rushing off the stage, I disappeared through the back door and darted toward the bathroom with hopes of hiding in a stall. I had completely failed. I could not even start my speech. The school would forever remember me as Stuttering Steve. I wanted to be swallowed up and hidden for a long time so that no one would recognize me. I rushed down the halls, ignoring anyone I passed, and had almost reached the bathroom when I heard my dad call for me. “Jimmy! Wait. Come back,” he called from behind. I turned slowly. I didn’t want anyone, even my dad, to see the tears that had slowly slid down my face. He had walked closer to me. Resting his hand on my shoulder, he said, “I’m sorry about your speech. I was really looking forward to hearing you.”

“Dad, that doesn’t even matter anymore. I failed in front of the school. I couldn’t even start. I almost blacked out in front of all those people. I’m useless!” “Please, don’t do this to yourself. When you signed up for this competition, I was proud that you were willing to try something new, to put yourself out there. It was brave. How many of those kids have spoken before? I’d say most of them. But you, you hadn’t. This was brand new for you. You tried something and failed. So what?” “Dad, you just don’t understand. I’m just a failure at everything. I’m horrible at sports . . .” “You scored a goal!” “On my own team. I’m terrible at band. I can’t speak. What can I do? Nothing.” “Stop it,” my dad said, his angry voice echoing off the walls. “Stop this, son. I don’t know about the rest, and it doesn’t even matter what they think. I’m your father, and I am proud of you. I love you. I respect your bravery in trying new things. I think that it took more guts for you to speak then for all of them. Jimmy, even if you failed your whole life after trying hard, I would be proud of you and love you. I know how much work you put into this speech, and I’m sorry to that it didn’t turn out well; I’m still proud of you.” He pulled me in close and hugged me. My tears streamed down my face and onto his arms as he held me tight against his chest, muffling my sobbing. The memory languished briefly before it left. Again, I find myself in the hospital room. I put the old red ribbon back into the box and return the box to its place inside the drawer. Turning toward my comatose father, I watch him for a while, his body motionless on the bed. He had done his best to raise me. Granted, he had made mistakes like all of us, but he was my father and I couldn’t let my last words to him be “just leave me alone.” I was eighteen years old, seven years ago. That year, my senior year of high school, was the hardest year of my life. My mother had been diagnosed with cancer the day before school started, I had broken my leg falling out of a tree, my poor academic performance resulted in several colleges closing their doors on me, and my dad started working a second job to pay for my mom’s outrageous medical bills. With each day that passed, I saw the life drain from my mother more and more. She became a shell of the woman who had raised me. My poor dad did his best to take care of her despite the exhaustion of working two jobs. Late one night after a friend’s party, I returned home. Sneaking as quietly as possible, I walked toward the refuge of my room. “Son,” my dad said, “Where were you?” Slowly turning around, I said, “At a friend’s house.” He sat in his leather chair, a newspaper on the coffee table beside him.

“A friend’s house. I see. Well, I wanted to let you know that you got a letter.” My dad said slowly, his weariness evident in his cracking voice. “It was from the university. They retracted your acceptance because of your poor academic standing.” He stood up. “Your principal called. She said that you were not at school.” My dad’s voice was even, steady, almost measured. He stopped, looking at me as if waiting for a response. He held me in his unwavering gaze, not moving a muscle. Seconds ticked by. “Well, what do you want me to say? What do you want from me?” “Jimmy, you have an opportunity that your mother and I never got: the chance to get a good education. And what are you doing? Throwing it away for some cheap thrills and laughs with your friends.” I had expected to hear anger, but I only heard disappointment. He paused, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Don’t you understand how hard your mother and I have worked for you?” “It’s not me, Dad. I can’t be who you want me to be. School isn’t for me. I’ve tried hard. For years, I slaved away in those prisons they call ‘school’ and what do I get?” “Jimmy, stop yelling. You don’t need to raise your voice.” “You don’t seem to understand no matter how many times I have told you. I have slaved away in school and it doesn’t even matter. Why? Because school is a sham. It’s a scam that asks for your best years and gives nothing back.” “Calm down, Jimmy. School is important. Education matters.” “No it doesn’t. Dad, you don’t get it! Mom’s dying. Can an education stop Mom from dying? No, it can’t. Mom’s gonna die, and we have front row tickets to the glorious stage of death. I don’t know about you, but I can’t pretend everything is all right and go back to life. I can’t slave at the books while Mom dies.” My dad stood, silently staring at me as tears pooled in his eyes. “Cancer took both of you. Mom wastes away with nothing to help her while you are at work paying for the useless medicine. I never see you, and Mom barely has the strength to sit up in bed. You think I can live like this, but I can’t. I can’t do this, Dad. I can’t.” My father took a step toward me, reaching for my shoulder; but I stepped back. Collecting myself, I said “School isn’t for me, Dad. I’m sorry. I can’t be who you need me to be. All I can be is Jimmy.” “Jimmy, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how much . . .” “Dad, just leave me alone. Please, leave me alone.” Those were the last words I said to my father. I turned and walked into my room where I cried myself to sleep. The next morning, my mother died. They said it was one of the best ways to go—in her

sleep—, but I never said goodbye. Short but beautiful, the funeral was held at sunset. The following day, I packed my few possessions and left. I couldn’t stay in that house anymore. I didn’t even say goodbye to my dad. And there he lies upon the bed, resting peacefully. The nurses continue to walk up and down the hall outside where a bright white light blares into the room. The air conditioning unit hums above me. I avoid what I have been thinking about ever since I arrived two days ago: How could he forgive me? I had abandoned him after Mom died. I avoided his phone calls and ignored his emails. All I wanted was to forget the pain, but it haunted me wherever I went like a ghost stalking me. Within, I feel my heart ache, throbbing as if it were a broken finger. Again and again, I had injured my raw heart in the years since I left home. At first, I had simply ignored the pain through working. Then, I had tried to cover the pain with love. I then tried money. Nothing I did healed my aching heart; nothing can mend the broken heart I hide from the world. The beeping of the heart rate monitor pulls me back from my thoughts. I hold my father’s warm hand once more. I had waited too long. Death stole my mother; I had thrown away my father. A small tear trickles down my cheek. “Dad,” I choke, “I love you. I love you so much, Dad. Please don’t leave me. I need you to come back. Please.” I bury my face on his chest as if I were that thirteen year old again. The tears flow like water bursting from a dam. Startled by something moving, I jump up and see my father open his eyes. They shoot open, and he smiles. “Jimmy, I’ve missed you so much. You’re home.” “Yes, I’m home, and I won’t be leaving.” My father smiles, the warm but soft smile of the father whom I had lost but had now found. I clutch his hand tightly, and he squeezes my hand. I realize then that I had never lost my father. He had always loved me, and I know that nothing I do could ever change that fact.

