Harpeth Hall Hallmarks 2020-21 by Harpeth Hall Communications

Hallmarks

2 0 20

2021

Hallmarks 2020-2021

Art and Literature from the Upper School of

The Harpeth Hall School 3801 Hobbs Road Nashville, TN 37215

There is suffering but there is also vitality, and they rely on one another for their existence. They are , and therefore they are good . -Virginia Callen

Artwork (left) by Lily Silvester Artwork (cover) by Allison Baker

No One Cares How Fast Your Car is (and Your Girlfriend is Breaking Up With You Soon)

wasting the most precious lines of my favorite song. And every time that sound makes me jump or roll my eyes, I think about what I would say to that obnoxious boy who thinks the car his dad bought him is a character trait.

A n gi e Ba i rd

I was tapping rhythmically on a dashboard when the thought returned to me. My childhood friend Grace, a 5’5” cheerleader made of nothing but bleached hair and spray tans, was driving me back from coffee—something she clearly hadn’t needed as she bounced up and down on the seat like a soda bottle prepping to explode. Both of us were talking and singing along to a rap song we barely knew while her black, “I-wanted-a-jeep” Mazda bumped down the tree-lined road. “We went to the river the other day,” she said, continuing her too-long explanation to the question “How are your friends?” I had been hoping for a “good” so we could move on to bigger topics, but I forgot how much Grace liked to talk. Nothing was ever just “good.” “Who is 'we' this time?” I asked, trying desperately to keep up with her evershifting group of friends. “The three couples and two friends, though Shane and Don just broke up, so make that two couples and four friends. No wait, I think Shane and Matt had already started dating by this point but—.” “Wow, couples seem to shift a lot in your friend group,” I noted, hoping I could break her concentration and get her to move on to something else. “Yeah,” she replied, tapping on the steering wheel and keeping her gaze forwards. “Not that that’s really a bad thing.” I raised an eyebrow, perking up in my seat for the first time in our 10-minute car ride. I grasped for her boyfriend’s name, but it didn’t come to me. In the beginning, I had just figured she would swap him out for a new one in a few weeks, so I didn’t bother learning about him. When she surprised me by staying with him, it was already too late to ask the simple questions. “How is … how’s your boyfriend?” “Oh, he’s good,” she replied with a shrug. My mouth hung open slightly. Just three words. That’s the shortest sentence I think she’s ever uttered. She broke the awkward silence with an offhand explanation: “We go out with all of our friends

Artwork by Anne Carlen Bone

I’m not quite sure how I would describe the sound. I suppose it’s like a congested cat that is trying to learn how to bark, or maybe a soundboard that breaks in the middle of rehearsal. But we’ve all heard it, because—at some point or another—we have all been subjected to a person whose single personality trait is the car they drive and the three questions they hope everyone will ask: How loud? How fast? How much? How annoying. Because, just when I’ve settled under my covers, waiting for my insomnia to wear away, I hear that car break through my windows and cut through any sense of sleep I had scraped together. When I’m listening to music two stories up, it’s as though that electric blue car has hacked into my Bluetooth just to taunt me by

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sometimes. He really likes talking about cars.” She pulled onto my street, the sides of her lips lifting slightly. “Wanna meet him? He lives in your neighborhood.” I don’t think she had realized that she wasn’t happy with him, or at least she was trying not to admit it. But I didn’t want to have that conversation, so I just nodded: “Um… sure.” She zipped past my house, turned down the cul-de-sac, and pulled into a large, circular driveway. And sitting in the center of it, with all the arrogant pride of its owner, was an electric blue car. When we parked he walked out of his house, leaning against the giant metal beast like the knock-off version of a magazine cover. You! You keep disturbing my sleep schedule and have no concern for anybody but yourself! I thought. “Hi,” I said, forcing a smile. “Hey,” he replied. I was surprised he wasn’t wearing a letterman jacket and spinning a football on his finger. Could you stop driving around the neighborhood at 11 o’clock at night trying to audition for an alarm clock and drive like a normal person for once you insensitive egotistical prick? “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I noted, trying to keep my thoughts inside my head. I awkwardly shuffled back to my friend’s car and ducked inside, and she soon followed. I didn’t talk about it. I think she knew her boyfriend was the one who drove around our neighborhood at 80 miles per hour like he was the only person in existence. She knew I didn’t like him, and deep down, I think she knew she didn’t like him either. I await the day when that car finally stops hurtling down the street—the day when my friend finally breaks up with him. Maybe, finally, he’ll realize he’s not the center of the world. But if it takes too long, I’m keying his car.

Alternate Names for Rowing Sarah L i l lard Listen for the Earth: she’s breathing with you. Breathing in and never breathing out. Burning like clover in a forest fire. Sitting on the lap of God. “Pressing past their bow ball now!” Herons wondering whether man can fly. Daring me to walk across thin ice. Seeing eye to eye with God. Is it wrong to smile at the beauty of a fire? I never know if it’s tears or sweat. I need a PR. Blindness. Crawling on my knees for God.

Artwork by Ava Grace Meredith Artwork by Ava Claire Williams 6

Eucharist M a ggi e Sulli van I sing a homemade hymn to my history today. Its verses are jumbled, its melody stricken by the lightning of realization. My throat is sweet but sick with honey as the refrain rings out— minor, chromatic, sign of a discord of the ear and the larynx: because inside my chest there’s a growing ache for something I can’t yet realize, an ache to ache, a want of desire itself. My God tells me I’m wrong to want it, but my Jesus has no patience for this slander. He tells me, sister, be still and know yourself.

Artwork by Virginia Callen

The Irony of My Shadow A mel ia Re ddy She is a slave to the sun, straining to bind herself to my feet. Where I go, she will follow: my own distorted carbon copy. She has aged with me over time: every growth spurt, every haircut, every acrylic nail set. She has reflected my exterior, at times, with an alarming precision: mimicked my laugh, my hand gestures, my stride. But if you ask her today—after 17 years together—what gives me hope; if you ask her what gets me out of bed in the mornings; if you ask her what terrifies me, what my dreams are, how I know my rights from wrongs, she is suddenly at a loss for words. How can someone be a part of you since birth, serve witness to your hesitant first steps, your clumsy cartwheels, your late night drives, but never see beyond your physical appearance, never risk dipping a toe into the messy, the broken, the chaos that is you? Because a body without a soul is just a body.

reflection N ish a Ram an n a I know my reflection well. Hours I’ve spent with her In moving windows In faded pictures In streaky mirrors.

I saw her one day In a puddle. Lips rigid, Pressing tight against each other.

Her skin is littered With spots and scars. Her undereye bags Are bricks.

I lifted my boot And tapped her cheek. Her face dissolved, Spiraling like the cosmos.

Her mouth Is a stone But sometimes I try To shift it.

I thought she looked silly And I guess she did too Because the corners of her lips Turned up in a smile

I reach my finger out, Tickle her neck, Poke her nose, But it stays still.

Artwork by Sarah Braam 10

MAn Beneath The Sun Neva Bass The sky hung grey and knotted with altocumulus, the greyish pillings of an old cashmere sweater that had accumulated and mingled in the dark corner of a closet with that downtrodden tone of optimistic neglect.

