The Georgetowner (2020), Georgetown Visitation

Georgetowner

The Perfect Fit Adipiscing amen bibendum nullam, locus molestie ut libero sodales.

By Urna Semper

2020 Volume 28 Georgetowner 2020

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Georgetowner THE ART AND LITERARY MAGAZINE OF GEORGETOWN VISITATION PREPARATORY SCHOOL

2020 Volume 28 1524 35th St. NW, Washington DC 20007-2785 Phone 202.337.3350 georgetowner@visi.org

Cover Art: wHeRe’S tHe LiGhT sOuRcE, Sara Manzano Davila, watercolor

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The Human Experience Who are you? What is your purpose? The human experience is defined by the search for ourselves through life and social interactions; it revolves around a path towards a restoration of peace, on both a small and large scale. This peace may be external or internal, depending on the conflict that strikes the individual’s heart. The human experience is difficult, marked by struggle, loss, hope, and prosperity.

Even so, it is the people we encounter along the way that help carry our crosses. The key to happiness is a sense of family and community. Lives have purpose even if they aren’t easy.

We do not lead perfect lives, for we are supposed to struggle at some points. However, through hardship we learn about ourselves and the meaning of our lives. Along the way, we strive for perfection, often unable to accept anything less.

But it is important along this journey to learn that we are supposed to be imperfect and that we grow from the struggles that we face. It is from this spiritual conflict that we can begin to discover our purpose.

—Chapin Rockwell

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Table of Contents Prose 10 14 18 29 40 46 52 64 68 85 88 99

Five Steps...

Promises An Infinity of Turtles Uhuru Means Freedom The Shifter in the Woods Red Onions...

Without Mercy A Prayer Act VI...

A Portrait...

Year of the Rat Shaving Revisited...

Lily Nicholson Sofia Donohue Camilla Johnson Mimi Muir Nina Swartz Bella Williams Cece Swartz Emma Gorman Bella Williams Genevieve Cullen Camilla Johnson Bella Williams

Poetry 7 9 9 16 17 25 26 37 45 49 51 51 61 62

Alternate Reality Puddle Hopping Rain Spooky Scary Skeletons!

Sea Monster Tracks in the Lake Freedom A Poem for My Mother A Day in San Francisco Pearl Winter Night Ice Angels Cuttlewish The Forgotten

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Carolina Zubler Abby Scheibel Alexa Sifakis Alex Phillips Elizabeth Clark Evelyn Waddick Amelia Metcalf Florence Kane Elizabeth Clark Patricia McGee Claudia Nachega Frances Cave Camilla Johnson Maeve Tuohey 4

67 82 83 86 86 93 95 96 103 107

Fireflies Cookie Jar Roses Toxic Internet Culture...

My Status Be Like A Sad Poem Poems Frontlines High School The Williams Man

80 Windows

7 14 16 17 19 20 23 37 41 42 47 56 59 60 64 68 70

Photo Essay

Catalina Torres

Art

oJo Blowing Bubbles Untitled Third Eye Grabby Eyeball Driver’s Ed Daydream Rainbow Road...

Swan Study demon? DeMon. Zombie Constellation...

Untitled Decomposition Starfish We’re on the Borderline The Ghost of Blue Diner Hamlet

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Louisa Cave Elizabeth Clark Maggie Caulfield Isabella Iscaro Isabella Iscaro Shallom Hailu Bridget Keon Niyat Theodroes Julia Clark Ellie Walker

Sara Manzano Davila Camilla Johnson Sarah Zidlicky Sara Manzano Davila Sara Manzano Davila Sara Manzano Davila Camilla Johnson Margaret Frances Lee Sara Manzano Davila Camilla Johnson Camilla Johnson Molly Carroll Sara Manzano Davila Camilla Johnson Alex Phillips Bella Williams Bella Williams 5

73 74 77 83 88 91 94 97 98 109

8 10 11 13 24 27 28 33 34 44 49 50 53 63 67 82 84 87 93

Fortinbras Horatio Ophelia Roses It’s not quite Mike...

Untitled Melting Reality Untitled Dysphoria Hope for Magnolias

Bella Williams Bella Williams Bella Williams Margaret Frances Lee Sara Manzano Davila Aliya Feggins Fior Cecchi-Rivas Sarah Zidlicky Sara Manzano Davila Camilla Johnson

Photography

Louisa Cave Louisa Cave Julia Clark Frances Cave Genevieve Cullen Julia Clark Mimi Muir Mimi Muir Mimi Muir Julia Clark Alexa Sifakis Carolina Zubler Lily Nicholson Julia Clark Amelia Metcalf Louisa Cave Carolina Zubler Amelia Metcalf Amelia Metcalf

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Alternate Reality A good book stops time With its hexing beauty to spellbind.

A good book is a summer night sky That hypnotizes while the stars spin by.

A good book is a winding hike, That entrances with majestic sights.

A good book makes you forget That reality awaits at the other end.

— Carolina Zubler

oJo, Sara Manzano Davila, ink

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8 Louisa Cave, photograph

Puddle Hopping As I’m walking down the street There’s a puddle at my feet When I see them getting wet I tell them I shall not fret As I look up at the sky And the birds are flapping by When the rain starts trickling down My bright smile is a frown But I turn it back around And start jumping up and down

Rain Trickle trickle Drip drop Go and take a dip Run around the block Go and get a kick Take a lick of drip Take a lick of drop Drop a lick of drip

Splish and splash And hip and hop My bright red boots will never stop

— Abby Scheibel

— Alexa Sifakis

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Prose Contest: Second Place

Five Steps to Make Your Life Perfect

by Becoming an Instagram Star

Louisa Cave, photograph

1. Throw Everything Away Forget about your old life. It’s irrelevant. Make a big bonfire in your backyard (well, not too big—it’s kinda hard to look good in prison orange), and throw in all your old clothes: your one-piece bathing suits, that ugly sweater you got from your mom that you haven’t had the heart to toss yet. Also, make sure you include all of those photos of you from when you were like, ten, and those bangs just weren’t doing you any favors.

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2. Cleanse Your Digital Life You’re going to be spending a lot of time on your phone now, so delete any photo of your old life that doesn’t make you look fabulous. Gone are those awkward photos your mom made you take with your Snowball date; gone are those terrible selfies you took when you were trying to see if you had food in your teeth. Next, your contacts. If there is anyone, and I mean ANYONE, on that list who would look ugly next to you, delete their contact. Same goes for anyone who might look prettier than you. You must be the star.

Julia Clark, photograph

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3. Time to Spend Some Money Now, this step is going to get a bit expensive. First you have to stalk your favorite Instagram pages and find the PERFECT outfits. Then, track down the brands online.

Look especially for “good vibes” shirts and Fjallraven Kanken Packs. Make it seem like your life is a constant vacation. Buy all the right brands from LuLuLemon to Hydroflask to show that you are in style. Now, you must book trips around the world to the most Insta-worthy places. If that’s not your speed, at least splurge on some bright lights, a real-looking backdrop, and some sand to go with your new bikini so you can post beach pictures at least once a week.

4. Fake it Till You Make it Recreating the lives you see on Instagram is hard. You can’t let others know that, though. The key is looking like you’re on vacation all the time. No matter what is going on with your life, you must grin and bear it. Fake it till you make it, all the time, 24/7. Even those few times that you’re not taking photos (which should really only be when you’re crossing a busy street—no one looks good with a black eye and a broken neck), you should exude happy confidence to those around you. Your life is great, all the time, any time, even if it’s not. Your dog died? Post

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Frances Cave, photograph

a particularly cute picture of the good old days, then go back to #savetheturtles the next day. You don’t have the time for anything less than #goodvibes.

5. Post pictures. Lots and lots of pictures. So everyone knows how perfect your new life is.

— Lily Nicholson Georgetowner 2020

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Blowing Bubbles, Camilla Johnson, colored pencil and crayon

Promises “She made me keep a promise, but I’m only going to tell you. That means no repeating. Ever. Never ever. To anyone.

Okay, so you promise, right?” My brother gave me that stare.

The one you give when you’re about to tell someone a secret and you need to make sure they won’t spill. I stared blankly at him, wondering. As if he could read my thoughts, he shoved the flashlight so it shone directly into my eyes to the point where my vision became splotchy and dark.

“Say it,” he murmured, refusing to move the flashlight out of my probably now-blinded eyes.

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If I’m being honest, I wasn’t going to keep the secret. I just wanted to know what it was. Excited, I answered, “Okay, I promise.”

No response, just a droning buzz. White noise. The buzz going in one ear, out the other. My little brother, unmoving.

His stiff arm frozen, his right hand still clutching the flashlight in his palm. The buzz abruptly stops, perfectly synced with the closure of my heavy eyelids. I am falling.

With my eyes still shut, the rush of the platform I land on hits me, and my eyelids open. I am unhurt and, even better, a soft pillow cushions my stiff neck. The surrounding darkness of my brother’s room is replaced with the illuminating glow of the all-white hospital room.

The white noise is replaced by the slow beep-beep of an alarm. I turn my neck to the right, and the line on the monitor weakens.

A frail and cold palm, visibly wrinkled with age, grabs my hand and intertwines its fingers with mine; my brother’s promising eyes stare into mine as the heart monitor flatlines.

— Sofia Donohue

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Spooky Scary Skeletons!

Shake your hips and do the jive Animated not alive Lonely bonely groovin kin Come out of our meat and skin They be shakin all their bones To the tunes of xylophones Jiggle wiggle shank and jank Can’t resist that skelly stank Wanna dance but have no feet Shake your tailbone to the beat Skel’tons party every night Join and give your friends a fright!

— Alex Phillips

Sarah Zidlicky, print

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Third Eye, Sara Manzano Davila, acrylic

Sea Monster Sparkling gills in the water Could it be a fish?

It’s a mermaid!

Said his daughter The Fisherman threw out his line To try and reel it in But that was no fish Pulled out of the brine.

— Elizabeth Clark

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An Infinity of Turtles hen Bartholomew started his day, falling off the edge of the Earth was not on his agenda. In fact, being a pirate (a group not known for their executive planning and productivity), nothing much of anything was on his agenda, except perhaps carousing, haranguing, and maybe even leering if he was feeling ambitious.