HORSE DAYS DANCE BY RACHEL HALBEDL, STORY BY SARAH STEVENS

The air was filled with the smell of horses and fresh hay—that sweet, earthy smell that Nicole had grown up with her whole life. Her horse stepped excitedly beneath her in anticipation of what was coming. He wanted to run and would soon get the chance. Nicole tried to calm herself. She needed to be clearheaded. She had done this a hundred times. Breathe. Think. Three She had been riding horses since she could sit on one. Her father would hold her in front of himself when he rode around checking the horses. At the age of ten, he taught her to ride on her own, and at twelve she started helping her father train them. Every day she walked, brushed, and fed those magnificent beasts. Her favorite part of the day was when she was in the barn. She could not fight it, however, when she turned sixteen and her mother made her help in the house with more “ladylike” things. She missed taking care of the horses; but when her chores were done, she would ride her horse out over the plains. Faster and faster. Farther and farther. The wind would whip through her hair and through the mane of the horse. It was times like these when she felt close to God and content with life. Times like these when she knew she belonged. Two George had been courting her for a while. He was always so sweet. He would bring her flowers and sweets, and he had the best singing voice. But, two weeks after they got engaged, she saw him beating his horse. It was not just a “go fast” whip, but an “I don’t care if you die” whipping. The horse was bleeding all over and was trying to get away. It broke her heart. She told him to stop, but he wouldn’t no matter what she said. He told her to go away and mind her own business. “This was man’s work,” he said. That did it. She ran off crying to the barn. When she talked to George the next day, she told him plain and straight that if he would beat a perfectly good animal within an inch of its life because of a bruise he got when he fell off, then what would he do to her if she displeased him. There is no forgiveness for what he did. They were not getting married. That made him mad. Madder than she had ever seen. She was glad she was backing out now. She had known he had a temper, but she had never seen him get violent before. When she left, she heard a chair smash against a wall. Her mother never forgave her for picking horses over a man. One She had been amazed when Mr. Gold had offered her a shot at racing a horse in one of his races. He said she had a lot of guts to try as a girl and thought it would be interesting to see what happened. If she did well today, she might be able to race again and prove that this is where she belonged. Bang! The gates opened and they were off. As she ran faster and faster, it seemed like she became one with her horse, Jasper. To the people in the stands, they were nothing but a brown and blue blur. She soon pulled ahead to the leading pack. Two more turns, then one, then none. They were done. The crowd cheered, and she was home.

THE CENTURION STORY BY SARAH STEVENS, DANCE BY RACHEL HALBEDL (Based on Matthew 8:5-13 and Luke 7: 1-10) “Master, you called?” asked a young man in servant’s garb, as he rushed through the door. “Yes, I did,” was the reply from the couch were a middle aged man sat looking at a pile of charts and reports. He had the eyes of a man who had seen many things. “I would like an update on Nicholas. Has his fever broken? Has he eaten?” The boy’s face fell, “No, my lord. He is still asleep with a very high fever. The physician came earlier and was not very optimistic about his recovery. He does not think Nicholas will ever wake up.” “I had expected as much, but hoped otherwise. Nicholas is the most trustworthy man I have ever had. You may go.” With these words, he waved the boy away. As soon as the young man’s footsteps disappeared in the distance, the graying man slouched on the couch and sighed. Nicholas was by far the best servant he had ever had. He was loyal, dependable, kind, and trustworthy; everything a man could want in a servant. Nicholas oversaw the household for him. The master almost never interfered in matters of the home. He never had to with Nicholas in charge. But even more, Nicholas was his friend. He could go to him with anything and Nicholas would listen, give good advice, and not gossip about it later. How was he going to survive without him? The household was already slacking, and Nicholas had only been ill a few days. Maybe someone had heard more about this Jesus of Nazareth by now. He sighed. He was hopeless to do anything, so he may as well get some work done. He had a meeting later that day at the city gates with some Jewish elders. “Thank you so much for helping us on this project,” thanked an older Jewish man several hours later. “It is no problem really,” the centurion insisted. “Everyone needs a place to worship.” “No it is more than that. If there is anything we can help you with, just let us know.” The men and women around him agreed; they loved this Roman, because he always helped those in need and had provided most of the funds needed built their synagogue. “Actually, I was wondering if you could do something for me.” He hated to ask, but what else could he do? “There is a man traveling around this area who does many miracles and is thought by many to be one of your prophets. I have heard he has great power. He is such a holy man, however, that I dare not speak to him myself. Would you go to him and ask him to heel my sick servant Nicholas? He has been ill many days and is now at the point of death. I know of no other way to help him.”

“Of course. Nicholas is known by all to be a good man, and I heard this Jesus was spotted outside this very city earlier today with a large crowd. I will go and ask him at once.” At that they left each other’s company. The Centurion walked quickly back to his house. He wanted to be there to great Nicholas as soon as he was well. About an hour later, the Centurion passed back and forth in his office. Why was Nicholas not better yet? Surely this Jesus would have been informed by now. Suddenly the young manservant burst through the door again, “My lord, Jesus of Nazareth is on His way here right now! There is a large crowd with Him, Sir.” “What? Coming here? But I have not prepared! I am not worthy to have such a guest. Quickly, go and tell him that we are too unclean to have him under our roof. Tell him that if he wants, he can say the word and his servant will be healed. For I am also a figure of authority. I can say to someone go, and he goes. Stay, and he will stay, surely this Jesus has even more authority than me!” “It will be done, my lord.” And with that the servant raced out of the house and down the road. Not fifteen minutes later, another servant ran in and exclaimed, “My lord, it is a miracle! Nicholas is awake and eating!” The centurion ran after the boy to Nicholas’ room saying, “Praise the God of the Israelites, for He has healed my friend today!”

VANCOUVER COLLAGE BY TAYAH LEE, POEM BY ZACHARY TAN

We spin circles upon circles Seeing dashes in the light With every trace of winter I see your smile ignite

So perceived is this happiness But so little is achieved So constructed are my feelings But I drown in my relief

I see past and unknown As figures race past our eyes We dance on fleeting moments For a second lost in time

Velvet mornings by the ocean Our windows down with the dawn Enchant me, oh winter With your white, endless song

With stillness on the tides And reflections of the mind Or the absence of my issues I leave the world behind

Take me back to lights and motions The city and the sounds Leave me in the mystery For it is there I am found.

OF A THOUSAND THOUGHTS POEM BY ZACHARY TAN, COLLAGE BY TAYAH LEE you are the wind that captures the rain and the sun that touches the sky you are the dreams that toss like waves and the screams that calm the night maybe one day you’ll stop being all of them and maybe that day these thoughts will turn white maybe that day thought will be my regret or maybe sunset tears. trickle. what if. If I. I’d hate that day. I’d lose the sound of love every morning with your steps or the time of love as you cheer when no one’s watching or the touch of love when my tears hit the raging floor or the eyes of love because you never miss a moment the idea of love because you taught me to dream or the smell of love when you dance like a queen or the thought of love for you never stop giving so the essence of love oh, I’d lose you too.

OTHER CREATIVE WORKS Each student not part of the Mingling of Mediums project was told to submit a piece that represented him or her as a creative and academic artist; each piece was meant to empower personal flair and artistic ownership. The students also hope to serve the greater community, especially parents and alumni, by sharing these pieces through this publication. For pieces within the fine arts discipline, brief blurbs of explanation are provided. Continue to be refreshed by this creativity.

â&#x20AC;&#x201D;By Miss Emily Grad

THE CHANGING OF THE SEASONS BY ISAAC CHAN Spring Nature’s conductor: Life, takes the podium and Life’s song starts anew

Fall The hectic fervor Doesn’t last. Soon, Life’s song Diminuendos

Summer The lives that once were Now blossom with maturity Life song crescendos

Winter The players freeze for Ninety bars of rest. But Life’s Song end on repeat.

