ATHENAEA
Fall 2024
Table of Contents
Dedication
The Fall 2024 edition of Athenaea is dedicated to loss and growth—to sitting in sorrow and emerging a better version of yourself. From student self-portraits to The Things the FVS Community Carries, we have reclaimed parts of ourselves that once felt lost. Childhood memoirs that recollect lost joys of our youth. We acknowledge the burdens and struggles, the stories of love and longing, and the beauty throughout ordinary life. In the face of adversity, we emerge as resilient, loving, creative, and emotional people who create the community of FVS.
Fountain Valley School has built community and fostered connections through grief. Each day we strive to reach out to others and make an exchange of kindness. Loss is a transformative force and we urge you to acknowledge it fully-–to learn from it and build resilience. We dedicate this edition of the Athenaea to the ski gloves that have fallen off the chairlift, and the journeys made down the double-blacks to retrieve them. To the spoons and forks lost from the dining hall. To the loss of our math homework and chemistry worksheets that plunge our grades. To the loss of the leaves that brought color to campus. To the loss of family, friends, and loved ones. However, as we learned this school year, loss does not exist in isolation but is intertwined with love. To the love of our soft serve ice cream machine. To the love of the alert on our phones that caution heavy snowfall. To the love of Ms. Howell’s eyeliner that always matches the exact shade of her shoes, or Mr. Reynolds’ vibrant headwear. To the love of our closest peers – our lifeline of support.
We acknowledge that grief is not a linear process, and healing is not immediate. But through expressions of vulnerability, and the recognition of our collective experiences, we are reminded that growth spurs from loss and shapes our identities to help others through their loss.
To those who have experienced the ache of loss, may this edition of the Athenaea serve as a step-stool in healing.
-Stella and Emily
Two
They say to have a spare
Just in case one breaks
To grow with care and never compare
Even when they make mistakes
A pair of cherries connect at the stem
Never knowing where one begins or ends
Create sweet-and-sour mayhem
Some call them built-in best friends
To me, they aren’t opposites
Like night and day
Instead, they are synonymous
Beside each other along the way
- Emily Safyan ‘26
The Things I Carry
I carry two massive black suitcases filled with clothes, 38 tank tops, 10 baggy jeans, one Apple laptop, and one crime fiction book.
I carry my mother’s sadness and my father’s hope of me getting straight A’s. I carry a tiny yellow peep chick, a purple twin-size bed sheet, and one white dirty laptop charger. I carry the pressure of not getting into Cornell and Stanford.
I carry a fear of my three-year-old cat passing away before I meet her again. I also carry the love of iced matcha, the sidewalk in my hometown, and my old room’s scent. I carry memories of my childhood friend crying because I ate her chocolate.
I carry the desire to be loved; to be good enough for my mother to like me as much as my sister. I carry a fluffy blanket, five sneakers, 1% Retinol skincare, and ten lipsticks that I never use. I carry the fear of not being good enough, always being in the shadow of my sister’s success.
I carry jealousy of my friend Jessica, who is incredibly smart and became a medical student, has a proportional nose, has supportive parents and is loved.
I carry a picture of my family, a moment of happiness that feels so reachable and warm. I also carry an AP Calculus BC book, three pens, and one green apple candy. I carry the love for my home that is no longer as it was in my memories.
-
Wawa Vachirajindakul ‘25
Cleats, Conduct, Clarity
You can measure your life in years, big milestones, or important events, but I like to relive mine through soccer cleats. Moving to Colombia in 2011 marked the start of my conscious life; it also happens to be the same year I got my first pair of soccer cleats. Everyone would wear them to school, play in them during our intense recess matches, and admire each other’s cleats during class.
My first pair were purple Hypervenoms, the same shoes Neymar wore. I waited by our apartment’s elevator for two hours the day they arrived, eager for my dad to get home from work. I refused to take them off until I went to bed that night. At school, we would sometimes trade one pair with a friend so we could match. Once, I was getting ready to trade with my friend Valentino; I had unlaced my right shoe and was handing it over when he told me he didn’t need one of mine. He just wanted to gift me his. They were yellow and red and blue and orange and they marked my first best friend.