Bartholomew idly considered adding some marauding to the list.

Unfortunately, marauding wouldn’t be possible at the moment, as the ship continued to sail farther and farther away from the very town they had been terrorizing. The merchants traveling in this part of Greece had become wary of them, and the pirates were quickly running out of prey.

So, the plan now was to set out for Venice, hugging the Georgetowner 2020

coast and stopping minimally in order to get there quickly. They set off at night to avoid trouble, and as the ship skimmed near the coast, Bartholomew found himself almost wistfully watching the lights of the town recede. The beach was now dark and lifeless, dotted with only the occasional flock of seabirds, or sea turtle shuffling its way onto shore to lay eggs. t was almost serene in a dreary sort of way— that is, until the tempest overtook them. In all his days on the sea, Bartholomew had never seen anything like it. One moment the waves appeared calm, and the next, they battered the ship like a toy in the hands of an angry child. Immediately, the captain began desperately barking orders 18

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Grabby Eyeball, Sara Manzano Davila, pastel

from the deck. Though no one could hear him through the wind, rain, and his

frantically bailing water from the ship with an old chamber pot. He was also

exceptionally dense beard, everyone knew the goal was likely not to be in the middle of a terrifying storm.

Sails were brought in, the masts taken down, and men steered futilely with an oar, trying to return to shore. At this point, they were willing to beach the ship if it meant survival. artholomew was doing his part in the chaos,

simultaneously composing heart-wrenching pleas of mercy to every god he’d ever heard of, promising to give up piracy for a life of honest privateering. In the middle of composing a particularly tearful line to Allah, Bartholomew heard a peculiar roaring noise in his ears. He paused from his work to look around, and with utter terror, realized he could not see so much as

Driver’s Ed Daydream, Sara Manzano Davila, ink

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a glimpse of land. The storm had swept them out to sea and appeared to urge

a split second he felt the ship soar gloriously through the air—before the vessel

the ship still farther and faster than ever as the vessel bucked and plunged in the strong current. artholomew was lucky. While his panicked shipmates were occupied bailing water, he got the full, unspoiled view of falling off the side of the earth. At a glance, Bartholomew thought he had finally spotted land, but the closer they careened, the stranger the line of blue and black looked. Suddenly, there was nothing in front of him but stars. Right before the ship flew over the edge, some wonderful instinct of Bartholomew’s told him to hang on for dear life. He quickly scrabbled for the deck’s railing, and not a moment too soon. For

tipped into a nosedive, and he felt his stomach flip into his chest. ll around him, falling water and debris beat the ship mercilessly. He squeezed his eyes shut, half against the stinging spray and half against the cries of men as they were flung from the ship. Something hit him on the shoulder, and he cracked a grudging eye open, only to meet the mirror gaze of a giant eye staring right back through railing. It is always hard to know exactly what one would do when faced with a mammoth eye from the void. n Bartholomew’s case, he made a noise a little like “!?,” which can only be pronounced by

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those truly experiencing Lovecraftian terror. For, of all the people who have

before the ship smashed into something hard, spraying wood and flesh.

fallen off the earth, Bartholomew may be the only one who truly comprehended what he saw. Anyone wiser than him would have assumed they were sick or injured, dreaming or hallucinating.

Anyone smarter than him would have gone mad trying to rationalize it or give it any semblance of meaning.

Instead, Bartholomew simply accepted what he saw, which was the fact that the world rested on the backs of eight elephants, (or, since he didn’t know what elephants were, some kind of malformed, wrinkly boar). He watched, entranced, as the eye disappeared and the tip of a tusk passed, then a ragged ear, a wrinkled chest, and finally, a massive toenail,

artholomew woke with a pounding headache, nausea, and a sense of utter confusion. Other than that, he remained miraculously unharmed. A few hundred feet away, he could see the bodies of his more unlucky crewmates alongside the ship. He considered going to search through the wreckage, but it all felt meaningless now, somehow. Instead, he rose and walked aimlessly, observing that they had landed on the edge of a vast, dark plain. The ground beneath him was hard, stratified, and formed ridges in the distance, as if the earth was divided into massive plates. Beyond that was a starry void, but filled with strange, unfamiliar

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constellations no sailor could ever navigate by. In awe, Bartholomew watched

downward to find out what, in turn, the turtle was standing on. Instead, he

as, without warning, the stars were eclipsed by a massive flipper wheeling into the air, and for the second time that day, Bartholomew understood something no one on Earth ever had: the earth was on top of elephants, and he, well, he was on a turtle. He stood, swaying slightly, and grinned at the slow flipper.

Curiosity suddenly seized him, and carefully he walked to the lip of the gargantuan shell, peering

discovered only darkness.

He teetered on the edge of the turtle’s shell a little longer, looking out into space, and gradually the void seemed very familiar to him, like the sea on a dark night. And the stars began to look a lot like the lights of the town, getting closer.

And Bartholomew thought of turtles on empty beaches once again before losing consciousness and tumbling downward, off the edge.

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— Camilla Johnson

Rainbow Road Closed for Renovation, Camilla Johnson, watercolor

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Genevieve Cullen, photograph

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Tracks In The Lake Long ago the hills stood tall, just as they do today But now I live within the hill and it is here that I must stay Shining waters churn below, along my little shore My railroad tracks within the lake are hidden evermore Sometimes I hear them in the deep, creaking with decay Through glassy eyes I watch them as they fade away In the shallows I touch rusty nails and weep at their poor state Another death looms closer as my old tracks dissipate This railroad track I built, I hoped that it would last But just like myself, it’s forgotten, disused, drowned in the past.

— Evelyn Waddick

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Freedom in the dead snow, in the still air where the everlasting sleep in the silence, in the night i find that i can breathe. though i have lost more than i thought, i think i can see. i’m finding it hard to handle the heat. my heart blinds me. the space you once filled inside my lungs is vacant; i can’t speak. my throat is raw, my teeth stained with truth, red and bloody. i killed what i had to, my dear. it’s survival and liberty. i tore myself from your side to ensure my own safety. i destroyed my mind and i buried it in peace, so that maybe i could, maybe, oh, i’ll never be sure of it (and i suppose we never are) but in the death of my old life, my old ghosts, my old faces, i am born again; i am Free

— Amelia Metcalf

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Julia Clark, photograph

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Uhuru Means Freedom Text and Photographs by Mimi Muir

eriods? Tampons?

No water? What does any of this have to do with school?

Actually, did you know that not all girls can go to school when they are having their periods? Can you imagine the impact on society if girls were less educated just because they had to miss school for one week a month, almost every year?

When I was 15, I learned about an American woman who decided to make a difference in the lives of girls impacted by this very problem. Laura Ponte Chauvin, founder of Her Best Foot Forward, researched and figured out a way to train other women to manufacture 100% biodegradable sanitary Georgetowner 2020

pads from tree pulp.

Distributing the pads to school girls in Tanzania allowed many to manage menstruation in safety and dignity, increase confidence, and remove barriers to success.

The pads were named UhuruPads, “uhuru” meaning “freedom” in Swahili, for a reason. emembering Laura from her college days at Vanderbilt University, early in 2018, my mother showed me some Facebook posts about the project, and I reached out immediately.

Laura responded that if I were able to raise funds to support at least 300 students for a year then I could join her that summer.

Remarkably, after drafting a 29

fundraising page with the Uhuru story and sending it out to my community, it took off! Within a week, I exceeded the goal.

Did you know that it only costs approximately $12 to provide one girl with confidence-building health and hygiene information, undergarments, and a year’s worth of UhuruPads? fter seeing my success and the positive support of my community, Laura opened the trip to 5 other students. The project gained steam quickly. Her college chose her for a philanthropy award and invited her to speak at graduation, Tori Burch (the designer!) recognized her with a community activist award, and even Nelson Mandela’s foundation enlisted her help! Presented with a unique opportunity to speak to both Democratic and Republican officials on Capitol Hill, I worked with Georgetowner 2020

her to advocate for our project, and it received both political and financial support. The money was used to purchase an additional machine in the single machine workshop where the pads are made.

UhuruPads are made in a small facility by local women, resulting in a critical product and desperately needed jobs. efore we left, we were scheduled to participate in training, which helped us learn how to present the educational materials effectively. The delegation was divided into teams, and we were to canvas schools across the country. I met with hundreds of school girls at a time, visited six schools, and taught them about health, hygiene, and safety. nitially, I had no expectations traveling to a new place, across the world, with a 30

dramatically different culture, and alongside strangers. I saw it as a journey. The trip was rapidly planned, and I rushed to get a passport and all my required vaccines, including one for yellow fever, weeks before I left. With little knowledge of what to prepare for, I loaded up on candy from CVS to hand to children, Afterbite for mosquitoes and packed L.L. Bean multipurpose shirts and a bunch of long cotton pants (before this my closet was filled with Catholic school uniforms and lacrosse and yoga work out clothes).

Before I knew it, it was time to leave. I jumped on a train from DC to meet the group.

Little did I know, the only “thing” needed in Tanzania is openness, a big heart, and a warm smile. reeted by our Tanzanian hosts, Jane and John, who were found by chance Georgetowner 2020

on one of those online renta-home travel sites, I immediately felt comfort and immense hospitality in a foreign place. Jane greeted us with a warm meal of fresh bananas from her garden, bread from the market nearby, and spiced chicken. I was prepared to eat like a bird during my stay, but instead, with much gratitude, went to bed every night with a well-fed and full stomach. Each day, we woke up to the sound of monkeys outside the window and packed into a rusty white van to visit schools. Each van ride, I took the opportunity to look out the window and appreciate my surroundings: non-existent traffic rules, zebra crossings, homemade jewelry, vibrant clothes, women balancing water buckets on their heads, children herding sheep, and simply beautiful nature.

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hile each school I went to was different—its location, uniform, gender make-up, leadership, and standards— each had something in common, which was thankfulness. For most of the students, I was the first American person they had ever seen. Boundaries quickly dissolved, as children touched my hair, felt my skin, and stared into my blue eyes. Rather than a sense of isolation, I felt a secure belonging and love.