The man was a constant in the unchanging landscape of the landfill desert. When the sun opened her eyes, the man was there. When the sun closed her eyes, the man was still there, collecting dust and treasures.

The sun opened her eyes, but only barely, squinting them against the pallor of the shadow world below.

Every day, the man fell more into the orbits of gravity, age, and habit. His joints creaked sinister music into the staunch purgatory. But never had he paused, until now.

Beneath her, she saw a man, stranded in a cavernous and eerily silent desert. His eyes a soupy grey, like molten lead. His skin loose and feverish.

Abruptly, the man seemed to forget his habit, his purpose, his routine, as he stared at an object next to the tin can by his right foot. The object was covered in filth, but it was still identifiable by the faded diamond that crowned its crusted gold band.

A pair of grimy hands worked with a mind all of their own, sifting through the disembodied orphans of capitalism that called the desert landfill home.

The sun watched the man from above, as he picked up the ring and squinted at it with tired eyes. The sun watched the dusty cogs of the man’s brain turn as he wondered if it had been painful to lose or too painful to keep. Suddenly, the man froze.

The sun watched the man, as his hands found the corpse of a ballpoint pen and tucked it into a mesh bag hanging from his waistband, as his hands found a rusty key and tucked it into his tattered left shoe.

Artwork by Margo Dobbs

He stood there for a few minutes, or hours, or days, or maybe even years as tears canyoned his sunken face. After a while, the man opened his tight grasp, and the ring finally fell through his fingers to be reclaimed by the churning desert landfill. The man stood motionless for several more moments.

Finally, the man turned and walked away, for miles and miles, until the shadows scraped the horizon and the sky had been unraveled. The sun waited for the man, but the landscape had permanently changed.

To live long but not be old can never be. -Liz Allen

Artwork by Allie Cunnigham 14

Oh, To Be A Citizen on Stolen Land Cori M a gsby Oh, to be a citizen on stolen land, celebrating our founding fathers on a pedestal that cannot be reached to sweep their wrongdoings under rugs of parchment and not notice the stones they cast with hidden hands. Let us forget their shouts of abolition, but remember their continuous wealth which they worked hard for. Oh, to be a citizen on stolen land, remembering their continuous fight for freedom, all while tightening the chains of those equivalent to 3/5s of a person; remember not the secret relations of our fathers but our debt and laws they created, travel back in time to the homes they thought and prevailed in, but don’t question the acres of cotton that lie behind them. Oh, to be a citizen on stolen land! where the right of expansion is far greater than the remembrance of hundreds of years of heritage— where undocumented wars are fought and genocide is an unquestionable act; where rights of man are not rights of man; where all religions are accepted except all religions are not accepted; where being white, is right; where… Oh, to be a citizen on stolen land.

Artwork by Edith Kiprono 17

A Girl in My Class Calls All Black People Criminals, and I Find My Tongue Zo e M i l es You have made me ashamed, and for that I will never forgive you. You have made me ashamed of my hair And its riotous disobedience; My nose, With its warm desert slopes; My skin, The way it never lets the sun go; And most unforgivably, You have made me ashamed of my people. You took them from their homes; You stripped them of their language, Their families, Their history. You hurt them until they obeyed, Then cited their obedience as justification. You named them murderers and thieves of men, Then sat back and smiled smugly at your self-fulfilling prophecy. Look at them dance. Look at the skitter-scatter of ants beneath your boots. Look at the way they wail spirituals in forgotten tongues— You didn’t know animals prayed, too. And when they were no longer content to labor under your delusion, You took advantage of their confusion: You labeled them as fools, Then told the world they would abuse them. My people are strong; you made them a threat. My people are vibrant; you made them cocky. My people have survived; you continue to force them to. My head is heavy from bearing the burden of cultural genocide. To be born black is to be pre-traumatized. By allowing this, you have perpetrated the longest-running crime in history. So, remind me. Who is the true criminal? Artwork by Lily Silvester

A Period of Solitude Sarah Jean Cav er Look into my eyes– the same green color that you painted the night. I know it’s hard, but we have got to at least try. Don’t let this be the end to our story line. This is a long road, but I’m just trying to decide if you’re my home. Giving slack to the rope but I won’t let it go. Won’t ever let you go. This is the no-man’s land. This is our common ground. I hope you understand, that this is me trying to figure out who I am when no one is around. I’m not moving on cause I don’t want anyone else but you. I’ve never been alone. You know I’ve always been one of two. I just needed a period of Solitude. Don’t get me wrong. Honestly, I just think that we are too young. What if you don’t like the person I become?

What if after the first year you want to run? So, I run. This is the no-man’s land. This is our common ground. I hope you understand, that this is me trying to figure out who I am when no one is around. I’m not moving on cause I don’t want anyone else but you. I’ve never been alone. You know I’ve always been one of two. I just needed a period of Solitude. So I took it from you and I blamed it on my youth– said it was for the best, when it wasn’t what you wanted– rode off on my high horse cause you started this first. Now it haunts me in flashbacks. Why does something good for me feel so bad?

Cause I don’t want anyone else but you. I’ve never been alone. You know I’ve always been one of two. I just needed a period of Solitude. Then I’ll come back to you. Then I’ll come back. I’ll come back to you. I hope you know that I’ll come back to you.

Artwork by Isabel Sachtleben

This is the no-man’s land. This is our common ground. I hope you understand, That this is me trying to figure out Who I am when no one is around. I’m not moving on 21

The Butterfly Within Gabby M chaou rab Heart trembling, skin prickling, thinking about all it had ever been, sitting and waiting for the perfect second, waiting for its time to be beautiful, it erupts out of its cocoon, taking in the first moments of its new life. Everything is new, untouched, seeming to be all real, as if before it was only a dream. It tries to soar, but instead it decides to admire its colorful wings, taking in now how the light reflects on its beautiful wings, how beautiful they look while fluttering in the air— it leaps out into the unknown and feels Free

Artwork by Rachel Rushing 23

Good Things Fall Apart O l i v ia Han de Loving you is loving the sunset— so seemingly infinite, so beautiful, I melt into the moment, so breathtaking, I lose my own soul.

darkness. How do I learn to need the temporary? Teach me to follow what I can never have.

Waiting, waiting all day convinced that the best lies ahead of me.

Tell me how I can taste magic then leave it alone forever, and end up okay without you.

When I look into the eyes of my sunset, my heart dances—a total ballet for only you to see— so marvelously full, I never thought it could spill over and fall apart.

When the sky is dark and the world is asleep, I repeat in my head that the days are more beautiful without the sunset in them—

A sunset so exquisite I can’t pull my eyes away. You paint my world with gentle strokes of pink and orange, and everything is perfect for a moment.

that I need to paint my own world, because the pink clouds are no longer here to take my breath away.

Loving you is loving the sunset.

And then, maybe if I hear that enough I could start to believe it.

It takes me away, into a moment of euphoria. But no matter how far we go to chase sunsets, the sky will fade into inevitable

If ignorance is bliss, then what am I living in?

