IDEAS - Issue 1 by Guzman Julio

OUR MISSION To prepare tomorrow`s leaders by educating the mind, nurturing the spirit, and strengthening the body.

LITERARY JOURNALISM CLASS Andrea Angel Julián Bermudez Johanna Goosens Michelle Gutierréz Sahar Herbol Nack Choon Jung Chang Won Lee Felipe Mansilla Daniel Sánchez Laura Silva Laura Steiner José Rozo Julián Uribe DESKTOP PUBLISHING CLASS Thomas Anderson Andrea Baena Kyle Barber Alex Burrowes Jose Antonio Duran Ligia Franco Xue Valentina Gonzalez Chang Won Lee Paula Maldonado Juan Rafael Nieto Jessica Stephanou Julian Uribe EDITORS Judy Sitton Guzmán Julio DESIGN Eulalia Ospina Layout Eulalia Ospina Guzmán Julio Cover Guzmán Julio Julián Uribe PICTURES & PAINTINGS Photography Class Art Class Laura Aparicio Special thanks Dwight Mott - H.S. Principal H.S. Teachers PRODUCTION CNG Communication Office PRINTED BY Cima Impresores E.U. Colegio NUEVA GRANADA Cra 2 Este N° 70 - 20 Bogotá, Colombia PBX (571) 212 35 11 Web http://www.cng.edu

EDITORIAL Dear readers: Welcome to this edition of IDEAS, brought to you by the two sponsors and their courses, Literary Journalism taught by Judy Sitton and Desktop Publishing taught by Guzman Julio in a joint effort to be proactive with the work produced in class. All the high school students were invited to publish their work, but only a few compositions that were not from the above-mentioned classes were submitted. We invited the photography and art classes to publish some of their work because a colorful and elaborate edition of the magazine would obviously be more attractive. The idea of the Literary Journalism class was to experiment with different genres of writing, in which each student could demonstrate his/her authenticity by exploring subjects of his/her own choice. The creation of art can no longer be a product of rules and limitations; it needs to be a reflection of the contact that the artist has with him/herself. Thus, we expect you to find products of substance that you will hopefully enjoy reading and seeing. Pedro Navajas says writing is important because it offers the element of escape from daily patterns and routines, the escape to allow oneself to dream, to imagine, to invent , to create, to BE. IDEAS brings to you an issue of what your peers ARE and what they are capable of. We sincerely hope you enjoy it.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

CONTENIDO 8 9

ARTICLES - ARTÍCULOS

¿Un nuevo Amanecer? Julián Uribe The End is near. Laura Steiner

ESSAYS - ENSAYOS

12 Who needs monkeys & alligators When we can have like, malls? Daniela Cleves 14 Chekhov´s Uncle Vanya & Nathaniel Hawthorne´s The Scarlet Letter. Gabriel Nieto 16 Freedom. Julián Uribe 17 La existencia y ex-sistencia. Juliana Gómez 22 El existencialismo es un humanismo. Valentina Llinás 28 30 31 32 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 52 54 55 56

POEMS - POEMAS

Procrastination. Andrea Ángel I will fight. Catalina Herrera Consolation. Chang Won Lee Before The Man Was Gone. Chang Won Lee Yearning. Chang Won Lee Deadalive. Daniel Sánchez O. ¿Will I Ever Understand? Daniela Builes A Moment. Gabriel González For You I´d. Gabriel Salazar I Am. Gabriel Salazar One, Two, Three. Johanna Goossens I thought I said goodbye. Johanna Goossens Perfect. Johanna Goossens Cement. Johanna Goossens Zidane Juan C. Tamayo Infinite Transition. Juliana Gómez And I Lost You For Ever. Laura Steiner Endless. Laura Steiner Fighting For What I Really Want. Miguel Pombo The Light That Called Me. Pablo Vacca The Fall. Nack Choon Jung Puritan Literature In Shakespearen Style. Phil Smiley A Darkness Surrounds. Rodrigo Zamora Ronaldinho. Santiago Santos Remember Home. Sofía Millán

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

BIOGRAPHIES - BIOGRAFÍAS

58 Alone With My Thoughts. Sahar Herbol 59 Chined to a Bridge. Johanna Goossens

LETTERS - CARTAS 62 63 64 66 67 68 70 71

Letter. Andrea Ángel President. Julián Bermúdez & Felipe Mansilla Funeral. Johanna Goossens Almighty. Julián Bermúdez, Felipe Mansilla & Daniel Sánchez Soldiers. Sahar A. Herbol Letter To Outsiders. Laura Steiner Letter. Laura Steiner Mom. Sahar A. Herbol

SHORT STORIES - HISTORIA CORTAS 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 82 84 85 86 88 90 92 96 96 97 97 97 98 99 100

Lo único que quedó. Alejandra Carson La noche estrellada. Andrés Mishaan El guitarrista viejo. Andrea Stephanou Los girasoles mágicos. Daniel Ballesteros La historia de Leo. Gabriel Carmona The Get-Well Card. Johanna Goossens Jester. Johanna Goossens And the Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round. Johanna Goossens El molino. Juan David Arredondo El enojo. Laura Gómez Short Story. Laura Silva I will no let you go. Laura Steiner Un vértigo interminable. Laura Steiner Gothic Story. Michelle Gutiérrez, Laura Steiner & José A. Rozo Cuento. Nicolás Mazuera Ave Fénix. Nicolás Bejarano El mico. Nicolás Cadavid El tratori. Nicolás Cadavid Historia. Natalia García Peña Belleza de gladiador. Santiago Santos El camaleón. William Gaviria Longest Night. Sahar Herbol

PLAYS - OBRAS DE TEATRO

102 The Obsession House. Michelle Gutiérrez, Laura Steiner & Jose A. Rozo 105 Journalism - Play (Reality Show) Nack Choon Jung & Johanna Goossens

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¿UN NUEVO AMANECER? Julián Uribe 12th

Basado en: La Farsa, Natalia Springer, Un Pasquín 2005

Un lema deambula por las calles de Colombia: “Mano firme, corazón grande”. Irónicamente, dicho lema, adoptado por nuestro fiel presidente, ha ido perdiendo (i) seriedad y (ii) credibilidad a lo largo del tiempo, siendo éste el peor enemigo de Uribe. El tema discutido por la autora Springer, en su apasionante articulo, titulado “la farsa”, nos deja claro que esta supuesta mano firme no sólo ha perdido la firmeza pero, a su vez, se ha vuelto tan blanda como la mano del criticado ex-presidente Pastrana. Esto tiene que ver con la política de Uribe respecto a los paramilitares. Las concesiones que les ha dado a los paramilitares se asemejan a las otorgadas por las de Pastrana a la guerrilla en la zona de distensión. El nuevo plan Uribista de reinserción de los paramilitares se ha convertido en una gran polémica entre los ‘iniciados’ en temáticas políticas. ¿¡Como así, una amnistía para los que masacraron a miles de compatriotas y desplazaron a otros tantos miles!? Como bien declara la autora Springer, “El terror es terror y su autor es terrorista” y así deberían ser juzgados los paramilitares colombianos, como terroristas. Visto desde las botas de caucho de estos violentos, ¿para qué entregar las armas? ¡Si ganan mejor salario que un campesino común y corriente! Por lo cual, aquí es donde viene la parte triste y patética de este proceso de reinserción; estos terroristas no ven este proceso con el mismo propósito que la ciega autoridad del gobierno. Si atraviesan por este proceso, claramente pueden volver a las armas, aunque metafóricamente las hayan entregado, y volver a la vida subversiva. Así pues, los paramilitares quedan blindados ante cualquier persecución o demanda impuesta por la justicia colombiana en el futuro. Entonces, dígame señor Presidente, ¿para qué hacemos este proceso… si la verdad es que los paramilitares están aprovechando vuestra inocencia e insensatez? ¿Para qué gastar miles de dólares, del endeudado bolsillo del Estado, en un proceso inservible, cuando nos están engañando a todos? Bueno pues, digamos que le podemos entregar nuestra esperanza y empatía a estos terroristas con objetivos nobles y con buenos deseos a través de este proceso. Sin embargo, más allá de estos reparos, lo mínimo que se puede exigir al gobierno es que cumpla sus propios compromisos. “Reinsertado” no solo es una definición jurídica pero también tiene un significado muy preciso en cuanto al reintegro del desmovilizado en la sociedad civil y en la economía, por medio de una actividad productiva. Lo que se advierte aquí es algo muy distinto: el gobierno no les ha cumplido, los empleos ofrecidos no se han materializado y el común de los paramilitares desmovilizados sigue dependiendo exclusivamente del auxilio estatal, razón por la cual resulta fácil tentar al reinsertado nuevamente a la delincuencia y la violencia. Desde luego, hay una falla de los empresarios, quienes no han ayudado a generar las respectivas oportunidades de trabajo. En otros términos, ni son aceptables las bases éticas y jurídicas de la reinserción ni ésta se esta dando en el sentido pleno que debería tener.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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Ana María Cruz 9th Grade

THE END IS NEAR Laura Steiner12th

A study which was concluded yesterday morning shows that a 100 km squared meteor is approaching Earth, putting, the World as we know it, very much in danger. Everything you’ve feared, everything that has haunted your dreams is about to become real. A meteor is approaching Earth and scientists believe that its impact is strong enough to destroy all living things. Scientists predict the meteor will hit Earth on Tuesday; only two more days for us to live! No more life, mo more water, no more clean air! Factories and supermarkets are shutting down. There will be nowhere to buy your supplies. Ladies and gentleman, our World is over. Beware! Beware! There will be nowhere to hide. You may run, but you will never run fast enough. There is no way to escape the end…destruction is inevitable. The meteor is expected to hit Earth on Tuesday morning on the coast of Brazil, which means that South America will be the first continent to go, but the other six will hardly last more than ten minutes! Those of us, who are fortunate enough to survive the impact, will be killed by the immediate radiation. And those who are still strong enough to survive will be punished, for you will live in a World that is nothing like the one we know; everything is about to change! All I can say for now, is: enjoy these last few days surrounded by those you love, it may be the last time you see them. On Tuesday, run to the roof of you houses, or at least to a higher level, for it may the only way to survive a few minutes more. This, ladies and gentleman, is not a warning, for there is nothing to warn you about, the meteor is hitting Earth, terminating life, no matter how fast we run or where we run to. This is rather a good bye. Today is the last day, after 15 years, that I will write for this paper. Thank-you, my fellow readers, for keeping up with my articles, thank you for being so constant and reading everything I write. I will cherish all of you out there who have so closely kept my passion for writing alive. Regards and be safe, Laura S. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

Julia Turbay 12th Grade

Silvana Olarte 11th Grade

Mariana Gonzรกlez 11th Grade

Santiago Gonzรกlez 11th Grade

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WHO NEEDS MONKEYS & ALLIGATORS

WHEN WE CAN HAVE, LIKE, MALLS? Daniela Cleves 11th Grade *Totally Ditzy Approach and Voice* Lately our cities and streets (oh and malls, it’s so unbearable) have become totally overpopulated by, like, people and cars; it’s not as if they were Louis purses or Manolos, I mean, that would be so amazing everyone would be, like, happy. People complain that there’s no more space for houses, but, hello? There’s not even space for new malls what do they expect?. (God, some people have their priorities so screwed up you know.) Oh and the sidewalks, oh my god, don’t even get me started; they are just so disgusting, they’re full of gross and very unlikable people. It’s like you can’t walk without bumping into a sweaty, overworked worker (eww), or even having your manicure totally ruined by someone’s unwashed clothes. (Ugh, no comment.) No wonder, like, fat people can’t walk around anymore, anyone and everyone tries to avoid having to walk anywhere in such appalling conditions. People say that global warming is bad, but God, they have no idea what I go through when I’m in my car and I see such a ugly sight. Thank God I do not have to go through such a terrifying experience; I totally feel bad for anyone that actually does. I mean through all those awful but realistic descriptions, as unbelievable as it sounds I’m totally affected by overpopulation in the city. I mean how do they expect all the cars to fit in like a three lane road, hello? I mean apart from the fact there’s like a billion cars, there’s no space. Our 12

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cars aren’t like big, big, just sort of big, like half way big you know, really just average sized now that I think about it. (God compared to cars I have in Europe they are really small actually.) But you can’t expect to fit like so many cars in such a petite space; it’s like trying to fit into a debutante’s dress that’s three sizes smaller. It just can’t work, I mean two does but three is too much, it’s absolutely pathetic and totally cheap. I mean, we are supposed to, like, pay taxes in order to have, like, amazing conditions in the places we live in, yet I don’t consider, like, an hour traffic jams perfect conditions; I mean it’s not as is we don’t have places to go and people to see right? I mean hello? Everyone could get everywhere quicker if they used my private jet (and that’s like a fifteen minute while they load everything, god, I think helicopters are much more efficient). One clearly obvious solution to a problem that I’m positive affects, like, everybody, is to stop caring so much about trees in the rainforest and mountains, and instead use, like, that space to make totally new cities, so we can have space to spread out and like, have fun. I mean imagine having like another house by the Amazon River; that would be like, so hot. Or a mall that can only be reached by yachts, hello? That would be, like, so out of this world. Or clubs, like, in the middle of a sparkling river? Plus, I mean, like, we need the trees to breathe, right? We give

the air back when we breathe out duh, so it’s not like we can just run out of oxygen (We so recycle unconsciously). The trees are just,, like, a decoration, you know, but they are making our lives so totally boring and, like, repetitive, so we might as well get them out of the way. Anyways, it’s not like they rather live with global warming right? I mean we are so totally doing them a favor, they prefer to not be around right now. I mean we totally need a break from the tree relationship. And for those of you that care so much about the monkeys and alligators and, like, all those other animals, well, they probably suffer so much in the wilderness; imagine the terribly dirty conditions that those poor animals are forced to, like, live in (eww). For them we can have, like, three possible solutions. One would be to send them, like, to animal zoos, and the second would be to use them as pets. I know that one’s totally crazy, they would probably eat your whole shoe collection or worse your cell phone, but some people are so crazy these days. The last solution, (absolutely my favorite) would be to make them into purses and shoes. Some people say it’s cruel, but if you think about it, it’s totally awesome. Eventually when animals, like, die, their skins will probably, like, die too, so why don’t we recycle them?. People are always making such a big deal about recycling these days. Plus,

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imagine skin clothes are so expensive, it could so totally bring in more money for, like, the hunter people. Poor animals, we would actually be doing them a humongous favor by adopting them as our own. Now for the people concerned about all like the adorable and ugly fishes in, like, the water, well, they can be left as decoration or hello even better? People can so totally have them for dinner; I mean there’s actually people that don’t find fish for dinner, like, gross (Eww, I can’t believe that. Chicken is definitely the best fish). See, our overpopulation problem is, like, totally ruling our lives when we can so totally get rid of it. Imagine lounging at a rainforest café or shopping around in striking malls? That’s, like, totally rad. The solution to the problem of overpopulation is totally in the rainforests, I mean, it’s the best and, like, most beneficial one. Someone who doesn’t agree with this is so totally a hippie that probably doesn’t even like have a shower (Eww). We can so totally enrich our culture and, like, economy by living in the rainforest, there’s so much to do. Plus, imagine this: we would, like, give electricity and internet to people there. Who wouldn’t feel, like, awesome about doing an awesome deed? Totally moving into the rainforest would be so, like, amazing, and it can solve all of our totally bad problems.

María Alejandra Echavarría 9th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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Comparison between

Chekhov’s UNCLE VANYA & Nathaniel Hawthorne’s THE SCARLET LETTER Gabriel Nieto 10th Grade

As they are both works written in, and written about more or less the same time frame (18th and 19th century), there are vast similarities in themes in Anton Chekhov’s UNCLE VANYA and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s THE SCARLET LETTER. The most obvious of these common grounds is that of forbidden love, being arguably the centerpiece of both the novel and the play. Looking closely, though, there are many more common themes between “Uncle” and “Scarlet”. Among these can be the burden of routine life on everyday people, and how this affects their interaction with others, and also how society burdens individuals through its taboos and how this shapes their behavior. The profound similarities I can find between this Russian play and this American novel serve the purpose of demonstrating how closely related the developments of those nations were; something ironic, considering that later on, in the 20th century, each of these countries represented complete opposite ends of the world’s ideological spectrum. Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale’s union represents forbidden love in THE SCARLET LETTER; meanwhile, in UNCLE VANYA, forbidden affection is at the center 14

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of the major debacle of the play, and various forbidden loves develop: Uncle Vanya and Elena, Sonia and Mijail. Hester’s relationship with Reverend Dimmesdale is considered forbidden as she is married to another man, and he is a church member, supposedly practicing celibacy. Uncle Vanya cannot be with Elena as she is married to his brother-in-law, Alexander. Sonia and Mijail cannot be together because she is not beautiful (an asset required by men in society) and because he is secretly in love with Elena, who in return is in love with him as well, but cannot be with him as she is maried to Alexander. As I’ve previously stated, these forbidden relationships are crucial to the development of the plots of both UNCLE...and THE SCARLET.. Hester’s adultery, and subsequent punishment for it, give title to Hawthorne’s novel and dominate the entire novel, as it tells the story of the consequences of forbidden love in the God-revering, puritanical society of colonial Boston, Massachusetts. Similarly, it is the forbidden relationships in UNCLE VANYA that drive characters (most importantly Uncle Vanya) to feud amongst themselves and for problems to surface from deep within their conscious-

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Martín Gutiérrez 11th Grade

nesses; these “problems” include Vanya’s outburst toward his brother in law, from his deceased sister and the several love confessions that happen as the play develops.

tury society in a more direct way, through his main characters. Vanya’s boring lifestyle in Alexander’s farm causes him to question the purpose of his life, and to think it has been a complete waste. This The effects of routine and lackluster lifeis the same for the doctor, Mijail, and style on characters are also themes adit causes him to find fulfillment in life dressed in the two literary works I’ve through other things, such as romances aforementioned; however, in each text that should not be. Although this is simthey are represented in different ways. ilar between Vanya and Scarlet, there is In the Hawthorne novel, the effects of a large difference between the contexts routine on people aren’t shown through in which both authors critique modern the actions surrounding the main charsociety. In the Russian play, the author acters. Instead, these effects are shown uses a rural setting - a farm - while in in the community as a whole, and how the American novel, the author sets his they deal with Hester’s problem, at first story in the biggest city in the U.S. (at negatively, demonstrating the adamant the time). religious mentality of the colonial United States; later, their mindset changes com- One is a play and the other is a novel, pletely and they are apathetic to adultery, but there are striking similarities between issue that had before caused them to com- UNCLE VANYA and THE SCARLET LETplain and recite jeremiads. Through this, TER. The changes going on in the world Nathaniel Hawthorne wants to show that between the 1700 and 1800’s were simieven the most devout religious fanatics lar throughout, from the straight-laced can abandon their principles because of port town of Boston in the new nation the degradation that living in society was of the United States to the countryside of causing them, (arguing totally against the Russia. It is interesting to see how two organization of population in urban set- great minds of 19th century literature, tings). In UNCLE VANYA, Chekhov ad- Chekhov and Hawthorne, agree on what dresses the tedious nature of the 19th cen- problems society of that era were facing. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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FREEDOM Julian Uribe 12th Grade

Freedom, by definition, “is the right, or the capacity, of self-determination, as an expression of the individual will”1, but more than a right, it could be a feeling, or even an emotion. Freedom, similar to the semantics of democracy, “… is a word which connotes different things to different people”2. Therefore, freedom may be considered from the simplest thing as gaining independence from one’s parents, to ending some type of indentured services such as prostitution or working in a sweatbox. Freedom has many synonyms such as autonomy, independence, and liberty, but indirectly, it can be related to happiness, joy, and the sense of release from any form of oppression. What is the cost of freedom? This too, depends on your conditions and the way you manage your own freedom. If your condition, to begin with, is not that of a free person, then you have to struggle and fight for your freedom. The exercise of freedom, in turn, also entails rights and responsibilities, cost and benefits. To give an example of this, it is far easier for a child to live under the ignorance of his or her insouciance and not being accountable for what he or she does, while an adult must accept the consequences of his or her acts. In other words, freedom is no free ride for many, but for others the freedom at their disposal is disdained and adds no value to their lives. The feeling of self-determination, as said, is something envied by many, but as Dostoevsky once conveyed, “What man wants 16

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is simply independent choice, whatever that independence may cost and whereever it may lead.” The desire for freedom will always co-exist with human existence, no matter the degree of oppression or enjoyment of full rights in our lives; this emotion could be considered an utopia, to the extent that true freedom may well be unattainable. Indeed, any human society probably entails constrains to freedom, for a number of good reasons. There will always be restrictive factors in our lives, such as norms and regulations. In addition, as per the famous quote, “My freedom ends where yours begins”3, which makes us realize that there will always be some sort of invisible law in our lives called the social contract. As a result, for some people a degree of oppression may result whatever the degree of freedom they enjoy. In the end, we may wonder to what extent freedom is a well defined quality. There is always greater freedom than that which we have and we struggle to reach, only to find there will always be some barriers left. One might ask the question: is freedom for real or is it a dream? If it is a dream, is it worth chasing? What man wants is simply an independent choice, whatever that independence may cost and where ever it may lead.