My name, “Mimi,” translates to “you” in Swahili, so you can only imagine the instant laughter and sound of giggles when I introduced myself. The girls adored making fun of us and imitating the way we spoke and acted, something I found hilarious, and it instantly created a connection.

The girls we met were fascinated with our Georgetowner 2020

presentation and asked insightful questions: What do girls in America use?

How is their experience different? Does this mean I should have a baby now?

What was your experience like? Do you ever feel at a disadvantage to males because of this? They always remained respectfully attentive. fter the education portion, teaching basic skills, providing information, and, for the first time, telling them that what they were experiencing was a “normal and part of being a woman,” we passed out a years supply of products to each girl and undergarments. As we did, the girls’ eyes lit up with joy, and they raced to the front of the line. In a few instances, girls tried to go back in line and grab more supplies. Something I take for granted made these girls shout, “This is the happiest 32

day of my life” or “Are you an angel?” fterwards, the girls begged to take photos on my camera and were baffled when I showed them their photo in the viewer lens. Each time we took a group picture and I looked away, the girls all ran their hands in my hair and giggled. The girls loved asking me about what my country was like and what I aspired to be—many of them dreamt of becoming Georgetowner 2020

lawyers and doctors. I was amazed and humbled by their curiosity.

At one specific school where resources were minimal, and students ate from a communal bean pot, I realized just how selfless these people were. Four or five young girls grabbed me by the hand and dragged me to the front of the dinner line. They picked up the cooking pot, filled it up with half of the school’s food, which supported a few hundred students, and 33

gave me the bowl, expressing, “You’re welcome to eat.” I was in awe that these students, with scant resources and food, wanted to please me.

I thought of kids back at home who complain about food. This pot, which could not feed all of the students to American standards, was being given to me so that I would be full. It was hard to hold back my tears.

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hen it was time to go on to the next school or return home after a long day, the girls would sob and make me promise to return. Many of the girls told me that they wanted to name their first child “Mimi” after me. My favorite part of the whole experience was being toppled with hugs and having children hang from all my limbs shouting “I love you” and “thank you,”

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knowing I had touched their lives, too.

One day when shopping at a market, I ran into a man dressed in all-white linens, who sparked a conversation with me about why I was in Tanzania. He handed me his business card, which titled him as some leader in the government. A little skeptical and hesitant to believe his position, I thanked him and continued my day giving little thought to our conversation. The next morning, he reached out and invited my team to a conference. In the spur of the moment, we went.

Unexplainable except for a higher power, the conference included Tanzanian officials and high leaders. We listened to their conference and shared our project and hopes. The possibility of a national expansion for the UhuruPad project was ignited!

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ntering into this, a grassroots project, I did not expect to fall in love with the work, the country, or the people.

Upon my arrival back home to the states, I already dreamt of the next summer when I could return to Tanzania. My perceptions, attitudes, and goals shifted based on this experience, and I plan to extend the mission of my work there. hope to attend medical school or focus on public health and policy and devote my life, similarly to Laura, to giving back to my community and to the world at large. Like her, I aspire to lead a selfless life motivated by giving to others. When my dad died in 2015, everything changed for me. Instead of remaining fixated on what I did not have, I chose to focus on what I did have.

Through that shift, I also realized that I am stronger 35

than I knew, more determined than once believed, and much more capable than people assume. As the oldest of four, by default, I assumed a great sense of responsibility and, in watching my mother lead us in her new role, the importance of having education became crystal clear. he UhuruPad project extended that reach for me so that I could share with other girls the notion that they too could reach their potential. UhuruPads not only support their dignity each month, but also mean a more consistent education. Realizing what I had taken for granted ranging from easily accessible hygiene products to clean water and a fantastic education, a newfound consciousness guided me throughout my junior year of high school.

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Knowing that I had to continue the conversation, without reservation, I agreed to return with a growing delegation this summer.

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Poetry Contest: First Place

Swan Study, Margaret Frances Lee, digital

A Poem for My Mother If I should have a daughter I would wish her more like my mother Than like me.

I would want her to know the familiar scent of morning sun From the day’s first embrace: A hug—and wet kiss—from her mother.

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I would want her to know the sound of crinkled newspaper Open to the obituary page and Folded on the turquoise ottoman.

I would want her to know the soft touch of a cotton bathrobe Speckled with cardinals and coffee stains A sign of the weekend.

I would want her to know the joy of gummy bears Found in a deep and dusty purse pocket Which overflows with receipts, clumpy lip stuff, a water bottle for church And always a spare pen.

I would want her to know of a mother Who stays up hours to help fill out applications Edit emails String fairy lights Sew kilts Trim nails Cry tears That aren’t even her own.

I would want her to want to give so much of herself To something that brings joy to others: A conversation A card A luncheon A prayer.

If I should have a daughter I would want her to feel grateful for only being Angry because somebody loves her so much.

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I would want her to know the immeasurable and age old comfort Of soft pat pat pats on her shoulder Always reminding her that she still needs her mother No matter how much she pretends to hate Wet kisses Off-key church hymns and Quiet reading time.

I would want her to know the familiar nighttime conversation Occurring just as a bedroom door clicks closed: I love you I love you more I love you most.

If I should have a daughter I would want her to see everything beautiful Everything of laughter and Labor and Love And say, That reminds me of my mother.

— Florence Kane

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The Shifter in the Woods he birds skittered from the high branches of an oak tree as men stomped into the clearing, not bothering to quiet their steps in the previously tranquil forest.

Some groaned when they viewed the numbers of trees they had to cut down. The axes hung from their belts.

The moon had not fully set, and a ray of sun barely shone from the horizon when chips of wood started to pepper the ground. The rhythmic thuds of axes cleaving wood resounded through the forest. They worked until dawn had fully cleared the horizon, giving birth to the new day’s light.

The grove no longer teemed with life. In the shade of the trees, the wind danced as a doe trotted away, dappled with the golden morning light filtering through the canopy. It only glanced back Georgetowner 2020

once with eyes the color of the fallen oaks’ leaves.

A young man with sharp eyes asked his partner, “Did you see that?”

“Hmm, what? See what?”

His partner looked at him with bleary eyes.

“The doe, man! Did you see that deer? They are never that healthy anymore.”

“Then go after it. We need fresh meat.” He smirked. “Oh! And uh… while you’re at it… leave me to my nap.” e sat back against a root and tipped the brim of his hat down over his face. The other young man walked toward the gap between the trees, seeing the deer’s tracks leading deeper into the forest. The flash of a white tail bobbed to the right. A hoof trot clacked against rock and echoed from the left. He trailed 40

after the sound and passed a gnarled tree with branches splayed out like a rack of antlers on a buck. he sharp-eyed man trailed the deer beyond another old, knotted tree while he turned and twisted through the woods, following sounds of twig snaps and hoof clacks. Emerging through some evergreens, he arrived at an unknowingly familiar tree to see the doe trot behind it, and a woman with fey green eyes appeared from the other side.

The man’s eyes widened as he stumbled back from the mysterious woman as she strode out of the shade.

His body began to angle away from her as he tried to remember from which direction he came.

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demon? DeMon., Sara Manzano Davila, watercolor

“Where are you going, hunter?” the woman inquired. “Aren't you glad you found your prey?”

The man twitched his fingers for the hunting bow he had left with the other men. She grinned and cocked her head like a feral cat looking at a curious new meal. When the man observed her face, he 41

Zombie, Camilla Johnson, pastel

Dolion owns all the land from the eastern woods to the mountain. You must be mistaken.”

“The shifter of the woods is never mistaken, hunter.”

“What,” he asked, “are you saying?” he

shuddered. “I was… wasn’t hunting anything! I haven’t done anything. My men and I are simply passing through.”

“Then why do you destroy the forest as if this land is yours?”

The man stopped for a moment and stared at her blankly. “Miss, I don’t know who you are, but Lord Georgetowner 2020

narrowed her green eyes at him and grinned again.

The trees swayed violently as the wind hissed through them. When she smiled at him, their surroundings responded to her with their own consciousness. Leaves flew past the man’s face in whorls of verdant green that blinded him. Howls of wind and the crackling of branches shrieked in 42

unison. A voice directed at him rose above the chaos: “Hunter, no man can tame this land. It is its own being.”

She stepped back and melted away into the trees.

Perhaps the shifter was the bird flying away or the squirrel scampering on faraway branches. But in the background, a doe trotted off. His vision blurred as his view of the lush greenery turned into a kaleidoscope of dirt and leaves. The ground rushed towards him, and the world turned black. ith a sudden intake of breath, he sat up in a tranquil grove of oak saplings, vacant except for a single deer. He glanced around, hoping to see his partners, but the forest was empty except for him and the animals. When he returned his gaze to the strange doe, in its place was a fey woman. She was Georgetowner 2020

barefoot, and flashes of sunlight in her hair revealed auburn and gold. Her eyes were fixed on him. rompted by her stare, the young man said, “This is the grove I helped clear.

What happened?”

“A new growth of trees.

Isn’t it beautiful?”

He looked at the colors of the light shining through the leaves and felt the softness of the earth below.

The sounds of the animals’ daily lives surrounded him.

It was richer in color and life than what most talented artists could paint.

“I suppose it is.”

— Nina Swartz

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44 Julia Clark, photograph

A Day in San Francisco Off of the trolly Onto the bike To the bridge Up the hill Over the road Windy and cold Misty and foggy Busy, busy, busy Crowded walkways Bay of great haze New food and treats Tons of fun when you’re out on the street!

— Elizabeth Clark

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Prose Contest: First Place

Red Onions, Red Wine, Red Meat n my fourteenth birthday my dad taught me the family Sunday gravy recipe.

To many, “gravy” brings to mind pan drippings or broth, but for New Jersey Italian-Americans, it refers to a meaty red sauce. Gravy serves a few purposes in my family, from cooking meatballs to dressing pasta.

The recipe has been passed down through my family for generations, but never the exact same way twice. It changes by generation, by season, and by week.