Artwork by Maddy Corts 25

The World is a Beautiful Place … El G riffi n But the globe was not built for those who put trust in monsters instead of steeples, for those who find comfort in beds that are not their own, who hold their own amongst torrents that flow from the mouths of judgmental people trying to do God’s job for him. The globe was not built for those who pounded on the doors of acceptance and didn’t run when shadows answered, for those who exposed the miles of skin their body holds because they needed to know if someone cared about their soul.

Artwork by Ava Sohr

Lady J osey Beav ers Lady wears a hoop skirt like the rings of an oak tree around and around a tiny waist and a lacy collar that matches the doilies on the dinner table. Pearls like drops of buttermilk adorn her collarbone. A thin smile stretches upward across her porcelain face as though pulled by some puppeteer’s strings. An apron splattered with grease: Husband loves his bacon-and-eggs in the morning. Her honey hair in tight ringlets: molded by rollers and cloth pieces as she sleeps. Lady, you are perfect, they say— a sweet Southern belle indeed. Lady cleans up others' messes: the cola spilled on the carpet, the beds left unmade, the floor that she empathizes with (both are walked upon after all), the dishes that held the food she made but didn’t eat. Husband’s spitfire mouth and lies that offend too easily 28

Lady smooths over everything with those gloved hands of hers, her husband’s neckties, every wrinkle pressed out, and his shoes shined with grease so that he has a chance to impress the other men whose ties and shoes are cleaned by their ladies. Lady gives money at church, washboard pennies in the basket, the jingle-jangle of the tithe— her own choir song. Dinner parties for Husband and his friends: cigars and brandy served cold in crystal glasses shaken by Husband’s hands when in need of a refill. Roast beef, baby carrots, green peas, and gravy cover the plate; conversations about business and farming and man’s work mix with the scrape of forks against china. Time for the children: Magnolia wants a new bonnet, one that fits her head properly. Christopher wants a pet chicken to live in his room. Jonathan wants grits for dinner. Lady wants a moment to herself to scream to cry to wish for more. Artwork by Alli Baker

Bow Your Head M eg B euter Every night, they said, "Bow your head clasp your hands together

at the ceiling, thinking about nothing, but really thinking about everything;

and speak to God."

when I see my eldest sister laugh, and I recall, at last, joy’s face in her;

But where is this God? How do I reach him or her? They are not in my contacts. I cannot dial their number and hear their voice on the other line.

when my dearest friend’s hug, like a sip of precious water after a day’s heat, could nourish me for eternity. And when I sing,

Over this lengthened yet fleeting time, I have found my own prayer:

in these moments I feel you, God.

in moments ... when I can no longer distinguish whether the droplets trickling down my chest came from the showerhead or my tired, weary eyes;

You are not another name in my contacts. No, I cannot dial your number, but I can hear you when I yearn for your voice most ...

when my blankets are embracing me and I stare

And that is enough.

Artwork by Taylor Nisbet 31

On The Eighth Day, God Blessed the Blind Isab el la Bald w i n I saw a blind man sitting with his legs crossed and his head tilted back in a field of daffodils and he smiled at me. I lay in bed and know that I will close my weary eyes and listen to the wind’s whistle, and feel the creek’s ripples, licking my legs, an endless baby’s babble flowing from its tongue. I’ll hear nature’s sounds that know no human language and live forever in peace. Tomorrow?

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Sky Blue

A n gi e Ba i rd Light. The first thing I see is light. When I look around, I notice not just one light, but several. There is one gleaming straight into my eyes, another flickering ominously on the ceiling, and yet another sitting slightly off to the side of a stark desk. Faces stare into my field of light, blinking eyes, knitting eyebrows, and blue. Blue masks, blue clothing, blue gloves, blue ties holding hair back. A light blue, like the color of the sky, but only the color one would use when painting the sky, not the color of the sky itself. A fake sky blue for a fake blue sky. Artwork by Catherine Ryan 32

Yes, Her Name was Pearl Caro l i n e Luttru l l Yes, her name was Pearl, and she had eyes like the sun. She tried to be something, but she was no one. Her laugh was like church bells, magnificent but rare. She used to wear long French braids, but we said goodbye to her long golden hair. Yes, her name was Pearl, and her eyes were like the sun— behind layers of captured tears— and seemed to plead, Help me, someone! Her skin got paler, like a January's snow. Her hands got colder, but her eye's flame never slowed. Yes, I think her name was Pearl. Her eyes are closed now. The sun went away. We all saw the dark storm coming, but dreaded the rainy day. Yes, I know a Pearl— the girl with eyes of the sun. I think I knew her. She was someone.

Artwork by Macy Gilmour

Taylor Danielle Tay l o r N isb et Clothed with salvation, judged by God, born of kilts and castles and broken glass, I am of nomads and healers, of refugees and explorers, descended from geniuses and innovators; perhaps my pen of fluorite ink can match their numbers. I dream far past swamp and hill, soar through sun showers of opal drops— a gray sparrow who rests on snowflakes and wears a mask of amber.

Afloat M a g gi e H e d era I have touched the bottom of the ocean. I sunk and suffocated and drowned until my heart could no longer beat and my lungs could no longer fill. But when I reached the top and took my first breath of air, I found the silence I was searching for my whole life. The silence where your voice was not there.

Artwork by M.C. "Levi" Dillon

The Juggler L ariss a Smith The fool smiled— truth dripped from his lips and nonsense from his tongue. For what did he know? He was only a fool. He tripped over the cracks that ran deep— buried in the walls, in the gold of the crown— but he bowed, and they clapped. The throne stood strangled by onyx vines. He whispered the joke, and the brittle laughs turned to dust. Bells rang, dancing on the top of his crown a warning—a joke— the last giggle of a young prince that grew up too soon. And the motley smiled, his act almost done. For what did he know? He was only a fool.

Artwork by Nora Wang 39

Stolen by a Dead Man Is ab ella Bald w i n I will put words into his mouth: I will speak 1000 words for his every 1, and if he disagrees with my opinions, he will have no voice to rebut me, as his lips are stitched together by a thread of death. In the busy moments of probing and dissecting his words, for every possible hidden meaning, or every possible hidden meaning, for every protracted, complex explanation drawn too thin, he will thank me for the credit I gift him. I am his Rumpelstiltskin, spinning his straw into gold, and he will never know my name. The world will never know the girl who could spin gold. I will follow the trails of letter patterns and connotation and endless unknown poetic devices until I have dug a hole so deep, chasing the rabbit down the rabbit hole, that I have buried myself right beside him. His name will be known, embedded in the message of his book and my genius— and I will be the girl in the mud who didn’t know how to climb out. Artwork by Amelia Olafsson 41

My voice has been stolen by a dead man, and I will never say a word that is not attributed to him. My words will pile on his grave, and for each syllable, flowers will be left for his wisdom. My translation of his life will earn him a name and steal mine away . . . . But one day, I will close my weary eyes and search no longer for my stolen words. They will lay me in a proper grave next to him, tied to him always and his glory will spill over onto me. Then you will spin my gold, you will know my name, you will plant my roses— then—when my name will only define my rotting body. And my gold will starve the horses, and my roses will only wilt in my garden without my tending fingers. Then! Then, you will remember my last muttering words, my incoherent thoughts, swelling my stale sick lips. You will hear my voice drowning in some long-forgotten memory. And you will find some perfect misinterpretation of my words, And I will be called wise.