1. www.wikipedia.org 2. Carl Becker “Democracy” 3. Unknown author

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LA EXISTENCIA Y EX–SISTENCIA Juliana Gómez 10th Grade

¿En qué consiste el existencialismo de Martín Heidegger y cuales son las diferencias centrales con el existencialismo de Jean-Paúl Sartre? El siglo XX fue una época llena de cambios y movimientos sociales, culturales y políticos que a su vez inspiró el surgimiento de una serie de filósofos basados en la misma doctrina pero con interpretaciones diferentes. Martín Heidegger y Jean-Paúl Sartre, dos filósofos contemporáneos y existencialistas ateos (desde el punto de vista de Sartre), fueron dos de los protagonistas de éste periodo; presentaron ideas distintas e innovadoras que causaron controversia e influenciaron la sociedad del momento. Es interesante ponerlos frente a frente en temas particulares tales como Dios y la libertad, la existencia humana y el humanismo, pero mejor aún en un tema en particular como el existencialismo. Teniendo en cuenta que el existencialismo es un movimiento cultural y filosófico que se basa en el ser del hombre y en la responsabilidad que éste adquiere sobre su vida al momento de existir, podemos proseguir a analizar el existencialismo del filósofo alemán Martín Heidegger al igual que sus similitudes y diferencias con el de Jean-Paul Sartre. Me basaré principalmente en sus respectivos escritos Carta sobre el humanismo y El existencialismo es un humanismo. Heidegger es considerado como un filósofo existencialista ateo, como Sartre, pero hay que aclarar que él mismo tiene sus diferencias con estos ‘títulos’. Él siente que

hay algo más además del simple hecho de la existencia del hombre (que se podrá ver a través de éste escrito) y por esto no se encuentra en total acuerdo con la palabra existencialismo. Asimismo se opone al término ‘ateo’ debido a que él afirma nadie se puede considerar como creyente o ateo puesto que todavía no se ha decidido nada sobre la ‘existencia de dios’ o su ‘no-ser,’ así como tampoco sobre la posibilidad o imposibilidad de los dioses1. Por esto decide enfocarse más en la metafísica (aunque en momentos en su Carta sobre el humanismo dice que hay que sobrepasarla y llegar más allá), pero en especial en la ontología la cual trata del ser en general y de sus propiedades trascendentales2. El escrito del filósofo alemán, Carta sobre el humanismo, es principalmente una respuesta a la pregunta por parte de Jean Beaufret: ¿Cómo se le puede volver a dar un sentido a la palabra humanismo? Basándose en esta pregunta Heidegger trata de poner en palabras su pensamiento con relación al hombre y su papel en la tierra, algo que al final se vuelve bastante complicado. Es así como a través de su escrito, a mi parecer, Heidegger logra establecer su propio ‘existencialismo´3 dado a su inconformidad con el existencialismo común y 1. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Pág. 69 2. www.rae.es 3. Está entre comillas puesto que es bastante peculiar y en el idioma del propio Heidegger sería ex-sistencialismo IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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su incapacidad de sentar bases firmes sobre terrenos que todavía no han sido explorados a fondo. Para refrescar la mente iniciaré con una breve explicación del existencialismo de Sartre. Éste se basa principalmente en el concepto de que la existencia precede la esencia. Asimismo, el hombre, quien es libre, adquiere una responsabilidad al existir (entendido como el hecho de vivir y estar en la tierra). Esta responsabilidad es su vida, la cual se definirá y tomará sentido a medida que el hombre actúe y ratifique lo que piensa por medio de sus acciones. Es así como Sartre dice que el hombre es un proyecto que vive subjetivamente, que involucra sentimientos y experiencia para progresar. Contrario a lo que dice Sartre, Heidegger piensa que la existencia es la efectiva realización de la esencia y que la realidad efectiva no causa ni produce la esencia4. Pero su oposición todavía va más allá. Para el filósofo alemán, el existencialismo, como el resto de las palabras, ha perdido su significado puesto que éste ha sido tergiversado. Heidegger piensa que el existencialismo no es sólo concentrarse en el hombre sino también en el Ser, una parte fundamental que los hombres y otros filósofos, en los que incluye a Sartre, han dejado a un lado (en el olvido) debido a su gran nivel de complejidad. Lo decisivo para el hombre, según Heidegger, es su encuentro con el Ser, su encuentro con la verdad. El problema es que esto no se puede lograr puesto que todavía no tenemos clara la relación con el Ser. Es bastante frustrante puesto que el Ser no está ‘dado’ todo el tiempo; es más, está escondido la mayoría del tiempo, y aquellos que lo “encuentran” son casi que privilegiados. De igual manera, el Ser aparenta estar muy cerca pero a la vez está muy lejos. Este distanciamiento se debe a la falta de herramientas por parte del hombre para llegar a ella. 4. Tomado de Relatoría de Juliana Gómez C. sobre Se busca un Poeta por Guillermo Mina

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Pero el misterio en torno al Ser no para ahí. Nadie está completamente seguro de que no haya presenciado el Ser. Esto ocurre puesto que el mismo Heidegger admite, y lo ratifica con la analogía de Heráclito, que el Ser no es nada espectacular, no es nada del otro mundo; es más, es algo muy simple. Entonces puede que cualquiera haya presenciado al Ser, pero debido a que está condicionado a pensar que el Ser es extraordinario, si éste lo llega a presenciar no se da cuenta y lo pasa por desapercibido. Este abandono u olvido, que en otras ocasiones es causado porque el hombre piensa al Ser como objeto, hace que los hombres hayamos entrado en un estado de ´la nada´, en donde la ausencia del Ser es la mayor vacante, y ésta es la que Heidegger quiere que ocupemos. La razón por la cual nos encontramos en ´la nada´, según el filósofo alemán, es por la forma de pensar de algunos individuos dentro de los que incluye a Sartre. Aquellos materializan o tecnifican la mayoría de las cosas (o ‘algos’ en el caso del Ser) dejando a un lado la esencia de lo que convierten en objeto. Casi se podría decir que lo que ‘mató’ al Dios de Nietzsche fue esa depreciación por parte del hombre. Pero bueno, aunque vuelve y reitera que todavía no estamos en condiciones de llegar al Ser y de conseguir que nadie se olvide de él, insiste que hay que ser pacientes y en todo caso empezar con algo para que algún día lo logremos. ¿Pero qué o quién es el Ser del que Heidegger habla? Aunque suene un poco desconcertante ni siquiera Heidegger mismo lo sabe. Lo único que sabemos del Ser es que es algo trascendente, algo superior que tiene el destino y la esencia del hombre en sus manos. Por esta razón es por la cual el hombre, un ente pensante, tiene que lograr formar una relación con el Ser para que pueda darle una dirección y sentido a su vida; para que lo guíe con sus reglas y leyes. El destino sólo se le va a mostrar al pensar que piensa la historia del Ser en el hecho de que el hombre encuentra un camino hacia la verdad del Ser y emprende

la marcha hacia tal encontrar5. Es por eso que aquel pensar que no logra que el Ser se le ‘dé’, no tiene un destino y da vueltas por todas partes alrededor de sí mismo como animal racional6. El Ser es el único que logra ‘destinar y conjugar al hombre’. El Ser es el que da el apoyo y la experiencia necesaria que el hombre necesita para estar tranquilo y sentirse protegido. Ya habiendo dado una idea general del Ser, procederé a darla para el hombre. Para Heidegger todo es un ente. Pero los hombres, debido a que piensan y logran formar relaciones (comprometiéndose con el Ser), reciben un nombre especial: Dasein. El Dasein es libre, igual que el hombre para Sartre, pero este no se define o encuentra su esencia por medio de sus acciones, sino cuando logra establecer una relación con el Ser; ‘el hombre es en la medida en que existe7’. Contrario a lo que dice Sartre, de que el hombre es ´un sólo´, Heidegger afirma que el hombre está compuesto por el cuerpo y el alma y que éste, un sujeto, está dotado de conciencia. Como se puede ver la base de todo es pensar, y para lograr llegar al Ser el hombre se tiene que liberar de todo lo técnico para poder experimentar su esencia. ¿Pero cómo logra esto el hombre? En el momento en que el pensar (parte del hombre) se sale de sí mismo, inmediatamente se encuentra más cerca de que el Ser ´se le dé´. Que el Ser ´se le dé´ significa que el pensar encuentra la verdad o el descubrimiento (´sin velo,´definición griega de la verdad) del Ser. En otras palabras, cuando el pensar encuentra la verdad del Ser es porque el Ser se ha descubierto y el pensar lo puede presenciar. Cuando el Ser se descubre para el pensar (se muestra en su claro), el pensar adquiere su ex –sistencia, se convierte en parte del destino del Ser, y por ende se establece en un mundo. Entonces si el hombre ex –siste es porque 5. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Pág. 56 6. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Pág. 56 7. La ex-sistencia del hombre es su sustancia

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ha encontrado su esencia y por ende se encuentra en el destino del Ser volviéndose parte de éste (la esencia del hombre reside en su ex -sistencia8). Cuando se establece la ex –sistencia se establece un vínculo que trae consigo reglas que dicen cómo se debe vivir y cómo debe ser el destino del hombre9. El hombre descubre su esencia en el momento que, después de “agarrar” algo del Ser, y haber emprendido un “descenso peligroso” llega una vez más a su subjetividad. Es ahí cuando supera la metafísica y concreta su esencia. Ahí podemos ver una clara diferencia con el pensamiento de Sartre, y sobretodo con el significado que éste le da a la esencia, puesto que para él la esencia es lo que el hombre lleva adentro y que se va enriqueciendo con las experiencias y las decisiones que se tomen con libertad. Pero volviendo una vez más al tema del encuentro con el Ser, ahí surge otro problema. Si a algún pensar del hombre se le descubriera el Ser, probablemente entendería cómo y qué es el Ser, pero lo que sucedería es que éste no podría ponerlo en palabras. Por esta misma razón es por la cual los filósofos buscan en los poetas un apoyo, en el cual, como dice Mr. Mina, “les prestan las palabras” para poder expresar lo que sienten y piensan. 8. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Pág. 61 9. Tomado de Relatoría # 4 de Juliana Gómez C. sobre Carta sobre el humanismo de Heidegger

Laura Vélez 10th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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Habiendo explicado esto, procederé a exponer la visión de Heidegger en torno al lenguaje. El pensar es el primero que se abre camino hacia la verdad del ser y por consiguiente es el que le aporta al lenguaje (la morada del hombre). Lo que sucede hoy en día es que hay que asirse a los términos y nombres que son utilizados comúnmente dado a que no ha habido pensar que llegue a pensar la verdad del Ser, y por eso no ha habido nada que pueda guiar el lenguaje10. Como lo mencioné anteriormente, Heidegger está sumamente preocupado con el deterioro del lenguaje y en especial de las palabras. Por esto no ve la necesidad de volverle a dar un sentido a la palabra humanismo debido al daño que causan los títulos. Es por esta misma razón por la cual él empieza a redefinir algunas palabras (entre ellas la existencia / ex -sistencia), o mejor, a reconstruir el elemento11 (lenguaje) del hombre12; el hombre ha “perdido su morada”. Entonces como el hombre ha perdido su morada el hombre también perdió al Ser, y por esto la única forma de reencontrarlas es existir pero omitiendo los nombres ya preestablecidos13. Solo haciendo un balance es como se le vuelve a regalar a la palabra el valor precioso de su esencia y al hombre la morada donde habitar en la verdad del ser.14 Debido a que el lenguaje es la ‘casa’ del hombre, la esencia del lenguaje se tiene que pensar en correspondencia con el ser15. Entonces el lenguaje es tan importante que es responsabilidad del hombre, y sobretodo de poetas y pensadores quienes son aquellos que lo utilizan frecuentemente y 10. Tomado de Relatoría # 4 de Juliana Gómez C. sobre Carta sobre el humanismo de Heidegger. 11. Aquello que permite y capacita la verdad 12. Tomado de Relatoría # 3 de Juliana Gómez C. sobre Carta sobre el humanismo de Heidegger. 13. Tomado de Relatoría # 1 de Juliana Gómez C. sobre Carta sobre el humanismo de Heidegger. 14. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Pág. 20. 15. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Pág. 45.

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con más cuidado, de cuidarlo. El lenguaje, que es la morada del hombre como dice Heidegger, puede ser interpretado como una casa en donde el hombre se siente protegido y libre. Es como si el Ser fuera el padre y la casa fuera el lenguaje; estos dos actuando como protección para el hijo, el hombre. Es así como el hombre, encargado de guardar la verdad del ser, y al habitar en su casa, el lenguaje, ex-siste. Ya que tenemos ese conocimiento del lenguaje podemos pasar a la definición que el mismo Heidegger da del humanismo y sus críticas que tiene con la definición del entonces al igual que de la de Sartre. Como lo entiende Heidegger, el humanismo es el que piensa la humanidad del hombre desde su proximidad al Ser, pero por otro lado es lo que trata de explicar la esencia del hombre por medio de convertirla en objeto. Es por esto que Heidegger está en desacuerdo con la definición de la humanidad, puesto que deja a un lado algo tan importante como el Ser16. Si decidiéramos tomar esa definición como dice Heidegger, estaríamos pensando una clase de humanismo extraño en donde el hombre no es el que importa; in a grove where no light penetrates17. Viviríamos en un mundo en donde el Ser no existiera puesto que no se podría poner en claro o iluminar al pensar del hombre. Es así como el humanismo, apoyado por la lógica, enseña un nihilismo irresponsable y destructivo18. Por esto Heidegger dice que si el hombre llega a encontrar su esencia, encuentra su lugar, y puede tener en cuenta no sólo el resto de los hombres sino también la naturaleza. Por otro lado está Sartre quien solamente resalta la importancia de la acción pues es por medio de ésta por la cual el hombre se define, considera que el hombre es un ser 16. Otro ejemplo: al designar a algo como <valor> se está privando precisamente a lo así valorado de su importancia. 17. Heidegger, Martín. Letter on Humanism. Basic Writings. Pág. 248. 18. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Pág. 64.

en situación19 y que es un ser desamparado al que lo acompaña sólo su conciencia. Esta última característica es la que hace del existencialismo un humanismo importante puesto que la conciencia es algo que sólo los humanos tenemos. Entonces es claro como el humanismo de Sartre no pone a la humanidad en el puesto que se merece y por eso es que Heidegger se opone rotundamente a este humanismo, adicionando el hecho de que Sartre cree que estamos en una situación en donde sólo hay hombres cuando en realidad debería ser que estamos en una situación en donde principalmente hay un Ser. Es así como podemos ver que todo lo que dice Heidegger en la Carta sobre el humanismo es casi una oposición directa al pensar de Sartre y el resto de las personas que ignoran al Ser, y que al igual que la metafísica, ponen en el olvido la verdad del ser20. Es claro que Heidegger trató de poner todo lo relevante al Ser en palabras claras y conceptos básicos, pero al final se dio cuenta lo difícil que esto es. En todo caso su trabajo y esfuerzo creo que valieron mucho la pena pues llegar a pensar esto no sólo requiere de tremenda inteligencia sino que fue un aporte vital para los hombres. Sin duda alguna Heidegger tiene una serie de pensamientos fuertes e intere19. Mina, Guillermo. Se busca un poeta. Al márgen. 2005. Pág. 28. 20. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Pág. 35.

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santes, que aunque me parecen utópicas, las considero como una manera diferente de ver al hombre. A pesar de que no estoy de acuerdo con el concepto del Ser de Heidegger, puesto que me parece una forma exagerada de pensar al hombre, hubo momentos que me cautivó y me hizo creer que lo que él decía era la última palabra. Por otro lado, el hecho de haberme hecho sentir inferior durante todo el escrito fue parte de la razón por la cual seguí leyendo, y es por esto que es inevitable que este filósofo no deje su marca en mí. Tengo que admitir que haber analizado a Heidegger fue un reto, y un reto que valió la pena. Yo diría que Heidegger hizo que mi pensar se saliera de mi cuerpo y llegara a que el Ser se le diera, puesto que no encuentro otra explicación a cómo llegué a entender algo tan complejo.

Bibliografía Gómez, Juliana. Carta sobre el humanismo. Relatorías # 1, 2, 3 y 4. Heidegger, Martín. Carta sobre el humanismo. Alianza Editorial 2001. Págs. 7-91 Heidegger, Martín. Letter on Humanism. Basic Writings. Págs. 214-265 Mina, Guillermo. Se busca un poeta. Al márgen. 2005. Págs. 22-31 *Este escrito fue producido en la clase de sociales y filosofia. Pre ap class 11th grade. Es el ensayo final desarrollado por los estudiantes en esta clase con énfasis en filosofía.

Gabriel Muñoz 9th Grade

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EL EXISTENCIALISMO ES UN HUMANISMO Valentina Llinás 12th Grade

El existencialismo es principalmente un movimiento filosófico cuyo tema central de reflexión es estrictamente la existencia. En El Existencialismo es un Humanismo Jean Paul Sartre define el existencialismo más específicamente como una filosofía que “hace posible la vida humana y que, por otra parte, declara que toda verdad y toda acción implican un medio y una subjetividad humana”1. Aunque por un lado Sartre simplemente aspira explicar su punto de vista, este texto sirve como una defensa o apología para proteger su filosofía de los reproches elaborados en su contra. Intenta desmentir ciertas acusaciones y justificar los diferentes aspectos del existencialismo, para así poder callar las críticas. Según el autor, el existencialismo está basado en el concepto de que la esencia precede la existencia. “…el hombre empieza por existir, se encuentra, surge en el mundo, y después se define.”2 Es decir, el hombre empieza por no ser nada y eventualmente existe, pero solo llega a ser lo que él mismo se hace. Divide esta ideología en dos ramas, la primera representa la perspectiva cristiana, y la segunda, la perspectiva atea. El existencialismo cristiano consiste en que los hombres ven a Dios como el creador y protector de la humanidad. El hombre es un ser propio, pero, como Dios nos creó juntos, siempre debemos tener al prójimo 1. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 23. 2. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 31.

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en cuenta y entender que la única libertad que existe es compartida. El existencialismo ateo niega la existencia de un Dios, “Dios es una hipótesis inútil y costosa, nosotros la suprimimos…nada cambiará si Dios no existe; encontraremos las mismas normas de honradez, de progreso, de humanismo…”3 Dice que sin ningún apoyo el hombre es responsable por todo lo que hace, y por ende está libre, pues está comprometido cada instante a inventarse a si mismo. Ya que hemos definido sintéticamente los pensamientos de Sartre en cuanto a los diferentes existencialismos, es importante aclarar que él es un existencialista ateo. Ahora debemos entrar más a fondo a explorar los diferentes reproches hechos por sus críticos. Sin duda, hay algunos que logra desmentir, pero tiene varias explicaciones que no justifica bien. Prosigamos con las acusaciones comunistas. Estoy de acuerdo con los pensamientos Marxistas. Ellos creen que el existencialismo invita a la gente a “permanecer en un quietismo de desesperación.”4 Si el hombre no encuentra alguna solución exterior, es posible considerar que hay pocas opciones, y que todas las soluciones están cerradas. Entonces el hombre entra en desespero, pues se ve totalmente atrapado por los límites del impedimento; límites que frenan al hombre a buscar más allá de él mismo. 3. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 41. 4. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 21.

“…No hay que luchar contra los poderes establecidos, no hay que luchar contra la fuerza, no hay que intentar elevarse por encima de la propia condición…”5 No se trata de rebelarse, no se trata de elevarse innecesariamente, simplemente se trata de permitirse explorar el universo para encontrar más respuestas. ¿Acaso no es egocéntrico pensar que todas las respuestas ya están establecidas dentro del hombre? ¿Acaso no es ridículo creer que el universo fue creado enteramente alrededor del hombre? Hay muchas otras esencias que merecen reconocimiento, muchos otros factores que afectan nuestra existencia. Cosas han pasado, están pasando, y seguirán pasando aparte de nuestra existencia, son eventos fuera de nuestro control, son ocurrencias que van por encima de nosotros y vale la pena tenerlas en cuenta. Hacer lo contrario sería mediocre; hacer lo contrario sería encerrar al hombre inútilmente. A contrario de Sartre, yo creo en Dios, y por esta misma razón estoy de acuerdo con él cuando afirma que para el ateo “es muy incómodo que Dios no exista”6 Realmente es un beneficio poder sentir esa compañía. Sartre dice que Dios es solo un apoyo al cual aferrarse y critica al hombre cristiano por culpar al ser superior en vez de responsabilizarse por sus acciones. Como Sartre, me parece importante recordar que acumular culpas no es el propósito de Dios. Sin embargo, aunque Dios no exista para Sartre, y se sienta abandonado o desamparado, me parece extremista decir que se debe “obrar sin esperanza.”7 Según él, no es necesario tener esperanzas para actuar; el hombre con ilusiones se decepciona más a menudo. Dice que uno simplemente debe actuar y realizar lo que quiere, sin esperar ser más de lo que debe. Este pesimismo es innecesario, pues es importante 5. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 25. 6. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 41. 7. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 53.