My cleats were more than just shoes—they became markers of the important events in my life. In Paraguay, I wore my first pair of Magistas. They weren’t just any cleats; they were the ones I wore when I won my first trophy. That moment, lifting the trophy with my teammates felt like the beginning of my soccer journey. Every time I see those cleats, I remember the final whistle, the rush of excitement, celebrating with my teammates, and my love for the game flourishing.
It’s not that I don’t have any important events to measure my life in, it’s just that my cleats were the cause of so many of these events. After wearing turf cleats all the way up to 7th grade, the pandemic hit. I was bored. I became consumed by soccer cleats: I would research them, find out what made some better than others, and what cleats are better for what players, I got so deep that I was finding out what country sells the best cleat manufacturing materials.
The pandemic ended and I got invited to play a soccer tournament in Barcelona. We visited the Camp Nou, met Messi and I bought my first customized pair of cleats. I was alone for the first time without my parents, finally given independence and I spent $250 on fake, custom cleats. I was so happy with myself.
Two years later, in Guatemala, I was ‘sponsored’ by a cleat company, Mezafu. The cleats were terrible, I never wore them, but they marked another big moment for me. What I did wear in Guatemala were Phantom GXs. I played on a third-division team while wearing them playing the toughest competition I had faced.
These cleats hold a special place in my life because I helped the team move up to the second division for the first time in their history with them. I scored a goal on the last game of the season which sparked elation from my teammates and the end of a fruitful life for my Phantom GX’s.
I buy a new pair almost every year. Each pair brings back memories of my time living in a certain country, playing on a certain team, the friends I had at the time, the way I played, and how I was spending my life. They represent who I am and was, with every pair marking a new era in my life.
- Luke Marcus ‘25
The Things I Carry
I carry the dangling keys with a silver carabiner to my blue Toyota, Gail. I carry a gray chipped whale lure, Gail’s keychain, and a Rosebud Motel key fob. My six fingers carry the green copper stain of my chunky rings.
I carry an annoyance for my math class, in which I have three quizzes this week. I carry a purple ducky, two yellow duckies, one multicolored ducky, a mermaid ducky, a Halloween ducky, and two felt moles - the kind that burrow in the ground. Inside I carry a pink Red Robin’s balloon, remembrance from last Friday night.
I carry the feeling of abandonment by my brother and sister, who left for college, and my father who moved into a different house.
I carry three Dave ‘n’ Buster cards, one scoopie token for Culver’s custard, and three lactaid pills. I carry a Raising Canes receipt for August 8, at 2:23 PM.
I carry jealousy for my friend’s parents, who are so in love; and the knowledge that my mom and dad never had that.
I carry a dollar bill from freshman year. I carry the eight-page letter I received with the words f**k you and f**k her.
I carry a cracked purple cellphone in my pocket next to my dangling keys.
- Pheobe Bain ‘25
The Things I Carry
The things I carry include my green Stanley cup with two stickers, a tote bag that contains my computer, my laptop charger, a single safety pin, leftover wrappers and loose papers, and two erasable pens.
I carry anxious thoughts; thoughts of unwanted family members texting me, along with the fear of abandonment. I carry relationships that don’t serve me anymore, but I somehow can’t let go of.
I carry leftover clay on my hands and in my cuticles. I carry my late-night poems that stay within my notes app. I carry 0.5 selfies with my friends, taken at weird angles. I carry endless love and empathy for life.
I carry Tylenol and stray salt packets; along with my pulse oximeter. I carry a racing heart that doesn’t know how to keep in sync with the rest of my body. I carry chronic pain and fatigue. I carry a list of medical diagnoses that seem to never end.
I carry pepper spray, along with the fear of walking alone at night. I carry the fear of being harassed, and having my bodily autonomy stripped away. I carry the grief of losing two people to suicide. I carry an extreme longing for deep connections and a fear of being unlovable.