Sometimes, depending on the weather, we’ll add different ingredients to the gravy, like cinnamon in the colder months. My dad makes it sweeter than his mom did, with red onions and more wine. I tend to go heavy on the seasonings, Georgetowner 2020

with the exception of red pepper flakes. My dad says the meal was originally used to stretch a little bit of food to feed a lot of people; the meatballs would have been a lot less meat and a lot more breadcrumbs. We still feed upwards of a dozen people every week, but these days we have sausage and oxtail on the menu too.

One constant change is that every new generation adds more garlic than the last. he Sunday dinner recipe isn’t the only long-running practice I’ve been entrusted with preserving. My family is Catholic, with its roots in faith traditions from Ireland, Italy, Samoa, and Taiwan. We celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with corned beef and Christmas Eve with La Vigilia, or The Feast 46

of Seven Fish. A few years ago my sisters and I became the first Polynesian dancers to perform at the National Shrine. I cherish my Catholic upbringing and education, which forms the backbone of my culture, my character, and my sense of purpose, but it has also been a point of struggle for me in recent years. rowing into my teen years, I learned how to think critically about myself and the world around me, to question my initial assumptions about how I

should act and who I should be. To anyone who knows me, I’m a passionate feminist with views one might generally describe as “progressive.” To those who know me well, I’ve been out as bisexual for a little over a year. While I’m proud of who I’ve become at this stage of life, there is a certain amount of stress that comes with being caught in the center of a battle for the future of the Church. he friction between what often seem to be

A Constellation of Freckles, Camilla Johnson, watercolor and colored pencil

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two irreconcilable sides of my identity has forced me to confront some difficult questions. Does solidarity with women and people of marginalized identities make me a bad Catholic?

Does choosing to keep the faith that taught me love for one’s neighbor make me a bad activist? How do I honor tradition when aspects of tradition have not always been kind to people like me? don’t have a complete answer to any of these yet, but I find some solace in the gravy pot. There’s a lot that goes in there: a family history of standing together in times of struggle, a spirit of generosity and hospitality towards others, and the pride and responsibility of preparing one of our table’s centerpieces, all floating around with the onions and

bone marrow and cheese rinds. None of these things disappear should the recipe vary. Sometimes we have guests who, for religious or health reasons or otherwise, can’t eat meatballs or gravy. But we have other recipes— marinara and pesto and mushroom risotto—that feed just as many and taste just as good. ne of the things I’ve learned from late nights spent stirring the gravy, eyeballing measurements and substituting one ingredient for another, is that tradition, like any living thing, adapts. I make changes to the recipe, just as my dad and his mom and his grandma did. It survives not because we use the same amount of parsley as those who came before us, but because everyone has a seat at the table.

— Bella Williams

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Pearl To the world I thought I was a piece of sand, a particle on the beach of life.

Then I met the right people.

They helped me see my value, became my oysters.

And I became a pearl.

— Patricia McGee

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Alexa Sifakis, photograph

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Ice Angels A single feathery ice crystal dances through the crisp evening air.

A web of intricate, delicate frost joins together to create a patchwork of art.

Winter Night

Floating like fragile, frozen angels though the night, each flake is discrete, striking.

But together they shroud the sleeping earth in a blanket of white.

— Frances Cave

Cold and sharp The wind whips her face White clouds of breath Escape her lungs The sky shines clear Over the snow Her wishes upon a star Have yielded nothing so far.

Look upon a star But dare not wish For such a thing does not exist.

— Claudia Nachega

Carolina Zubler, photograph Georgetowner 2020

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Without Mercy he had known not to follow the paths into the woods. She had known, but follow them she did. For what reasons, that did not matter now.

What matters is that she had met him, the one they all feared, the reason you did go onto those paths.

“He will kill you,’ they said, or, perhaps worse, “He will take you for one of his.”

They thought he was the reason that people who wandered into the woods disappeared, and, well, they were right. Most called him the Erlking, for he had no other name. hen she met him, she thought he would kill her. Instead, he had looked at her, cowering behind a tree, utterly pathetic, with curiosity in his eyes. Normally he only took the interesting ones,

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the ones with unnatural talents or abilities, the ones that were almost fae already. This one looked like the rest of them that infested Éire: homespun dress, matted hair, and covered in dirt. She was a peasant, and not an exciting one at that. He, however, was feeling like a bit of fun, so instead of striking down the poor creature, he asked her something, “What do you most desire?” and she responded, “To be young and beautiful.”

In answer he asked, “And what would you give for it?”

She regarded him pensively. “I have nothing.”

“You have your service,” he said.

“My service?”

“Yes, your service. Pledge yourself to me, and I will give you a life to rival those who rule you.”

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Lily Nicholson, photograph

She thought. She had already wandered onto the paths, so the village would banish her if she returned, thinking that the faeries had found her and made her something Other. She had nothing to lose and everything to gain. “Yes,” she answered, “I will serve you.” o mark the sealing of their deal, he gave her a new name—Lilith—and made her sleep. He took her to a barrow outfitted as nature’s palace and left her. She awoke alone to find herself changed. The mirror showed a girl similar to whom she had been before, just with improvements that she had always wanted. Her figure was fuller, her hair longer and shinier, and her skin clear. Her eyes seemed to twinkle with the vitality of youth, and she glowed with the gifts of immortality.

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Those first few days were bliss. She had become sidhe, and she lived in luxury. The barrow had magic that cared for her every need, and she was free to do as she pleased.

The woods no longer seemed foreboding.

Instead, they welcomed her.

She spent her time walking among verdant trees, swimming in sapphire lakes, and adding her harmonies to the song of the forest. She danced along the path back to her barrow every night and went to sleep counting her blessings. s time passed, however, she found her beauty diminishing. Every day, her glow was a little less bright, her eyes a little more cloudy. Eventually, her skin wrinkled, and she began to age at a pace much faster than that of a mortal. The day she realized this, the Erlking returned. He 54

regarded her horror and simply stated, “This is the price of my gifts, and how you will serve me.” He then turned and left, indicating that she follow. e led her back to the path he had found her on, where a young prince waited, and left her. She somehow new what the Erlking wanted, so she approached the prince. She danced for him, and laughed at his terrible humor. She led him to a glade where her magic provided a picnic for them under the boughs of a willow tree. She had him professing his love for her within a few hours, and she promised that she returned it. The prince thought himself lucky to capture the heart of one of the Everyoung. When he tired, she took him to her barrow where they shared another meal before the prince fell into a deep slumber.

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s he slept, she examined her appearance in the mirror. She looked as young and lovely as on the first day but very different. This prince loved fair ladies, so that is what she had become. Her hair had turned so blonde it almost looked white, and her skin resembled porcelain while her eyes had taken on a soft grey, nearly silver hue. She watched in fascination as he slept and withered while she grew ever more perfect.

When the prince’s body turned to dust, his spirit remained. Now awake, the disembodied youth was aghast at the fate that befell him and found himself trapped in the barrow. The Erlking came to her shortly after, thanked her, and took the ghost of the prince away. She never saw him again. With her beauty restored, she went on in her immortal existence until it began to diminish once 55

Molly Carroll, ink

more, and the Erlking led her back to the path. This time, a knight had gotten lost in the woods.

And so it went. She never saw any of them again, but

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every time was the same.

Her beauty only lasted a short while, and their lives where the price to restore it. They all died thinking they were in love with her, 56

and their spirits went to the Erlking. Every lover she took granted her a new appearance. She had to be beautiful in their eyes for the magic to work. This was her service, and for the most part, she did not mind it. When the Erlking came to take their souls to where she knew not, a small part of her felt a pang of guilt, but they restored her, so it did not matter.

As years turned to decades, and decades turned to centuries, she wore many faces, skin tones, eye colors, and body types. None of them were hers.

…

oday was another day to restore herself, but when Lilith went to the path and found her knight, something was different.

The magic that beguiled them usually carried a sickly sweet scent and made the air around her heavy Georgetowner 2020

with the weight of illusion, like some type of drug. This time, the air was still sweet, but in a refreshing, floral way, and it carried no weight. It felt natural, like a summer breeze from her old garden. It was odd that she remembered that now.

She had been a leanan sidhe for a long time and had forgotten most of her old life. That almost gave her pause, but she had waited too long before taking a new victim. If she did not kill him, she would die. This was the deal she made; this was her existence. he approached him, and he regarded her with some surprise and a great deal of longing.

This one had a horse with him, and both followed her off the path as she danced to her glade. There, he bedecked her with flowers, and she sang for him. He professed his love, and she professed hers. They rode to her barrow together 57

where they ate. Following the meal, Lilith went to examine her new appearance in the mirror, and what she found shocked her. She looked the same as that day, so many moons ago, when she had met the Erlking. This time, the appearance she wore for the knight was hers, and she wept for it. The knight, on hearing her sobs, comforted his love with kisses. hen she finally quieted, he fell asleep. As always, she watched his life drain while her beauty restored, but unlike the others, he tossed and turned in his sleep. She never knew what they dreamed, but the Erlking had told her it was pleasant.

He was clearly having a nightmare, suffering from some unknown torment.

The magic had failed; he had seen past the glamour and had loved her as she Georgetowner 2020

used to be, as she was meant to be. This knight did not deserve to die. pon concluding this, Lilith took the pale, slumbering knight and placed him on his horse.

She brought them outside the forest, laid him down on a cold, lonely hillside, and set the horse loose. He would wake with the dawn.

She wanted this one to live but did not turn back as she left for her barrow. Once home, she dressed herself in her finest gown and lay down to sleep. he following morning, the Erlking went to collect his payment and discovered her body. She looked as she had when he had first found her, but there was no fear anymore.

She had garbed herself in white and lay herself to rest on a bed of acacia and chrysanthemums. She was still, cold, and beautiful in a 58

plain, innocent sort of way.

This discovery surprised him a bit, but it did not disturb him. She had clearly been restored enough to keep her youth but not enough to sustain her life before something had convinced her to let the knight go, for he would not have been able to escape on his own. The Erlking sighed; after all this time, she was still a stupid mortal at heart, slave to her emotions. With one last look, he left her as she was, sealing her tomb

behind him. There, she would rest for eternity, young and lovely for now, but time would eventually take back what it had lost and turn her to dust like the rest of her victims. Sadly for him, her spirit, which had belonged to him for so long, was nowhere to be found.