WALKING THE PATH BY EVAN CHINN I’m a third culture kid Where is my home? I’m a man of the world Many places I call home I am a flexible man Living in different places but staying strong I’m on an amazing journey And I know I’ll cherish my moments here I’m leaving behind all that is familiar Soon I will be traveling alone I will be facing the unknown A hard lesson it may be I must say goodbye to loved ones Some lessons are harder than others I’m traveling on this path Towards an exciting future I shall be ending this story But a new one has just begun

LOST BY WEN CHI CHEN

We all get lost at times, and we spend our time wandering around, feeling the bitter coldness that life sometimes gives us, not knowing what to do with the pain we are feeling. People often say, “don’t worry; there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.” But how does one get to the end of the tunnel? How do we reach that light and not get lost in the dark, cold tunnel—to not become bitter towards life by the time we reach the tunnel’s end? (This photo was taken in Seoul, Korea during the winter of 2015, a time when I felt like I have finally let go and learned not to become bitter towards life for the hard struggles it sometimes gives people.)

ECLIPSE BY CHARLOTTE COMBRINK You lay, body in sunlight but mind in moon’s rays As my soft shoulder-shake breaks through sleep’s blissful haze. And my whispering voice from afar reaches out: “Now awake drowned dreamer!” comes the summoning shout. And each word reels you in from seas dreamy and dark Up and up to the light, to a world bright and stark. And then all of a sudden the surface you break And with fluttering eyes a deep breath your lungs take Filling blood with sunrays that then carry the day Through your tingling limbs, chasing slumber away. But surrendered dreams rush out with exhaled breath Meeting like frosted sighs a quick vaporous death. Your untamable hair—a savanna-streaked mane— Like a mess of dreams snakes from you wondrous brain. Though night’s fantasies wilt swiftly in bitter light As they taper to ends for want of sleep’s twilight, The sweet poison of dreams leaks from withering tips Wrapping dream and day in ethereal eclipse.

THE UNKNOWN The ship departs the port Limitless adventures ahead The crew unfurls the sails Beginning the journey A beginning in the end

BY ANDY EWE

A clean slate, a new life Endless opportunities Chances to prosper, chances to thrive What lays in store in the endless canvas of blue? The captain pours over the map Decisions to make North, South, East, West Where will he go? With every choice Consequences ensue Will he make the best choice? What can he do but hope and pray

Who knows the fate of the ship? With no rules or authority, The ship’s crew has ultimate reign. With the wind at its back, and the world before it The ship sails off into an adventure, No time for wondering, just time for living.

LIGHT ADMIST THE DARK BY KATIERA COX You see the road ahead as if nothing ever happened behind, You overshadow all the darkness as if it never existed. Forgetting that light cannot exist without darkness, You block out your past and plow forward. Except, looking ahead leaves you more fragile than you ever thought you were. Instead of strength, weakness becomes your biggest fear. Instead of confidence, doubt becomes your nagging companion. In a crowd, loneliness sneaks up to intimidate you. The darkness creeps, overshadows, and breaks. The overarching enters with continuous persistence, It steals even when you didn’t allow it to take, And it hinges on intimidation you didn’t know even existed. Searching for a way out of yourself, Nothing existed beyond the impeding attacks of the dark. Until, in the quietest place of safety – light crept into the shadows. The light shimmers, gleams, and chooses its position, A simple touch and all else radiates. Everything then has a different composition. What once was, now no longer directly translates. However, as much as you still hate the dark, Without it, the light became less eminent. It intertwines with the darkness, creating a masterpiece. Because when light illuminates the darkness, That becomes your greatest strength to cease.

STILLED MOTION BY KAI FRASER

Ever since I took up the hobby of photography, I was fascinated by how different things look when captured mid-motion. With the abilities of a camera that, in terms of shutter speed, is forty times faster than the human eye, I was able to explore many possibilities. The camera I used was able to take an instant of 1/4000th of a second in time; this means that the sensor was only exposed to light for that amount of time (0.00025 seconds), and, as a result images, tend to be darker but sharper. With this ability literally at the touch of a finger, I decided to choose a theme for this project, which was stilled motion.

TRANQUILITY IN CHAOS BY AMANDA GOH

From this picture, one will naturally experience tranquility and serenity; however, if I were to capture the whole scenario, it would have been chaotic. Near this peaceful swan were six other swans that were fighting a puppy vigorously. This swan, nonetheless, minded his own business and stayed out of the drama. Similarly, life is like this. Sometimes we get so caught up in all of the craziness that we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take the time to be still and silent. It is essential to set apart some time from the busyness of life to rest in the Lord, spend quality time with family and friends, and to wander into oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s infinite palace of the mind.

INTO A MASTERPIECE BY HANNAH GRAVES Our concert band sits on stage, triumphantly performing–this is the moment we’ve all been waiting for. All eyes turn to my section as the saxophones take over with the soaring melody, the lyrically smooth notes strung together beautifully. I hear the swell of the crescendo in the sound, resonating throughout the room as the ground rumbles beneath my feet. The moment is coming. The music urges on, and the perfect harmonies create goose bumps on my skin. I look to the baton for guidance as we slow down and gradually draw every beat out to its fullest potential, resonating louder as we approach the climax. The sound grows heavy, powerful and deafening, spreading to every last corner of the room; and finally, the crash of the cymbal hits. Every instrument sings to its fullest potential in our last moment of victory. The crowd, stunned by the roaring sound, falls deathly silent as the baton slowly drops. The room is still, and, in that moment, time stops. I close my eyes and take a breath of relief as the corners of my mouth curl into a smile. In this moment, I felt a feeling I never knew before. Music has always brought me joy. Sitting on stage in front of an eager audience, I have always felt proud of the hours of practice that have gone into a masterpiece. The delicate, beautiful, and sonorous sound of each instrument in perfect synchronization never ceases to fill my heart with satisfaction and wonder. But looking back, it was this moment that changed everything for me. Our concert band in ninth grade was one of the best our high school has ever had. We could have easily played mediocre, average, and plain pieces all year and sounded fantastic at every single concert--but my band conductor was not going to let that happen. Rather than being content with a good band, he pushed us to be an outstanding band. He wanted us to know that we could do anything we put our minds to. Throughout the school year, I had to push myself as an inexperienced freshman to catch up with the exceptional upper classmen in the band. I cannot think of a time when I was more scared of failure or fearful of embarrassment in my life. I wanted to be the best I could be. With my heart full of motivation and incentive to impress my fellow classmates, I discovered, as I worked hard and improved, how beautiful music could be. I will never forget the last concert of the year, where I, for the first time, experienced the sensational joy that music brings. Even now, three years later, the memory remains in the forefront of my mind. This moment marked my transition from an amateur member of high school band to a passionate musician. I felt shivers down my spine from the perfectly delicate musical moment. I knew, then and there, that I had a passion for music that could not be avoided. I have a yearning inside for more moments like this one—moments where time and space are frozen, and I realize that the hours of painstaking work pay off. There will never be a greater satisfaction than when everyone in a team or group commit themselves to work their hardest and perform their best. This moment altered the course of my life. I told myself that day that all I wanted to do was help other people experience moments like this one. Although music theory fascinates me, band music captivates me and playing the saxophone compels me; these things pale in comparison to my biggest motivator—the sheer joy of making music and being a part of a band that is far beyond just me and what I can do.