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tener sueños y aspiraciones, ya que son la incentiva para lograr el cometido. Jean Paul Sartre está siendo mediocre otra vez, pues ve al hombre desilusionado ante un fracaso, en vez de ver al hombre aprendiendo de sus derrotas. La esperanza es el comienzo, las acciones solo son el medio para cumplir sus visiones. Cuando Sartre cuenta la historia del alumno y la elección que debe hacer, se presenta el quietismo que exponen los Marxistas. Sartre coloca dos opciones como las opciones fundamentales del existencialismo: escoger entre actuar para si mismo, o actuar en función de los demás. Aunque parezca lo contrario, es evidente que realmente no existe ninguna elección. Si el alumno escoge abandonar a su madre, no solo está perjudicando a su madre sino a él mismo también. Si el alumno escoge permanecer al lado de su madre y ayudarla a vivir, no solo está afectando a su madre sino a él mismo también. De las dos maneras hay consecuencias para ambos lados; las dos opciones tienen el mismo resultado, por ende no existe la alternativa. El alumno está atrapado, pues solo hay un posible desenlace. Hacia el final del texto, Sartre defiende al existencialismo de otro reproche más, “…entonces ustedes pueden hacer cualquier cosa…”8. Dice que esto no es del todo exacto. Por un lado, la elección atrapa al existencialista. Aunque una persona no elija, está eligiendo no elegir. No se puede optar por no tomar responsabilidad hacia un problema, pues al escoger esto está escogiendo no responsabilizarse. Por otro lado, el existencialista sí es libre en el momento creador, pues no existen límites. Es cierto que el existencialismo dice que se puede ‘hacer cualquier cosa’ a priori, pero se debe estar conciente de las consecuencias que surgirán a posteriori. “No pueden ustedes juzgar a los demás porque no hay razón para preferir un pro8. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 69. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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yecto a otro…”9 Sartre dice que esto es cierto porque es inútil juzgar al hombre por lo que es, pues todos son iguales. También dice que es cierto porque “no creemos en el progreso; el progreso es un mejoramiento; el hombre es siempre el mismo frente a una situación que varia…”10. Aunque estoy de acuerdo con lo primero, estoy en desacuerdo con el segundo razonamiento, pues yo sí creo en el progreso. El hombre es libre en su creación, y cada día tiene la oportunidad para recrearse. Esta oportunidad surge al aprender de pasadas experiencias e intentar progresar y no cometer los mismos errores. Debido a esto, el hombre vive en un constante cambio y no siempre es el mismo frente a una situación. Sartre está ignorando la evolución; el hombre siempre busca la perfección, y por esto esta constantemente mejorando; está tratando de corregir o evadir errores pasados. Por otro lado, dice que esta afirmación es falsa, porque existen las malas elecciones. Estas son aquellas fundadas en el error, hechas por hombres de mala fe. Un hombre de mala fe es aquel que sabe que está errando pero no se lo acepta ni a él mismo. Estos son los únicos hombres que se pueden juzgar, pues “…defino su mala fe como un error.” 11 Después Sartre entra en una contradicción. Dice que los hombres solo pueden ser libres juntos, pues la libertad de uno depende enteramente de la libertad de todos. Por otro lado, dice que el compromiso es libre, pues no siempre estás sujeto a algo. Según su primera afirmación cada hombre está sujeto al resto de la humanidad, es su obligación tomar la libertad de todos como fin. La segunda contradice esto enteramente, pues es absurdo decir que el hombre tenga una obligación y luego decir que no siempre está sujeto a algo. Como dijo Sartre ante9. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 69. 10. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 75. 11. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 76.

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riormente, la elección de cualquier hombre compromete a toda la humanidad, por ende el hombre sí esta siempre sujeto a algo. “De acuerdo con estas reflexiones se ve que nada es más injusto que las objeciones que se nos hacen.”12 Después de un texto lleno de incoherencias, contradicciones y falta de fluidez, es pedante de Sartre asumir que ha logrado aclararle algo al lector. Su propósito es defender su filosofía; su propósito es convencer al lector que el existencialismo no es culpable de ninguna de las acusaciones mencionadas. Puede parecer un poco exigente reclamarle a un autor su falta de claridad, pero al escribir un texto persuasivo, el autor se está comprometiendo a un cierto grado de organización y transparencia para lograr su cometido. El autor expresa su filosofía y explica varias ideas, además es muy convincente en su forma de escribir. No niego que haya estado de acuerdo con algunos de sus ideales, ni que haya aprendido a ver a la humanidad de una manera muy diferente. De todas maneras, confunde mucho al lector, pues aunque a veces se vuelve redundante, deja muchos temas inconclusos y afirmaciones a falta de mayor justificación. Debo aceptar que termina su texto con unas conclusiones muy bien puestas. “No es que creamos que Dios existe, sino que pensamos que el problema no es el de su existencia; es necesario que el hombre se encuentre a sí mismo y se convenza de que nada puede salvarlo de sí mismo, ni siquiera una prueba valedera de la existencia de Dios.”13 Esta sí es una afirmación clara, y válida, pero de todas formas no logra convencerme. Yo pienso que no es exactamente Dios el que nos salva, sino la fe que tenemos en Él. Es una esperanza que nos mueve y nos anima a conquistar nuestras aspiraciones; no es una salvación sino un apoyo. 12. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 86. 13. Sartre, JP. El Existencialismo es un Humanismo. Edhasa. Pág. 86.

Nuestra desesperación como creyentes no es tener una prueba valedera de su existencia, ¿para qué es necesaria? Es exactamente esa misma ilusión ciega la que nos ilumina; la que nos ayuda y acompaña a encontrarnos a nosotros mismos. La fe que el hombre tiene en Dios es una fe que se tiene a él mismo, pues ¿creer en Dios a quien más beneficia aparte del creyente? Si alguien cree en Dios, se está permitiendo una protección y un amparo inmortal, se está extendiendo la oportunidad de triunfar. Sartre no entiende que nuestra desesperación tampoco es la misma existencia de Dios, sino las ganas que el hombre tiene de ayudarse a si mismo. El existencialismo es una filosofía egocéntrica, pues no deja que el hombre busque ayuda, ya que asume que todo se encuentra dentro de él. Esto encierra al hombre y lo lleva a ser cobarde, pues no se atreve a buscar respuestas alternas, y le teme descubrir que no todo en la vida tiene respuestas, que no todo en la vida es una garantía sólida. Llámese conformista, llámese desesperado, pero el cristiano es lo

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suficientemente valiente para olvidarse de las respuestas -que al final son lo menos importante- y vivir a punta de pura fe. Aunque Jean Paul Sartre se expresa desorganizadamente y no logra ser del todo convincente, su arbitraje por el existencialismo ateo claramente despierta muchas controversias. De cierta manera esto cumple uno de sus varios propósitos, pues fomenta el conocimiento del existencialismo y despierta opiniones sobre él. No es amigable con el lector, pues está constantemente a la defensiva y en partes uno se siente hasta atacado. Sin embargo, se mantiene firme en su punto de vista. A pesar de todo, Sartre parece ser un hombre decidido; y por esto lo respeto muchísimo. Además, fue esta misma pertinacia la que causó furor alrededor del mundo y le dio tanto reconocimiento en la filosofía universal.

Este escrito fue producido en la clase de sociales y filosofía. Pre ap class 11th grade. Es el ensayo final desarrollado por los estudiantes en esta clase con énfasis en filosofía. Mariana Pardo 9th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

Laura Aparicio 11th Grade

María Alejandra Echavarría 9th Grade

Julián Uribe 12th Grade

Camila Lobo-Guerrero 9th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Procrastination” Andrea Ángel 9th Grade

“Andrea, do your homework… NOW!!” “Stop screaming I started hours ago” (not really) Okay so here’s the deal: I have an essay to write… (It’s due tomorrow) I don’t want to. (First period) It doesn’t interest me. I don’t like it. I hate the teacher. Why do I have to write it?? Okay I sit down… I have my things Now I’m ready to start… here we go… kay I’m really ready I spelled my name wrong… what a silly mistake… Where’s the eraser?? Okay my name’s right. I have everything ready… Now what’s the question?? Ahh I don’t have my paper… Where’s the paper?? Okay I have the topic… I’m ready to continue Hmm I didn’t eat lunch did I? I should eat something before I get started… it’s not good to work on an empty stomach What should I eat?? Okay I have my chips my soda… I can finally get started Hmm just one more sip Oh no I’m such a clutz, I spilled my soda Where are the paper towels? “Andrea what are you doing in the kitchen, again?!?” “I made a mess I’m getting paper towels, hill” (I really have to start that essay)

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Okay no more mess. I can really sit down and do this now… Now what’s the question again… oh yeah I forgot to tell Carolina what I heard Felipe saying today Where’s my cell phone?? Okay seriously, how could she say that to him?? I think I might as well get started on my math homework for next week. I’ll do my essay later. Where’s my math book?? Okay now that that’s done… I need a break. Gray’s Anatomy is almost on. Hmm I guess I should probably go watch it. Where’s the remote control? Okay that was definitely the best episode ever. Dinner is almost ready. I should go sit down. What’s for dinner? Okay that was a nice and fun dinner. I should probably get started on that science project due in 2 months You know I don’t want to get behind. The essay can wait. Where’s that sheet of paper? Okay I’m done with that part of the project I think I’m going to go to sleep Ill wake up early and do the essay. Where’s my pajama? 4:30 AM Okay it’s definitely too early. I’m going to sleep for another while Ill do it on the bus. Where’s that button for the alarm? Okay so its way too early to go to school I hate being so uncomfortable on the bus.Ill do it when I get to school. Where’s my ipod? Okay so I see Carolina walking up to me I have to hear what she says it wont take long. The essay is short. Where did Carolina go? Okay so I’m sitting in class And I don’t have my essay. I need to learn not to procrastinate so much.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“I will fight” Catalina Herrera 9th Grade (Dedicated to Andrew McMahon) I felt no pain, Yet darkness came upon me. All my efforts were in vain. Doctors said it was hard to save me. Never had I felt like that, Devastated, desolate, and destroyed, I could feel the soul of cancer, Slowly penetrating my body, But I couldn’t give up. There are things that are worth giving up life for, But I won’t let this get me. I will fight! I was determined, I had to fight I wouldn’t stay still, watching the sky I had to make a difference - a change. After a fierce fight with cancer , I had finally won. I was strong! And now I will fight for others. I will help them find the strength To carry on with their battles. I will never give up. Nothing will ever stop me. I will fight!

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Consolation” Chang Won Lee 12th Grade Snow makes sky gray When it falls, but after that, Sky looks clearer, and The world becomes brighter The snow, which covers all, Melts and becomes water That washes blue and black, And itself soaks into colors Don’t think you are let alone No one is; Of course I don’t Even if you stay alone, Heaven and Ground have Come to you, always Hardship is just wind That makes stones smooth Tears also can water the plants As The sun and moon rise, You are the existence Who overcomes all things <Love> One day, a seed fell into a hole of a stone The seed worried because the stone looked cold and hard But, in contrast to the seed’s worry, the stone was warm, besides, With soft raining, the seed could grow without problems The seed became a sprout and the sprout became a tree The seed, which became a tree, worried stone would break And leave And just as the worry, the stone was broken. Cause of its big roots. But, to contrast the seed’s worry, the stone didn’t leave Couldn’t leave Because root, wind, and hug Hold…..

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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Before the Man was gone Chang Won Lee 12th Grade I’m preparing to go to the round rope I am a murderer and I am guilty I showed off my ability to use guns in front of others, but now…… I….yeah, it was my fault. It hurt my parents, who raised me My father and mother are Christian and I was also taught the same But, I had instincts to hate others who are better than me Finally, I killed someone and, unluckily, there was a witness. Was it lucky for him? or…was it unlucky for me?...anyway.. That’s why I got arrested and was sentenced to death I have no self-confidence to meet anyone Strangely, my mind and my body are calm and quiet Like a corpse…..yeah, like a corpse… I…..I…hate the night. To be more precise, I hate the darkness How many times I wish all of this was just a dream! Dream..!...Dream….. …..….I miss my mom and dad…………….. Lately, I wonder if my relatives are in grief for me No, people are the same as ashes. They’re nothing after all It would be better if there was at least a friend…. Want to smoke…..When did I start to smoke?.....It was…. “Number 1987! Meeting!” They always say that when they take out the man who is sentenced to death that day….. It’s my number…! The heart pumps rapidly, and cold sweat flows down my back..! Oh! Why did I do this! Who was I that I laughed at the poor guy in front of him…? It was too heavy. As I said, I was sensitive at that time. I remember I used to avoid school detention like that I laugh, recalling that time, but within my laughing, there is no reality, not a real laugh…. There are two roads for prisoners; One leading to life, and the other one to death. I heard that prisoners who are sentenced to death go through the left side… And I go that way!!! What?! Am I going to the left side? No………..I…………who was sentenced to death….. Those words are pressing down on me….yeah, I thought that…. Someday, I will be a corpse….there is no hope in this jail…for me… The two officers grabbing me are too calm to speak

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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I have no power to act and even I think it’s strange…. Many lights are getting darker…..and the walls around me become yellow Calm down for death….this will be quiet…. silence in the world…. It’s too dark to see….but the walking pace isn’t slowing down…. I feel it’s too dark…..is this an evidence that I am still alive? Abrupt brightness! Am I dead? Am I seeing heaven?! Destiny is cold and blue…… This chamber is a little bigger than my room…. In the middle, there is a small light. There are many horrible officers! And…..one black curtain…..inside….Jesus Christ….?! I’m hear the Father coming to me and blessing me… Oh….If only the priest was my real father, I’d confess to him… I feel that the Father’s blessing is vain….. You are the Father?! Ha!! Funny!....You’re just a fraud after all!!!!! And someone is coming to me? Who is he?.... He is saying something….. “…..Prisoner number 1987 sentenced to hang and die…. March, 23rd, 2067.” And a man gives me a cigarette….turns on the light…. I’m feeling the smoke in my heart….. But, I feel no relief as I did before…….. It makes my tongue rot, my organs are pulled out, and my soul is swollen…. I realized why smoke is bad after all……..vain…… I’ve finished smoking….. “Ahhhhha!!!!!!!!!!” “Stop resisting!! Hold him!!” “Get him!!!” “Stop shouting!! Son!!!” “This way! Hurry!!” “OK! Pull!” …………… ………… …….. ….. “Wow, he was strong…..” “Well, he might be really afraid; I’m sure, hmmm….” “Come on, let’s finish this and go out to eat something. I’m starving.”

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Yearning” Chang Won Lee 12th Grade A rock is divided into shingles A shingle is split into many grains of sand And the sand, is scattered with Water and wind Stars live far from each other Brighten each other, although They have no sense, cannot touch Like this, What you transformed and Where you live…. <Solitude> I grow my hair The hair grows And covers my body One day, I began to grow my hair That I ever cannot cut <Regret> Once upon a time, One sculptor made a rose While looking over it He figured out there was something That made him irritable, so he cut it After cutting it, he found two sharp parts He also made the parts smooth He found other rough parts And cut them, and made them smooth The rose was losing its shape, And, finally, the shape became The sculptor, himself The sculptor shed his tears, But he couldn’t put it back together

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Deadalive” Daniel Sánchez Ojalvo 12th Grade The void It consumes ALL It makes ALL feel like dark is light. Great darkness An even bigger loneliness It makes an all consuming end. Darkness Makes you be alone. The feeling consumes your soul. A ray of light Shines through the sky. It is only in her desperate presence I feel DEADALIVE

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Will I Ever Understand?â&#x20AC;? Daniela Builes 10th Grade The big black universe, A mystery to humankind. Stars shooting across the horizon Leaving a distant echo behind. Its huge distance is revealing While you have a chilly feeling. Everything around is infinite, Portraying emptiness and curiosity. The sound of the waves Crashing gently with the sand, Give you a sense of peace. You can almost smell the sea salt And the soft whistling of the palm trees Moving with the winds rhythm. When you look up, you start wondering again, About the big black universe. As you look again, You make a wish From the brief silhouette of shooting star. And you think to yourself, Will I ever understand?

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“A Moment” Gabriel González 10th Grade In the coast of passion, There lies a lonely beach, Where the waves and the wind Will make you reach A state of harmony A moment of peace, And the blowing of the wind Will move all trees. A wonderful image Of the colorful sky, With its vivid colors In the sand will make you lie. While its state changes, From day to night, Now you can’t see The natural light. With the moonlight that lightens The paths of the love, In the sky will appear A beautiful dove. There is no time, No minutes, no hours. There’s only a moment Of peace that is ours.

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“For you I’d” Gabriel Salazar 12th Grade Please don’t cry To drown my heart with your tears To cut my wrists and bleed for you Id be outside with music giving you Words that I can’t say To write beauty on paper To write perfection in my mind To write obscurity in my heart To write love with my blood If we were to share pain I’d love you and hope not to be in vain To bleed for you a non stop river Of commitment and trust. To cry black tears on a summer day Please don’t cry Shed no lonesome tears, for I’d Bleed for you Like an angel your rise, my sun But never set it Like a friend, you give me gentle Kisses that death would envy. Like a nose, you create a new form Of perfection You are my nothing For nothing lasts for ever Please don’t cry Or cry and drown me in sorrow Be my rose, so when I cut myself On your thorns…! ill bleed for you .

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“I am” Gabriel Salazar 10th Grade I’m a… Prisoner, trapped in my own mind. Hypocrite, but not alone. Nobody, no real self… lost in my own depression. Human, flawed with no sense of reality. Son, loving, controlled, over-powered, hollow, loved Lover, passionate,, comforting, but hopeless. I need: A father, loving, loyal, proud, but yet another liar. To have come so far, but with no direction since the beginning.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“One, Two, Three” Johanna Goossens 11th Grade One, two, three, One, two, three. I’m counting them, As I watch them fall. Tiny beads, Of dying deeds. One, two three, One, two, three. Divine intervention cannot prevent them, Praying will not bring out the sun. The drops are here to stay, Throughout the entire day. One, two, three, One, two, three. They swell and drip, They cannot be caught; Before they cover me And my world in a new sea. One, two, three, One, two, three. If I watch them, They do not sparkle And they do not shine. As they intend to seal a fate that’s inevitably mine. One, two, three, One, two, three.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

I cannot run for cover So I stand beneath them waiting, Waiting for the drench As my fists clench. One, two, three, One, two, three. I can hear them now, Their yelling and screaming, And crying And dying. One, two, three, One, two, three. But then they are silenced, With their joy, As they soak me through and through And cast a new hue. One, two, three, One, two, three. They’ve marked me now, And will never let go. I look up and I see my more, And I know that I will never even the score. One, two, three….

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“I thought I said goodbye” Johanna Goossens 11th Grade I thought I said goodbye, And now you’re back to torture me. I thought I could forget, But then, today, you sent me a memory. A nightmare, That I wanted to forget; And I thought it would be easy, But your face is back to haunt me. And the reminder of you....yourself, Sent me down the river. Not you but I.........was sent screaming and drowning, down the river of my past. To remise with it, But I don’t love it. And I want to float, but all I do is sink..... Because you sent me a memory, Of us, of we, That thing we used to be. And through the misty river there’s my light, that I came to love, But I still worship the dark, And can’t forget its charm.