That irked him, but only a little. After all, she was but a stitch within his eternal tapestry.

— Cece Swartz

Decomposition, Sara Manzano Davila, watercolor and colored pencil

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Cuttlewish

Starfish, Camilla Johnson, colored pencil

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Never challenge a cuttlefish to a breakdancing competition, Though the cuttle flutters, it lacks rhythmic intuition, Oh that cuttlefish, that glut of muddling color Foremost flashes and flutters, to dance is not its mission.

Go up to your discos, your rap battles on the shore, Befuddle some gutter mutt, and wage your dance war, The pacifist fish’s wish is to stay within the sea, But sadly one cannot breakdance on the ocean floor.

You can drag the cuttlefish onto the sand without relief For the cuttle settles better in the wetter reef, Not set sweating, sweltering in a huddle, Cuddled up in an utter rut up on cuttlefish beach.

However, this playing low, and your breakdancing desire Will be a worse moral rudder than any ruder writer, In a puddle, the cuttle cannot dance any better than in the coral— A gutless battle for the cuttle, you are no fair fighter.

In the end I merely say, don’t pursue the cuttlefish, If perchance he seems to dance, don’t try to fulfill your wish, The cuttle’s color and flashy flutter make him suckered king, But he is just a mollusk, and serves you better in a dish.

— Camilla Johnson

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Poetry Contest: Second Place

The Forgotten We killed and fought and died for you, Yet an unmarked mass grave is the best that you can do To commemorate those who died during the Great War. From Africa, our participation was core To your victory. Yet, who knows about us?

Our sacrifice, you never discuss.

Shiny statues and parks and gardens and more European recognition for the fallen soldiers, animals, and people galore.

Where are our memorials for the dead?

Why are there only 3 statues for our African brothers who bled?

Is it because we are savages who cannot appreciate art, Or is it because those who are not white are not smart?

Were the monuments built for white WWI fighters a waste of public means?

Or is systemic racism just a part of government routines?

African soldiers during the Great War remain forgotten in history And it is up to us to not let their sacrifice be a mystery.

Do not forget the Tanzanian soldiers forced to kill family members for the Germans Based on borders that outsider Europeans came to determine.

Do not forget the African soldiers who fought for Great Britain Whose pay was 1/3 of white soldiers due to racial discrimination.

We killed and fought and died for you Yet unmarked mass graves are the best you can do.

— Maeve Tuohey

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Julia Clark, photograph

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A Prayer God, I really messed up today. Major screw up. I suppose that you probably knew I was going to do it before I woke up this morning, so I probably don’t need to explain it, but I was waiting at a crosswalk. There was a woman with a Goose jacket standing in front of me. I saw a little corner of

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a big twenty peeking out of her pocket—must’ve been spare change from a stick of gum or something that she shoved down the pocket instead of putting it into her wallet. I grabbed the little corner, and as the walk sign turned on, she began walking, and I stayed still, holding the bill until the pocket left without it.

I hate that I did it. It didn’t really want to—but I did. I did want to. I don’t know… it’s kinda messed up—the way you feel when you get the chance to do something bad. I get these two voices in my head that tell me what’s going to make me feel good, and the most convincing one usually wins. And usually the most convincing one is the one that tells me to take the thing that makes me richer. Of course I regret it, so maybe I can say I’m sorry for it. But I also know that if I went back in time to that street, knowing the way it would feel after, I would still take it. Again and again and again.

And I did do it again. I liked the way it felt when the twenty came sliding out of her pocket like that. I wanted to feel that again. So I went to a street that didn’t have a lot of people on it and tried to open a bunch of car doors. Most of them were locked. Whenever I got to another car, I would get really nervous. Maybe I’d try to pull my own hand away or pinch myself or stomp my foot on the ground instead. I’d get so damn angry with myself for even going up to the door. But then I’d pull on the handle, and if it never gave, I’d get even angrier. I’d get mad as hell that I couldn’t get anything. Sometimes they did give, and I’d get some chump change and… and then I’d get on with it, I suppose—until I felt that enough was enough, and I’d regret that I had ever woken up that day.

We’re on the Borderline, Alex Phillips, digital Georgetowner 2020

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Is it bad that maybe I’m only sorry because I can’t stop thinking that someone might’ve looked out of their window and seen me out there yanking on car doors? Or because every time I hear an ambulance or a cat yelping outside, I’m scared that the police’ve come to pick me up?

Is it bad that I feel more sorry for things that weren’t actually sins—I mean—stuff about me that other people get annoyed at, but that you might not? Well, I can’t really say whether you’d get mad or not—I’m not you or anything. But I suspect that you might be a bit angrier at the fact that I stole a bunch of cash than the fact that I talk to myself a little—or to you maybe; I don’t really know who I’m talking to. You might not get so mad at me for muttering to myself on the subway and causing people to give me funny looks.

But if I’m bein’ honest, I think I’m sorrier for looking like a mumbling loon than for stealing stuff because nobody saw that—except you, I suppose. You probably saw the whole thing.

The thing is, though, I don’t feel as afraid that you know stuff about me or see me doing things I shouldn’t be than if other people see them. You don’t seem to yell at me, or call the police on me, or throw things at me. Thank you for not yelling at me, calling the police on me, or throwing things at me.

I don’t really want to let you go. I feel like I’m hanging up a telephone, and I don’t like that feeling. But I suppose this isn’t a telephone. How about I say “Amen,” and then I’ll keep muttering even though it’s technically over? And maybe you can just listen to the muttering.

Amen.

— Emma Gorman

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fireflies speckles of hope in a deep dark sky with each blink the luminous speckles multiply like lightning in a storm ravaged sky flying oh so high twinkling on by and by the end to the perfect lullaby.

— Louisa Cave

Amelia Metcalf, photograph

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ACT VI An Unfinished Hamlet Fanfiction written and illustrated by

Bella Williams

The Ghost of Blue Diner (Ophelia’s Lament), digital

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Scene I It’s the morning of the funeral the second time Horatio and Fortinbras see one another. Horatio had been hoping to get through the repast without having to speak to anyone, particularly the new prince with alcohol-scented breath and no indoor voice. But by the time he realized the clack of boots behind him was heading in his direction, it was too late to duck into the crowd for cover. Not that it would have worked anyway.

Horatio was finding it much harder to recede into the background now that he’d been left the sole survivor and prime suspect of every convoluted scheme and unfortunate coincidence Elsinore had seen in the past four years. He’d overheard at least half a dozen people refer to him as “the mad prince’s accomplice,” and it didn’t take any eavesdropping to Georgetowner 2020

know how easy it would be to quietly do away with one pesky commoner.

A heavy hand claps onto his shoulder, sending a jolt through his spine and a considerable amount of wine from his still mostlyfull cup sloshing onto the marble floor. He’s more surprised than he probably should be when Fortinbras asks to step outside and discuss “the whole mess,” as she calls it, with a vague gesture at their surroundings. It makes sense that the other lone alien on every Danish lord’s list of Potentially Dangerous Persons To Be Dealt With As Soon As Possible would see him as a natural ally. That doesn’t make it a good idea, though.

“Apologies, Your Grace, but I’d rather not feed into whatever suspicions they have about my place in all this.”

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“Suspicions of what? Not Fortinbras gives a full like you have a shot at the cackle at that one, head throne or anything.” thrown back with the “Regardless, consorting confidence of someone fully with the leader of a foreign aware of her audience. She invasion probably isn’t great places her free hand on the optics.” A sword at her glance at the hip. (She’s the assembly of only person in black-clad the room nobles openly armed. gathered in Maybe bringing the center of a blade to a the hall does funeral is in fact meet socially with a score acceptable in of eyes Norway.) “I directed back think you’ll be at him. fine.”

She It’s a simple chuckles. “It’s offer: a little late for information for optics. The protection. He invasion doesn’t doubt already Fortinbras’s happened.” ability to fulfill Hamlet, digital “I hope you her end, but he can understand. I also doesn’t trust don’t have an army at my her as far as he can throw disposal should the powers her, and given his scholar’s that be find me constitution and the inconvenient.” amount of armor she clanks Georgetowner 2020

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around in, that probably isn’t very far.

Not once in the last four years has taking chances turned out well for him or for anyone he once knew, but as he avoids meeting the gaze of another face halfcovered by black lace and whispering hands, something dashes across his mind about devils you know. He decides he’s tired of them.

Scene II One of the first things Hamlet did a lifetime ago when Horatio came to Elsinore was show him all the places even the crown prince could disappear for hours, unnoticed and unbothered. His favorite was the garden maze, planted in a style that had gone out of fashion half a century ago and left abandoned to grow into a twisting labyrinth of vines and roses. Horatio can’t Georgetowner 2020

quite shake the feeling of something close to sacrilege in bringing Fortinbras here, but it’s the only place he’s certain they won’t have any unwelcome company.

The first challenge in explaining the situation to Fortinbras is convincing her of the existence of the supernatural. Might as well get it over with, he thinks, and trips and stumbles through his description of the night on the garrison with Marcellus and Bernardo like it’s a bed of hot coals. Even after he’s done speaking he doesn’t breathe, too busy studying her face for a reaction.

Fortinbras’s brow furrows. Her mouth twists into a different shape with every question half-formed and abandoned.

“I know, I didn’t believe in them either, but if you’ll just humor me for a minute —.”

“I didn’t get a ghost.”

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Horatio blinks. “Didn’t realize a ghost was something one could get.”

“No, I mean,” she begins, cracking the knuckles on her right hand in a kind of audible ellipsis, “my father never came back from beyond the grave to tell me what to do.”

Horatio has no idea how to respond to that. Is he supposed to offer a second round of condolences?

Some kind of explanation as to why her situation had not called for spectral interference?

Congratulations for getting this far in her revenge quest without it?

Fortinbras waves his thoughts aside with a flick of her hand and keeps walking. “You’ve been around here a while, right?

Long enough to know everyone who comes through court?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Great!“

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The rest of their conversation, and many of the ones after that, are taken up mostly by Fortinbras’s questions about the Danish nobility and basic court politics. Horatio doesn’t mind. It’s easier to talk about, simple questions with simple answers. He wouldn’t be able to do the story justice anyway.