NOT SO BAD AFTER ALL? BY JOEL HALBEDL Most people in any modern country have played a video game at one point or another. Peter can’t wait to rush home and play a few rounds of DotA, a popular online game many teenagers play. Sherry, too young to play most popular games, prefers to play a game about make-up before she goes back to her 6th grade classes next week. Teachers and parents, however, see video games as a complete waste of time. “Why do they all hate video games so much? Games never hurt anyone,” Aaron wonders as he stomps up to his room for going over his monthly video game time limit. …While people might think video games distract students from their work, only the students themselves can be responsible for their own inefficient time usage. No police officer in his right mind would arrest a gun for committing murder, because only a human being could have pulled the trigger. In the same sense, video games are not responsible for distracting a student from his studies. Additionally, video games promote brain activity and intelligence. Shooting games, yet violent, teach teenagers how to think in a combat scenario. Albeit unrealistic, it teaches gamers to plan their attacks, coordinate with their teammates, and to outsmart their enemies. Strategy games like DotA, Civilization, and Age of Empires promote brain activity, making gamers plan out their future moves or attacks on their enemies. The idea of a strategy game originates from a board game, which many parents love to play with their children. Even simple games like Diner Dash improve reflexes. If video games result in gamers understanding how to think ahead, plan their moves, and work with their teammates, then video games are healthy.

DEEP IN THE DEPTHS OF DEEPAVALI BY BRIAN HIEW Hindu-practicing Malaysians filled the streetways of Little India to participate in Deepavali, also known as The Festival of Lights on November 11, 2015. As the month of November swept in, the streets of Penang, Malaysia began to congest and light up. People set up stations along the sidewalks and filled the roads with color. What was the sudden change? The season of Deepavali had officially began. Deepavali is a Hindu festival celebrated to commemorate the return of Lord Rama, a prominent Hindu God; in addition, it is said that Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth and prosperity, will enter buildings decorated with diyas to bless the homes and families. Such tradition has been practiced globally for hundreds of years in numerous Hindu communities. As the evening slowly appeared around 5-6pm, a multitude of Indians gathered in Little India to witness the “brightest festival of the year.” Hundreds of houses, stalls, and especially temples are heavily lit with diyas (small oil lamps) and strings of miniscule, multi-colored lights. The lights symbolize victory of light over darkness and good over evil. “Deepavali is like New Year’s Eve, it’s a brand new start for all of us,” said Neehar Kantimathi (11), whose family is a participant of the Festival of Lights. In the Dalat community, many of the national staff, including students, took a day off to enjoy their holiday with family and friends. Sounds of joy and laughter echoed the streets of Little India as families spent time with one another feasting upon a wide selection of various traditional Indian dishes and sweets, and played with sparkle sticks. After eating, families exited their homes to enjoy a brilliant, vibrant, and magnificent display of fireworks. Why fireworks? “Not only to celebrate the return of Rama, but also to scare off evil demons and spirits,” said Kantimathi. As the end of Deepavali approached, families returned to the comfort of their homes as they celebrated a new beginning.

ME AS A PERSON BY EMMA HOFER

SENIOR YEAR BY TITUS HWANG Many stained memories, With people come and go New story was told every year Along with new people Once it was full of hatred But now it is hard to say goodbye It seemed like forever But now it is almost the end I was waiting for this day But at the corner of my heart, I do not seek for the remainder of the story Time is ticking and the door is closing

It is time for a farewell Time is well spent and lessons are learned Many adventures were shared And every single moment was unforgettable Once the door closes, the memories will fade So don’t wait for it to just go away Spend time and love them back It is the last time to see them After all, they impacted the life of a boy No matter if it was big or small

PHILIPPINES BY ROBERT KILGO This is a low-quality photo but it represents a high-quality experience. At the end of February, I had the opportunity to join a nursing team from the Philippines that was providing care to Camarines Sur, a small Filipino province. We went there to pass out basic things such as medicine, blood sugar tests, and vitamin-supplemented foods for the children fighting malnourishment. Over the course of the trip, I experienced things I never dreamed I would, and I learned a lot while doing that. The nurses I worked with were all special people with a unique calling to nursing, and I’m glad I get to call them my friends. They made me appreciate the profession, and I’m proud to say I’ll be pursuing it myself after I finish here at Dalat this summer.

SIMPLE MOMENTS BY MACKENZIE JORDAN I like to appreciate simple moments. When I think about contentment, it takes me back to the times when, in the midst of whatever was happening, I realized how happy it made me. Waking up on Saturday morning and watching the light stream through the cracks in my curtains, the quiet murmur of friends’ voices around a crackling fire, enjoying a beautiful sunset from my backyard, the steam rising off a hot cup of coffee, the sound of the ocean, my best friend’s laughter, or capturing a photo at exactly the right time. Taking the time to enjoy these moments is what brings me some of the greatest joy in life.

SONNET:WHO AM I? BY JANE JUNG I am not distinguished in any way; I am just like any other human. Not that I overly think what I say, Or that I am an attentive woman. I am surely not the smartest of all, Because others have more A’s than I do And surely not the prettiest of all, For I’m not the one whom folks look up to Am I nice to my family and friends? Uniquely caring for those around me? I do not care how relationship ends Nor do I share His complete love towards me. But God loves me unconditionally, And wants me to love Him genuinely.

VARIATIONS ON PURCELL BY CHRISTINA KIM This musical score is a composition that I completed in AP Music Theory during my junior year, and it is the first project that allowed me to conduct in front of a group of people. With this original piece, I was able to express myself by creating a melody of my own from the chord progression of a piece by Henry Purcell. My classmates and I all worked together to compile this original sixteen-measure piece. We practiced with the 8th graders and took turns conducting them. On the performance night, all of the students felt pleased and proud of their effort to create a work of art.

WORSHIP BY GLORIA KIM 12 January 2015 John 4: 23 â&#x20AC;&#x153;Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in the Spirit and in truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks.â&#x20AC;? As a part of the Spiritual Disciplines class, seniors spent time thinking about God genuinely, praying freely, and worshipping wholeheartedly at Diamond Villa. Students were free to go sit by the beach, walk along the garden, or stay in the community hall and do whatever they liked to communicate with God. It was a day that I will treasure because I was encouraged to see others sincerely opening up to God and being true worshipers.

MY PAUSE BUTTON, MY UHM MA BY SUNNY KIM Everything changes... There is no “pause button” in life Always is a fleeting word It flies away the moment it is spoken When everyone left me and no one held my hand When I struggled to find solid ground You were my shadow You protected me When I threw fits and cried my eyes out You became my tissue and soaked in all my tears Even when I threw silly tantrums You took it all in without saying a word. Your love is like a black hole It sucks me into an everlasting journey Every morning you beat the sun and get up to prepare breakfast Every day you fill me in your prayers Every action spells love And you always stir my hardening heart You are my greatest gift from God Your selfless and self-sacrificing love is thicker and deeper than anything and that is why only you fill me up the way you do Though the world changes I have my one small eternity My one pause button My jar of joy You are my most valuable asset Yet you don’t know just how precious you are to me Because the mouth cannot speak the language of the heart And words cannot contain such a love as this.

UNTITLED BY CHRISTINA LEE The last drop of memory. Before reality clouds your future. Before rusty treasures muddle your desire. Before the trails to Neverland are lost in treachery. When the world shatters the righteous, When it breaks the innocent, You again seek the path to Neverland. To escape and to forget. Neverland exists in the dazzling accolades, Neverland exists in the whims of impulses, Neverland exists in the hypnotic bottles and pills, Neverland exists in anything but Neverland. Walk amidst the dreams and life fades away, When illusions dwindled and slumber was disturbed, The shock destroyed you at every betrayal, Then you remembered that last drop of memory. You remembered the simplicity of existence, You remembered how you conquered the world, You remembered everything you loved and spent, You remembered you. Block out the voices and shut your eyes, Who would you be? What do you want? Neverland is lost, but you are not. You could live as someone else, You could act as expected, You could speak as ordered, But honestly, where is the fun in that?