Artwork by Sophia Williams 42

the industrial worker S cout Dahi r

Bound to a machine, at the mercy of time, autonomy of body will not be returned. Is God commanded by turning gears, as well? There is no greater mind than man, yet here I am, reduced to an instrument. I am, too, a mechanism? The slow-paced living of the old has been suffocated from the dark clouds that keep the sun from our cities—and from it a new order has been birthed. A new pace has been determined by The Clock, and the hope of liveliness has been confined to the dark corners it cannot reach. Do the brilliant rays of liberty shine through concrete walls? Do they penetrate the thickness of the smog or the blackness of the coal? The free move westward to pursue their beloved liberties— to rid themselves of the urban Repetition. Yet no one can free themselves from the Clock.

Artwork by Allie Cunnigham 43

The Elevator Pri yan ka C hi gu l u ri Up and down we go until life comes to a slow; suddenly the elevator stops as a little girl’s pink bubble gum pops. Back and forth, anxious people pace and we’re crammed into a crowded space: a young boy hyperventilates as an overbooked lawyer realizes he’ll be late. A pregnant woman rapidly taps at her phone while an old couple complains and groans; lights flash and bells ring in our ears; this trap is a claustrophobic man’s worst fear. As perfume and sweat mix into a tangy smell, everyone stills at the soft ring of a bell: the doors open with bright light and fresh air while unknowing strangers pass by and stare.

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FLOWER CHILD Car ter H yd e

The sun keeps me brave, reminds me of the hope for future tomorrows.

Artwork by Neva Bass 45

vermont today Gabby Vi n e r A r t wo rk by M a ia Ro ark

I Dream of Meeting myself, age Nine, on the playground Jan et B ri ggs I see the girl with my face but not my height, huddled under a tree waiting— waiting for someone to look at the bugs with her and throw the ball. I walk closer but hang back as she stares into the blank space between us, not seeing me but seeing the space. I know you are alone, ostracized from the gathering of kids feet away, not because of anything— just holding out for something better and holding onto something that once was. I cross the space between us, but she looks away.

The clouds look like Vermont today, sun streaming through the puffs of gray.

That is alright because my offer has been made: the wooden sign that says “Bugworld” is perched on the tree.

Summer doesn't seem like months away when the sky is a sun-splashed bay above hills the shade of Tennessee whiskey.

I hurry away but look back to see her holding the sign with a smile fleeting on her lips.

The Splendor of Spring

An Anthem of Spring

A n n a Le M arb re

Ruthi e Gaw

S P R I N G : a special place rendering incredible natural growth Sparkling pools of water splash as youngsters pass. Prosperous plethora of petals pour into the streets. Rambunctious rabbits skip along to their home burrow: Incomparable color explosion of yellow, green, pink, and blue— Notorious nectar, sweet and always lingering— Gorgeous geese grazing through grassy glades.

A r t w o rk by M ab r y N eu m an 48

sun shine— shine sun.

Finally the world has shaken off the clouded covering of w i n t e r. Nature sings of hope as they find the open door: A new season emerges, bursting with life. The whole earth takes a gulp of sun; golden breeze fills its stomach; an electric pulse dashes through the body,

signaling the start of spring. Rejuvenation— what a wonderful word. Oh grass, how I long to roll down your glorious spine; how I yearn for a kiss. I love everything about you— even your wasps, they can share this pleasant world with me: I don't mind. The angel blossoms smile; they shimmer with a banner of iridescence, good news: spring is here, and I hope it stays long after I leave and go back among the stars. 49

Little Red Record Player K i ran D h i l l o n

and, along with them, a quaint record player. Its glossy, red coat of paint perfectly reflects the sparkles of Christmas ornaments hanging from the ceiling. Even with its cost coming out of my rent, the register’s “ding” is most pleasant. The subway is decked for the holidays, too, with vibrant ornaments hanging from handles and multicolored tinsel wrapped around poles. Gifts for friends, loved ones, and coworkers clutter the cars.

When I blur my vision, I see mostly white, as more snowflakes fall gently and dust the streets below. While strings of Christmas lights illuminate toy shops and their storefront windows, the smiles of children carrying large bags of toys are able to brighten the country. They are bundled up in thick jackets and mittens with scarves neatly wrapped around their necks. Despite the holidays upon us, the streets cease to rest; every mall, shop, toy store, and cafe has special Christmas products and sales.

The television is still switched on. A heated political debate echoes throughout my quiet apartment. The two news anchors cease their yapping once I press the red button on the controls. The prickly branches of my little pine tree seem to rise, despite the heavy homemade ornaments it is dressed in. The little Santa on a mug filled with candy canes grins at me.

At a small music shop, I purchase numerous holiday records

By nightfall, fire in the hearth dances on burning wood while I slowly sink into the cushion of my maroon armchair. Hot cocoa warms every corner of my body as I close my eyes. Unlike me, the little red record player remains awake and plays cheerful Christmas melodies throughout the night.

death dancing Tay l o r N isb et A forest stream— the perfect resting place for the weary. After an eternity of taking, and an eternity more in the future, the laughter echoing between trees is sweet relief. Two boys dancing among droplets of water and youth: a game of tag in the shallow water— two children less afraid to be drowned than “it.” Stepping into the ripple, his pale feet are silent as he dances with life. A perfect trio of youth and age and joy. But the calls are too loud. The voices of those beyond beckon, waiting for him to succumb and allow two more to join them. Beneath the water, he kisses their souls with icy lips: two boys, drowned by life. Water becomes a casket, headstones of pine and cedar driftwood. And Death was alone again. Artwork by Mary Meacham

Fragmented Kate Fran kli n The fragments of the mind—window of perspective Shifting glass reflection in a pane of foggy shadows No clear direction—no real indication Some things just stick—forever a memory Sunset sky—black orange and white Wings of a butterfly float across the sky Vicious pull—water’s strength Father’s hold—pulled to the bank Shifting sand—moving land Pricking grains—mirage of winds Fragmented thoughts—a frame of reality A shot of duality—misshapen memories

Calm before the Storm Veron i ca Pi erce It is as if time has stopped: not a living thing in sight, birds chirping in the distance— the trees are still. Sitting quietly, resting, it’s like walking through a painting. The sky is gray, and the light is fading. The clouds are dark and dangerous. All you can hear is the sound of your breath— in and out, in and out. Are you really breathing at all? Maybe just holding it. The air is already moist and wet, but nothing moves. A deep quiet lurks, waiting for the skies to open and for water to fill the air.