Scene III Horatio does make some progress in this last favor to his friend, but it always comes to a halt whenever Fortinbras asks why Hamlet didn’t just hurry up and kill the guy. Horatio never has an answer for her. It made sense in the moment, listening to Hamlet go on about all his thoughts and plans and fears, but looking back on them now Horatio can barely grasp whatever line of reasoning had strung them together. Maybe he never had in the first place.

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“So why didn’t the crown “And I got here fine just go to Hamlet?” she asks without it.” one day.

“You should probably “Claudius have some won the familiarity election.” with foreign “Election.” politics, “Denmark though, if is an… you want to elective become king monarchy.”

—.”

Fortinbras “I’m already keeps king,” she squinting like snaps. “And she expects my uncle him to keep handles those explaining. things. That’s “...so the not my job.” king is voted A sliver of in by a group annoyance of nobles—I’m creeps up sorry, I into Horatio’s thought you throat. He Fortinbras, digital would’ve known doesn’t try to stop already.” it. “If I may ask, “Why would I?” Your Majesty, what is your “Well, I mean no offense, job, then? As king.” sir, but this is fairly basic She glares at him like he’s information about one of being intentionally obtuse.

Norway’s closest neighbors, “This!” She waves to the one you’ve been trying to space around them, the invade for years.”

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from the castle gate and the home so he can put one of tops of her ships’ sails his emissaries in charge peaking over the overgrown here. But he told me I could shrubs. “I took have Denmark Poland, I took once I took over Denmark, I and so I’m conquer and keeping it.” She I’m good at it grumbles with and I don’t have her hands in fists time for like a petulant diplomacy with child. A petulant a bunch of child with a useless sword and a bureaucrats!” sizable military.

Horatio waits “My lord, if I for her to catch may speak her breath honestly—.” before trying to “If I wanted deescalate the someone to lie situation. to me, I’d go talk Luckily she to Osric or seems more something.”

Horatio, digital upset with her “I don’t think general situation you’re ready to than him specifically, and run a kingdom.” her anger fizzles out as She chuckles like it’s a quickly as it arose. “Have dare. “You’re not the only you been in contact with one.” your uncle?”

“I’m serious.” It’s his turn “No. He’s been trying to to gesture towards the flags contact me, though. Keeps and ships. “You can’t keep saying I need to come back this up forever.”

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“I don’t have to. Kings don’t last very long.” She grins at him like her words are some bit of light observational humor. To her they probably are. “You should know that better than most.”

Horatio doesn’t laugh like Fortinbras expects him to, and they walk another minute in silence. She asks him to accompany her to the next meeting with the lords.

“I never know what they’re talking about, but you probably would.”

“I doubt they’d let a commoner in.”

Again, she puts her hand on the pommel of her sword. “If they have a problem they can take it up with me.”

Horatio doesn’t feel great about the idea of spending more time around court than necessary, but he feels worse about letting Fortinbras continue stumbling around on her Georgetowner 2020

own like a bull in a very treacherous china shop.

Leaving broken shards of porcelain lying around is an easy way for a lot of people to get stabbed, after all.

Scene IV “Again, Your Highness, Denmark does not, and has never had, female rulers.

Neither has Norway, for that matter.”

Fortinbras glares daggers at the baron speaking from across the table as she fidgets with an expensivelooking pen, unscrewing it into pieces and snapping it back together. “Neither had Poland. Funny how things change when you’re not too busy fussing over details to take the opportunities right in front of you.”

“England has a queen at the head, and they seem to be doing alright,” Horatio offers as unobtrusively as possible.

“If by ‘alright’ you mean still paying tribute to 75

Denmark,” Fortinbras growls out the side of her mouth, elbowing him under the table. “Maybe don’t compare me to losers next time.”

“Oh I’m sorry, I thought you didn’t have time to know things about international relations,” he whispers and elbows back.

“And shouldn’t King Fortinbras have a suitable male heir somewhere?” says an earl from farther down the hall. “I’m fairly certain I remember him leaving behind a son.”

Fortinbras has stopped reassembling the pen and started scratching at the expensive-looking wooden table with the nib. “It’s a common misconception.

Listen, do you want Sweden? If you just give me the navy, I could get Sweden. We don’t even have to wait around for the coronation or anything.”

Another duke scoffs. “You expect us to trust you with Georgetowner 2020

our forces? With your father’s track record?”

And then everything happens very fast.

The screech of a chair across the floor, of steel from its sheath. People shouting, Fortinbras shouting louder.

“What? You’re not afraid to fight me, are you? With my father’s dueling history?”

“Of course not,” says the duke, muttering something about having to find dueling blades of the same length, something about Fortinbras’s being poisoned for all he knows.

Her sword clatters to the table in front of the duke.

She pulls her dagger from her belt and drags its edge across her palm, holding her open hand up for everyone to see the trickle of clearly unpoisoned blood down her wrist. “It’s actually really funny that you think I need poison to kill you. And I’m ceding the 76

advantage of reach. Don’t him and Fortinbras and the need that either.” body.

The duke still hasn’t “What did you do?” accepted, but he’s standing She nudges the duke in position, aside with her knuckles white foot, pries her around the hilt of sword from his Fortinbras’s still-warm grip, rapier. “Lady and rolls her eyes Fortinbras, sit in Horatio’s down—” direction. “Is that A steel-toed a serious boot colliding with question?” polished wood as “They’re going she lunges over to kill you.” the table. The “They can sure awfully familiar try.” rip of metal Horatio grabs through fabric, her by the through flesh. shoulders with Horrified silence shaking hands. as the assembly “Do you hear me? waits for the They’re going to Ophelia, digital guards to kill you. I’ve seen apprehend her. A this all before—” frantic flurry of voices and “And you’re going to see footsteps as they realize it again.” She brushes him every guard in the room off and wipes red hands on wears her flag. Before her coat. “You should get Horatio can say anything, used to it.” the room is empty, save for

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Scene V Horatio double-checks the lock on his chamber door that night. He’s going out with the next ship, wherever it’s headed. He’ll find his way back to Wittenberg eventually. Or maybe he won’t. Not like there’s anything left for him there. It’s been four years.

All his former classmates have no doubt gone home to become dukes or captains or whatever other titles their fathers left them.

“What? Why?” Fortinbras had said when he requested indefinite leave from Elsinore with what seemed incredibly like genuine confusion. “You can’t just leave now. I need an advisor. And you still haven’t told me the whole story.” He doesn’t know why he even bothered.

Habit maybe, a perfunctory gesture of respect to the closest thing Denmark has to a king. Well to hell with kings and to hell with Georgetowner 2020

Fortinbras. She’s not his friend—he has no duty to her or Denmark or anyone living. Soon as he can figure out how to put Hamlet into words, into something that makes sense on the blank sheet he’s been staring at for three hours now, he won’t have any duty towards anyone. He can skip off somewhere and go mad with grief like he’s seen happen too many times and should have done himself a long time ago, had there not been some stupid hopeful part of him that thought he could swap out one prince for another, or that maybe this time a Voice of Reason could stop things from going so horribly, almost comedically wrong.

A pair of boots storms through the hallway, loud enough to shake the candle beside him. His hand instinctively reaches into the drawer under the writing desk and settles on the handle of a serrated 78

dinner knife. He’d slipped it from the dining hall table the night Hamlet was shipped off to England. Of course, rationally, he never thought it would actually help him should someone make an attempt on his life, but at one point it went from a small security blanket comfort to a kind of inside joke, and after everything, he deserves a bit of humor, doesn’t he?

Somewhere outside his room Fortinbras barks his name. Maybe she’s coming to slice him open, too.

Horatio doesn’t mind, if only she’d give him time to finish writing. But she’s not that patient.

The double-checked lock only serves to make it louder when Fortinbras kicks his door open. She stands silhouetted in the frame, sword in hand, hair sticking out in every direction, shoulders heaving with labored breaths, eyes darting among Georgetowner 2020

the dark corners of the room.

A wry grin pulls at the corner of Horatio’s lip. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She returns his smile like it’s meant for her, like she’s in on the joke. A wheeze of a laugh hisses through her bared teeth like steam from a kettle. “You know, it’s funny you should say that.”

END OF ACT VI

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Windows

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The eyes speak more than the mouth will ever express. words and images by Catalina Torres

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Cookie Jar I come inside from playing With Andrew there complaining No cookies in the cookie jar Mother driving from afar A box of cookies in her car I tell him not to worry And phone my mom to hurry He will surely throw a fit If he doesn’t get his chocolate chip

— Elizabeth Clark

Louisa Cave, photograph

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Roses Every rose has its thorns, Though its petals steal the eye.

As thorns begin to prick my skin, I bleed and start to cry.

When I tear away these thorns, I rip out all the roots, But as the thorns wilt away, The petals wither too.

I rush to bury the roots again, But the damage has been done.

I tried to rid the rose its thorns, And now my rose is gone.

— Maggie Caulfield

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A Portrait of James’s Apartment Art occupied every wall, and every flat surface carried a vase of another shape or size. Books nearly spilled out of a short glass case, and those that couldn’t fit were piled under the armoire. My uncle played a jaunty tune on the piano, frequently pausing to sputter a gag-like noise, sticking his tongue out in frustration. With the exception of occasional mistakes, his fingers danced across the piano, each fleeting note springing from the keys.

Sitting in a tufted pink chair, in the belly of my uncle’s sequestered existence, I was catching a glimpse into a life so different from our own. Unsentimental in nature, my sisters and I were not used to seeing so much in such a small room. The hodgepodge of mismatched items made it look as if he had been included in the will of every person in the small Pennsylvania town born before 1950. In fact, one could find him at the local cemetery every Sunday morning putting flowers on graves of people he never knew.

We visited his apartment every year, sat in the same chairs, were surrounded by the same artwork, listened to the same tunes. The only thing that seemed to change was the increased pity I felt every time I sat in the pink chair, watching him uncomfortably accept our applause.

It didn’t take much meticulous observation to notice how he seemed to have less respect for the living than things that had never lived or had long since died.