But the light keeps me warm, And if it left I would cry, But since you’ve been gone I couldn’t forget. Because today, you sent me a memory. I was flying within a cloudy wonderland, But I’ve been shot down by love, And now I’ve got to join the rest In the butcher shop. With holes in various places, And tears in various eyes. Is where I’ll be, Hiding from my wonderland. ‘Cause I love the blood, And worship the knife But I wish it would cut me from you, Cut me away, And let me fly, To the place I want to be, But cannot get to. My wonderland The place to say goodbye.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Perfect” Johanna Goossens 11th Grade Flawless imperfection. Ghost upon your body, Death marked your body, your disproportionate hands. Your flesh bleeds, To heal away, Memories of a single day. Flawless imperfection. Simple satisfaction. Forgotten secret words, Unfinished response. Future lust, Settling dust, To love me another day. Simple satisfaction. Dying rationality. Constant lasting, lighted fuse; Constant fear of what you might do. Can’t breath without it burning. Can’t feel without the fear, In apparition of a tear. Dying rationality. Still boredom. Exciting routine, Constant satisfied simplicity. Sexual loneliness, Fulfilled appreciation. Intertwined persons. Still boredom. Always me, being always you. Every inch discovered, Every nerve recovered, Every feeling owned. Nothing missing, everything gone. Always you, being always me. Always me, being always you. Perfect. Flawless imperfection, Simple satisfaction, Dying rationality, Still boredom, Always me, being always you. Perfect. 42

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Cement” Johanna Goossens 11th Grade Cement dries in the shape of a tear, But doesn’t fall, like once when I was sad. Instead it surrounds me, because now I am glad; Glad for the sweet grip it has on me, Glad for the immobility, making me see, The little amount of fear between he and me. This tear is cold, in its invisibility, But it keeps me warm And nothing can do me harm. As long as frozen shards stay away, And it continues to feel like break of day. It’s like this I wish to stay. However, someday, This cement might break away. Leaving behind a memory Of us, of we. A beautiful thing, That through all days, I want to cling. Nothing could tamper, Or destroy, These perfect jewels of joy. But it still wouldn’t be okay, If this ends one day. Colors entrancing, Intricate designs prancing, Keep my eyes from straying And my heart praying; Praying that heaven might keep me, Praying that forever, like this, we be. In unbashfull fascination, And lustful temptation. Cement is not easy to break, And much could it take. As for the girl inside, She loves her world, her life, her light, Even if we fight. Always will she see, The beauty in he, Even if he is blind, She will always see that cement is kind.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Zidane” Juan C. Tamayo 10th Grade In a hot, cold night, A great hero awaits a fight. Experienced and skillful like a knight People expect a great show tonight. Giving the soccer ball a life of its own Zinedine delights us with his show. He is a hero among us all Who gives joy to young and old. He became so furious he could explode. Bum! He gave a head butt to a foe. He later said he was not himself, Yet, could he have done something else? He retired after this, and the Golden Ball he claimed as his. Some might disagree, but a hero, he will always be.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Infinite Transition” Juliana Gómez 10th Grade Darkness, Isolation space, Floating tranquility silence. Movement through dense air. Bright stars illuminate the path Enormous planets, Colors and rings. Lonely. I realize who I really am, Get to know myself, Concentrate in my soul, my feelings, More stars, less gravity. No thinking, more floating. A planetMixture of browns greens and blues. Hug myself and bend my knees, Falling. Cold air touching my skin. Cold blood through my veins, Cold Soft clouds, pure air. Tranquility, peace. I can hear my heart beating, My breathing. I feel tired, fall asleep. No color, no feelings, no sound, Nothing Wake up, all possible tones of greens. Warmth of solar rays. Start walking, Millions of tall trees, Miniature animals. Sweet bird melodies, Happiness. Upward, most beautiful blue. A huge yellow circle. Wonderful contrast, Days passed

And I kept on walking Through the infinite forest. Tired, fell asleep. Sound of crushing waves, Immense white circle In a plain black space. Prettiest ocean Moon indicated a clear path. Smell of purity. Warm water soaking my feet. Unique sensation. Darkness under the Pressure of the waves. No color, no sound, Just the friction of The water and my skin Kept on swimming. Exhaustion, feel asleep. Scales of fish touching My feet. My heart beat faster. Noise disruption, Tall buildings, more people. Crowded . Uncomfortable feeling attacked. I looked at everyone Nobody looked at me. Cold and dark No yellow, no green, no white, no blue. Invisible person Couldn’t hear my breathing or my heart. Cars motors Disrupted my ears, No tranquility. Preoccupation, Surrounded by people, But still alone. Tired, fell asleep.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;And I lost you for everâ&#x20AC;? Laura Steiner 12th Grade I saw you coming. I had seen you forever in my dreams. I had felt you so close to me already. I knew your smell, Your voice, Your figure, I closed my eyes And there you were. So pretty, So magnificent, So real. I never imagined you would arrive so fast. Behind the door, I saw your hand. I recognized it. I knew every single part of it. It was all stuck in my memory. There was absolutely no way of forgetting it. Your hand was mine, In my dreams, you were mine. But then you became real, And I lost you forever.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Endless” Laura Steiner 12th Grade Endless, A word that also means continuous An adjective that revokes the word finish A state of mind with no closing phase A future that we’ll never see Our passion to make our dreams come true The bliss in our first true love The rejoice of a child’s birth Our broken hearts when someone we love leaves us forever A drive to fight for our lives But, beyond eternal Beyond infinite Beyond excitement Beyond our true wishes Endless, Is a quality all humans long we could have.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Fighting for what I Really Wantâ&#x20AC;? Miguel Pombo 10th Grade I stand here in the dark side of the moon Feeling happy as, I play with friends. Suddenly, I crash, And as I turn around, A sensation, even greater Than love, overwhelmed me. I feel satisfied and joyful, But as I turn my whole body to grab it, It then goes a step away from me, I take another step but it goes Even farther from my reach. I suddenly realize that that sense Of achieving what I long for, Will always be a step beyond, Always out of my reach, untouchable. I then stop, and watch it divinely. It always keeps my head above Water, always in the real world, Fighting to keep me going for What I really want.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“The Light that Called Me” Pablo Vacca 10th Grade While seeing the mighty waves of a midnight ocean The stars that made a journey From their far away sediments, Came and died on the bottom Of the ocean. The dying light of the stars Lit my way through a Steep cliff. Full of sharp turns and uncertainties, It was my way up that cliff, To a point where all was mute, To a point where the wind didn’t blow, To a point that the only light I could see Was the opaque light that Called me. To a point where I had to jump high. Although I didn’t feel the void, I felt a feeling of peace that made me eager to run faster, Towards the break. Until finally… I submerged into a sea that made me unleash new feelings.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“The Fall” Nack Choon Jung 11th Grade There is no turning back; I’ve made my decision, to jump. I stare down below, into the black, eternal darkness. Then I jump, soaring into the night for a moment. Soon after, I fall into the darkness below me. 10th floor. I see my reflection on the window as I fall. Oh, the shocked faces, which don’t matter to me. All the memories of pain on this floor, All the hatred, rushes in my head. 9th floor. Death, all about death, nothing more than Death. Losing a friend, living a life knowing that I’ll Never see him again. I miss the man, and now, I finally fall towards him, getting to meet him. 8th floor. When I was hurt the most by a friendly Living person. The day he stabbed me in the Back. There is no turning back, I’m ready For the fall. There is no turning back. 7th floor. I remember those hard days, when I had to Make a decision. To choose money over a friend. I had no choice. I chose money. The friend was In despair. Can’t think back, just the fall. 6th floor. The floor that I live in with my parents. Shouts that I heard when I failed my senior year. So close to ending hell in High School. All just a Failure, all about the grades, all for nothing.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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5th floor. I see the face of a boy in the room. Crying, he throws his fists towards another boy. Fightsâ&#x20AC;Ś They seem to build friendship, but Cause everything to fall apart as well. 4th floor. Lies, just simple lies, that slowly Eat away. Lies that lead to so many things Like death, lies of hate, going in circles, Going nowhere until the end. 3rd floor. Gave everything away, Everything I can possibly think of, But finding myself alone, I fall, without Regret, nothing to lose, gave everything away. 2nd floor. My house that I lived in when I Was 10 had two floors. My 10th birthday Party was the best; pool party with my Best friends, lots of gifts, good times. 1st floor. I decided to jump. The fall Taught me so many things. Now I See the end. I hate this life and world But I do wish to go back to my childhood.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Puritan Literature in Shakespearean Style” Phil Smiley 10th Grade Brian: Do you recall what the pastor said, The speech he so passionately read? Phil: I do, in fact. I remember it well. He told us all about the fires of hell. Gabriel: Well, I know it better than you For I was sitting in the second pew Brian: Then you both should know a sinners fate, What awaits him at the fiery gate. Out of guilt I must confess to you A story I swear to be completely true. I was making a bed for my newborn daughter When I slipped on a puddle of water I fell over and hit my head On the side of my brand-new bed. And when I felt the crushing pain… I couldn’t help but to say the lord’s name in vain. I said it loud for all to hear, But thankfully none was around for it to reach their ears. I made up a story and quickly lied Now you know my dreadful sin, Perhaps I should turn myself in Gabriel: No you can’t, because I have sinned as well. A sin that surely will have me cast in hell, The crop I planted a year ago: Is mean and stubborn and refuses to grow. I work so hard with all my might… I work so hard all day and night But it doesn’t grow, it never does I must be scorns from up above. So I went to the house across the street And waited until they were fast asleep. I crept ‘round back and picked the lock Then I stole every single piece of they crop The next morning they woke up in alarm When they saw someone had robbed their barn W hen the neighborhood asked about it, I lied, 52

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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poems A lie that hurt me deep inside. Phil: You guys have it made I don’t know why you complain. My family was sitting by the fireside, When a noise came from the outside. I went to go investigate… When I saw a man go by the gate. He was tired and scruffy and looked old. He was shivering in the freezing cold. He asked if I had a place to stay, But he told me he had nothing to pay. I said that I had no food not even a bed. No place for him to rest his head. With remorse I sent him off, Left him to shiver in this greasy cloth. It’s been to long years since that dreadful day When I sent the poor man away. That moment haunts me all the time… I felt that I committed a crime. Brian: Remember how the pastor spoke, Like a swimmer never missing a stroke. Gabriel: I remember how he fixed his eyes on me. Like a sailor with his eyes cast on the sea. Phil: Do you think that he knows That our guilt is so bad it shows? Brian: No, It’s impossible that he found out, Unless he heard my shout. But he would have told me so… There’s no way he could possibly know! Gabriel: There’s no way he could know what I did. Unless he was in the bushes and hid, Watching me take every last crop If he did why didn’t he tell me to stop? Phil: I doubt he could have seen me act of shame, He wasn’t the man without a name. Why would he do such a thing? Just to see me sin Brian: I think that we should confess, Just so we would pass the pastor’s test Gabriel: I think that would be the best, But then we could lay down to rest… Phil: Lying about what we have done is a pest! We should indeed confess

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“A Darkness Surrounds” Rodrigo Zamora 10th Grade A fear in sight, On a dark corner in my day. Even though there’s light, I cannot imagine what it looks like.

Finally I see a tower Destroyed by the fire rain. An evil dragon of my past Almost in ruins.

Trapped inside a wall, Inside a cold dark moor, Leading my way, Guiding my thoughts.

Looking at the fire sky, I hide behind a rock, To protect that little flower of yours.

Lonely heart, cold desperation, Suffering, Looking to the sky In vain.

As I promised that very same night To the eyes of the thunders, I will give you this flower back The day I propose my love.

With only a sword to fight I have to swing a careful cut, Slashing my way out to darkness, Just to find a cold sunny day.

With courage I grab my sword Out of its leather hold.

After I have defeated darkness I continue walking And as I lay there, gazing at the sky. My body is numb and my throat is dry. Desperate and alone, I lead my path Across a spinal road. Barefoot and with your flower. I swam across a river of tears. Also mixed up with my sweat. Which I got for fighting Just for you.

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With a simple swing I’m done. He is finished and I’m gone. Riding a force greater than my will I feel numb and dry Warmer than ever, Not even cold. I do not miss you anymore. I do not. I don’t even care, Since I’ve found love.

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“Ronaldinho” Santiago Santos 10th Grade Black as coal, Hungry as a tiger, There goes Ronaldinho, A mid-field fighter. Bright as a star, He shines in the field. The ball is his friend until the game comes to an end. In Gremio he began. In France he continued. In Spain as a dream, Barcelona is his team. The World Player of the Year, His smile will never drop, And with a 40-yard free kick, Gave Brazil the fifth World Cup. “Gaucho” from Rio Grande do Sul “inho” as in “little”. Words that unite To form the famous “Ronaldinho”. You feel happy and sad When he makes a goal. Sad for the team Which won´t reach it´s dream! But Ronaldinho Will always be the same, As he prepares For the next game!

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Remember Home” Sofia Millan 11th Grade Seagulls in the sky Flying, I don’t know why. Roaming high, Chirping Uncovering a lie. The sunset behind Gave us a sign That allowed us to remind… Remember our past, Remember our origin, Remember our home.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

biographies biografĂas

biografías

biographies

ALONE,WITH MY THOUGHTS Sahar Herbol 12th Grade

Since the day I was born, I’ve been traveling around the world. Fatherless, my mother took up the responsibilities of acting both parts; the girly parts as well as the male parts. Wherever I move, I’m always asked, “Where does your father work?” My response has always been the same: “I don’t have one” or “I don’t know who he is.” I always get the same look, the look of sympathy in their eyes, which leads them to further questions. I guess for me it makes no difference, I don’t really feel like I’m missing out on anything. I think my mom did the best job she could to raise me, as well as my brothers. She did a wonderful job acting both parts, mother and father. It’s true; I wonder what it would have been like, tossing the baseball around in the backyard with a dad; being “daddy’s little girl”. It gets me curious. But then, I sit down and think about what I have right now, how fortunate I am, and I don’t ever want to change any of it. I love change, don’t get me wrong, but changing family, I don’t think I’m capable of doing. I love it being just me, my brothers and my mom. I couldn’t see another man in the picture, taking on the responsibilities of a dad, because if I needed a dad, he would have needed to be there since my birth. Speaking of change, traveling is one of many things that makes me happy. It’s one of the few things that makes me whole. Being only 16, I find myself fortunate to have seen so many amazing places, learned so many amazing things, that I can cherish, keep forever and look back on. Yet I don’t fear traveling, I fear loosing individuals who are close to me. I become close with someone and I’m happy with what I have, and the next thing I see is me on a plane moving to a different place, a different community, a different atmosphere, where I don’t know anyone but myself. I was brave before, when I was younger, and now, I’m not stable enough anymore to move, especially when I make close friends. A man once said, “The world is a book, and those who do not travel, read only one page” (Augustine). I have to remember this to keep me going. People are asked what their fears are. Another one of my fears is death. I’m afraid of what happens before and after, and the pain involved. It is hard to explain to another why I’m afraid of dying. I sit and picture, what it would be like, and all I see is black. I’m happy with what I have at this point, and I don’t want it to go away. I don’t want to leave loved ones behind; I don’t want it to ever end! 58

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

biografías

biographies

CHAINED TO A BRIDGE Johanna Goossens 11th Grade I’m standing on a bridge with you, a never ending bridge; one that’s new, unworn, not finished. Beneath us run the waters of my soul, of swirling guns, bloody drops and rippling corpses. You’re the only one I haven’t forgotten; out of hundreds of people in eight different countries, you’re the only one still with me, and the only one I wish to be gone. Because it is you and no one else, it seems as though the demons in the water of my past will not come back to haunt me. Not the murder of Kirsten and her mother, the suicide of her brother, the death of Julie, the loss of Sandy or forgotten family. Their faces are dim when they should be bright, but yours is the only one I see. However, I remember their pain because of the holes in my face and the fear that will last forever. All these marks they do me harm-just like when I pretend and try to be something false. They both have been caused by me and are unable to be undone. I pretend that I have tried and accomplished a euphoric sense of self-worth, when all the while, I am still the “mad cow disease” from the 5th grade. And I am still a drone locked in a cage trying to escape these hollow classrooms. Institutions that control everything that make us human; desire, ability, choice, thought, speech, hope, persona. And for the past 11 years, I have been a bird with clipped wings and blind eyes, not able to see or be part of the world outside my guarded fortress of existence. Surrounded by my darkness, I do not know the light, but someday I hope it to be a knife, a knife to cut me away from this bridge. Instead of feet, I will want wings. Wings on which I will soar to aid the ones like me. To help the lost and feed the hungry. With these white wings, I will warm the cold and protect the innocent. Also, with these powerful wings, I will tear down the walls enclosing the potential and hiding the talent. With these sharp wings, I will cut ALL away from their lined bridges and let them soar through unknown air and crisp curiosity.

Camilo Gutiérrez 11th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

Laura Vélez 10th Grade

Ana María Cruz 9th Grade

Alba Cotton 11th Grade

Martín Gutiérrez 11th Grade

Gabriel Muñoz 9th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

letters cartas

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

cartas

letters

Letter Andrea Angel 9th Grade

I’m sorry. Will sorry count this time? I don’t really know how to tell you other than like this- you make it impossible to speak to you. I know I mess up sometimes, okay, most of the time, and I know that I am a frustrating person to live with, but we are totally different. You are so organized and on topic and prepared. I am crazy. I don’t know if I am going up or down, left or right. Life is more like something to have fun with for me, when for you, you want something more. A person as great as you should not suffer as much as I make you,, yet I love you because you do not give up… EVER!! And thank you. Thank you for being the greatest. I never really say thank you. You are there. That is what you do, but you are so much more than just there. You have helped me with everything. Thank you for not killing me... yet Haha. How can you still stand me? You would think that now would come the “you’re welcome” part or something like that, but there isn’t because there can’t be. I have done nothing to receive a “you’re welcome” from you. You would probably think, “Oh well you are nice to your brothers and you are a great person at heart…” you know… the usual, taking under consideration that this is about the 524658454 millionth letter I write to you. But let’s face it, in this society we are living in now, being nice does not mean anything to anyone. I am nice at times, but most of the time, I am a ****. There’s just no other way to put it. I look at you. You look as if you are reading, but those papers in your hand are the last thing on your mind. Your throat seems to be choking and you want to cry, but you can’t. You’re strong. You hold it in. Your eyes get wide and start to water, but not one single tear will fall because to you, this life is for the fittest and you are it. You may be little, but, oh, you are strong, not only physically but mentally as well. You are beautiful and VERY smart as to ever show defeat to your own children. To show us that we have broken you… I don’t think we have, yet. Why can’t you talk to me?!! Please, just look at me and tell me, “I feel like ****! You make me feel this way! You are horrible to me and I can’t take it anymore.” Oh, how I wish that you could finally say it. How I want you to tell me how horrible I am! I know how I am to you; I don’t mean to, I just do. And that is wrong of me… very. When you say that, you can’t expect an answer because I won’t have one at the moment. I’m sorry for EVERYTHING! Thank you for EVERYTHING! And I love you for EVERYTHING! Because after every time we talk, fight, laugh or cry together you teach me so much. Mamá, te amo!! 62

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

cartas

letters

President

Felipe Mansilla 12 Grade & Julian Bermudez 12th Grade th

Dear President of the United States: How is it possible that you are still the commander-in-chief? Many wonder what you did to get into the White House. Your answer might be; “Easy, Americans voted for me.” Our next question would be, “Did they really?” Yes, we all know that something weird happened in the 2000 elections. Some say that these were the rarest elections ever in the U.S. We were not in the States when that happened, but we read books, magazines, and news on the internet. Many know that there was a story behind that election. How come the Supreme Court just “gave” you the presidency? We do not agree with that decision. But since you managed to win that one, congratulations. Now let’s look at to the 2004 elections. A lot of controversy happened there too. You already had started the war against terrorism, the troops captured Hussein, and you were happy in your office at the White House. You ran against a weak candidate, Kerry. He did not have much of an opportunity, but he offered a fight. There were campaigns so people would vote and express their minds. Your reputation decreased, because of the decision you made in the past. In the end, you were reelected. We have no problems with democracy, except when it is not respected. Sir, you can ask anyone and they’ll say that they did not vote for you. How did you win? Nobody knows. You focused on the problems that were happening around the world and not what went on inside the U.S. You did not care about poverty, security and the needs that U.S. citizens had. You just worried about eliminating Terrorism; just kicked them out of a System they own and control. You tried the impossible. Obviously it did not work. You wanted to rule the world, but you only achieved a violent war. Sir, your reputation dropped, many who voted for you, now regret that decision. Many predict that as the years pass, your reputation will fall so low that you will have to resign. The few that have faith in you say that you will end up being a good president that many will remember forever. We do not know what will happen to you. What we do know is that the U.S. needs changes in many aspects. They need a strong leader. Right now, they do not have one. And we hope they will find one soon. Sincerely, Felipe Mansilla, & Julian Bermúdez IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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letters

Funeral Johanna Goossens 11th

To whom it may concern: I am going to a funeral tomorrow. Who here has been to a funeral? I bet anyone who reads this will have been to a funeral, and because you have, the title caught your attention and you decided to see what this crazy “gringa” would say. At this moment, I am not crazy, and I am not a “gringa”; I am just like you, feeling the same way you do, or once did. It’s my cousin’s funeral. Someone ran into his stationary boat in a marina. How do you run into a boat that ISN’T moving!? How is ANYONE that STUPID! Being intoxicated isn’t an excuse. There’s never an excuse for killing someone. You did it, it’s done, and its time to pay. His father is a lawyer, so I’m sure he’ll have fun with that. Is it wrong to write fun and funeral in the same sentence? If it is, oh well. Just like the driver, I am not going to go back and fix what I did. Unlike the driver, I still have the power to do so; but what would be the point? I already put it down, I already thought it up. Erasing it won’t change the fact that it’s an idea that I had, as awful and contradictory as it might seem. However, is it really that wrong? Aren’t funerals supposed to be “fun”? Isn’t getting revenge, “fun”? Well, maybe not in so many words, but still, the general consensus is that in the end it was “fun”. I wonder if killing someone is “fun”? Was that wrong to say too? I suppose it could be. Sadists seem like the type that would enjoy it, like, rapists and psychos and schizoids. Although I think we can agree on the fact that they are not normal, they are born that way. Some sort of chemical imbalance, which seems to be the common diagnosis for being different. However, because of this “chemical imbalance”, I find it hard to blame them. Although they could say no, and stop, it’s not really their fault. I find it easier to blame people like that than that boat driver. They are normal, no chemical is forcing them to do something. Every second that they engage in committing a crime, they can say no, but they don’t. Or maybe they do, but somehow, it just doesn’t help. Is it wrong that I find it easier to blame a man with three kids, a wife, and house than a mental patient at the local penitentiary? I’ve been asking myself a lot in this essay if what I am saying is wrong. I guess, when faced with death, I am also bombarded with worry about what is right or wrong. Is what I am feeling wrong or right? Is it ok to cry? Is it ok not to cry? 64