EXPERIMENT 143 BY PETER LEE Now, before Experiment 143 begins, Read carefully, and try not to grin, Because this can bring you life, But it can also bring you strife, Step one, Find the atoms that attract you the most, Find the particles that you want to engross, Are they negatively or positively charged, Are they infinitesimal or drastically enlarged, Does each atom satisfy your perfect molecule, That ultimately creates a beauty or a jewel, Do they look handsome or really beautiful, That makes them all the more magical and youthful, It is time for you to formulate a hypothesis, As you test your theory through electrophoresis, Do they like me or do they not, Am I good enough or is it just my thought, Step two, Now it is time to test the atoms, The time for you to collect your datum, Is there a symbiotic relationship, Or is it impossible for a fellowship, Do Do Do Do

your hobbies match? your beliefs patch? you share the same appetites, you want your atoms to bond in delight,

Step three Enough researching, the conclusion is needed, You must choose to go for or against what you have pleaded, Do you want him, or do you want her, Or do you want things to go back to the way they were, The scientific method is a romantic element, And above all, Love is an experiment.

LAST STAND BY JOSEPH LEECH The sound of gunfire pierced through the air. I watched as the hundreds of bloodthirsty enemy soldiers flooded down the hill like an avalanche. Terror filled my soul. They had gotten through the first line of defense and they were headed our way. There was no way we could escape from this certain doom. I looked around at our small platoon of thirty soldiers. They all knew that this was our last stand. I set my eyes back on the enemy. As they came into gun firing range, I aimed and fired. A bullet flew from my rifle, shooting through the air, and sunk itself in the head of an enemy. The man’s body crumpled to the ground lifeless. I was not going to go down without a fight. Bullets flew through the air in both directions. Men everywhere fell to the ground. Enemy after enemy died but they just kept coming like a swarm of angry ants. I watched as my comrades started to get picked off one by one. Tears filled my eyes and poured down my face leaving streaks in the dirt layered on my cheeks. Rage and sadness filled up inside of me. I aimed my rifle at the enemy soldiers again and let the bullets fly. I yelled as I killed man after man. I aimed to kill another soldier when a bullet pierced through my left shoulder, shredding my flesh to pieces. Pain shot through my nerves and I screamed in agony. I fell, landing on a pile of my lifeless comrades. I watched as the rest of my fellow soldiers were slaughtered by the ferocious enemy bullets. Fury built up inside me as I watched the youngest of our platoon fall to the ground lifeless. I wasn’t going to give up yet. I grabbed my rifle from a puddle of dark red blood and aimed and fired. A bullet protruded from the muzzle of my rifle and tore through a soldier’s chest. I wouldn’t stop until I was dead. They had killed my comrades! No they had killed my brothers! I let the bullets fly until I had none left. I went to grab another gun as a bullet buried itself in my stomach. This fall left me bloody and hopeless. This was it; I was going to die. I felt my life flooding from my body, and then I saw a bright luminous light. All the anger and sadness left me as I watched a man come out of the light. The man was unlike any man I had ever seen. He came to my side and placed his hand on me. As his soft, gentle hand touched my mutilated body, I felt at peace. He looked at me with his extraordinary blue eyes. It was as If he had the ocean in them. Then the man spoke with a gentle voice and said, “It’s time to come home.”

ACSC BASKETBALL TRIP BY SHAWN LIM We, the varsity basketball boys, had the privilege to go to Hong Kong to compete in a basketball tournament. We played hard as a team, however basketball was not the only thing that we enjoyed. We were blessed to have a group of parents follow us to Hong Kong. Without them we silly boys would have been eating McDonald’s all week long. But thanks to the parents we had feasts on feasts on feasts. One of the greatest meals we had were the ones with roasted duck in it. Hong Kong is known for their roasted duck, however, we didn’t know how good it was. Once the plate of duck came out from the kitchen and onto the table, mouths dropped, pupils dilated, and saliva dripped. The duck was covered in a shiny covering of juiciness and radiated with the smell of heaven. We thought nothing could get better than that until the Barbecue glazed pork came out, also known as Char Siew. It was brought on a plastic plate and it glowed in the reflecting light against the beautiful glazed oil. It melted in our mouths and not a piece was left on the plate. Calvin Thompson (12) said, “It was an orchestra of flavors going on in my mouth.” Another favorite in Hong Kong was heading into Circle K and buying a truckload of ice cream after every night’s dinner. Twelve hungry boys walked up the stairs of Circle K and walked directly towards the ice cream container and grabbed as many as we wanted. Although the cashier didn’t speak English, she could see we were all incredibly happy. We were blessed to stay in a wonderful hotel. This was the first time where we were able to get plenty of sleep and in such a comfortable setting. One of the best experiences I had this ACSC trip was the Crossroads program. For our service project, we were put into the “metaphorical shoes” of the people in poverty. We were put into a group of seven people and placed on a small mat where we barely fit. Now we were family. We were quickly taught how to make paper bags with newspapers and flour-made glue. In ten minutes, we had to make as many paper bags as possible and try to sell it to the shop owner. As we were poor we had to be on our knees and beg to sell our newspapers. Sometimes it was successful and we were able to sell our paper bags. However, sometimes we weren’t and our paper bags were just ripped into pieces. We also had to pay rent with the money we earned, and the rent was always more than what we earned. Thus, we learned tricks to pay for rent, such as pretending to sell our organs, phones, shoes, clothes—or even ourselves into slavery—to pay for rent. This was one of the most memorable service projects ever, as I learned a lot about how hard it was to live in poverty. This will be my most memorable ACSC trip, and I couldn’t have asked for better people to spend it with.

CHASING INSPIRATION BY YSABEL LOH

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=tkO1uhmc0XM As artists, we yearn and desperately seek a breathtaking inspiration for our next “masterpiece”; but in some cases, inspiration comes to you when you least expect it. ....And sometimes, in small packages. “Chasing Inspiration”: A short, original film inspired by a local street art mural by Ernest Zacharevic in the colonial city of Georgetown, Penang, Malaysia (2015-2016). CAST: CREW: Karsten Ladner Director and screenwriter: Ysabel Loh Aidan Leong Producer: Josh Wells Tiffany Ang http://joshuawellsphotography.com Seok Liew Chuah Producer Assistant: Seth Kelley Film Editors: Zachary Tan and Ysabel Loh Cover Designer: Gabriela Mims Soundtrack Producer: Zachary Tan *Student Work: translations are purposefully inaccurate.

WHO AM I? BY MARY-CLAIRE MCINTYRE Am I the summer rays or the autumn leaves? Am I the winter snow or the blossoms of spring? Am the mountain breeze or the oceanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s waves? Am I the cool of the morning or the dark of the night? Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve lost myself in the beauty of these things Who knew such beauty was just beyond the screen?

TREE OF LIFE BY JETHRO LEE I believe that our life is like a tree. From planting a seed to managing it, the growth of the tree depends on our effort. As time passes, it will bloom flowers and produce fruits, but it will also lose its beautiful leaves and flowers at some time. Our life also will have beautiful moments as well as disappointing moments. As tree needs time to fully grow; we also need time to be mature. We need to stand strongly to withstand and overcome all the hardships like trees. Thus, I just drew the picture of a tree that symbolizes our lives.