Artwork by Anna Li Hornsby

Young Boys on Park Benches Neva Bass The cerulean July sky cieled the young boy as he sat on the park bench and stared at the heavens. The yellow-button sun hung from the sky like a storybook medallion. Around him, motion reared its ugly countenance as tears, candy smiles, sweat, red balloons, and roller skates rushed past him in every direction. Do you hear me? The young boy asked the world. No, I do not hear you, the world said. Do you hear me? The young boy asked a bit louder. No, I do not hear you, the world said. Do you hear me? The young boy asked the world, this time standing on the park bench as tall as he could, straining his lungs so that they chafed and scorched his desperate words in a loud outcry. No, I do not hear you, the world said yet again. And the young boy screamed. The sound was like heartbroken glass, like knitting your brow in salty blinks that never ebb. The motion around the park bench stopped and stared, scornful and shocked, at the young boy as he finally fell and knelt on bloodied knees on the rough concrete next to the park bench. Hush little boy, said the world as it narrowed its eyes and swelled with condemnation. The young boy stared up at the world, the paused motion and the cerulean witness, and was then finally silent. Then the motion resumed, and the world was again as it was.

Artwork by Amelia Reddy 56

A Quiet Mind

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. She holds one of her spikes in her hand and uses it to scrape the dried mud off the other. Her hands shake slightly as she takes a deep breath and continues to work. Around her she can hear her teammates chatting and parents talking to each other. A girl from a neighboring tent walks by, stopping to talk to one of her teammates. She hears the girl say, “Good luck out there today!”—a phrase she has heard echoed around her over and over since she arrived. The music from her headphones plays in her ears and she turns its volume up, attempting to cover the noises around her. The sunlight is slanting into the tent, making her unexpectedly warm for a day that was predicted to be 60°F. She has, of course, been checking the weather for weeks, ever since she found out the date. Friday, November 6. Tennessee State Cross Country Championships 2020. Having scraped off enough mud to see where one of her spikes screws into her shoe, she takes out a small tool and begins to unscrew it. She pulls down her mask to blow

away the dried dirt after she unscrews the small piece of metal. She sees her dad walking up to the tent out of the corner of her eye. She finishes replacing the spike in her shoe, removes her headphones, and then rises to face her father. He carries a camera and wears a grin, ready to take pictures of the girl and her team as they take to the cross country course and cross the finish line, hopefully placing high enough to score a podium finish. “Ready to crush them out there, Bug?” he asks. She takes a deep breath before replying. “Yep.” She puts on a smile; she’s pretty sure she believes what she just said. She looks over and sees her mom talking with her coach and gives her a smile and a thumbs up before putting in her headphones and returning to her spikes. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. As she screws her last spike back into place, she looks around and sees a tent full of her teammates. Some are listening to music and some are talking and giving tense, nervous laughs. Next to her she sees Anna with her brows knitted in thought, so she gives her a smile and touches her shoulder. “Anna, you know you are so, so prepared for this,” she says to her friend. “I know, I know,” Anna says, “but I’m just so nervous.” Her mouth gives a small smile that fails to spread to her eyes. “You got this, and hey, no matter what you’re going to finish it!” the girl says. She gives Anna one last smile before she gets up to talk to her mom. Her tennis shoes move from the crinkling tarp to the softness of the groomed grass, and she can feel the sun’s warmth on her skin more now that she is out of the tent. She walks over to where her mom stands wearing a pair of sunglasses, and wraps her arms around her mother, resting her head on her shoulder. Her mom returns the hug, saying,“ What’s up, Bells?” “I don’t know,” she replies, her eyes clearly conveying how she feels. “Hey, remember what we talked about,” her mom warns. “I'm stronger than I think,” the girl says firmly. “I can do it even when it hurts.” “Yes, you can,” her mom replies. “Want to come look at the t-shirts with me? You’re going to want to have one from the state championship you’re about to win,” she says, smiling. The girl smiles back and nods, while her stomach flips at her mom’s words. She doesn’t know how she could lose. But what if she doesn’t win? They begin to walk across the grass towards the tent where the shirts hang, and they are surrounded by the chatter, muffled by masks, of hundreds of runners and their teams and families. She pulls a few pieces of dried mango from the bag she packed into her backpack this morning and puts them into her mouth. She chews them slowly. She knows she is supposed to be eating, but the tense knot in her stomach is keeping her full, making it hard to eat. She pulls a few more pieces

Bel la G u i l lam o n d egu i A r t w o rk by M ar th a D o w n ey

out of the bag, but she and her mom have reached the t-shirt tent, and her mom is asking her a question, so she turns and listens. “Which shirt do you like?” her mom asks. The girl looks at the shirts absentmindedly. “I don’t know,” she says, “Maybe that long sleeved one.” “Are you sure?” “Yes, I think so.” “Well they aren’t super cheap, so let’s make a decision you won’t regret,” her mom says with a smile. “Yeah, the long sleeved one there,” the girl says pointing. Her mom holds a size up to the girl, making sure it will fit and then pays for the shirt. She thanks her mom, and they begin to walk back to the Harpeth Hall tent, where her team sits. She looks down at the mango slice she is still holding in her hand, but she can’t bear to eat it, so she throws it into the trash can they are passing. Music blares from a speaker somewhere that she can’t see, and she sees a girl from another school dancing along. She looks up at the sky to see it completely clear with not a cloud in sight. She has to squint against the bright sun. “Okay, girls,” she hears her coach say. “One mile warm up, please!” She and her teammates set off joking and laughing to do their warm up around the course. They stop at the restrooms halfway through and then continue. Upon returning to the tent, the girls put on their spikes, lacing and re-lacing them until they have achieved the perfect fit. The girl’s mouth has become a little dry, but she doesn’t dare drink too much water. She can already imagine what a tragedy it would be to feel the water moving in her stomach as she races. They walk toward the start line to do their drills in preparation for the coming race. The sounds of cross country surround her as she does A-skips, high knees, and high skips, warming up her muscles. Coaches holler at their runners. Runners encourage their nervous teammates. Someone walks across a paved spot with their spikes on, scraping metal against cement. All around her people chatter. She links pinkies with her teammates, closing her eyes and letting her coach’s voice wash over her. She feels for a single moment that she has never been more ready, but just as this thought materializes, the knot in her stomach is pulled tighter than ever. She squeezes the pinkies of the girls next to her, passing the bit of confidence she possesses onto them. As she unhooks her pinkies from her teammates’, her coach looks her in the eye. “We will be proud of whatever you do out there today,” she reminds her. The girl laughs tensely. “You know if I don’t win, I won’t be able to live with myself,” the girl says, and though she laughs, her eyes flash with fear. She turns away from her coach. Walking