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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letters

I haven’t shed a tear about it at all. And I know I won’t tomorrow. When there are tears everywhere, pain everywhere, wailing everywhere, and when there is sorrow hanging in the air, I have an odd necessity to be strong. I’m always the strong one, and have been for a long time. The only thing that I am worried about, the one thing that could take my strength away, is the look on his mother’s face. Have you ever seen a mother after she’s lost a child? It’s the worst look in the world. Not because she’s crying profusely, not because she’s wailing or screaming, not because she’s distraught, and not because she can’t move without collapsing; because of quite the opposite. She isn’t crying because she knows there will never be enough tears; she isn’t wailing or screaming because she knows there will never be enough oxygen in her lungs. She isn’t distraught because she knows it will never show how she really feels, and she isn’t moving just because she can’t find a reason to. Seeing a mother not move or cry because it’s just not enough, is worse than seeing a murder, a war, or a crime. It’s worse because it’s not just one thing, it’s all three. Her soul has been murdered, her conscience is at war, and her emotions are a crime. She is the only thing that could break me; she is the only thing. I could hold his little sister as she weeps on my lap, and I could see his father shed guilty tears, even without a watery film over my eyes. But his mother, the sight of her will surely be an occasion to cry. Is it wrong that I can cry for her but not for him? I didn’t know him, but I’m still family, and I haven’t cried. Is that wrong? So why am I writing this? I don’t know, why not? To whom am I writing this? Anyone. I don’t know where I’m going with this. I don’t really know where I’ve gone, but I know now, that I don’t have anything left to say. So this letter is over, and so is today. Sincerely; Johanna Goossens

Laura Aparicio 11th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

cartas

letters

Almighty Julian Bermúdez 12th Grade, Felipe Mansilla 12th Grade & Daniel Sánchez 12th Grade

Dear Mr. Almighty, We are addressing this letter to you today to verify your existence. We would like to know if you are The One; the creator of everything. What are you? A normal person who wonders around the universe, or just a spirit? Where have you gone? People are loosing faith in you. Throughout Earth’s history, there have been massive killings, tortures, hunger, injustice, and other terrible situations because people are questioning their life. They want to know where they are, where they came from, and where are they going. If you are “The One,” you should bring peace once and for all to this planet. Do we deserve this mistreatment? In the name of the Earthians, we call upon thee. We want an answer. What is our destiny? What’s the point of living if we don’t know the truth? People call you different names, even though you are One. They are curious about their past and future, but is humanity going to end sometime? Is there going to be a global destruction? Why are we questioning your existence? Is it that there has been a big loss of hope in humanity, due to the wars throughout history? Is heaven a place or just a spiritual state? What is hell? After we die, do we go to a different place, or is our energy transferred to another body? We think that all these questions are a result of not knowing, not believing. These are some of the questions people have about you, especially the genius Albert Einstein, who once said: “I see only with deep regret that God punishes so many of His children for their numerous stupidities, for which only He Himself can be held responsible; in my opinion, only His nonexistence could excuse Him.” We still believe in you, but we want some answers. We would appreciate if somehow you could reach Earth and guide us with faith, give us hope and help us share your ideals. Please tell us if you are there. Desperation is what still drives us; we are waiting for your answer. Thank you, Sincerely, The Earthians 66

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

cartas

letters

Soldiers Sahar A. Herbol 12th Grade

Dear Soldiers, I know you all want to receive letters, food, batteries for your hand held games and so on. All I can give you right now is a letter. I’m not going to say I know what it is like to be in Iraq fighting for our country, because I don’t know what it is like, and I will never know what it is like. I’ll tell you a bit about myself right now. My name is Sahar Ann Herbol. I’m 16 and I am a senior in high school. When I graduate (June ’07), I will be heading back home to Pennsylvania and go to college. I’m living in Bogota, Colombia right now, because of my mom’s job with the U.S. Embassy. I have lived overseas most of my life, so I’m getting excited to go back to the States and live there. I have seen all of you as my heroes and wanted to let you know that I am deeply appreciative. I would like to take a moment to tell you how thankful I am that brave people like you are fighting for our country. This is my first time writing a letter to someone who is as important to my country as you all have been, so please bare with me. Living overseas, I have been really close with a large part of the U.S. Army, those that work with the U.S. Embassies overseas. I just met new people, and some of them just came back from Iraq. They have told me numerous things such as; “I never want to go back there”, “I’m glad it is all over”, “I dreaded the entire time over there”, and so on. I know you are all having a really hard time over there, and I want you to know that you are always in my prayers. In the states, we all listen to the news if one falls, then we cry and then we pray. We worry about your conditions and pray and we never stop hoping that you will all make it home safe, to your loved ones and friends. I can say one thing, your country is proud of you for standing up to evil and encouraging the oppressed with willing hearts. You are the ones that make America strong. I know some people that are going to be on their way to Iraq and Afghanistan and when I pray for them, I pray for you although I don’t know your names or faces. You will be with me wherever I am, whatever I am doing. You will always be there, in my heart. Please come home soon. Sincerely, Sahar A. H.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

cartas

letters

Letter to Outsiders Laura Steiner 12th Grade

Dear Outsiders, You don’t know me; but I know you so well. I’m kidding. I don’t who you are; I just have no one to write to. No, I’m not lonely. No! Stop making that face, as if you knew. I am NOT lonely! No! No! I am not. Ok, whatever; it’s not my problem- you believe I am lonely, when I am NOT lonely. But, I don’t care, just stop making that face and read my letter. I am writing to you from my favorite spot in this whole house: the top window. Such a lovely view, the outside is green and sunny; so beautiful. Too bad my window has bars and I can’t feel the air; I hate those bars. But, I learned my lesson. The other day I tried to take them off, and I got caught and I must say it wasn’t nice. No, I was not trying to run away, I just wanted to open the window and feel some air. I haven’t been out in two weeks. No, don’t give me that face again, I am not lonely. Ok, so I was saying I am sitting in this beautiful spot. The surroundings are white, only white walls. Everything is so white, my robe is white. It looks gorgeous with my red hair; it sucks that it’s falling off, but nonetheless its beautiful. My friends, you see I am not lonely; tell me that it is ok for my hair to fall, there’s nothing wrong, it’s just the pills doing their work. No! I am not taking pills because I am sick, it’s just because they say I have to. My friends say they are doctors, but that’s just a game we all play together. They punish me, and I act as if I believe it was true, but I know they just love me, they love playing with me. There was even a time, they acted as if they were really mad, and they began putting electric shocks on my body. It was so cool! Everyone thought we were really fighting. I am such a good actor, I swear. If I weren’t stuck here, I would be acting in Hollywood. You don’t believe it? Well you suck, because it’s all true. To prove my point, I am going to tell you a little secret. Robert DeNiro once told me, I was the best actor he had ever seen in his life! He came all the way to my home; my beautiful white home, and told me he wanted to cast me for the lead roll in one of his movies. I began screaming so hard, I was so excited. Ironically that’s when my friends and I started acting, and they began putting electric shocks on me. I was such a good actor; I made Robert believe it was all true. He told me I was perfect; he promised he would call me the next day. He hasn’t called. Maybe my friends are just jealous and they don’t tell me when he calls. Sure, they don’t want me to leave. I am their best actor. 68

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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letters

For now, I am just looking out the window. I have a strange feeling Robert D, as his close friends call him, will come walking through the gates with all his Hollywood crew and simply come and shoot our movie here. The problem is, my friends have locked me up in this very tiny room; don’t worry we’re just playing. I started throwing food in the dining hall and hitting some of my roommates; it was all part of my act. Yes, I want people to know how good an actor I am! This little room makes me a bit claustrophobic. That’s why I am writing to you from my window on the top floor. My friends are so cool; they even made a policeman and a very, but very, big man come to check up on me. They think I am going to try and run- one of our other games. The problem is, I always get caught; but after several minutes. I run so fast no one can catch me. I love my white home! It’s just so unbelievable. It’s white and shiny, it’s perfect! Everyone wears the same white robe, which is very cool. They say it makes us all equal. Great! I love being equal! Well that’s the bell; it means I have to go for my daily dosis of pills. Doesn’t it all seem so real? My friends and I are such good actors. Regards, ‘The best actor you will ever meet’ Psychiatrist Ward. Minneapolis.

Laura Aparicio 11th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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letters

Letter Laura Steiner 12th Grade Dear Santa, I know I have been somewhat of a ‘brat’- that’s how my mom describes my attitude- this past year. But, believe me, it’s just a phase; plus, it’s not my fault, it’s my family’s fault. I know I have been mean to my sister, but wouldn’t you be like that with someone who’s such a looser? She irritates me so much. She thinks she’s so cool just because she’s 13 and I am eight. Whatever. She has no boyfriend like I do, and her friends are not nearly as cool as mine. She thinks she’s so big just because my mom let’s her go to the mall on her own and because she wears makeup. Well, that’s how she calls it; I just think she looks like she’s wearing face paint from a clown costume. Sorry Santa, this has nothing to do with my Christmas wish list. But, please understand me. My sister is a looser, and please, have you seen my brother? He doesn’t even know how to talk. Come on, when I was two years old I practically knew how to read, and that boy can’t even get my name straight. Ridiculous, completely and utterly ridiculous. I try to teach him, but he just doesn’t get it. Well, who could blame him? My mom keeps talking to him like he was a baby. Woman! Please, he’s two years old already! I believe my mother just entered a stage called menopause, she’s going insane. My mother cleans the house all day, until it ‘shines and sparks’- her new saying. She opens the windows every day because the house is ‘too hot’; please, give me a break! It’s mid-December! How hot can it be, when there are snowstorms and the temperature does not rise from 4º C!? But who could blame her? My dad works out in the middle of the living room, watching all those “How to get the body of your dreams in six days” programs. Mr. it’s been four months! Has it ever occurred to him that the body of his dreams disappeared a long time ago? Somewhere, between the time he stopped playing American Football in college and started eating ice cream and chocolate like a mad man, because he says “sugar makes him happy!” Please! No more chocolate and ice cream for Dad. Any more “happiness” and we’ll be bouncing off the walls. All his endorphins, produced by his high levels of glucose, are pushed out of his system, by working out and making our living environment a stove, literally, a stove; you could cook something off the walls of my dining room after my dad has done his workout. So all this transpiration finally ends up with my mom opening the windows, regardless of the fact we are in the middle of winter. How or why I am part of this family? A mystery, that’s for sure. Who knows where my real parents have gone or why I ended up living under the same roof with those four ‘wackos’. But, Santa, please bring me everything I have asked you for. I am the only sane person in this family, who still believes in you and who knows you are real. All the other members have sworn you don’t exist. But let’s be real, would you believe anything they say after the description I just made of all of them? Santa please bring me that twin sister I ordered. You would make me the happiest person in the World! Plus, I would have another sane person to talk to in the house. Just think of everything I have just said, and think how good a twin sister could be: someone just like me, fighting against the crazy people living in this house. I promise I won’t be a brat anymore; just send me a twin sister! Pleeeaassseee?!? Thank you! Emilia 70

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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letters

Mom Sahar A. Herbol 12th Grade

Dear Mom, So it’s my last year. Time flew by so quickly and I thought I had more time, but as I just sat down, I realized, I only have a couple months to go. Then I am off to college. Mom, of course you are going to be in my senior page, but I just felt like I needed to write you a bit more, because I need space for my friends on that page too. I have been through school for 12 years now, and from all the teachers I have met, the best one has been you. You have always taken your time to explain your reasons for the decisions you make, even though I don’t agree with some of them. And even though you don’t always understand me, you at least put forth the effort to listen to what I have to say. You have taught me to look past others’ mistakes and disabilities to see the human being inside of them. Most of all, you have taught me to think ahead to the consequences of my actions, and that might be one of the most important things you have ever taught me. I am responsible for my actions, and whatever I do today, could affect my entire future; that the choices I make now, could have life-long consequences for me and for the people I love and care for. You allowed me to make my decision; some weren’t reasonable, and you did say no, but others you knew that I was going to learn from my mistakes. I know I will cherish that my entire time at college and for the rest of my life. Do you remember when we sat down that one day, and we watched “The Gilmore Girls”? Then afterwards I called you Lorelai and you called me Rory, and so it went on? Before that show, we weren’t as close as we could have been, but then we watched it, and we were the closest we could ever have been. That show, showed the real us. It’s true that we both have our flaws and arguments at times, but it’s just another obstacle in the road that we seem to slip by. So the time has come, where I am off to college, and I know already how much I’m going to miss all of you. I will keep you in mind in every choice I make, because your teachings made an impact on me. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have been to all of those places, seen all those amazing things. If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be here right now. Thank-you for all you have done, to make me happy. Thank-you for doing all you did, so I ended up how I am. I love you, Henry, and Alan so much, and I know it will be hard my first year away from all of you, but I will keep you all in mind until I see you on my first vacation back to you. Much love from your one and only daughter, Sahar

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

Mariana Camacho 9th Grade

Silvana Minervini 11th Grade

Gabriel MuĂąoz 9th Grade

Laura Aparicio 11th Grade

Nicole Guindi 11th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

historias cortas short stories

historias cortas

short stories

LO ÚNICO QUÉ QUEDÓ Alejandra Carson 10th Grade Un día como cualquier otro, en una aldea tranquila y amable, ocurrió lo inimaginable. El rió que bordeaba al pueblito, trajo por sus corrientes a unos rateros. Viajaban en veleros grandes e imponentes. Nadie sospechó la destrucción que éstos les iban a causar. Todo ocurrió al medio día. Los niños estaban jugando, los hombres cazando y sus mujeres cocinando. Al ver llegar los majestuosos barcos, todos suspendieron sus tareas y se acercaron al río para recibir a los visitantes. Varios hombres grandes con armas se bajaron y desde que pusieron pie en tierra, empezaron a destruirlo todo. Disparaban a los hombres, quienes anonadados por los hechos, no pudieron reaccionar. Muchos murieron. Los macabros agarraban a las señoras del pueblo y las tiraban lejos de las puertas de sus casas, para facilitar su entrada. Entraban a las cabañas y se llevaban con si lo que pensaban valioso, lo demás lo destruían. Algunos niños, estupefactos e inseguros de lo que pasaba, se quedaron como estatuas hasta que los perversos los capturaron y se los llevaron con ellos. Los otros que alcanzaron a correr, se salvaron de un cruel destino. Por fin, el ataque cesó. Al despejar el terreno, sólo quedó el sonido de la naturaleza. La vista era devastadora. El piso quedó rojo de sangre. Las mujeres se estaban despertando de sus desmayos, ya que de los golpes, muchas habían quedado inconscientes. Después de unas horas, los niños que huyeron empezaron a regresar a la aldea. Quedaban pocos habitantes. Casi todos habían sido secuestrados por estos extraños. Ya no quedaba nada más que la vista de los barcos alejándose, al fondo del río.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

historias cortas

short stories

LA NOCHE ESTRELLADA Andrés Mishaan 10th Grade

Imagen tomada de http://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imagen: VAnGogh-starry_night.jpg. Van Gogh, La noche estrellada, 1889, óleo sobre lienzo.

En este cuadro pintado por el famoso artista Vincent Van Gogh se muestra una nueva forma de arte, que contiene algo fantástico. Se puede decir que es misterioso por los colores que tiene. Van Gogh logra que rompa con el estilo impresionista, y muestre todo su esplendor. La historia empieza así: En el mundo extraño se encuentra una oscuridad que a la vez brilla y defiere de sobresale a cualquier otra noche del año. La gente no entiende qué está pasando en este pueblo tan humilde. Algunos dicen que algo sobrenatural está sucediendo, y otros ya se dieron por vencidos y piensan que el mundo está al final de su existencia. Las estrellas empezaron a caer como manzanas maduras de su árbol. El viento causaba que las nubes mezclaran los colores de las estrellas con el azul profundo de la noche y que el rostro plateado de la luna sonriera sobre el pueblo. Las montañas se empezaban a mover como las olas del mar en una tempestad. Los habitantes finalmente entendieron que era una noche mágica. La magia de la noche hizo que todo pareciera irreal. Los animales empezaron a hablar, los árboles a bailar, y la lluvia de estrellas a cantar. Parecía una fiesta o un carnaval. A medida que pasaban las horas y el goce aumentaba, la gente del pueblo festejaba con la confusión que ya aceptaba. La fiesta duró toda la noche hasta el amanecer. Cuando salió el primer rayo de sol y todo estaba volviendo de nuevo a lo normal, la gente entendió que la fiesta había acabado y que esa noche fue fantástica, especial, e inolvidable. Las personas guardaron esa imagen en su mente y fue el secreto para tener una larga vida con tranquilidad y felicidad. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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EL GUITARRISTA VIEJO Andrea Stephanou 10th Grade Imagen tomada de http://mike.steinbaugh.com/download/tamhigh/el-arte-de-espana/paintings/picasso7.jpg

El Señor Rambaldo era muy conocido por todo el pueblo como el señor de los cantos. No hablaba mucho, pero será siempre muy amable con su gente y le sonreía a todo el mundo que lo saludaba. El señor Rambaldo era también muy solitario; nunca en su vida se había casado ni conocido a una mujer o por lo menos eso creía la gente del pueblo. Su extremada flacura era horrible, pues se veía despaciguado, muy dejado, como si por dentro estuviera muerto y triste por alguna razón. Cuando joven había trabajado en el rancho de Joselito como vendedor, pero aparentemente no duró mucho, pues nunca llegaba a tiempo y era muy despistado. Fue así como lo echaron, y la verdad nadie quería contratarlo; les parecía que Rambaldo era inútil e inservible. Lo único que en verdad tenía era su guitarra que llamaba Roso, era su único amigo pues a donde Rambaldo se dirigiera Roso lo acompañaba. El Señor Rambaldo se sentaba en la esquina de algunas calles o en frente de la iglesia y empezaba a cantar; así fue como reunió plata para sobrevivir. Parecía que el señor Rambaldo vivía de la música y por eso la gente del pueblo comenzó a llamarlo el señor de los cantos, cantaba para sí mismo, pues nadie entendía lo que en verdad estaba cantando. Un día floreciente y con mucho sol, el señor Rambaldo estaba en pleno pasto cantando alguna de sus canciones, el mismo día que cumplía 98 años. Una niña llamada Lucella se le se sentó al lado y le preguntó que por qué su vida era tan sola, por qué su único amigo era su guitarra que no la soltaba por nada y por que no tenía una esposa. De repente una lágrima se le escurre por el cachete pálido del señor Rambaldo y por primera vez en muchos años le comienza a contar a esta niña que hace mucho él había conocido a una mujer y había jurado casarse con ella, pero un día ella se fue de viaje y más tarde había tenido un trágico accidente. Después de ese día, le cuenta que su mundo cambió y que desafortunadamente él nunca volvió a ser como antes todo le era diferente, lamentaba la muerte de su futura esposa y lo único que había encontrado que lo tuviera vivo fue su guitarra Roso. Fue ahí donde aprendió a expresarse y a desahogarse de todas las formas posibles. Había perdido el sentido sobre el propósito de vivir y fue Roso el único que lo ayudó a medio sobrepasar ese dolor que había vivido con él toda su vida. En un instante el señor Rambaldo fijó su mirada en Lucella y dentro de ella vio a Rosío, la mujer de su vida, se dio cuenta que esta niña tenía las mismas facciones que Rosío y entonces comenzó a llorar pero de una forma tranquila, empezó a tocar su guitarra, de repente en la mitad la canción miró a la niña y puso su cabeza de lado y lentamente fue cerrando los ojos. El señor Rambaldo había muerto, pero con una cara de satisfacción y felicidad, algo que nunca se le había podido notar en sus 98 años de vida. Era como si Rosio hubiera vuelto a su vida. El viejo guitarrista del pueblo, el señor de los cantos o el señor Rambaldo había muerto. 76