- Brynn Jensen ‘25
Gods, Succulents, and Addie LaRue
I have measured my life out in books. My wooden bookshelf fixed to the wall holds both the fictional and the factual. My worn out version of The Very Hungry Caterpillar was the first of my collection; the colors on the pages fading where my fingers used to trace the shapes. The five annotated books of the Percy Jackson and the Olympians series have sticky notes spewing out of them, marking all the moments that resonated with my soul.
One section on my shelf is filled with books on Greek mythology. They mark the escapism era of my life. When I found this world unsatisfactory, I hid from reality in the dog eared pages of The Iliad. My mind danced with the gods in a fictional world that lacked the tangibility I desired. I so desperately wished those mythological creatures were real.
The World Book of House Plants sits on my desk, reminding me of a thrift store in Breckenridge and my homage to the succulents on my windowsill. I flip through the pages, admiring the green friends who held me together when my human ones let me down. Loneliness had no place in this encyclopedia full of life.
Calling Invisible Women, called to me from the library basement, knowing I needed someone to relate to. Though now this world and the people in it acknowledge my value, at the time they saw right through me. When my physical matter and mental presence were overlooked, the invisible woman did not question my importance.
These novels filled my mind and soul, teaching me how to think and act. The Song of Achilles taught me what unconditional love looks like. The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue showed me the importance of gratitude and planted the seed that would later grow into my blooming love for travel. The Red Queen taught me that the temporary sweetness of revenge was no match for the joy that forgiveness had to offer.
As my eyes travel across hundreds of pages, my mind recognizes words and connects them to their meaning. Mischief, murmur, manifestation. Many of these words now carry weight in my life after constantly crossing paths with them. My novels left their imprint on my mind. Single words stick together to form a family of meaning, influencing my every thought, every word, every action.
The books in my life stabilize me, holding me steady against the ever flowing winds of this world. They remind me of where I’ve started and how far I have yet to go.
- Eva Muciño ‘25
As The Leaves Fall
As the leaves fall in my senior year, I’m reminded of what will be left behind. I think about the people who have made me who I am and supported me through everything, suddenly thousands of miles away. I think about the people I have just become friends with, and how I wish I had spent more time with them. I think about time well spent and time not well spent. What is time well spent anyway?
I think about how happy this place makes me. How safe I feel here. I know that I will never find a place quite like The Valley. I’m grateful for the people, the place, and the memories of this school. Even though I never went to a football game or sat in lunch with 500 other people, I got Stupid Night Out and a soccer team that functioned a bit more like a family.
I also think of my family. My mom endlessly worries about what and how I’m doing, even though my response to her questions never changes. My dad would like to impose an anti-curfew (i.e. don’t come back before midnight) just to encourage me to hang out with my newfound friends. My sister. Who am I supposed to go to when I want someone to make French toast for me in the morning or give me fashion advice? Even though we exist as opposites, her protruding puzzle piece fits perfectly into my indent. As the leaves fall, I realize the branches that will be left bare come next summer, the leaves existing as a mere memory.
- Lily Christofferson ‘25
Tea, Coffee, Traditions
Mornings in my house are always steeped in routine. Everyone has their own little ritual to prepare for the day. We use the same space, the same stove and kettle, but we are in our own worlds for the first few hours of the morning. It’s a stark contrast to our other meals, circled around the kitchen table, hands linked in prayer and familial togetherness.
My brother is up first, frying bacon and hash browns at oh-dark-thirty. He drinks his coffee with sugar, no cream. The wrong way. He’s usually gone by the time everyone else wakes up. The only signs of him are the growl of his diesel engine as he drives off to work, and a still-warm skillet resting on the stove.
My mom is up next, pouring herself a homemade latte with warm frothed milk. She is meticulous with her coffee - measuring out the grounds with absolute precision. She offers to make me a cup when I stumble into the kitchen. Sometimes, I take up her offer. Other times, I claim the remainder of my dad’s tea.
He’s up last. The only non coffee-drinker in the house, he brews a pot of Earl Grey. He times the brewing time, three minutes exactly. Can’t let it get bitter. He sits in the living room, reading the news on his phone while it steeps. He has almost every news app. Fox, Reuters, NYT, Washington Post, Seattle Times, you name it. His perfectly steeped tea gets a drizzle of honey - not too much - and a splash of almond milk.