to the start to finally—inevitably—begin, she looks up at the sky once more, at the glare of that brightly burning sun. Her toes touch up against the thick, white spray paint line on the grass. A line between the controllable and uncontrollable. She squints at the starter as he holds his gun and his free hand in the air. Even the sky seems to hold its breath for that split second. Then just as quickly as it came, the moment is gone. The starter’s arm is dropping, and the crack of the gun reaches the ears of each runner simultaneously. Her heart jumps with a jolt of adrenaline, and her toes leap across that bold white line. Her spikes are gripping the grass, and her heart has already begun to beat hard against her ribs. She fills her lungs with as much oxygen as she can each time she breathes, her body trying to compensate for the stress she is putting on it. She can see the girl just ahead of her—her red jersey bright against the dull green-brown grass. Ahead of this girl is wide open grass. The competitor’s blond ponytail drifts closer, until it is only feet ahead of the girl. She pulls past her competitor, who stays on her shoulder as she takes the lead. The competitor cuts behind the girl, and the girl’s feet trip slightly as her competitor’s foot catches her heel. Without stopping, she steadies herself and continues to run. A second time the competitor cuts behind the girl, catching her feet, and she stumbles, but again she continues to run, opening a gap between herself and her competitor with a surge of adrenaline. She has taken the lead as they approach the first mile marker. One down. Two to go. She hears her time called out, but the sounds around her have become slightly muted, and her vision is darkening at the edges. Her legs burn, and her lungs are working overtime, but she is ready for this. She has prepared herself to go beyond this pain. As they come up on the one and a half mile mark her coach yells, “You got about 20 yards on her! Stay in the moment!” She is widening the gap. One and a half miles down. One and a half to go. Two miles down, one to go. The burning in her legs has intensified, but she gathers herself to go up another hill. The edges of her vision are sparkling with lights, and she breathes in deep, trying to keep herself together. She comes over the hill, and a single thought appears in her muddled mind: she is about to be a state champion. So, she continues. She cannot think straight. She sees trees and grass, and—somehow—she knows which way she should run. She has only one thought: keep going. She can feel her legs beginning to falter. They have lost connection with her mind. Her knees are beginning to buckle, but she is too determined to notice as she trips her way out of a patch of trees and onto the final stretch of the course. The crowd watches as she struggles. As her vision darkens further, she becomes less and less conscious of her stumbling legs, less and less conscious of the crowd next to her, less and less conscious

of the competitors behind her. In her mind, she can see only herself crossing the finish line, only herself accepting a first-place medal, a state champion. Suddenly she feels grass on her hands. In the back of her darkening mind somewhere, she knew she was falling, but in that moment, she knows only one thing: she must get up. She feels the whoosh of wind as a girl’s spikes run past her. A whoosh of red. And then she is walking. She sees only a dark patch of grass as she moves one leg at a time. She has had dreams about a race like this. Bad dreams where she woke up sweating, thankful that it was just a dream. So, in the back of her mind, she is waiting for someone to wake her up, but she doesn’t think this consciously. She only walks. She feels the brush of skin as other runners whoosh past her, jostling her slightly, almost pushing her over into the unconscious. She moves through a dark world, where the air is thick and her limbs are controlled by someone other than her. She walks and walks until, suddenly, finally, she senses that her spikes have crossed a second thick, white, spray paint line on the grass. She begins to fall then, as she lets go of what little control she had over her own body. She feels a pair of arms around her as the black covers her eyes, and her mind is blank. Then she is being lowered; she feels the grass on her back and sees the sky. Her eyes struggle to see through a black film and her brain is struggling to understand what is happening. Then it hits her: she is not a state champion. She lost. She sees bits and pieces of the world as she is moved to a tent with a black table, and water is poured into her mouth and onto her shoulders and wrists. Slowly, she begins to see again. Slowly, she begins to understand. People come from every angle. People she doesn’t recognize. People she doesn’t know. “Is she okay?” they say, “Are you okay?” Gradually she gains control of her own body and she is helped to stand. She makes her way to the tent where she left her belongings what seems like a lifetime ago. She looks around as she is helped to walk—taking in the places where the grass is wearing away from the hundreds of feet that have walked across it, seeing the trees that have begun to change color just on the tips of their leaves and the lake that stretches just past those trees. She sits on the plastic tarp and is handed a bottle of orange Powerade. As she sips the orange drink, one of her coaches sits next to her, crinkling the tarp as she moves. “Do you want to know something?” she says. “You just showed everyone out here who you are. Not just anyone could do what you did.” And that is when she realizes: today she has done something worlds better than winning a state championship. She did not give up. And around her the world quiets. Her head clears, and she looks up at the sky. It’s a deep clear blue.

from

Room 407

J u l ia Herman n My mother doesn’t listen to music in the car. She prefers to roll down the windows and listen to the sounds of Mother Nature. She always told me the wind blows away your sorrows if you let it guide you. However, the wind was at war with my hair, blowing it in all different directions. I look over at my mother’s hair, and it’s like the wind spoke to her, understood her. Each golden lock was synchronized with one another, and her lavender-scented shampoo filled the car’s atmosphere. I look in the distance as oranges and pinks painted the sky. The roads ahead of me became a blur and sent my eyes into a deep sleep.

Artwork by Lily Majors

from

"Ode to Creepers"

A r t w o rk an d Prose by N o ra Wan g Or maybe they’re just like us. Struggling to exist against all odds. Cut ’em down one day, the next they spring up from the soil and cling to life and light once again.

A r t wo rk by Zo e M iles 65

screams Vero n i ca Pi e rce Have you heard the screams change? Change from right to wrong? Everything drowns out and all you can do is watch and listen.

just come out. Stand back. Don’t touch. Just listen and watch.

Yes, I have heard the screams change, change from right to wrong: a party to a funeral, a gaiety to a knock, a harmony to a melody.

Yes. It’s true. I will never know her story. Never play with her toys. Never meet her family. Never find her floaties. Never see her.

No, I will never know her. She will never know me. What was a blossom is now a weed and what was a weed is now in me. Count to 30. Start again. Through the mouth

No. I’ll only know the finale. The fin. The last note. The final scene. the end.

Artwork by Abby Moschel

fences bewteen us fo r M atth ew Sh epard L ariss a Sm ith

How can I stand here and look up to a ghost, a tainted memory of news reports and friends who bled from their eyes where water flowed through his? I’ve been baptized in his snowy grave born of isolation: my bones a fence that held, kept so much hate; my blood the final stars of the galaxy he created. And maybe that string that condemned him to death binds me to who I am, who I wanted to be— the cool wind of Wyoming that I’ve never felt. Thank you, is all I can say, because I can stand— pride in my eyes, in my heart— and I know that I’m okay.

How do I say thank you to a word a noun a name that floats through the wind like the ashes he brought from the Armageddon he started without even saying a word?

Artwork by Amelia Olafsson

Caesar Sab ri n a Ru ssel l A r t w o rk by M argo D o b bs Out of virtue, I was torn from my mother’s womb, descended to you from the Pearl of Olympus

I was immortal in mortal flesh and blood, set to live among men and never die. Death to me was like the face of a drowned child floating in an eerie grace beneath a thick sheet of ice, existing but so far removed,

into gilded blood alloyed with the

its face portrays innocent peace.

flier’s lament of my father’s unsung name.

Facing danger head-on opened

That, at seventeen, I strapped

the doors of my mind to the world,

to my breastplate to keep it from falling to dust

for how else was I to make history?

and looked up into the stone eyes of the great man––Alexander––with disgust as they pierced mine with their lusty blade for how much more of that string of

To be less than great was failure and I was capable of more than greatness. Inconspicuous shards of glass drew hungry gashes through my flesh.

vitality they had beheld than I. Oh, how much perfection they had fashioned from the shoddy gore of human existence! So, I made it my purpose, with my newfound dagger, to tear every last sublunary morsel from the haunches of this world, to return, immortal to the heavens one day,

When skin wouldn’t stretch tight across those cracked canyons cut by my own beguiling blade, language bridged them with tarnished gold. My words moved mountains, conducted wars. And when language failed me,

and to look up, not to see the eyes of greater men than I,

the sword never would.

but the faces of my true kin saying:

I seduced the hearts of

‘Well-done Caesarean.’