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LOS GIRASOLES MÁGICOS Daniel Ballesteros 10th Grade En una aldea muy lejana, de algún lugar de Europa, vivía un humilde campesino llamado Drek. Éste era muy amigable y siempre sonriente, rara vez se le veía malhumorado. Drek tenía una vasta cosecha de exóticas plantas, que vendía en el pueblo, y le daban de comer. Él no tenía familia y la verdad nunca la necesitó, ya que con su carisma era fácil conseguir amigos y conquistar a las mujeres. Un día como cualquier otro iba caminado por unos sembrados de palmas, cuando vio que tres girasoles se elevaban en lo alto sobre las palmas. Para Drek este hecho fue bastante extraño y decidió acercarse para examinarlo detenidamente. Estos girasoles se extendían unos 30 metros sobre él, y en la vida no los había visto, pareciera que hubieran nacido en cuestión de horas. Drek no le dio mucha importancia a este hecho, y siguió su rutina normalmente, cuando se fué acercando a una colina ya al final de sus cosechas, escuchó un fuerte llanto que provenía de un pastoral bastante alto, Drek se aventuró para ver la causa de este perturbante llanto, mientras se acercaba logró ver la cola de un enorme dragón, Drek no dudó en salir de allí rápidamente, cuando éste le habló y al pasar el tiempo Drek se dio cuenta, de que las intenciones de este dragón eran totalmente inofensivas y buenas. Después de varias horas de hablar, el dragón le explicó su situación, debido a la maldad de la gente en el mundo, y todo el resentimiento y el rencor que la humanidad siente entre sí, estaba gravemente enfermo. A pesar de eso también logró ser el último de su especie. Drek entiendó a la perfección, y se vió en el deber de conseguir una de aquellas semillas de uno de los girasoles, que eran la cura para la grave enfermedad del dragón. A la mañana siguiente, Drek se prepara para su gran tarea, y muy temprano se dirigió a uno de los girasoles para conseguir las semillas. Finalmente, después de mucho esfuerzo logró conseguir una de éstas, las cuales eran del tamaño de un balón, y con mucho trabajo las transportó hasta donde se encontraba el colosal animal. Este quedó inmensamente agradecido por el gran esfuerzo que Drek había hecho. Muy desilusionado, en un abrir y cerrar de ojos, éste se desvaneció en el aire. Drek regresó a su casa para reflexionar sobre lo que acababa de suceder, y mientras iba por el camino vio que quedaba un solo girasol, y éste se había convertido en oro, y tallado en el tronco leyó, -para un gran hombre, Drek- Miró al cielo y agradeció tan maravilloso regalo.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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LA HISTORIA DE LEO Gabriel Carmona 10th Grade Hace algunos años, había un leopardo bebé que se llamaba Leo. El vivía feliz con su madre, hasta que un día, un par de cazadores llegaron a la parte de la selva en donde estaban este bebé y su mamá. Trataron de escapar pero los cazadores los habían rodeado. La mamá preocupada por el bien de su hijo lo escondió en los arbustos y atacó a los cazadores. Después, el pequeño leopardo solamente escuchó el rugido de su madre y el disparo de un rifle. Después silencio. Después de un tiempo, el pequeño leopardo salió triste por haber perdido a su madre y se fue, pensando en cómo sobrevivir en ese lugar tan peligroso. Los primeros días fueron los más difíciles de su vida. Tuvo que esconderse de leones y otros depredadores. Casi no podía comer. Finalmente, después de una semana, cuando ya estaba a punto de morirse, vió un aura extraño acercándose a él. Cuando se levantó y miró bien vió al espíritu de su madre. Al comienzo no lo podía creer y trató de dormir, pero de pronto el espíritu comenzó a hablar con él. -”Leo, no puedes rendirte,” decía el espíritu. -”¿Por qué no madre? Todo está muy difícil.” -”Leo, tú eres especial. Tú tienes un deber en este mundo.” -”¿Y cuál es ese deber?” -”Tú tienes que crecer grande y fuerte para poder ayudar a otros leopardos chiquitos que van a sufrir lo que tú estás sufriendo ahora.” Con esas palabras, Leo cambió su mentalidad e hizo todo para poder ser grande y fuerte como el espíritu de su madre predijo. El espíritu de su madre lo ayudó al comienzo hasta que pudo cuidarse solo. Hoy en día, Leo es uno de los leopardos más grandes y fuertes en la historia y está haciendo lo que su madre le dijo. Anda por África ayudando no sólo a los leopardos pequeños que sufren, sino a todos los leopardos en problemas.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“THE GET-WELL CARD” Johanna Goossens 11th Grade

Just like cold, tiny spiders, the light pierced my eyes. However, it did not stop the terribly gaudy colors of newly applied streamers, cards, toys and pictures, from shining through my closed eyelids. I knew that they were just a pathetic attempt to stimulate the recitation of a disease. To simulate joy, hope, and happiness; all those things that only the hopeless, joyless and miserable know about. GOD! Give me back curtains, give me back rayless glee. Give me pain and give me sorrow, Only then could I be living to show my true emotion and self. “GOD!” suddenly realizing her mother’s seemingly lifeless body at the left corner of the room, sleeping on the rocking chair. Irritation is racing through my veins now, as I stare at that limp body. Limp backbone, limp mind, limp soul. She couldn’t hold my father, and she can’t hold me. Instead, she holds up Get-Well cards. She holds them 3-feet away, as if they hold her soul. Pathetic Get-Well cards. They aren’t cards, they’re mirrors, reflecting leukemia back in my face. Reflecting death back in my face. Painful reminder of pity, painful reminder lying compassion. Just another reason for her to stand away, and for my father to stand even farther. “Hope you get well soon, we miss you!” Which is signed by everyone, who are just agreeing to agree. There’s nothing special or sweet about a Get-Well card; in fact, the Get-Well card companies sell their merchandise by being completely unoriginal or unique. They falsely advertise caring and concern, because Get-Well cards mean nothing. Anyone can send a card, and anyone can sign it; hell, just the fact that people need to buy a message should make them illegal. My mother is the type of person to buy Get-Well cards; she needs appearances to make her seem like a good person, when she’s really a terrible one. That’s why my father left; he couldn’t bare appearances. Unfortunately, I am both; I hate people with Get-Well cards and I hate people without. Just as I thought that this room could not get any smaller, the door opened. Letting in air, letting in hope of something new, something real. Although it is a little early for breakfast, this did not stop my desire for some human contact; even though most of the nurses were just like the Get-Well cards, it didn’t stop my excitement. However, my excitement soon turned to confusion as I saw two leather shoes enter the room, and a suit, and a hat, and a face that was my fathers. He bore no Get-Well card, but he was here. He came, and for an instance, I was warm. Warmed with love, warmed with hope, and I was warmed to just a degree that I felt as if my blood cells were not infected or my heart polluted. Finally, some human compassion, some human emotion that wasn’t greed. I was truly happy at this moment, and continued to be throughout eternity because in the seconds that my mother was rising from her distant sleep, I feel asleep. A deep sleep and as my eyes began to droop, I knew why he had not brought a Get-Well card. I knew. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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JESTER Johanna Goossens, 11th Grade

Marx was a revolutionary thinker who was renowned during his time. He changed human existence because of his extreme but utopian theory of government. On paper, communism is a flawless picture of how the world should be, however, when acted upon, it is far from flawless. Like many amazing ideas, his were corrupted and turned into another means of totalitarianism. However, despite the past few lines, this story is not about Marx, rather a jester that once entertained him. Marx was on the verge of marriage to an exotic beauty. Whether he married her for her looks or because of the suggestion of her name, Fiela (which means fidelity) was unknown. They were going to marry, and Fiela’s father, (a rather large man) who on many occasions was drunk, decided to make a large, overbearing, omniscient, and extravagant celebration out of it. So, every form of food, entertainment, pleasurable company, music, and decorations was acquired. They came from the four corners of the earth, and all were relatively easy to obtain, except for the entertainment. You see, Marx lead a very solemn life, even a courtship with a beautiful young woman could not bring a smile to his bereaved lips; and even though he loved comedy, none that he had experienced could changed his decrepit appearance. Finally, a jester was hired. However, this James Dean was no ordinary jester; he was in fact an unemployed English teacher, who was unjustly chosen for this very ample task. He was nervous, of course, just like you might be, if you were an unemployed English teacher about to confront a huge complication that would require many years of study to accomplish. Since he had no past experience, he stayed up for four nights and four days trying to discover a way to make Marx laugh. Nothing came to him, not a single idea or clever thought; he was blank and remained so until his turn. The announcer called his name, “James Dean, a jester from across the sea who will enthrall you with witty humor.” Upon this announcement, frozen pins of icicles shot through James Dean’s spine. They punctured his lungs and stung his heart. He could not move or breathe or beat his heart. He stood there, blank. Awkward silence came from the dining hall that he was supposed to enter, and suddenly he was pushed into the center. There was a flash of a spasmodic rush of blood that sped to his cheeks. He stood there, in the center of attention, with his stomach in a thousand knots feeling as though he would either collapse of pain or vomit; he stood with sweating palms and a dripping forehead. For a second, his soul even left his body to look upon the gaping faces and the pathetic look of abhorrence on his own face. This was a tiny man that was breaking under the pressure. However, whatever it may have been; the jester’s sweaty forehead, or his curdled body (almost in a fetal posi80

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tion), or purple face from lack of oxygen, or simply his inability to change his horrified expression, made Marx smile. Not only did it make Marx smile, but it was the largest and most pleasing smile anyone had ever seen. If looked at for too long it would make you feel empty and alone. At the same time (under the circumstances) it was a sickly smile, slightly vile. Nevertheless, it did not stay a smile; just as the jester was being escorted away, he peed in his pants, and at this, Marx was practically on the ground laughing. As his face turned pink, the crowd gaped at this freak occurrence. Just then, the jester began to regain consciousness, and even at his own humiliation, he could not help but feel a unique sense of accomplishment; but just as he turned to exit, he slipped and fell into his own urine. As he sat soaking up his own mess he heard Marxâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s struggle to breathe because of the incessant laughter that was coming from him; instead of running away and crying, like the bravest and strongest men would do, he lay there and began to laugh himself. Both of them were on the ground, filling the silent room with their powerful laughs that almost seemed painful because of the inability to breathe. They gasped and fought to stay conscious, but continued in the same exact manner. So maybe this wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a story about Marx or about a jester, maybe it was about neither, maybe it was about both. Maybe it was about simple satisfaction; Satisfaction of laugher, satisfaction of an unexpected utopia, satisfaction of accomplishing something impossible. Simple satisfaction.

Laura Aparicio 11th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“AND THE WHEELS ON THE BUS GO ROUND AND ROUND” Johanna Goossens 11th Grade

The wheels on the bus go round and round, as I sit four rows behind the driver on the left, in the seat right next to the side door. In this seat, there’s much more room; room for my thoughts, room for my tears, room for self pity. No one else sits here in the winter because they don’t like the breeze that comes through the side door. So it’s a lonely seat, but I like it. I like the chill that pierces my nose and my eyes. The frost is comforting because it keeps them away. It keeps the woman that commutes three hours to a job she hates for the children she loves, away. She sits on the right side of the bus and positions herself directly in front of the side door and only three seats away from the front door. Some days, I think that her fatigue will send her rolling out of the bus, on a sharp turn, or her frustration will send her running out the front. But the wheels on the bus go round and round, as I look away, out the window, just as the bus approaches the stop at Queen’s. It keeps the professor from “Harvard” that wears the same overcoat, same vest, and carries the same briefcase, same hat, same seat, away. He sits in the second to last seat on the left hand side, and presses himself against the window, and weeps at the images passing by. He’s not completely gone, and there is where he chose to be, not where he was forced to be. His little minuet eagerness to exit the bus, when we arrive at Times Square, is excused because of his seat, but that does not stop him from skipping onto the bus. The wheels on the us go round and round, as I study the strangers that are on it. There are two different kinds of strangers: Newcomers; they don’t know where to sit. They don’t know what’s up or down, or who we are. They don’t know where they’re going, or where they’ve been. Then there are the strangers that are regulars, but never sit in the same place twice. The bus isn’t important for them. They drift from seat to seat, not knowing where they’re going to sit or what they see outside these windows. To them, it’s a ride, not a life. These are the most irritating strangers, because occasionally they can disrupt the seating of others. When a seat is disrupted, it disrupts who you are. What happens in your seat on a specific day defines you. However, there are no objections, when your seat has been taken over, because the events that will happen in that seat cannot be avoided whether you sit there or not. When in the presence of another seat, you are out of your comfort zone. The things that happen aren’t yours. It’s like stealing; it’s like being a quiet witness to a crime. It’s annoying. I look around to see if this will happen today, but the seats that belong to us are vacant, and the chance that someone will sit in this chilly seat is minimum. 82

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It keeps people away. It keeps the beautiful and conveniently single boy, away. He smiles, and is always hesitant about sitting in his seat. When he enters the bus from the side door, he slowly smiles and slowly passes by my seat. As his body moves away, his eyes are still and glued to the rim of my seat. However, eventually it’s over. He quietly sits down in the seat behind me, also pressed against the window. I am always to afraid to turn around to see if he stares at me or out the window, because I’m afraid of the string I might untangle and the grip he might take on it. Although this chill does not frighten him away, it is disappointingly apparent that it is too much for his blood pressure to bear. However, the wheels on the bus continue, to go round and round, as I brace myself to see her. It keeps her away too. No one sees her go or come, but when we reach 11th and 72nd, she’s there. She appears in the seat right behind the driver, and although this is not too close to my seat, the reflection that depicts her face in the back of the driver’s seat is paralyzing. Her body is pressed against the window, and her eyes never stray except for when a regular comes in. She doesn’t speak and can’t react. The only sign of life is the trickle of warm light that seems to pass through her body every time she realizes the metal and glass are enclosing her. These walls are the only thing we know about her, and the only thing she cares for us to know. She is cold, like the metal and glass, but her ultramarine eyes burn bright. They burn holes through the seats and burn holes through me. She knows I like the way no one speaks, but everyone knows. She knows I like the way no one knows, but everyone assumes. She knows I like the way no one assumes, but everyone sees. She knows I like the way no one sees, but everyone looks. And she knows that I know that she likes them too. The guilty pleasure is sweet. We know our secret, and enjoy it. We know each other, and enjoy it. We hate everyone, and enjoy it. We are in love, and yet, in love with the seats that part us, and the metal that decussates us. Its mindless self-indulgence, and it lasts till dark, when there is no light to create a reflection. She’s gone, the ride is over, and it ends where it began. I get off, and the wheels on the bus go round and round.

Ana María Cruz 9th Grade

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EL MOLINO Juan David Arredondo 10th Grade

Muchas historias han sido contadas sobre aquel molino situado en las afueras de Leiden, aquel molino radiante que brilla con la luz del sol todos los días e intriga a muchos campesinos holandeses. Ricardo vivía con su padre a orillas del río en una casa humilde de solo un cuarto. Su madre había muerto a causa de un virus que los doctores nunca pudieron identificar. Desde corta edad, había trabajado con su papá vendiendo frutas y verduras ganando apenas lo que necesitaba para vivir. Pero a pesar de su extremada pobreza, lo único que quería Ricardo era poder volver a ver a su madre. Era la persona que él más amaba y daría lo que fuera por volverla a ver. Un día, Ricardo fue al pueblo a comprar un pedazo de pan. Cruzó el río en la canoa de su papá y ahí estaba, elevado sobre todo lo demás, un molino de diez metros brillando en el ocaso. Parecía como una fuerza que llamaba a Ricardo, que quería que se acercara. Ricardo subió la loma y, casi inconscientemente, se acercó para echar un vistazo a la estructura. Era un molino viejo muy parecido al resto que Ricardo había visto, pero este tenía algo especial. Ricardo no podía explicarse pero había algo sobre este molino que le traía tranquilidad a su corazón. Entró por una puerta de madera en la parte trasera y apenas se encontró adentro, sintió un aire cálido que lo acogió como una cobija. Adentro, todo se veía muy viejo, destartalado, y por dondequiera que Ricardo miraba había telarañas, cosa que lo espantaba. Pero, aun así, por primera vez en su vida, no tuvo miedo. Fue en ese momento cuando oyó una voz distante llamando su nombre. Al principio, Ricardo pensó que fue solo su imaginación, pero cada vez la voz se oía con más ímpetu. Ricardo reconoció la voz de inmediato; era la voz de su madre. Miró hacia arriba y ahí estaba, bella como nunca, suspendida en el aire. Ricardo quedo atónito. Después de unos segundos reaccionó. -Oh madre! no sabes cuántas veces he soñado reencontrarme contigo.- Su madre sonrío. -Lo sé hijo mío, también ha sido difícil para mí no estar contigo. Pero solo quiero que sepas que siempre te amaré aunque no pueda estar contigo día tras día.- Ricardo no pudo evitar dejar escapar unas lágrimas. -Llévame contigo. Llévame donde sea que estés, le suplicó Ricardo. -Pero hijo, quién va a cuidar de tu padre si no tú cuando él sea viejo. Siento mucho que no puedas venir conmigo pero te aseguro que siempre estaré a tu lado aunque tú no me veas. Adiós Ricardo.- La figura de la madre de Ricardo había desaparecido. Ricardo volvió a su casa donde lo esperaba su padre. Le dio un gran abrazo y sin decir nada, se acostó a dormir. Muchos años después Ricardo les contaría a sus nietos sobre aquel molino situado en las afueras de Leiden, aquel molino radiante que brilla con la luz del sol todos los días e intriga a muchos campesinos holandeses. 84

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EL ENOJO Laura Gómez 10th Grade

Inspirada en la obra de Joan Miro, (Ceret) tomada de http:// www.postershop-espana.com/Miro-Joan/Miro.Joan-Ceret9978536.html

En un cuarto de música, atollado por tonos y notas musicales se encuentra una enorme bestia vestida de negro tocando el piano. Expulsa varios sentimientos que se expresan a través de los colores y figuras inconclusas. En un concierto artístico, donde la música toma el papel protagónico de la noche, el animal salvaje explota sin control tras no poder interpretar su piano adecuadamente. Su rostro inspira temor y angustia. Su comportamiento inapropiado hace que todo parezca un desorden absoluto, haciendo volar todo el aire sin control. El verde y el anaranjado en su cara hablan por sí solos, y saca a relucir sus colmillos para gritar de enojo, pues nada le sale bien. Toca sin ritmo ni delicadeza, y el piano se manifiesta con las horrorosas notas que salen de él. El público se queda mirando, atontados por la ironía, ven una figura que sale lentamente del piano. Junto con colores, líneas y círculos, se logra descifrar la palabra: MALO. El instrumento quiere gritar, decir que la bestia abusa de él y es malvado. Ambos, tanto intérprete como instrumento se encuentra enojados, sin embargo el piano se hace notar con técnicas abstractas conservando la calma. Eso, sin embargo, no parece importale a la bestia, y sigue tocando desaforadamente con sus manos que parecen las de un cangrejo; puntiagudas y cortantes. Parece una discusión sin palabras que recurre a los gestos interminables. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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SHORT STORY Laura Silva 9th Grade

It was just an other plain day and my wife, Ana, went to work as usual. She was working as an architect on a new skyscraper she had created with other important architects. Thank God the building wasn’t too tall yet. It was just about 10 or 15 stories. That day, she had left home very cheerful and singing her favorite song. It never crossed my mind that in less than 12 hours, she would be in the middle of an ER lounge, with her life in danger. I was told that in the moment of the accident, she was showing her plans to some workers on the 5th floor. The night before she had spent hours working on her designs. Not that I know a lot about the topic, but from what I remember, they were perfect. I was told she was in the edge of the building showing the workers how the building was supposed to be built. She reached out to show them something, and she slipped and fell. She dropped 5 stories, hitting the ground, and leaving a huge puddle of blood around her. I just can’t think about that image again because it makes me feel all that fear and sadness again. In the moment of the accident, I was heading to where she was working. I often brought her lunch, and we ate it on the sidewalk. That day, I was going to surprise her with her favorite food, but when I got there, the “surprised” one was me. I didn’t understand why there were so many people around the building, and so many ambulances. I thought maybe one of the workers had had an accident or something, but I never imagined that the one in the middle of the crowd was Ana. That night, I sent Manuela to her grandmother’s house and told her I was going to be working in the night shift, and that her mother was at a friend’s house. She looked worried, and didn’t believe me; normally she never would’ve doubted my word. It was the first time she asked me; “Is everything alright dad?” With my eyes in tears I just nodded with my head still not understanding how a four year old girl could just notice what was happening, and how the love of a child is so strong that in the instance the accident happened she new something was wrong. After dropping Manuela at her grandma’s house I rushed to the ER lounge and stayed there suffering for more than 24 hours. It’s just the worst feeling someone can ever feel, I didn’t know what to do, what to think, how to get rid of the thousands of questions that were just bursting in my mind. I didn’t eat for 3 days, and I got to the point where I thought that I didn’t have more tears, but tears kept on coming out. Two days after total agony sadness in the hospital, Dr. Smith came out of the surgery room with a disappointed face, deep inside me, I knew what had happened but I was just trying to avoid reality and think that everything was ok. Tears burst out of my eyes as if they were a waterfall that was never going to end. Dr. Smith just looked at my sad eyes and told me “I’m sorry”, and simply left. In that moment I felt my world, and my life 86