— Genevieve Cullen

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Toxic Internet Culture Be Like I be sad Social media be bad We need to quit Before I go psychowitz Maybe phones be evil Or just be for upheaval Bring back to the good old days But they be too far away

My Status Be Like Rain be like: ); My heart be like: </3

— Isabella Iscaro

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Amelia Metcalf, photograph

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It’s not quite Mike Wazowski, Sara Manzano Davila, ink

Year of the Rat o this day, scientists are still researching why we sleep. Why do our bodies shut down? Why, try as we might, do we eventually close our eyes and succumb to nothingness? I cannot tell Georgetowner 2020

you what neurotransmitters are released, what muscles in our eyelids start to droop, the genus of the first animal to sleep. However, what I can tell you is why you need to sleep.

Picture, if you will, a dark room—your room.

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Sometimes there is scratching in the walls, or small noises, but that is normal, that happens everywhere. And indeed this is a universal phenomenon, but it is not normal. In this room, you lie in your bed. Your eyes drift close, your breathing steadies, and you drift asleep. But the walls wait; it is not yet time. You toss and turn, perhaps mumble halfformed words, and your eyes dart frantically underneath your eyelids.

You dream, but still, it is not time. At last, your heart rate slows to nothing, your breaths become imperceptible, and deep sleep comes. So too, do the noises in the walls. It is time now. ou see, in these walls there are million nooks and crannies—holes in the baseboard you never noticed, cracks in the ceiling that widen at night.

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And out of these holes come little shadows. Carefully, softly, silently streaming.

What are they? You might ask. Well, they are rats.

Dozens and dozens and dozens of rats. But these shadows are not common rats, street rats, sewer rats, Hanover rats, Norway rats, Norwegian rats, Parisian rats, water rats, or wharf rats. These rats have sharp tools and needles, boxes, and lanterns, and little cart caravans. These rats don’t scurry and scour the floor for crumbs. They climb up the bedsheets, the bed frame, the wall. They worm through the blankets until they find your sleeping form. And then, the real work begins. small team of rats pushes your face to the sky, and another levers your lips wide open. Then rats crawl in—impossible amounts of them. Rats come in, and teeth come out. Rats with 89

headlamps, and chisels, and picks, gently ripping and softly peeling. How can you sleep, deep and unfeeling?

There is a rat near the carotid artery of your neck.

And next to that rat a needle sticks, and he pushes the plunger whenever you shift. he rats mine and work, work and mine, all with quick, quiet, ratty efficiency. Until forty-six little carts are full, a tooth in each, broken and dull. Then comes a distinguished rat with an air of importance.

He holds up a box, and the rats’ work turns to silence.

Inside that box is a fresh set of teeth, perfect and polished, made to order.

The rats trade their pickaxes for mallets and jackhammers. They go back in your mouth one by one, tooth by tooth. They fill in the holes for your molars, nail your canines to the roof. That work goes by Georgetowner 2020

quicker than the scraping and mining. They pack up the minute tools, and form regimented lines. Back into the shadows they retreat.

The rat with the syringe removes his needle. nd ordinarily you would sleep as you have every night before, but now I have told you what the rats do.

And perhaps the rat with the needle forgot to give you the last dose of sleep in his eagerness to march home. And perhaps the distinguished rat turns back one last time, only to see your eyes opening, gazing on the ratty gathering. ow you have seen them, and the rats start scattering.

This has never happened before, and they scream and scramble as they disappear into the walls.

You gape, and run a tongue over your teeth, full of too much curiosity to question them. But there is no time 90

to ruminate because the scratching in your walls has turned to rumbling. The tide of the rats turns.

Something big is coming, and it’s almost here. It has trouble squeezing out of the shadows, and other rats help it slough up the bed frame. It slithers onto your

mattress, and you recoil in fear. The rats are back, and something is here.

But I’ll tell you now, there is no need to be afraid. If you look closely, you’ll see a crown just barely glinting in the dark. It is the rat king, a tangle of tails, more of a seething Aliya Feggins, digital

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oligarchy than a monarch.

The fattest rat of them all stands and looks at you with beady red eyes. You stare back, stupefied.

“Why?” you ask, the only question possible, “Why do you do this?” because this feels like a violation and a favor all at once.

“We gave you teeth,” they say.

“Yes but why? I thought these were mine.”

Myriad heads tilt, thinking. “They were once, you weren’t meant to have them this long.”

“Oh. But why give me more?”

“You don’t want them?”

“I do. But what do you gain from it?”

A million ratty laughs sound as the rat king becomes more animated.

“Crumbs! Crumbs! A kingdom full of crumbs for us left on the floor as you gnaw with your teeth.” Now a million noses wrinkle in disgust. “Can’t steal soup.”

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“If you can do this, why not make your own food?”

Suddenly, you feel the scrutiny of calculating red eyes.

“You don’t understand anything about rats, do you?”

“How can I go to sleep knowing this? How can I ever sleep again, knowing what you do to me?”

“I guess it is up to you to decide whether it is a crime or a gift. But it doesn’t really matter. You may not understand rats at all, but I know humans. It’s funny isn’t it? How you think this moment has changed your life, but tomorrow you won’t care.”

— Camilla Johnson

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A Sad Poem The winter was coming, no place to go The last thought, eat tomorrow?

In the empty parking lot, where I had slept The great wool blanket, all I kept Family gone, things as well Life’s meaning too, far as I could tell The days pass too quick, I run out of time All that I’ve learned is how well I can rhyme

— Shallom Hailu

Amelia Metcalf, photograph

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Poems

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Poems are real hard to do A splash of rhyme Something with meaning Something universally true You gotta start out slow Speed it up the middle Bring in an image, and boom!

You’re ready to go?

So how does it work?

How does that boom get written on paper?

How do you make a frog a prince?

The power’s yours, that’s the perk A pen and suddenly you’re a creator A forest, a beach, a mountain, a crater You got a whole world at the tip of your quill Start scribbling now so you’re better for later Maybe they’re not so hard to do Write about anything that pops in your head Write about your family or your favorite thing The world is yours. It’s really up to you.

— Bridget Keon

Melting Reality, Fior Cecchi-Rivas, Georgetowner 2020 alcohol markers and pencil

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Frontlines As the day begins, the mask becomes tighter, not wanting to let go.

My back slouches lower, carrying lives on my shoulders that I’ll never know.

The tears come fast, sadness from loss, but the numbers don’t slow.

The world is at war And so am I.

— Niyat Theodroes

Sarah Zidlicky, print Georgetowner 2020

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The summer before my junior year I had an epiphany. Sitting by the pool with my laptop, working out the details of some short story idea I thought was ingenious at the time, I caught a glimpse of my forearms. They were,

with long sleeves most months of the year, and when it got too hot I just kept my arms crossed.

This poolside summer day was different.

Scanning over the short strands of keratin that had been the bane of my tween

Shaving Revisited An Exercise in Melodrama as is common for people of both Italian and Polynesian descent, covered in a crisscrossing layer of thick, dark hair. This was not my first time realizing that I had hair on my arms. Far from it, in fact. In my elementary school days I had been painfully aware of the hair on my arms. So unbearably aware that I wore jackets

existence, I felt not the shame and disgust whom I had accepted as my constant middle school companions, but something so unfamiliar to me I could barely comprehend it: indifference. I sat, dumbfounded, struggling to process the fact that I could see myself, arm hair and all, and not care.

Georgetowner 2020 Dysphoria, Sara Manzano Davila, watercolor

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This brought forth new realizations, new questions.

If I had the option to just not care about the hideous, appalling, repellent hair on my arms, what other insecurities was I still dragging around? What other bits of self hatred was I still clinging to? t was a matter of time before I decided to stop shaving my legs.

What good had the fiveedged sacrificial blade brought me? Upon what altar had I laid my time, my self-image, sometimes my own blood? No longer would I accept as fact that my worth was based on my ability to conform to what someone else thought a girl should look like. I felt invincible. I had conquered my demons without getting up from my pool chair.

I was swiftly pulled back down to earth by my mother. “You need to shave,” she said. “We have Church tomorrow.”

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I tried explaining my revelation to her, rambling about corporatemanufactured insecurities and the social construction of beauty. She would hear none of it. “Why do you complain so much?” she said.

I couldn’t argue with that.

You, dear reader, are by now familiar with my tendency towards garishly purple diatribes. You can imagine the melodrama my mother has to put up with on a daily basis. o I sulked up to my room, dejectedly sheared myself of the spines I had come to behold with a strange sense of pride, and went to bed.

But sleep I could not. I refused to be silenced. Even a cat declawed can still hiss, still bite. ho was there to complain to? I wasn’t going to start grumbling to myself at ungodly hours of 100

the night like some kind of madwoman. No, I was going to write to myself at ungodly hours of the night like some kind of madwoman. y morning I had a very, very rough draft. It was a satire, an online makeup tutorial from some kind of alternate bizarro world, where eyelashes must be carefully plucked each morning, and nostrils are to be hidden from the public. I read it out loud for the first time at a Georgetowner coffeehouse. I never actually expected anyone to like it. I never expected anyone to laugh. But laugh they did as I read it again and again, and I later published it in Georgetowner 2019. I felt a renewed confidence in myself just as strong, if not stronger, than the weaponized apathy in which I had smothered my middle-school insecurities.

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Maybe I couldn’t fix all my problems, but I could complain about them, and I could complain about them in a way someone might just enjoy listening to.

— Bella Williams

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High School Freshman year, you will remember forever Sophomore year allows you to grow Junior year brings everyone together Senior year, now you must let go

— Julia Clark

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Percy H. Williams Jr. Writing Award and Jeanne E. Williams Art Award Georgetowner 2020

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Ms. Anne Williams ’68 has generously donated a recurring gift to the school that will fund a new annual writing and art award in honor of her parents, Percy H. and Jeanne E. Williams. The award highlights writing and works of art that capture themes of faith and hope.

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The Percy H. Williams Jr. Writing Award is established in honor of Ms. Williams’s father who was a great writer, grandfather and great-grandfather, served as a Sergeant Major in World War II, the highest rank attainable for African Americans at the time, and spent his life fighting for Civil Rights and equality in the federal government and in the Catholic Church.