Gallia, Cornelia, Hispaniola, Pompeia,

till they worshipped the earth my feet kissed, exchanging breath for breath, heart for heart, blood for blood. All, I conquered and held, as I welded their smoothly cut stones into a spiral stair, tantalizing me like Canaan on Earth.

fallen beneath the same skewer, lying prostrate in my side, spilling my life forever at his feet. Even now, I lay grounded here with that red brook I crossed to reach you staining your marble floors— Rome, my Love ... realizing how immortal I have

For you, though, I gave it all.

made mortal ambition in your eyes,

You were my crowning jewel

I wonder, when it’s all said and done,

in a collection of roughly sanded stones,

Will you remember how it was won?

yet in the battle for your richness of heart and mind,

Will you remember the bane, blow, and bone of crossing river, scaling

victory filled my head with false air––

Time’s ever burgeoning trunk?

a pedestal on the earth for me and me alone

To build them stone for stone?

in those felicitous years where you

Will you remember it was I who forged

and I ruled together on the throne.

your diamond-clad streets

Intrepidity could little describe my feeling among your riches; for you, I let my guard down and that split second was all it took for Death to work beneath the tissue of my skin.

in my soul’s fire to be lauded? I, your great creator who basted the sinews of your legs to make a Juggernaut comparable only to Olympus? Will you carve me an effigy at the apex of the Earth,

Twenty-three and more were the bladed blows that freed my soul from all ties to its mortal prison as I once again behold that wretched sky to see the etched, stone face of a man greater than I

eternally pushing my strained fingertips into that coveted oblivion, so that may a man come to deface the perfect beauty of your floors with his footsteps, he might see my etched eyes towering over him and know that he, too, will conquer the world.

Habibti Zo e M i l es

So you say you want a deathbed scene, the knowledge that comes before knowledge. -Richard Siken “Allez! S'il te plait mon amour, there's still—” she paused, trying to calm the wet cough suddenly racking her chest, “time. Mon trésor, there's still a chance—” here she broke off again, painful spasms overcoming her frantic pleas. Afia blinked a silent tear down dirt-stained cheeks, “Shhh shhh. Calm, Habibti, there isn't. Not for me. Not without you.” She tucked a coil of dark hair back behind Jasmine’s ear. Her eyes widened in protest, though she no longer possessed the strength to vocalize such, and rocked her head miserably back and forth as though praying she might still change her mind. Her sternum trembled subtly from exertion. The tears fell faster. “My silly girl,” Afia took a moment to memorize Jazz, as she was, “How could you ever think I’d leave you?” The hand cradling her face stroked slow circles on brown cheeks, traced her wide nose, and ended its reverie on dusty, parted lips, as familiar to her as her own. “Look up, ya amar, you are in the sky already. Do not worry—I will join you there soon. You will never know a minute without me, habibti.” Jasmine exhaled shallowly, a relieved uptick of her lips her only sign of understanding. Breathing slowly, she considered her words. They both knew she would not have the strength to speak again, though each pretended otherwise. Her eyes glowed a vibrant auburn—fire reflected in brown pupils—the only intrusion of the outside world. She twitched her fingers weakly, but Afia understood. With the hand not holding Jazz’s face, she intertwined her fingers with those of her love and brought into both of their views the ring on her second finger. The band was of thick gold, with three small stones and an inscription curling around them. Si pour toujours est possible, il va être nôtres. (If forever is possible, it will be ours.) Relieved that her message had been passed on, Jasmine smiled, though it wobbled at the edges. Artwork by Miriam Al-Rawi 75

Softly, she whispered, “Mon étoile.” Afia let out a harsh sob, “Ya amar.” The hand she still held went limp, and that shaky smile faded slowly into unconsciousness. She was not yet gone, but she would never return. Afia longed to break down and cry, or else scream for the unfairness of it all, but there were yet obligations to fulfill—wishes to be honored, prayers to be said. Though she herself was a practicing Muslim, each had memorized the other’s death rites and honors, for the worst possible case. Thankful for such preparation, yet despondent at its relevance, Afia carefully recalled the Hebrew verses for the moments before death. She would honor her wife in this, above all else— even her desire to collapse beside her. With an absent hope as to correct pronunciation—though no one was here to correct her—she uttered, “Sh’ma yisro-ayl, adonai elo-haynu, adonai echod. Boruch shaym k’vod mal’chuso l’olom vo-ed.” A single sob broke through her control, and she ran frantic hands over Jasmine’s hair while she attempted to collect herself. She would get this right. She resumed quietly, “Adonai hu ha-elohim. Adonai melech, adonai moloch, adonai yim-loch l’omom vo-ed.” Finished, she bent her forehead to her wife’s and added her own silent prayer. Inshallah, do not take her where I cannot follow. She finally allowed her strength to give out, for there was no one left to be strong for. Burying her nose in Jazz’s hair, she replaced the scent of smoke with that of coconut conditioner, smiled, and closed her eyes.

from

Day Use Only

Ava Cass i dy The plunge was sacred, those first moments in the water when you don’t feel like you even need to breathe. Surfacing was always the hard part—the heat on your head and the cold on your feet left a funny feeling in your insides after you got out. Words were exchanged between Finn and Olivia about those unlucky bastards who had just gotten out of school, who now had to go to various sports practices and rehearsals, who missed the beauty of the dripping, golden sunset as it began to melt into the water like a child’s chalk drawing in the rain, leaving behind only a sticky-honey residue of orange. Night began to fall.

‫ِهَّٰللٱ ُلوُسَر اًدَّمَحُم َّنَأ ُدَهْشَأَو ُهَّٰللٱ اَّلِإ َهَٰلِإ اَل ْنَأ ُدَهْشَأ‬

Non-English Glossary In Order of Appearance: Allez! S'il te plait • Go! Please! (French) Mon amour • My love (French) Mon trésor • My treasure (French) Habibti • My beloved—feminine (Arabic) Ya amar • My moon (Arabic) Si pour toujours est possible, il va être nôtres • If forever is possible, it will be ours (French) Mon étoile • My star (French) Death rites • “Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One. Blessed be the name of the glory of His kingdom forever and ever. God is the Lord. The Lord is King, the Lord was King, the Lord will be King forever and ever.” (Hebrew Viduy Psalms) Inshallah • By God's grace (Arabic) ‫ِهَّٰللٱ ُلوُسَر اًدَّمَحُم َّنَأ ُدَهْشَأَو ُهَّٰللٱ اَّلِإ َهَٰلِإ اَل ْنَأ ُدَهْشَأ‬

• “I bear witness that there is no deity but God, and I bear witness that Muhammad is the messenger of God.” (Final Islamic Shahada — Arabic)

A r t wo rk by P h eb e Foley

euphonic melodies

period of solitude — A Song

Ava Wi l l o u gh by

Sarah J ean Cav er

Artwork by Molly Niswender

Look into my eyes—the same green color that you painted the night. I know it’s hard, but we have got to at least try. Don’t let this be the end to our storyline. This is a long road, but I’m just trying to decide if you’re my home: giving slack to the rope, but I won’t let it go—won’t ever let you go.