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were just collapsing in thousands of memories, and reality just vanished in my sad eyes. My mind was empty and I simply couldn’t find any answer for all the crazy thoughts I was having. What was I supposed to say to Manuela? Dear, your mother just died… No! Who was I going to be so cruel with my little baby! What was I going to do? I stayed sitting there in the waiting room for about 3 hours just looking at an empty spot with nothing to think of but at the same time with thousands of thoughts, questions and feelings in my mind. Those first 6 months were terrible, Manuela couldn’t talk, and she had to permanently be going to the physiatrist. That made me so sad; the only thing I wanted in that moment was for Manuela to be a happy girl, and to take advantage of that great moment of life she was going through, the same as other children. And to see her suffering each single day for me was the worst thing that could happen to me. Every single night I had the same dream, I dreamed of Ana, of the first day I met her. It was a very realistic dream. I was happy. Every single night I felt the same feeling that I had felt the first time I saw her, all the bubbles in my stomach came back. Suddenly in the middle of my dream I started to cry, and I didn’t understand why until I awaked and I realized that it was just the same old dream once again. For 2 years I thought every single second of her, people asked me why I didn’t have my old smile in my face. They never got tiered of telling me that they hadn’t heard me laugh since the accident, “get over it” they said. I think they really didn’t understand the pain I was feeling, but it was ok, I couldn’t care less. Exactly two years and a half after the accident, I went to visit my family in California. That day, the best day of my entire life, I was walking in the cold breeze of winter. Besides the beach, suddenly I felt a beautiful giggle behind me. I was sure it was Ana’s giggle, it was perfect and unique, “It had to be her!” I thought I was going crazy, and I started to panic, I tried to ignore the giggle and started walking faster. The giggle started to turn into laughter and it was getting louder and louder each time. I couldn’t avoid listening to her, so I just decided to turn around. It was unbelievable, after 2 years an a half I was finally seeing her again. I couldn’t move, didn’t know what to think what to do. Maybe I was just going crazy, or maybe I was dead, I thought, I didn’t find any answer for what was going on. I just kept on starring, I felt as if my body didn’t react and I just wasn’t able to move. She smiled at me and said; “hi”. I just looked into her deep eyes and started to talk with her. I remember clearly that there was a beautiful sunset, and the sky was full of thousands of colors. We sat on a rock near the sea and we just started to see the sunset feeling the cold breeze of the ocean. I asked what was she doing here, and she told me she had to tell me what she had felt the day of the accident. I started to cry, I was nervous. I was just telling one of the workers were he had to put the new windows, when I don’t know why I slept and fell. I closed me eyes and many colors and shapes started to appear in front of my eyes. Things that just didn’t make sense, thousands of feelings of sounds of smells started to appear. Some feelings were things that I didn’t experience years ago. Suddenly everything started to take shape, and things started to make sense. The feeling that was covering my body in that moment wasn’t a feeling neither of fear nor sadness, it was more like a happy feeling and I was really calm. That 5 second fall lasted for me my whole life time once again. I saw every moment of my life since my fist memories, and even the negative moments seemed happy. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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I WILL NOT LET YOU GO Laura Steiner 12th Gade My name…who knows my name? Who cares about my name? Even if I told you what my name was, you wouldn’t understand it; for I have not lived inside you. Or maybe I have. I’ve lived in so many places and existed in so many lives, I keep loosing track. My name sounds very scientific, as if I were a sickness. But, I’m not. People just say that because I make them sick. But that’s just them; it’s their own fault…not mine. I just enter as a companion, looking for somewhere to live. They blame me for their sickness, but I repeat, it’s not my fault, I’m just inside you. It’s your fault; your own fault. You invite me in and let me take over. Then you regret it. Get a grip of yourself! Stop blaming me for everything! Make up your mind! You begin feeling so pretty, so nice. Everyone congratulates you, everyone tells you nice things. You feel great, you feel awesome. You are the center of attention of all of your friends. You have finally achieved your dreams. That’s when I come in. I’m not looking to shred your dreams. I couldn’t care less about your dreams. I just come in because you open the gate, you let me in; you practically welcome me in. Then all that happiness and joy you felt, begin to disappear. You feel lonely, desperate. People blame me for that; maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re right; maybe I am the one destroying your dreams. But then, why did you let it get to your head? Why did you start feeling better than everyone else? You are no better than anyone else, let’s make that clear. Why did you get so obsessed? Why are you so naïve? That’s not my fault, it’s yours. I love you. I love every single part of you. That’s why I don’t want to leave you. I want to stay with you. You keep me company, don’t let me be lonely. You know you are also scared of being alone. You want me to stay close, be with you all the time. But then, you had to go and do it. You had to tell your friend; that person you think is so special. Are you dumb? They couldn’t care less. No one cares about you, just me! Are you trying to call attention? Stop it! Just, stop it! It’s not good; you’re ruining the plan. Why did you tell them? Stop hearing their advice; it’s not good; they’re just jealous. You’ve ruined my plan. You completely broke our agreement by telling everyone about it. You should be ashamed of yourself. You disgust me- I swear. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror recently? I bet not, you would be horrified by the way you look. Yes, you look fat! Fat! Fat cow! So, are you really going to go to that place? What are you going to tell them? You know nothing about me, absolutely nothing. I know you so well; but, you have no idea who I am or what I am. I’ve confused you, haven’t I? Ha, poor baby. Yeah right! I pity you. I thought I had made you so strong, but really you’re just so fragile. You have no idea what’s wrong. Well, that’s because there’s nothing wrong! If you follow the plan, and keep quiet, you’ll see we will work it out just fine. Stop calling yourself the victim. I’m the one who’s being rejected; I’m the one who everyone’s trying to get rid of. 88

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You should feel proud; proud that I chose you. I’ve made you my protégée, I’m your guardian. I fulfilled all of your dreams; I made you pretty; I made everyone look at you; I made you receive so much attention… I made you mine. I choose my preys very wisely. I go for girls like you; yes, just like you. I don’t go choosing any girl, so you’re special, very special. I’ve known you forever, only I did not take you so seriously before, just until now; and now you take me as an abuser? As a dominant factor in your life? Shame, shame, shame! And now all you do is criticize me; that’s not right. Hypocrite! That’s what you are. You are an immoral hypocrite. Well, you know what? Now you’ve made me really mad. I am going to make your life a living hell. I have not even begun my work, and you’re already crying. Ha! You have no idea what is waiting for you. Start thinking how you’re going to deal with all those emotions. Up until now, I have been fairly nice; I’ve covered them all up for you so you wouldn’t have to feel a thing. But now, all that is going to change. I’m going to let it slide little by little until you pop. Literally, I’m going to make you pop. Your going to loose it. Your cheeks will hurt from all that crying; all you will want to do is sleep and forget for just one second the nightmare your life has become. You are going to feel all alone. You think this is drastic? Well this is what you deserve. You ruined my plan and you rejected me. That’s not nice either. You should have thought about it twice. But, now it’s too late… I have you under my hands.

Laura Aparicio 11th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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UN VÉRTIGO INTERMINABLE Laura Steiner 12th Grade

Una niña cuenta su historia con el alcohol. Nos dice como este se metió en su vida y la acabó. Ahora lo único que le queda es un viento frió y sus pies temblando. Miro mis píes; están colgando. Me siento liberada por primera vez en mucho tiempo. Siento como el aire roza mis mejillas y llega hasta la parte trasera de mi espalda. Siento un escalofrío y cada pelo en mi cuerpo se para. Siento mis manos heladas; las acerco a mi saco para entrar en calor. Mis pies apuntan hacia abajo, pero me da miedo mirar; todavía no soy capaz. Mi pelo se revolotea con la brisa. Mi cuerpo esta firme, todavía me da miedo moverme. El viento vuelve y lo siento tocar mi espalda con tanta suavidad que me produce temor. Estoy liberada, pero por dentro sigo hecha un nudo. Siento como el corazón me palpita cada vez más fuerte, casi a punto de estallar. La barriga me duele y siento como si fuera a vomitar; probablemente son los nervios. Mi cabeza, mi pobre cabeza es un nudo. Me duele tanto de pensar. Mis pies se revolotean; pero todavía no es hora; todavía me da miedo mirar abajo. ¿Como llegué acá? Subí las escaleras y me senté, es así de simple. ¿Por qué? No lo sé; sólo sé que estoy asustada. ¿A que horas me enredé tanto? No lo sé; no me acuerdo. Las manos me están empezando a temblar. Pero todavía no soy capaz de mirar abajo. Mis papás siempre me han dicho que en la vida hay que luchar; pero, ¿luchar contra qué? Antes, todo era tan fácil y de un momento a otro todo se complicó. No me acuerdo como, no me acuerdo cuando; sólo sé que pasó. Sin darme cuenta, me metí en ese mundo, que asco. Solo necesitaba liberarme; sentir que por primera vez en mucho tiempo los problemas se escondían y me dejaban vivir, ser yo. Todavía me acuerdo la primera vez que lo probé: me supo amargo y asqueroso, me quemaba la garganta. Mi papá me dijo que a medida que creciera me empezaría a gustar un poco más. Que mentiroso, jamás me gustó el sabor. A medida que pasaba el tiempo, lo tomaba pero por que quería hacerlo, no por qué me gustara su sabor. Jamás creí que terminaría acá. Me duele la cabeza, casi igual como ese primer guayabo que me dio. Me acuerdo que mi mamá se dió cuenta y se rió, me dijo que eso me pasaba por tomar tanto, por alcohólica. Ja, que ironía, si supiera hoy en día en las que ando. Yo era la rumba de la fiesta. Vivía feliz, nada me importaba. Jamás me entró el sentimentalismo en mis borracheras, yo sólo me reía y la pasaba rico. Tomaba de todo. Tragos feos de la 90

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botella, tragos finos, cocteles, cervezas, todos. Jamás me gustó el sabor, todavía lo odio, me hace vomitar. Recuerdo la primera vez que vomité. Estaba en la casa de un amigo y sin darme cuenta bebí demasiado. Ya no me sentía como las otras veces, ya no era rico. Estaba enferma. Fuí al baño y vomité. Al otro día me desperté y me reí. Esa noche volví a tomar. Que bien me sentía, saber que los problemas se escondían, todo volaba. Los pies me tiemblan, el viento los mueve, pero todavía no es hora, todavía tengo miedo. No quiero mirar, me da pavor. Las fiestas cada vez me parecían más aburridas, no me podía quedar parada de la borrachera, así que optaba por tomar en una casa hasta quedar inconsciente y simplemente dormir toda la noche. El alcohol me empezó a despertar muchas ansias y deseos. Mi sexualidad se incrementó cien por ciento. Que asco. Nunca he tenido novio pero mis encuentros sexuales ya no los puedo contar con los dedos de mis manos. Las ansias empezaron a afectar mis calificaciones, ya no iba al colegio. Tenía que tomar durante el día; ya la noche no era suficiente. Me tiembla todo el cuerpo, el aire está helado. Todavía no miro abajo, todavía no, debo esperar. Desde mediados de Abril, ya no les puedo contar bien mi historia, pues no me acuerdo. Me pase la mitad del tiempo en otro mundo. Mi cabeza liberada y mi cuerpo muerto. No me acuerdo si estuve dormida o qué hice. Hace casi cuatro meses no me acuerdo de lo que hago o con quien; mejor dicho, se me olvida quién soy. Estoy completamente sola, estoy enferma. Las botellas me repugnan, no las quiero, pero las necesito. Estoy sola, completamente sola. Sólo un trago más que me quite la soledad. Ya ni siquiera sé si lo que siento es verdad o es un delirio. La cabeza me duele. ¿Será síndrome de abstinencia o me estará diciendo que pare, que no mire abajo? No soy capaz, todavía tengo miedo. Quiero gritar, soltar todo lo que tengo adentro. Quiero gritar todas las groserías que me sé y decirle al mundo entero que me importa un &*%^; que me &*%^ en la vida, que me &*%^ en mí. Quiero pedir perdón; a mis amigos, a mis papás, pero sobretodo, a mí misma. Perdón por haberme hecho tanto daño, perdón por no haberme querido lo suficiente, de todo corazón, perdón. El pelo me hiela las orejas, parecen congeladas; pero todavía no, todavía no es hora. Quiero vomitar todo lo que me he tomado en mi vida. Quiero filtrar mi sangre, limpiarla, poder volver a empezar. Quiero ser yo otra vez; esa niña que no le gustaba lo que tomaba, que le quemaba la garganta. Quiero que me den otra oportunidad; mentira no la quiero, no me la merezco. Se oscurece, el cielo recobra su color negro. Ese color que veía casa vez que me dormía, cada vez que estaba inconsciente. Las luces de la ciudad se comienzan a prender. Oigo mi respiración entrecortada. Tengo miedo, tengo nervios. ¿Como llegué acá? No lo sé. Estoy en el piso 14 de mi edificio, sentada en el balcón, lista para saltar. Tengo frío, me estoy helando. ¿Que hago acá? ¿Salto? Mi vida es mía. La puedo acabar ya si quiero. Pero, ¿Será que sí quiero? No me importa. Los pies se mueven, el viento los hace temblar. Miro hacia abajo, creo que llegó la hora, no lo sé. Tengo miedo, necesito un trago. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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GOTHIC STORY Laura Steiner 12th Grade, Michelle Gutierrez 12th Grade, & José A. Rozo 12th Grade She woke up screaming. Her clothes were completely soaked. Everything was dark; she had no idea what was wrong. She tried to get a hold of the candle, but she couldn’t find it. The room was cold, the wind was wooing. She was shivering. The rain outside overshadowed her tears. No one could hear her crying. The nightmare was gone, but yet, it seemed so real, as if everything that had happened was genuine. In the back of her eyes, she could see a shadow moving from behind; it was getting closer and closer. She could feel the scent, the breathing. It tickled her. It made her feel chills up and down her spine. It was getting closer, each time closer. Then, as if magic had acted upon it, it was gone. The shadow was no longer there. There was just, a shadow from the trees outside. She didn’t want to go back to sleep. She knew what was waiting for her, that image, that constant image that haunted her every dream. She thought about this all night, scared to place her head on the pillow. She tried hard to stay awake. She was terrified to find that face again... that white, ghostly face… that rusty voice that kept telling her to stay away. Away from what? She repeated that phrase to herself every single day. “Stay away, stay away”. She didn’t understand it, but each time she saw it, it seemed truer, more authentic. The pale face troubled her; she was constantly frightened. That woman of her dreams, with watery skin color, had a voice that transmitted cholera. She seemed furious every time she appeared in the girl’s dreams. Her face was full of agony and rage. She hated the girl, or so it seemed. The girl did not sleep that night, or the next night, or the next week, for that matter.

Camilo Gutiérrez 11th Grade

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She carried herself around the castle, trying to focus on other things. But she couldn’t get that image out of her head. The only companions she had for that week were her servants, for her husband was on a voyage in the Americas. The servants were beginning to feel scared of their own employer; they would hide from her. She walked in her blue veil all day, acting mad. The corridors made her feel frantic, as if they were closing in on her, leaving her without breath. She wouldn’t go to her own room, for she knew that if she saw her bed, she would eventually fall asleep, and that was what she feared the most. She preferred to be called foolish than to have her dreams haunted by that pale face. She wandered around feeling life a monster, a complete stranger of her own self. On one of her moments of insanity, as she walked around her castle, through staircases and dark rooms; she ran into a door she had never seen. Her drowsiness kept her from thinking straight; she pushed the door open and found herself in a secret passage. Her husband had always warned her about the unknown parts of the castle. He wasn’t familiar with the castle; for it had not belonged to the family. It had belonged to some other people nobody knew. He had taken charge of the castle after he was named ‘Count of Westphalia’. She had always followed his orders about wandering alone around the castle. But now, she was no longer sane. She walked through the passage. Her head was spinning; everything was completely black. She felt her body carrying her around the dark hall; her head was not commanding, her legs were in the lead. Suddenly she reached what seemed to be a storage room. She saw books, dusty furniture, dresses hanging on the wall and a baby’s crib. On top of a trunk, she saw a dusty photo album. It was satin and had gold letters. Her head did not let her think, her arms and hands moved on its own. She opened the album. Dust came out. She coughed for a long time; then suddenly she stopped. She couldn’t believe what her eyes were seeing. She wiped them over and over again; just to make sure what she was seeing was real. At first, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her. But the object was real. It looked ancient, as if had been there for hundreds of years. The colors had faded. It looked orange, brownish, one could even say. She kept staring. She just couldn’t believe it. The wind blew loudly behind her. She began seeing that face again, that face that haunted her and that kept screaming at her every night. That face was REAL. She was looking at it in the photograph she was holding in her hand. She was gazing into the eyes of the woman that had haunted her dreams for over two years. She was glancing at the thing she feared the most, the face that woke her up every single night. But that spectrum looked so peaceful, so full of life. She was beautiful. She had her arms wrapped around a baby that seemed to be her own. Beside her was standing a man that was looking at her with passion. They looked so happy, so in love, so pleased with their existence! Suddenly, she felt some noises. Scared, she grabbed the picture, put it in her pocket and ran outside into one of the main corridors. She was panting when she got to her room. She was surprised to find one of the maids appeared from nowhere. The maid saw the alarmed expression her owner had on her face, and asked her if everything was alright. She answered in a positive way, but the maid could see that behind her smile, she was quite anxious and impatient. Then, as if someone had pulled it out of her pocket, the photograph that she had grasped so tightly suddenly fell to the floor. Both women jumped from their spots and tried to reach the piece of paper. The maid got there first, and when she saw what she was holding in her hand, her expression transformed to a choleric one. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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“Where did you find this, Madame?” the maid asked. “Uhh, nowhere, nowhere. I don’t even know how it got there,” the Madame replied with a very nervous tone. “Well, Madame, for your own good and safety, I would recommend you get rid of that picture now,” the maid said. “Why, may I ask?” inquired the Madame. “Is there something I should know regarding the people in this picture here?” “Well Madame, I’ve known you now for over twenty years; it is probably time that I tell you the story about these people.” The Madame listened carefully as the maid explained who these people were.. “Madame, the woman you see in the picture used to be the owner of this house. This is her husband and this precious boy, her only child. When they used to live here they were a happy family. Both the Madame and the Master were very much. They had the little boy the most gorgeous child to ever set foot on this planet. The Madame was so happy, she loved that boy! They spent lovely days running around the gardens and hiding in the corridors. Then, when the boy was about two years old, he got sick. At first, we thought it was a simple flu, but as the days went by and the child did not get better the Madame realized that her child was sick at heart. She knew just by looking at him in the eyes. The plague had attacked her baby. The Madame was devastated, completely overwhelmed. Her boy was suffering badly, and she knew it. The doctors said there was nothing we could do, just wait until the child passed away. But that could’ve taken two, four, even 20 years. Every night, I could hear the Madame walking around the corridors, crying her eyes out, waiting for her child to die. The little boy couldn’t stand the pain, or so the Madame said. Then one night, I stopped hearing the Madame walking through the corridors. I could hear no sobbing or weeping; everything was silent. I went up to check on the child and I saw the Madame on top of her boy’s body. She was holding him so tight. Then I saw the blood dripping and I knew what had happened; the Madame had killed her baby. By thn, the Master was out of town. When he got back and heard the news, he went crazy. He spent four days in his late son’s room; he did not eat or drink anything. The only thing he did was screamin, cry and curse his wife. The forth day, he came out. His face was expressionless. That night, the husband murdered his wife and went on to kill himself. One week later, the castle was sold to a rich old man, who then sold it to your husband. It is said that the Madame’s ghost still haunts the corridors of this castle. She has never forgiven herself for killing the baby and her husband for killing her.” The woman’s face was completely pale. She was astonished, speechless. She thanked her maid for telling her the story and rapidly dismissed her from her room. Night was getting closer and the Madame knew that the night before would be her last night without sleep. She couldn’t handle it anymore. She needed to sleep, whether she liked it or not. At about 12 p.m., the Madame fell asleep. Rain was pouring outside and thunder and lightning were illuminating the whole room. Yet, as the night passed she began seeing that face. This time she felt “her” breathing close. She could practically smell “her” scent. She opened her eyes. After, she heard a voice screaming. She knew that what she was seeing right now was no longer part of her dreams, it was real. She saw the woman of the picture. She looked old and fragile, but so real. 94

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“My Baby! My Baby! What have you done to my baby?” the woman kept screaming. The Madame was in shock. She didn’t dare to speak. “You’ve killed him, and now you are trying to steal my husband!” The doors began slamming, the windows opening and closing. Laughter… The woman could hear laughter. She didn’t know where it was coming from, but she could hear it... a mean, somewhat mocking laughter. She realized it was coming from the spectrum she was seeing before her eyes, laughing each time it got closer to the woman. “You are trying to steal my life! Stop it! You have no right! Get out of my bed, out of my room, out my castle!” the ghost kept yelling at her. As she said these words, she pushed the Madame out of her bed. The Madame rolled down to the floor and tried to defend herself, but it was too late; the ghost was already on top of her. “Get out!” was all the Madame could scream. Somehow, she managed to get up and began running around the corridors screaming for help. The spectrum was on top of her, holding her, yelling at her. The Madame ran as fast as she could. “I swear I’ll kill you,” the spirit told her. She kept running and suddenly she tripped. Although she escaped her fate of dying in the hands of the spectrum, she flew out of a window and landed face up on the fence. She died immediately, and so did the child she was carrying inside.