THE FIRST STEP BY SABRINA LY

LAST BUT NOT LEAST BY JOSHUA MOON The sky was grey, and rain trickled down on a Wednesday morning. Nevertheless, the seniors were ecstatic to run, jump, and smile their way out of their last Track and Field day at Dalat. As the buses headed for the USM stadium, students began to worry about the dark clouds hovering over their heads. The disappointments of a few students lead others to feel depressed as if it was a virus. The team spirit that teachers emphasized had died off by the time students arrived, and the roaring of team chants was nowhere to be found. To make matters worse, the schedule that placed the high school 100m dash first, early in the morning, left many disgruntled and unmotivated. As for the seniors, the hope of experiencing the best and last Track and Field was fading. Crack! The race started with the clashing of the clappers, and so did the senior’s final Track and Field. Legs were working hard to push bodies closer to the finish line, and every jerk or a tumble on the track was just another opportunity for the opponent. The event carried on its competitive nature and everyone started leaning towards the races to take a better look. The students began to wave their team flags and jump out of their seats to congratulate the victors and encourage the underdogs. But, just when the day seemed to enthuse the students, rain began to trickle down on the athletes. The clouds turned pitch black. The rain started to pour. The grins of the students in the stands began to alter. However, the athletes on the track, sandpit, and even those above the beams, continued with their competition. Despite the weather’s crime, the competitors of all teams, ages, and gender never lost hope for a great day. While running through puddles of water and jumping towards damp mud, the athletes gave it their all. By noon, the clouds cleared out as if to say, “I cannot compete with your determination.” The day continued to maintain its spirit and joy throughout, especially during the highlight: the relay race. “The relay race is my favorite event of track and field. I get a chance to run with my friends and develop teamwork,” exclaimed Sheng Ting. All students either ran (or skipped or danced if you were a senior girl) the relay or stood by the tracks to cheer on their friends. As the last runner of the last race sprinted his way across the finish line, the students, especially the seniors, seemed to be satisfied with the day’s results. Many students took away a significant part in the Dalat community that day: spirit. Whether it be rain, snow, hail, tornadoes, or earthquakes, the students and teachers of Dalat International School would compete and encourage one another to never give up. As for the seniors, they possibly took away the most memorable track and field of their lifetimes.

‘TWAS THE WEEK BEFORE FINALS BY ABIGAIL BENGS ‘Twas the week before finals, when all through the house Not a creature was studying, not even a mouse. The notes were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that the fire would make them soon disappear. The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of holiday freedoms danced in their heads. All of them exhausted with procrastination at a wrap, Their brains had already settled for a long winter’s nap. When coming from above there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my desk to see what was the matter. Awakened from my daydream, I flew like a flash For the bell had rung, so to my last final I dashed! For the last hour plus half my mind scattered like snow, Not a pencil mark was left on the paper below. When, what to my wondering mind should appear, But the curse of senioritis that produced many a tear. Floating around me was a list of to-do’s, English, Science, and don’t forget--math, too. College apps, memories, and saying goodbye; All of these were in mind with the end a’nigh. But one last to-do, which is often forgot Is to make an impression, for what little time you’ve got. Treat others kindly and be fully aware That people will remember you by the words that you bear. Though the days are few and you will soon be gone, The world you leave behind will still carry on. So what will you do to make these years matter, How will you love before your love is soon scattered? Though you are busy—your schedule is packed, And it feels as though life is a balancing act; There is one more thing, and it is this: Invest in others, and it will be you that they miss. Inspired by Clement Mark Moore’s poem, “A Visit from St. Nicholas”

SONNET BY BRENDA NG O’ Time why is thy nature so complex, Thy tick and tock and tick and tock all day, Cutting away my time left like an ax, Not hesitatingly but constantly. Though freshmen year moved at a turtle’s pace, Four years of high school flew by in a flash, Surreptitiously did thee pass by me. As I live every day in a rush. Time please reverse my spell to speed thee up, I need more time to make my future plan, I fear my choices would lead to mishap, Hence thy servant beg thee slow thy pace down, Let me live each moment to the fullest, Let me pray for God knows which path’s the best.

TO MOM BY JOYCE OH You carried me in your womb for nine months; You suppressed your desires to meet mine. You put up with my complaints, whines, and grunts, Even when I purposely crossed the line. You played the piano with passion; You loved it when I skipped and danced and twirled. You shared with me the heart of compassion, And brought my true best friend into the world. Although I do not tell you this enough, And words can’t describe how much I love you, I am sorry for the days I’ve been rough; I realize that you have bad days, too. Mom, I’m old enough now to be your friend; Whatever’s on your mind I’ll comprehend.

MY BEST WORK BY KEEGAN OPPENHEIM

My project is much more than just a project, but matches the description for my greatest work. Through her actions, my daughter, Thalia Phoebe, has brought smiles, laughter, dirty diapers, irregular sleeping schedules, and joy into my family. Although she is small and still an infant, she has achieved something many people have found difficult to do: she has motivated me and pushed me to become a man of God. Before speaking a word, she has already changed my life in so many ways.

CLOSING CEREMONY BY JONATHAN PARK The closing ceremony, or the opening ceremony, depending on how the seniors view it, of the one week long Senior Sneak took place around the biggest bonfire on the shores of Telunas on Friday, 18 September. The class of 2016 took a one week break as a class away from school, from 14-19 September, for their Senior Sneak. Before getting into the bonfire, bonding, reflection time, and guitar playing, though, there is something that cannot be missed: it is the food of Telunas. Yes, you read it right. The food was extra fabulously amazing, incredible, unforgettable, and superfluously fantastically awesome. Part of breakfast consisted of the basics, being cereal (cornflakes, Honey Stars, and oatmeal), fruits (oranges and apples), bread with strawberry jam and Nutella, and occasionally pastries (cinnamon rolls and pound cakes). Doesn’t that sound filling already? The other part, however, was a different story. The self-service omelet station included mushrooms, peppers, garlics, and onions. The popularity of it was so substantial that the lines consisting of devourers and epicures were extended out of the cafeteria. And breakfast wasn’t the only prominent jock. In fact, lunch and dinner were, if not, more beloved than breakfast. Empty stomachs were attracted to some of the following foods: sesame chicken, sweet and sour fish, long beans, fruit tart, spaghetti, shrimp, tacos with guacamole, brownies—just to name a few. “The food was really authentic and wonderful, as each day passed, the food provided for us was so rewarding,” said Samuel Tan (12). And then there was the last meal. Forget Dominos. Forget Papa Johns. Forget Pizza Hut. The seniors were given the opportunity to make their very own pizza with a partner as their final dinner of Sneak. Telunas Beach Resort handmade pizza is literally, hands down, the best. Once again, the self-making pizza included toppings of tomato paste, beef, peppers, onions, mushrooms, pineapples, and cheese. Seniors were paired up for one pizza which resulted in half a pizza per person. Well, half a pizza did not seem enough. Nothing seemed enough. Food, time, relationship building, and activities all seemed to be wanted more. Once the pizzas entered the dome-shaped oven for baking, chitchat aroused around the bonfire as waiting prolonged. “The open space only helped bring people closer,” said Isaac Chan (12). A few of the students played badminton and ping pong on the beach as they waited for their sacrificed pizza to resurrect from the heat of the oven. But truly, the wait for the pizzas wasn’t met with disappointment. Each bite of the pizzas caused cheese to spread like stretched rubber bands. The look of amusement and satisfaction were written over everyone’s face. It was a taste never to be forgotten. Gabriela Mims led the final worship set with her beautiful voice and the strumming of her guitar, as the bonfire rose to its prime. With Senior Sneak coming close to an end, time of reflection began. Questions about future fears and free responses were the most enjoyed moments; emotions from laughter to sorrowfulness were all shared amongst the class. With the fire dying, so did the time of bonding. But, when it comes to bonfire, there is one gem that can’t be ignored: s’mores. With s’mores, the deep conversation over the bonfire concluded, and free time was given for the rest of the night. This was one last chance of bonding or ROOTSing, as this was the theme for the class. ROOTS!