This is the no-man’s land. This is our common ground. I hope you understand that this is me trying to figure out who I am when no one is around. I’m not moving on ‘cause I don’t want anyone else but you. I’ve never been alone: you know I’ve always been one of two. I just needed a period of solitude.

The bow hairs strike the strings and the chest explodes, heart bursts across the fingerboard, gleefully bounding along to the heavenly notes, impatient for the collection of incoming triplets to rise within and bubble over. An overflow of euphoria— true passion seizes the heart overwhelmed with the euphonic melodies, only to dip down back to pianissimo and less amongst the whole rests; the world slows again.

Don’t get me wrong. Honestly, I just think that we are too young. What if you don’t like the person I become? What if after the first year you want to run? — So, I run.

chorus So, I took it from you, and I blamed it on my youth. Said it was for the best when it wasn’t what you wanted. Road off on my high horse ‘cause you started this first. Now it haunts me in flashbacks. Why does something good for me feel so bad?

chorus

One measure, two measures, three … When will the music swell again? The gradual dwindle to silence shuts the hopeful heart away to prepare for the next harmonious celebration.

Then I’ll come back to you. Then I’ll come back. I’ll come back to you. I hope you know that I’ll come back to you.

Josephine Baker: Madone Noir Pi p er Dahi r In St. Louis, I made my debut, from the ashes of a broken home. I was scorched by those who could not see in the dark, mere dirt beneath their putrid shoes. The skin of my soul was blackened and blued by my home, my city, and my country: a trinity of unsanctified prejudice. In Helios’ golden chariot, I leapt across the hopeful sky— no longer mocked by the false promises of the Lady I once called my own: hollow hope of liberty which She refused to deliver. The Eiffel tower made no promises. A dazzling black pearl emerged from my clam shell roots: I was Venus, a Madonna— black as the soil that nourishes the earth and fuels the Spirit. Sixteen bananas and I entranced the twinkling orbs of rainbow crowds. Each time I leaped, I caressed the gentle sky and when I regained earth it seemed to be mine alone.

“Their words were snow” until the world was blank— and beautiful. -Neva Bass

Photograph of Josephine Baker by Gaston Paris / Roger Viollet • 1926, Paris.

When freedom fell into the wretched hands of tyranny, I bore a cross of blood leached from St. Martin de Porres. Veiled in my brassiere lay dispatches of hope, clandestinely scrawled on the ledger lines of our future. With fire in my heart and the devil in my body, I unearthed my vocation: Liberté, Egalité, et Fraternité. God dislikes evil, and no happiness can be built on hate. Love one another as brothers— a portrait of a world no longer ablaze, my rainbow tribe. Before my fire fizzles out, I wish to instill it in you, carry it on, and may She continue to bless you long after I am gone.

Fireworks and Lightning Q u i n lan Cy r

There’s fireworks and lightning on the fourth of July; it’s like the world is ending but not quite. There’s a bang and a pop as the sky flashes bright: eerie rapid gunshots on a calm summer night. We haven’t seen a crowd since the onset of March; we aren’t supposed to hug, but stay six feet apart. The world’s full of protests, it's consumed by a plague; we all wish we could rest, but we’re sinking instead. Life feels like a novel where our apocalypse begins— not the coming-of-age stories we all wished we were in. So I long for the days when life appeared so bright, without the fear and worry on a calm summer night. Artwork (above) by Allie Cunningham Artwork (opposite) by Miller Clark 83

trumpeting success: Scholastic awardees

A r t w o rk by Sarah G ra ce Val l e j o Year in and year out, Harpeth Hall writers and artists earn awards in the annual Scholastic Art & Writing contest. In fact, in the Southern region, our school is always one of the top institutions in terms of recipients. This year, the staff felt that making formal recognition of Upper School awardees was long overdue, so we have listed the recipients below. Please know that while some of the authors and artists cited in these pages do have work that has found its way into this publication, other forms of writing and art (literary analyses and research essays, for example) may not. So, we endeavor to recognize and celebrate all of our Upper School winners for their achievements. Kudos!

Scholastic Regional Art Awardees 2021 Pauline Bailey Ellie Bowles Sarah Braam Lucy Callen Madi Chandler Maddy Corts Allie Cunningham Evelyn Daniel Caroline Johnson Zoe Miles

Abby Moschel Taylor Nisbet Holly Powell Amelia Reddy Elisabeth Silvester Ava Sohr Ashley Tirrill Nora Wang Gigi Williams Abby James Witherspoon 84

Scholastic Regional writing Awardees 2021 Liz Allen Julia Allos Isabelle Arnold Pauline Bailey Angie Baird* Isabella Baldwin Neva Bass Conway Bettis Ramsey Bottorff Janet Briggs Elizabeth Brown Zoe Burnett Virginia Callen Ava Cassidy Sarah Jean Caver Priyanka Chiguluri Eva Christopher Miller Clark Sarah Cook Quinlan Cyr Piper Dahir Scout Dahir Shaffer Dale Isabella Davé Mallory Egly Sofia Folk Rosemary Frederiksen Bella Guillamondegui Katalina Guma Olivia Hande Julia Hermann Riley Kate Higgins

Rachel Hinchey Brantley Holladay Camille Hu Katherine Hu Elise Ikejiani Ella Kinman Sarah Lillard Cori Magsby Belle Mason Sydney Mattoon Zoe Miles Kate Miller Christiane Morton Elisabeth Nelson Taylor Nisbet Brenna Paisley Veronica Pierce Amelia Reddy Macy Richards Sabrina Russell Caroline Seehorn Ava Sjursen Larissa Smith Libby Tarantin Anne Louis Todd Jadyn Turbeville Alexis Turner Gretchen Walsh Gigi Williams Lynleigh Young Mary Neely Young

*Special recognition goes to senior Angie Baird who won a National Scholastic Writing Award in 2021. 85

Cover Finalists Often when Harpeth Hall students produce Hallmarks, a spirited debate occurs over the art that will be featured on the magazine's cover. This year, the editorial staff was so enamored of a number of options that we thought our readers would enjoy seeing the finalists that ran neck-andneck with the lovely piece—by Allison Baker—that graces our cover.

Artwork (clockwise from the upper left on the opposite page) by Pauline Bailey, Maggie Hedera, and Zoe Miles; artwork (above) by Caroline Johnson.

The Staff of Hallmarks Chief Layout Editor: Abby Moschel Chief Content Editor: Zoe Miles Content Editors: Conway Bettis, Virginia Callen, Lila Elrod, Lilly Meyer, Kate Miller, Emory Moore, Veronica Pierce, Macy Richards Additional Assistants: Hannah Mosley, Weatherly Spence, Liv Thorngren, Ashley Tirrill Faculty Advisers: Joe Croker and Emy Sanderson

I wished for a lifetime of words. -Katalina Guma • Artwork by Lila Elrod