I don’t really know where I fit into these mornings. I come down into the kitchen and, as I reach for a mug, I feel like I am taking sides. After a moment’s deliberation, I reach for the coffee. Brewed dark and strong, its bitterness is tempered by the still-warm milk poured over it. It is identical to the latte my mom made herself thirty minutes ago. Maybe I’m turning into her. The thought terrifies me.
I sip the coffee anyway, and its warmth radiates through me.
- Fabian Kaltenbach ‘25
Love
love is blinding. it shines brighter than the sun, leaving your senses confused and your balance uneven. love is scary. it makes your stomach flip and twist as if it were an acrobat flying between swinging bars and walking on the thinnest tightrope. love is annoying. it makes your bones hurt because you feel that it is too unreasonable to be hopeful for. love is exciting. it fills your body with warmth and giddiness. One brush of skin and the hairs on your arms stand up as if lightning were close. love is aggravating. there are too many hours spent thinking about the endless possibilities that come with it. Fear, Sadness, Loneliness, Connection, Anticipation, and Joy. love is real.
I see it everywhere; in my friends’ jokes at the dinner table, my family’s endless stories from their childhoods, and occasionally, in myself.
I see it in extended eye contact and in long, warm hugs. I see it in moments of shared grief and strife. love is all around us. you just have to be willing to look for it.
- Brynn Jensen
‘25
From The Vault
You and I, Rain and Tears - anonymous, 1984
you are a rain drop that fell from the sky i am a teardrop that fell from your eye
when you had fallen you puddled with peers such is not the case with wiped away tears
off your cheek i was lost blown away by the breeze but you are forever a gift to the trees
on a rainy day tears fell from His eye a teardrop and a raindrop had fallen nearby
i guess feeling lonely together they played and by the powers of magic a puddle they made
then His broken heart mended and out came the sun lo-and behold the puddle was gone!
so distant yet near we are one and the same i am a tear and you are the rain
HA!
It’s kind of strange My life today Seems it has no meaning. I’m quite bummed out All the time And never do My required work. What’s happening To me.
I don’t understand I must be going crazy--Not caring About life And responsibilities. Perhaps I am Becoming an adult.
- Erik Bedford, 1987
Quest
The moon clings to the tree tops. I contemplate life. I think, there must be more. Confusion, agitation, seeing all, but in absence of perspective. The dew danced on the blades of grass. Like a fairy leap. Darkness has consumed all objects in it’s domain. Black. Pitch black. The color of my mind. The moon.
Not in full view, like the knowledge, Not fully seen. Reflections of the lost, deranged by the rippes of the living.
The stars continue their quest, the discovery before. Reality is a dream.
We awaken to fantasy. That is the lesson of the cold darkness. Succumb by a feeling; There is no more to life than life itself.
This is my comfort.
- Stacey Davidson, 1989
Untitled
i get lost in the colorado mountain air, suffocate, and come to, flinging my thoughts, my emotions, my vulnerability ever which way,
convinced we lived as one in another life,
convinced we’ll overcome again this sickening strife.
if you were a color i’d paint you clear blue with white on your edges, a trickle of black.
you say you love me; prove your insanity with an artist’s skill and i’ll photograph you in a fountain of blue, a sea of color waiting to touched, flooded, devoured.
please remember me in our insanity when others will live to forget.
twenty-one
- Sarah Freeman, 1989
Missing Link
Poetry is art, it must be, for when I try to write images come onto the paper but they’re not words; they’re pictures... My thoughts are my pen, My emotions are the ink, But somewhere between pen and paper there is a missing link.
- Kayti Crowley, 1989
Acknowledgements
Faculty Sponsor
Dave Reynolds, English Department Chair
Editors
Brynn Jensen
Sofia Bedoya-Correa
Emily Safyan
Stella Rhee
Printed by On Target Marketing
Athenaea is a publication of Fountain Valley School of Colorado