Laura Aparicio 11th Grade

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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CUENTO

Nicolás Mazuera 10th Grade Había una vez un hombre tan feo, que todo el mundo se asustaba cuando lo veía. El vivía con su madre apartado del resto de la humanidad, en una pequeña isla. A pesar de su apariencia, ella lo amaba como una madre ama a su hijo. Un día su madre lo obligó a ir a la ciudad y enfrentar sus miedos. Así fue como comenzó su aventura en la ciudad. El le había rogado a su madre que no lo obligara a ir, pero su madre dijo que era por su propio bien. Tan pronto llegó a la ciudad sintió que había cometido un gran error, ya que toda la gente lo miraba como si fuera un bicho raro. Se sintió deprimido y pensó en maneras de evitar esas miradas que lo único que hacían era bajarle la moral. De pronto tuvo la idea de colgarse una manzana en la cara. Las miradas no cesaron pero ya no eran de repulsión si no de curiosidad. Esto lo alegró mucho, pero a los pocos días llegó su madre y lo vio con la manzana en la cara, y su cara no fue de rabia ni de tristeza sino de decepción. Ella le dijo que lo había mandado a confrontar sus problemas no a esconderse detrás de ellos. Ella le dijo que la gente lo tenía que aceptar como era no como quisieran que fuera. El señor entendió a la madre, y decidió salir a confrontar el mundo y aunque lo miraban mal, a él no le importaba y lo mejor de todo fue que terminó casándose con una mujer que aunque no era muy bella tenía el corazón lleno de bondad y nobleza.

AVE FÉNIX

Nicolás Bejarano 10th Grade El Ave Fénix o Phoenicoperus como lo conocían los griegos, es un ave mitológica del tamaño de un águila, de plumaje rojo, anaranjado y amarillo incandescente, de fuerte pico y garras. Su hipotética distribución, según algunos mitos, comprendía la zona del Oriente Medio y la India, llegando hasta el norte de África. Cuenta la leyenda que el Fénix vivía en el Jardín del Paraíso, y estaba anidando en el rosal. Cuando Adán y Eva fueron expulsados, de la espada del ángel que los desterró saltó una chispa y prendió el nido del Fénix, haciendo que ardieran éste y su inquilino. Por ser la única bestia que se había negado a probar la fruta del paraíso, se le concedieron varios dones, siendo el más destacado la inmortalidad a través de la capacidad de renacer de sus cenizas. Cuando le llegaba la hora de morir, hacía un nido de especias y hierbas aromáticas, ponía un único huevo, que empollaba durante tres días, y al tercer día ardía, no se sabe si por el fuego que él mismo provocaba o por causa accidental. El Fénix se quemaba por completo y, al reducirse a cenizas, resurgía del huevo el mismo ave Fénix, siempre único y eterno. Esto ocurría cada 500 años. Según el mito, se le añaden otros dones, como el de la virtud de que sus lágrimas fueran curativas. Según la mitología china, el fénix es una criatura con cuello de serpiente, el cuerpo de un pez y la parte trasera de tortuga. Historia: Un día volaba el ave fénix por los aires y vió una apetitosa culebra arrastrándose. Rápidamente el ave fénix descendió para comer a la culebra. Sin embargo cuando el pájaro vio a esa inofensiva culebra decidió dejarla ir, ya que los indefensos son los que más apoyo necesitan. 96

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EL MICO Nicolás Cadavid 10th Grade Un animal mezclado entre la selva se balancea entre árboles y ramas, tan elástico como el caucho, se trepa por donde menos lo esperas. Esta es la historia de un mico retador, que lograba lo que quería sin importar lo que pensaban de él. Un día apareció con el sueño de trepar el árbol más alto de la selva. Nadie lo creía posible y menos por él. Pero él con la cabeza en alto usó sus cuatro extremidades y su larga cola para trepar a lo más alto. Llegando ya al final se empezó a preocupar, estaba cansado y le faltaba apoyo moral. Se detuvo para pensar en por qué debería llegar a la cima. Se dio cuenta que no era para que la gente lo admirara, sino era para demostrarse a sí mismo que él tenía la capacidad de lograr lo que él quisiera y que haría un gran esfuerzo para cumplir sus sueños.

EL TRATORI Nicolás Cadavid 10th Grade Un animal misterioso, vive en lo más alto de los árboles y con sus brazos y piernas se cuelga para mirar como juegan los niños. Nadie sabe cómo es. Pocos lo han visto pero cuando lo ven por primera vez, se les olvida cómo era. Si lo ven una segunda vez se les olvida que lo vieron. Y a la tercera se vuelve más grave el tema, ya se les olvida que se les olvidó que lo vieron, pero la peor es la cuarta vez que lo ven. Se les olvida cómo es esta criatura a la que llaman el Tratori. Lo que sí es cierto, es lo que enseña, muestra pureza y tranquilidad. Todo aquel que lo ve, así se le haya olvidado cómo es o que lo vieron, saben que algo ha cambiado en su vida y que el Tratori sólo quiere ver la pureza de la sociedad, y por eso mira a los niños, los que aún no han contaminado sus corazónes.

CUENTO Natalia Garcia-Peña 10th Grade La tenue brisa que me envuelve, que me acuerda del pasar del tiempo y de las cosas, esa brisa que me rozó la mejilla, estará algún día dispersa y lejana. Así serán todos los pueblos, personas, tendencias, y la vida misma. Algún día se dispersará y se volverá parte de este vasto universo donde alguna vez estuvo. Por eso debo capturar cada momento de esta vida disfrutándolo al máximo, porque en un tiempo, ya no será y solo quedarán las memorias. Disfruto la brisa que ahora está conmigo y los árboles que lloran con el tocar del viento y bailan al ritmo de la naturaleza, con sus hojas que se confunden con el cielo, formando ambigüedad en su comienzo y fin. Estoy aquí, disfrutando la vista a las orillas del Sena, escapándome de esa realidad oscura, distinta y agitada que es París. Aquí puedo mirar la verdadera naturaleza de la cuidad desde otra perspectiva, y contrasto ese trajín urbano con el sosiego de los árboles, del pasto, de las aves, y de las majestuosas aguas del Sena. Aquí me quedaré por un momento, en mi propio reino, donde, vestida de blanco, yo seré mi propia princesa. IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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Belleza de Gladiador Santiago Santos 10th Grade Con su bella capa rayada y su herradura musculosa cubriendo su fuerza y su ansia de cazar, el hermoso tigre ostenta su furia contra las rejas de las celda del coliseo, en donde espera impaciente el momento de salir. La gente está a la espera del gladiador, de la lucha final, de la inmortal belleza y de un ambiente en donde no existe la piedad. Convencido, el tigre sabe a lo que va, bruñe sus colmillos para darles fortaleza, lima sus uñas para tener un mejor agarre e ilumina su pelaje para resplandecer a la hora de la salida. El tigre sabe que es el mejor, el tigre sabe que lo esperan a él, convencido de dar un gran espectáculo y de volver pronto a su estado preferido, la soledad. La hora llega, el público se anima, se abre la reja, y sale el misterioso gladiador, con un caminar pausado y con los ojos afectados por el cambio de la oscuridad a la luz. No tiene afán y no siente presión, solo siente el ansia de tener a su presa entre sus garras pero sabe que debe hacerlo con inteligencia. Cualquier error podría costarle la lucha, podría costarle la victoria, podría hacerlo perder aquella admiración que mantuvo por tantos años intocable. Tanto han esperado para ver a aquel gladiador, que muy tranquilo, está a la espera de que su sentido le indique que es la hora de atacar. Camina silencioso, da una, dos y tres vueltas al coliseo, mirando fijamente su objetivo. Algo le dice que es el momento. Reluce el brillo de sus colmillos, se asegura de que su armadura esté bien puesta, saca a fulgurar la inmortalidad de sus armas y finalmente emprende el camino. Ataca con fuerza, sin miedo, con seguridad y clava sus colmillos y su espada en el punto indicado. Siente la sangre caliente de su contrincante, siente la yugular arrastrándose suavemente por su boca y huele la muerte, la victoria. Vuelve a la normalidad y sin quitar la vista de su presa, el público lo anima. El gladiador, ese gran tigre Siberiano, solo anhela volver a su estado de soledad. Se abren las rejas, agarra a su contrincante de las piernas y lo introduce en su celda. El objetivo ha sido logrado, y luego de un gran festín, el gran gladiador debe prepararse para la siguiente disputa.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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El Camaleón William Gaviria 10th Grade

Imagen tomada de la pagina http://humano.ya.com/cimadevila/album/animalia/index.htm 02 - “Camaleon 1.jpg”

El camaleón, animal sereno; el camaleón, animal de selva; el camaleón y su inteligencia. Al verse acechado por carnívoros que rondan entre las espaciosas plantas tupidas, árboles de gran tamaño, y flores iridiscentes, este animal posee la capacidad de controlar la situación y salir con vida de la misma mediante el disfraz. Su color cambia dependiendo del contorno en el que se encuentra y de esa forma, al tornarse parte del ambiente, esta bestia confunde a sus depredadores. Este mecanismo de defensa que es utilizado de la forma más practica y en el tiempo preciso, hace que esta criatura tenga un alcance de razón al igual que los humanos y por ende, superior a los de su medio ambiente.

IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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Longest Night Sahar Herbol 12th Grade The thunder banged loudly, shaking my windows and doors. The rain poured down, slamming onto the concrete roads outside. I sat on my bed watching the rain trickle down the windows just like the tears sliding down my face. I was frustrated, and shot with pain, just like a needle as it slides through my skin pushing the pain deeper and deeper. Why me? Why is it always me? My head was beating back and forth, from side to side. It was all falling apart; it was all over for me. My eyes were large, swollen and red. Sleep hasn’t been a word in my vocabulary for a while. I just sat there, cold as the night, rocking back and forth, trying to get the voices out of my head. The night went on, 9:00, 10:00, 11:00, 12:00. I couldn’t move, not after what I had been through. I got out of my bed to the quiet sobs of my little sister. As I walked quietly past the rooms, I reached hers. Through the crack in the door you could see her bedside light on. I walked into her room to find her lying on the ground, beaten. I ran to her, and plunged myself onto the ground, and held her in my arms. She grabbed my shirt, not wanting to let go. I thought it was only me, I never thought it would happen to her. I didn’t want to let her go. Both of us were crying, holding each other, knowing we were the only ones left for each other. No one ever understood what we were going through, no one ever knew what pain we felt, no one ever knew how many tears we shed. Why did it have to be our lifestyle? Why couldn’t we just run away? The night went on…1:00, 2:00, 3:00, and our tears were gone, as I sat there, holding her, while she cradled her broken arm in her lap. As she lay there, she fell asleep. I got up and laid her in her bed, tucked her in and turned out the light. I closed her door, and snuck back into my room. The rain was almost gone. It was sprinkling and was very cold. Why could my sister sleep and I couldn’t? 4:00, 5:00, 6:00. The sun started to come up. The sunrise was gorgeous; I could look at it and feel a sign of relief. The day passed quickly. It was sunny, cloudless, the type of day you wanted all the time. The clock was ticking…5:00 o’clock, 6:00, 7:00. I headed to my room. The rain started to pour out on the dark night, and I was afraid. Time kept passing and passing, and nothing happened. Was this the end of it? Was I safe finally? Relief started to hit me, and a vague smile came across my face. 8:00. 9:00, I was alright. Nothing had happened to me. I got on my knees and I thanked God. When suddenly, I heard a cry. I raced to my sister’s room, to see him. You could smell the alcohol on him and his clothes. He had laid his hand across my sister’s face. All along, I thought I was the only one he beat, until I saw this. I stood there frozen, not knowing what to do. He just stood there, laughing at her, while she was once again on the wood floors. I wanted to run and hold her like I did last night. I wanted to beat him and have it be him on the ground, but what could I do? He turned around and looked at me, with the biggest smile on his face, smirked and said “You’re lucky for now”. He walked my way, out the door, bumping into me, and left the house. My sister sat there crying, pulling her head off the ground. She looked at me with those eyes, like last night. I went over to her, and held her like I did last night. I took care of her all night and right then, I knew what she and I needed to do.

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THE OBSESSION HOUSE Laura Steiner 12th Grade, Michelle Gutierrez 12th Grade & Jose A Rozo 12th Grade

María Paula Salazar 11th Grade

Drew (obese= obsessed with food), Barbara (nymphomaniac), Pat (cleaning freak,), Lauren (shopaholic= shopping), Tyrell (P.I.M.P. = obsessed with bling), Courtney Malloy (hostess) Courtney Malloy: “Ladies and gentleman welcome to our obsession house! You will live within these walls for the next three months, and will compete to win the final prize: $500,000. Each of you has a unique obsession of some kind. Your objective is to overcome that obsession. Each week, our viewers will vote for the toughest one of you, the one who develops the best fighting skills against your obsession. The person with the most amounts of votes will receive a prize for the week and will earn points for the final round. On the other hand, the person with the least amount of votes for the week, who will be denominated as “the obsessed”, will suffer the consequences. Each and every one of you will be placed in daring situations and you will have to overcome different challenges. Ladies and gentleman prepare to fight your obsession!” (The doors of the house open and the contestants go inside) Lauren: “Oh my god I love it! I love the house!” Pat: “You definitely have to love it! It’s so gorgeous, so clean. It smells like new. Oh my god!” Drew: “Where’s the fridge dude? I’m kinda hungry.” Pat: “First of all I’m not your dude, or any kind of dude for that matter. And second, it wouldn’t hurt you to skip a meal, dude.” (After choosing their rooms, the contestants prepared their lunch and got to discover what were each other’s obsessions). Pat: “Drew, are you going to eat your plate too or what? That is completely disgusting!” Drew: “What, man? It’s only six cheeseburgers. What’s the big deal? Pat: “I’m totally with you. I love cheeseburgers. You know who else loves cheeseburgers? My number one idol: Paris ‘Goddess’ Hilton. I just love her, I can’t live without her!” 102

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Lauren: “Totally! I love her clothes, oh my god! They other day I actually bought 10 of her 12 new outfits. So amazing! Oh, and I also bought like three gorgeous pairs of shoes to go with them. Unbelievable. Oh, right and I also bought like these new earrings, Oh my god you have to see them! They’re like…” Tyrell: “Woman. Shut up. Give me some sugar. You bought no bling?” (Lauren shakes her head, with an obvious no). Tyrell: “Man. What do you spend your money on?” Lauren: “Well in new clothes, glasses, shoes. Oh my god! Purses! Your have to love purses! I love them! I love them!” Pat: I hate shopping. Fitting rooms are just so filthy! Yuck! That’s why I have my personal shopper. (New episode) Courtney Malloy: Welcome back ladies and gentleman! Last week Drew lost his challenge, by eating all the raw food we placed in a room for him. He will be part of the trial were you will vote to save one of the contestants. So let’s see who would join him today. The first contestant that will be challenged will be Lauren. Lauren: Hi! I’m totally wearing my new Prada shoes today, so don’t make me do anything too disgusting. Courtney Malloy: Please bring in all of Lauren’s credit cards! (Two guys walk in, holding three boxes full of Lauren’s credit cards) Lauren: Oh my god! Am I going shopping? Courtney Malloy: Not today Lauren. Today you will have to cut each and every one of your credit cards. Here are the scissors. Lauren: No. Are you kidding me? My dad is going to be so mad. Plus, how can I shop without them? Courtney Malloy: Well that’s the whole point Lauren. You have to overcome your obsession. Crowd: Cut them! Cut them! Cut them! Courtney Malloy: Lauren, we’re waiting for you. Lauren: Why? Why? (Sobbing). I quit! I can’t do this! Courtney Malloy: Lauren you can’t quit. Crowd (Lauren’s friends): Lauren don’t do it! Lauren you’re killing a life! Your babies! Come on! (Lauren starts cutting) Lauren: Bye American Express! Bye Visa! Oh no my discount cards! Bye Victoria! Bye Barney’s! Oh no! I can’t do this! This is too hard! (After having cut all her 117 Credit Cards, Lauren has a seizure) Lauren: I feel so weak! Ahhh! (She faints and falls down to the floor) IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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Crowd: No! No! Lauren’s friends: L-baby! Oh no! Help! Help! Some one get her some clothes! Purses! Something! Some one do something! Your stash is falling out! L-baby your stash! Courtney Malloy: Hand me your stash. Yes, Lauren hand it to me. Now, you will have to cut these seven credit card too. Crowd: Cut them! Cut them! Courtney Malloy: Pat you will need to overcome your obsession. You will be placed in a dirty bathroom full of cleansing utensils and you will not be able to clean anything. In order to win the challenge you will have to last at least three hours in the bathroom. Pat: What? So, explain this to me time. I’m supposed to go into a dirty bathroom and not clean? You have to be kidding me. Courtney Malloy: No Pat this is you challenge. So please enter trough this door and you will be escorted to the bathroom. Inside the bathroom there will be cameras watching your every move. Pat: This is ridiculous. You people are insane. Cleanness should be the basis to your lives.

Julián Uribe 12th Grade

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JOURNALISM PLAY (REALITY SHOW) Johanna Goossens 12th Grade & Nack Choon Jung 11th Grade

Setting: Apartment Building David leaves from the building 27 Wall street on his way to work at Sports Incorporated. Two minutes later, 3 other people, Judas, Jesus and Mary leave the building on their way to work at Sports Incorporated. David: (as he’s leaving the apartment says good bye to his doorman) Good morning, Smith! Smith: Good morning sir, how are you on this fine day? David: Good; I’ll see you later tonight. Judas: (same blocking) Hey Smith. Smith: Good morning sir, how are you on this fine day? Judas: Not bad, I’ll see you later. Jesus: (same blocking) Good morning, Smith, how are you? Smith: Fine sir, thank you for asking. Jesus: No problem, who’s on shift tonight? Smith: I am sir. Jesus: Excellent, I’ll see you tonight. Mary: (same blocking) Morning. Smith: Good morning, Ms. How are you this morning? Mary: Fine fine, and yourself? Smith: Very well miss, thank you. Mary: See you tonight! Setting: Sports Incorporated magazine building (Simultaneously David, Judas, Jesus and Mary enter the building for Sports Incorporated magazine) IDEAS H.S. MAGAZINE, March 2007

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Judas: (is holding his paperwork in his left arm and his coffee in his right. Not looking where he’s going, he bumps into David with his coffee. The coffee spills on David.) I’m sorry! David: This is a new suit! Why don’t’ you watch where you’re going? Judas: (As David angrily stomps away) I’m sorry! Judas: (Judas tries to fix his coffee stained work and realizes that he has to report to the head manager, Mary.) Ms. Vurgen, can I speak to you for a minute? Mary: Yes, of course. Who are you? Are you from UPS? Judas: No, I work in publications. Mary: Oh, how could I help you? Judas: I’m second in charge of the Japan presentation today, but the progress we made over the past 5 weeks has been ruined. Mary: WHAT?! What did you do? Judas: I’m sorry, I banged into someone and spilt coffee all over him. Mary: Are you kidding me? How dare you be so irresponsible! We have to do everything all over again; we have to cancel the meeting, arrange new meetings for the presentation and everything has to be postponed… are you kidding? Judas: Sadly, no. Setting: The lobby SI (where Judas spilt his coffee) Jesus: (Judas walks through the lobby, avoiding the spilt coffee, when he bangs into Jesus. Jesus loses balance and is forced to slip on the spilt coffee, and he breaks his leg) AHH (in pain)!!! Judas: I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Let me help you up, are you alright? I’m sorry! Jesus: AHH! I can’t get up! I think I broke my leg! Judas: I’m sorry, let me call you an ambulance. Setting: Same day, evening at 7 pm, Judas, David, Jesus and Mary get on the elevator in the apartment building, all together uncomfortably. As the elevator approaches the 4th floor, the power goes out, the lights turn out, and the elevator stops abruptly. The four strangers are trapped in a dark, constrained space, not able to see anyone else. (Awkward Silence) David: Did someone touch something? Judas: No! Mary and Jesus: (simultaneously) No. Mary: Nobody panic! Does anyone have claustrophobia? I’m sure we’ll get out of here as soon as someone comes and gets us. Probably Smith will call a technician. Jesus: Who’s in here? David: My name is David. Mary: Vurgen, Mary Vurgen. 106

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plays (Awkward Silence) David: So… Where do you guys work? Mary/Jesus: (simultaneously) SI. David: Oh… as in Sports Incorporated? Me too! Everyone: (in unison) Wow! (Awkward silence) (Sitting in silence for half an hour, Jesus decides to break the ice)

Jesus: Man… I can’t believe that on the same day I break my leg, I get stuck in an elevator. (Judas pauses in shock) Mary: I know! Tonight I have to do more work than I have ever before because some idiot ruined a huge presentation of mine with coffee, and here I am wasting my time in an elevator that won’t budge. (Judas begins to sweat) David: My day wasn’t that bad. I have time; I was simply coming back to change after having coffee spilt on me. (Judas begins to breathe heavily) David: Is everyone alright? Mary / Jesus: we’re fine. Mary: Who’s in here with us? Judas: (very nervously) My name is… Judas. Jesus: Oh, nice to meet you. David: Ditto… Where do you work? Judas: I work at SI too. (Lights flash back on) David/Mary/Jesus: (Simultaneously, pointing at Judas) YOU!! --- In the next episode, find out what happens next week to Judas!

Natalia Calderón 11th Grade

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Laura Vélez 10th Grade

Mariana Pardo 9th Grade

Julián uribe 12th Grade

Laura Aparicio 11th Grade

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