HIDDEN BEAUTY BY JOSHUA PARK

My senior year, I moved to a new country and discovered the hidden beauty of Malaysia. The picture above was taken on Rat Island after a short kayaking trip and captures an image of Penang, the island I have called home for the past year. This year has been filled with endless adventure, and each day adds new memories to my final days of high school, memories that will never be forgotten. In Penang, I found myself quite content with life and faced new, enjoyable cultural experiences nonexistent in America. As this year quickly comes to an end, I find comfort in the countless memories of my short time in Penang.

HOW TIME FLIES BY BY BIJAY RANA Sun shining down the windows, Love through Mother Nature, Rain pouring down the windows, Love from the Father above, The present is with us, Yet it is far away, The past and the future become the present, Yet everything is all the same, Time after time, Time flies, “Where are you at?” the present asks, “We are here,” says the past and future, I let the past and future speak to me, They are my doubts, regrets, and my faults, A day, an hour, a week, a month, a year passes, Time is just part of my losses, “Where you at?” the present asks again, This time I squeeze past the future and past, “I am here,” I say, The sky is filled with clouds, Love from the Father above, The wind blows gently at every flower, Love from Mother Nature, I am present for this hour.

ELEUTHEROMANIA BY KAELA RUBLE We are exotic, Intoxicated with madness, Infatuated with imperfection, We love deeply and hate rarely, Touched by pain, But swept away by happiness, We unravel our paths as we travel, We intake all the beauty, the pain, and the madness, All at once, every minute, all the time, And we wouldn’t have it any other way.

ESSENCE OF HOME BY KARISSA STEINKAMP

In my photo collage, I tried to capture the essence of Penang, my home. I had many more photos that could have been placed in this collage, but unfortunately had limited space. Within the collage I have photos from the three major ethnic groups of Penang: Malay, Chinese, and Indian. The Indian culture is represented with a photo of a religious lamp (located top middle). I love this photo because the design of the lamp and the background of the photo really shows the style of the culture. The Chinese culture is represented with a dragon statue with an orange placed in his mouth (located middle right). This photo was taken at Kek Lok Si on Chinese New Year. Lastly, the Malay culture is represented by multiple photos. I have the photo of the street art of a Malay fisherman (located top right corner), a Malay home (located left middle), and the different foods and beverages including teh ais (top left corner) and durian (bottom right corner). The other photos within the collage are photos of nature and the beauty of living on a tropical island. This collage is a mixture of photos that makes Penang unique. Penang is truly a melting pot of cultures; therefore, this collage has a wide variety of, some may say, random photos. These random photos, however, are the things that I will remember Penang once I graduate. The essence of Penang and the cultures within cannot not be fully comprehended, fully understood from one photo collage; however, this collage provides a glimpse of this experience.

END POLIO BY ALWYN TAN

LIVING ALONG THE ROAD BY ANGELA TAN Life is like a road. Time does not wait for you, Like the flashes of cars that merely pass through our sight as we travel along the road, The leaves that fall swiftly beside you without you noticing, The multitude of raindrops that glide down your window pane but yet do not catch your attention. Life is like a road, A road under construction. Starting from scratch, When we were first babies we only ever learned how to cry. It proceeds to digging holes, When we grew into toddlers we learned how to destroy and puncture depressions in every single thing that first came into our sight.

Sand and soil start filling the hole, We grew into kids and had most of our lives filled by the teachings of our parents and teachers

Cement covers the filling, And the flattening of the pavement begins, slowly, one step at a time. As we grew into teenagers we started to take the control of our lives from our parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; palms, Smoothing and carving our lives into our very own desirable roads with our very own hands. But... Just as we thought that we had everything figured out, The road cracks. Things go the opposite direction from what we had originally planned. Our lives start falling apart. What do we do now? Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always hope. A road can never be built once and stay intact and perfect forever. The most dangerous thing that someone can ever do with his life is to not rebuild it at all. As we repeatedly rebuild these roads in our lives, We patiently and eagerly wait upon the new look of these roads. And sometimes, it is the very essence of waiting that brings out the most memorable parts of our lives.

SHE WAS A TIGER, AND A TIGER SHE WAS NOT BY SARAH TAN She was a tiger, and a tiger she was not. She was wild in emotion but tame in action, She needed no one and yet everyone at once, She was a watcher and waiter, Not a fighterâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;to anyone else; For the war in her mind was far greater than any of her body. She could be hard to others, from brawl and battle, But soft inside, wounds fresh and alive. And when she appeared soft, frail and weak, Her bones bore only strength and courage, A subdued dominance, A deafening silence. She was simple in her tongue But chaos in her thoughts. And through her eyes was the only path That led to the depths of her soul, Unseen by most But a matchless privilege to know. She was the sunshine that also brought the hurricane. She was afraid, Afraid of the fire Until she became it; And it is because she was the uncharted That she is ready to explore it. She was, and she was not. Insane. Indecipherable. Undefined. Uncertain. Unknown. A mess. But oh, extraordinary in every most ordinary way, That she is, What a beautiful mess to be discovered.

EYE OPENER BY SAM TAN This art piece was created to inspire an eye opener, to look up and embrace the society that was once beautiful but now is corrupted. Appropriately, I named this piece “The Eye Opener” because I wanted to portray a message to those who may feel down about themselves. As society emerges to primarily focus on advertising through Photoshop alterations, rarely do people who are naturally beautiful believe in themselves, due to this fake reality that our ideal, constructed society has created. “The Eye Opener” inspires me, and hopefully others, to look pass the corrupted society and open myself to the natural beauty of the world that we live in. The hooks and the hands represents the ability to maintain a constant balance amidst the pull to battle for truth. “The society is a messed up place Full of lies and cheats Rebels try to shape But then thy push them into shade ‘Cause then for them Something goes out of shape For them, shaping is a blasphemy, A pure profanity For their fake divinity. “ For it shall close, if you don’t open to the light.

GOODBYE BY NOEL TENG

The time I have to say goodbye, I dread, Why must I leave my friends and my first love, From time when we held hands and broke the bread, To time when we gazed at the stars above, How my hands miss the curls that make your hair, Soft as the light that escapes from the moon, Forever bewitched by your hazel glare, Eyes like the sun that shines in early June, And to the ones who have stuck by my side, Our times are strung across my bedroom wall, When we have reached the end point of our ride, All I can say is, “I will miss you all”, And when we’re at the end I’ll make a toast, “Let’s drink to the ones whom I love the most.”