This year, the award is given to Ellie Walker for her poem “The Williams Man.”

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The Williams Man “A man worthy of any endeavor he may wish to take” fighting for his comrades’ sake Making civil rights and equality possible And perhaps without the Williams man implausible The Williams man, Blessed with a God-given pen Writes his truths on the page of the people As he follows the man of the steeple The Williams man, A man of three roles A father, a grandfather and a man who would not falter The Williams man who spoke aloud Spoke for all his people Until all he could do was pray and bow The Williams man A loving man A mighty man A powerful man Took every endeavor and was nothing less than worthy

— Ellie Walker

The Jeanne E. Williams Art Award is established in honor of Ms. Williams’s mother who was a nurse, teacher, musician, artist, and advocate of social justice much beloved by the communities she was a part of and by her children, grandchildren, and greatgrandchildren. This year, the award is given to Camilla Johnson for her piece titled Hope For Magnolias. Camilla’s media were acrylic paint, colored pencil, and watercolor.

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From the Editors It goes without saying that this year’s Georgetowner was not the conventional magazine of years past. In March, coronavirus took hold of the U.S. and radically altered the way society functions, at least temporarily. Visitation moved to virtual learning and closed campus, meaning that the staff of the Georgetowner needed to get creative to make the magazine you are now reading. We shifted to working remotely using Microsoft Teams and Apple Pages to collaborate, and the magazine has been published digitally in order to allow us to share the masterpieces contained within it with you.

Because the Georgetowner and the circumstances of the time in which it was published are unprecedented, it is only fitting that the content it holds is also unconventional and extraordinary. Side by side with stories about fey (or fae, depending upon which author you read) and poems reflecting on family and justice are a Hamlet fan-fiction, a wonderfully chilling tale about rats that remove people’s teeth, and a thought-provoking photo essay. The creativity and originality of the authors, poets, and artists displayed here were a wonder to observe as the magazine came together.

The epigraph chosen for this year’s magazine is also unique in that it was written by a student who fittingly reflects on what it means to be human. Chapin Rockwell muses that the human condition is one of struggle, strife, perseverance, and community all at the same time. These reflections are very appropriate for our time in which,

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even while social distancing, the entire world is experiencing all of that.

To all of you, we hope that the magazine brings joy and makes persevering through this time just a bit easier.

— Emma Gorman and Cece Swartz, Editors-in-Chief

Dedication In recognition of their loving spirit and contributions to the Visitation community over the past four years, the Georgetowner would like to dedicate this magazine to the Class of 2020. While this is not the senior year you—or any of us—had desired, we hope to share the magazine as a gift to you and as a testament to your strength. It has been an honor to know you and to learn with you.

In Appreciation The Georgetowner would like to thank our moderator, who keeps us on task and who has taught us the ins and outs of layout; Ms. Smith for allowing us to raid the art room for masterpieces; the editors, who have led the magazine with dedication and grace; and the staff, who have contributed lovely prose, poetry, and art, with a special shoutout to Sofia Donohue, Isabella Iscaro, Amelia Metcalf, Catalina Torres, and Carolina Zubler for stepping up and donating many hours to lay out this magazine at home during quarantine. Finally, to the inventors of Apple Pages: you have rescued this magazine and for that we are forever grateful.

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Afterword: Literature in the Age of a Pandemic Joan Didion prefaced her collection of essays about the Sixties, The White Album, with the sentence, “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” In early March, the Covid-19 pandemic crept up on Visitation the way a first wash of tide rolls up on a stretch of beach: it trickles over your feet and under your chair, and if you don’t move, everything is soon inundated. The pandemic was an insidious dawning out of nowhere that the world had grown dangerous on all of us, and we needed to take action then and there in order to protect ourselves and the rest of the world, which for us begins on Thirty-fifth and P Streets.

As a school we acted swiftly and with efficacy.

A question I left school with on the last day was whether a literary magazine Georgetowner 2020

like the Georgetowner would be one of the necessary things to sacrifice as we were faced with helping each other prevent not only Covid-19 but also screen bombardment and desensitization. The task before us last year this time was to meet in the library after school and every Saturday and Sunday to share computers, laying out the work we had accumulated all year. The older, more responsible editors would coach the younger staff on how to do this in Adobe InDesign, with its myriad presets and glitches, and they would recover and proof the errors that would inevitably happen to students learning a massive professional design software for the first time: the byline in the wrong font; the misspelled name; the misplaced art 112

credit that will not behave— all in tiny, eye-straining fonts that require a level of proofreading skill one would expect from a professional. Overseeing the process last year was Chris Curry, our former moderator, along with Cece Swartz and Emma Gorman, our executive editors. As the person to take over when Chris retired, I shadowed them to watch the process, patching holes in the obsolescence of my own InDesign knowledge given the varying idiosyncrasies that arose from its revisions since I had worked with it on publications prior to coming to Visitation.

This year, however, had us at an impasse: isolated at home, we had no access to the program in any viable way for a staff to work with; moreover, we could in no way oversee and manage a massive and at times unwieldy software online Georgetowner 2020

with younger students students who had had no prior exposure to it. This, however, did not stop Cece and Emma from being evercreative and resourceful— not to mention entirely undaunted (more so than I, a grown man, was at times) by what was happening around us in the world at large. The three of us, along with Sofia Donohue, Isabella Iscaro, Amelia Metcalf (layout editor par excellence), Catalina Torres, and Carolina Zubler—along with a variety of underclassmen we called in to revise or edit their work— met every day from one to three p.m., starting the week of March 30th and ending layout—before rigorous proofreading—May 5th. Before long, another unforeseen tide rolled toward us, a sheer gift from God that resulted from everyone’s commitment: that by the week of April 30th, a magazine of over 113

one hundred pages with some of the best literary work, artwork, and photography I have seen produced by high school students since I entered a classroom as a young teacher in 1989, was appearing in our hands. To quote Annie Dillard in her seminal work, The Writing Life, “You search, you break your heart, your back, your brain, and then—and only then—it is handed to you.”

Dillard also admonishes writers to “write as if you were dying”; to make every word seem as if it were the most urgent thing you could say to the world as you were pressed to leave it. The more seasoned work in this magazine was chosen and coached through an editing process that pushed its creators to face this level of urgency. No pretty sunsets or flowers here, as the running joke among us goes. Only stories, poems, Georgetowner 2020

essays, photos, and artwork (we would be nowhere without art teacher Kelli Smith, who—often unbeknownst to the geniuses she nurtures— sends work our way) that the young women of Georgetown Visitation made from the stuff of their interior lives in this horrible year when they needed more than ever to tell themselves, their community, and the world at large, the stories they needed to tell in order to live.

— Dino D’Agata Moderator

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Carroll, Molly Caulfield, Maggie Cave, Frances Cave, Louisa Cecchi-Rivas, Fior Clark, Elizabeth Clark, Julia Cullen, Genevieve Donohue, Sofia Feggins, Aliya Gorman, Emma Hailu, Shallom Iscaro, Isabella Johnson, Camilla

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Kane, Florence Keon, Bridget Lee, Margaret F. Manzano Davila, AaSara McGee, Patricia Metcalf, Amelia Muir, Mimi Nachega, Claudia Nicholson, Lily Phillips, Alex Rockwell, Chapin Scheibel, Abby Sifakis, Alexa Swartz, Cece Swartz, Nina Theodroes, Niyat Torres, Catalina Tuohey, Maeve Waddick, Evelyn Walker, Ellie Williams, Bella Zidlicky, Sarah Zubler, Carolina

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’22 ’22 ’21 ’20 ’20 ’20 ’23 ’22 ’20 ’21 ’22 ’22 ’20 ’23 ’23 ’21 ’22 ’21 ’22 ’20 ’20 ’21

56 83 13, 51 8, 10, 67, 82 94 11, 17, 82 27, 44, 63, 103 24, 85 14-5 91 64-6 93 86 14, 18-23, 42, 47, 60-1, 88-92, 109 37-9 95 37, 83 Cover, 7, 17, 19, 20, 41, 59, 88, 98 49 26, 67, 87, 93 28-36 51 10-3, 53 16, 64 3 9 9, 49 52-9 40-3 96 80-1 62 25 107 46-8, 68-79, 99-101 16, 97 7, 50, 84

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About This Publication The Georgetowner is the annual literary and art magazine of Georgetown Visitation Preparatory School. It has been published since 1982, with bound volumes first appearing in 1992. The Georgetowner is produced by a co-curricular club to showcase original student poetry, prose, art, and photography.

Club members meet regularly throughout the school year under the direction of a faculty moderator to review, select, edit, and compile submissions. The entire student body is encouraged to submit pieces for consideration. The final selection of artworks and photographs is determined by the synergy of text and visuals that we seek to create in our layouts.

The publication is designed and laid out by student members.

Copies are distributed to all current students, administrators, staff, interested alumnae, and prospective students.

All of our annual issues from 2013 through 2019 have been recognized as Columbia Scholastic Press Association Gold Medalists.

Each work represents the individual point-of-view of its creator, making the Georgetowner a testament to the diversity and imagination of the Visitation student body.

For the first time in the history of the magazine, Georgetowner 2020 was published digitally and laid out in Apple Pages 10.

The basic body text of the magazine is set in Publico 12 pt., with standard titles in Publico Headline.

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Staff Editors-in-Chief: Emma Gorman and Cece Swartz Managing Editors: Sofia Donohue and Catalina Torres Layout Editor: Amelia Metcalf Prose Editor: Isabella Iscaro Poetry Editor: Alex Phillips Art Editor: Julia Clark Visuals Coordinator: Frances Cave Publicity Managers: Mimi Muir and Katie Troxell Staff: Louisa Cave, Elizabeth Clark, Genevieve Cullen, Shallom Hailu, Bridget Keon, Joella Kiondo, Margaret Frances Lee, Claudia Nachega, Danielle Quirk, Chapin Rockwell, Abby Scheibel, Alexa Sifakis, Nina Swartz, Niyat Theodroes, Carolina Zubler Moderator: Mr. Dino D’Agata

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