LIFE AND I BY CALVIN THOMPSON Life is something that we all share Something tender yet so rare The way we live it is up to us With either love or a big fuss Life is something we should love Like it, hate it but be proud of Live each and every single day Be on track with no dismay Life is a privilege and a blessing It has ups and downs never refreshing Follow your heart and you’ll be fine Keep on pushing ‘til the finish line

EDUCATION OR VANDALISM? BY ANGELENE WOO

Signs were put up around campus in regards to Dalat International School’s new campus construction. One of these signs had a comma splice, and English teachers Bethany Weidemann and Emily Grad decided to take the matter into their own hands. The school year of 2015-2016 saw the start of the construction of Dalat International School’s new campus. Signs were placed around campus warning students of the dangers of the construction work and expressing the need for caution. One such sign requested that the students kindly welcome the construction workers as Dalat’s guests. This sign, however, contained a ghastly flaw! Dalat International School, who prides itself on producing students with perfect grammar—mostly thanks to Tommy Tompkins—, printed a comma splice on signs all over campus! A comma splice is a serious offence and is defined by Dictionary.com as, “the use of a comma, rather than a semicolon, colon, or period, to join two independent clauses in the absence of a coordinating conjunction.” (See picture below). Disgusted, Weidemann and Grad trekked around the campus one afternoon, laboring to manually fix the comma splice with their nifty markers. With one dot, they transformed the comma, on three signs, into a semicolon. Clearly these actions were premeditated, but what was Weidemann and Grad’s motive? Did they earnestly hope to educate Dalat students? Or did they wish to provoke the authorities? When asked of her motive, Grad simply replied, “I have no comments; I will not speak without my lawyer.” Many other questions arise: “Should the school board address this issue as an act of vandalism?” and “Should they, as teachers, face consequences for poor role modeling?” Page 43 of Dalat’s Student and Parent Handbook says, “Not being respectful towards property owned by the school, teachers, or other students, including theft and vandalism, will be subject to major disciplinary action.” Will the authorities take action to discipline these outrageous rebels? Or will faculty be above the law?

vvv

YOU BY TAEWOONG WON tSome say that love is a journey. We were always together Sometimes through great sorrows but other times through romantic happiness Some say that love is a tree. We were always each otherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s support I could depend on you You could find rest in me And you were always there for me Some say that love is a war. We fought sometimes over big and small things But regardless of the conflict I still loved you Some say that love is a fire. I loved you passionately More than anything I had And I will forever love you Some say that love is beauty. You were the most beautiful to me Not only your looks but also your heart, You were the light in my heart Some say that love is a gift. A gift from God that humans are born to love You are my precious gift And I love you dearly After all, love is everything. And you were everything Yes, my love was you.

vvv

EQUIANOâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S VOYAGE BY SHENG TING YANG Thwack! The whip slashes against our red, dangling tissues as our consumed souls mourn silently in this haunted and filthy ship. Daily, we are beaten and starved for disobeying. We are raped and tortured to satisfy their lustful desires. They claim to be Christians, but they are nothing but deceivers and devils. For three months, we do nothing but feed our decapitated, red flesh to the fat sewer rats. Some go insane, and some die. Some even kill themselves by jumping off the boat or by starving themselves. Others, like me, enforce their consciousness to one day achieve revenge. The rules in the stowage were simple: do not disobey, tolerate, and shut up. In their eyes, we are not valued as humans, but we are merely objects for labor. They kill our children and rape our wives, and we are forced to watch. Clearly, our death means nothing and our lives are meaningless. Blistering wood and human carcasses seem to please our sadistic captives. I thought hell existed to those of the dead, not the living. Yet, we were taught that God made all men equal; why then are we, harmless African gentlemen, shackled and bound to become slaves for these white men? They starve us with two cups of corn a day and water, If the pigs have had their fill. The stench beneath the ship reeks of rotten flesh and human waste. This must not my destiny. God would never do this to us. Would He? He would never. Hopelessly, we pray for a miracle, but, thus far, we are waiting and inflamed desperately for revenge. We will never work for these demons; theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d might as well stab me and leave me to rot with the rats.

vvv

RELATIONSHIPS BY CHERYL YEAP

Relationships are very important—whether it be boy/girl relationships, family relationships, friendships, etc. If I had the chance to change anything in high school, it would have been to build more relationships. I have focused too much on my studies throughout high school, and I wish I had not. I wish I had hung out with my friends more often and bonded with them even more. I also wish that I have reached out of the sphere (ROOTS) and gotten to know more of my classmates. I urge all of us, as we pursue our future endeavours, to never forget to build relationships with others. Don’t focus too much on your studies or your career. Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying that your studies or careers are not important (if you know me, you know that I would not flunk my studies). I am simply saying that we should not be consumed by our studies so much so that we start to neglect the people around us. Your certificates and degrees might be important for a few years after college, but relationships are long-lasting. Good friends and family members will always be there to catch you when you fall. God created humans to be relational beings. Never disregard relationships and embrace them instead.

vvv

THE VOYAGE BY LEXI ZIMBULIS ‘“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the LORD your God will be with you wherever you go.” - Joshua 1:9 School—or life so far—has been a muddle of starts and stops and remembering and forgetting. But for the most part, it’s been familiar. Though I’ve changed schools a couple of times, I’ve had the same basic routine for twelve years. So no matter where I was in the world, I pretty much knew what I was in for when it came to school and life. I knew I’d say goodbye to my mom in the morning. I knew I’d go to class and sit at a desk. I knew I’d get homework to do. I knew I’d get tests to cram for and stress about. I knew I’d see my friends. In my last semester of senior year, however, I’ve become more and more aware of the goodbyes that are about to happen and the changes time will soon bring to my life and all of my classmates’ too. We’re all on the verge of a new adventure. We may all settle into new and different routines. It’s a little scary, but I constantly remember that I can confidently “be strong and courageous” in my voyage from this island.

SENIOR SCRIBBLE In the fall of 2015, articles written by the seniors at Dalat, informing parents and alumni of happenings at the school, began being published on The Senior Scribble. The Senior Scribble is a journalistic blog, whose link is also published in the Dalat News on a weekly basis. Each English 12 student wrote one article during both the fall and spring semester. These posts represent the seniors’ perspectives on current events and people who are part of Dalat’s vibrant community. This year, over 100 posts were published. To read these articles, check out the following URL: http://seniorscribble.blogspot.my/

—By Miss Emily Grad

A TRIBUTE David Ye-Il Jung was not only a classmate, but an exceptionally dear friend. I first met him five years ago when I transferred to Dalat in the second semester of seventh grade, though it wasn’t until 8th grade that I started getting along with him. Around the time of sophomore and junior year, our friendship reached a point where we’d always be hanging out. We’d developed a greeting, which was a simple peace sign whenever we saw each other. To me, that became his iconic sign. We’d always go biking, go to Gurney, have sleepovers, and eat out after school. A funny memory I have of him is the time we stayed over at a friend’s house in a huge group. The host, Shahfiq, had a defective MacBook Pro, and David just asked, “Hey dude, can I destroy it?” out of nowhere, and Shahfiq amusedly consented. David immediately proceeded to repeatedly karate chop the machine, all the while laughing his head off. I admit, I, along with everyone else, was on the floor howling. Darren, another friend staying over, said, “No, wait! Give it to me, I can fix it,” which only intensified the laughing. As the night went on, we played horror games, screaming the whole time. I honestly felt bad for the host parents, who I doubt had a good night’s sleep. Many times after school I’d invite him out to eat, and he often asked whether his sister could come along. He constantly made sure the people around him were happy. Even in his battle with cancer, he was more worried about how his situation affected others rather than himself. Those Skype calls I had with him are memories that I will treasure for the rest of my life; I only wish I could have done more for him. He will be missed by many, especially those whose hearts he touched.

—By Kai Fraser

Special thanks to Miss Emily Grad for creating this literary magazine and to Gabriela Mims for designing it. Also thanks to Karissa Steinkamp, Evan Chinn, Rachel Halbedl, and Zachary Tan for helping compile these pages. Finally, thanks to you, the reader, for being entertained by the entire senior class.