2017 HB Retrospect Magazine by Hathaway Brown School

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RETROSPECT AN ARTS AND LITER ARY JOURNAL OF THE OSBORNE WRITING CENTER

PLEASE JOIN US FOR THE SIXTH ANNUAL

NOVEMBER 2-4, 2017 FEATURING

Alexandra Fuller, Sarah Kay, Naomi Shihab Nye, Jamaal May, David Giffels, Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib, and more. Festival logo by Brady Furlich â&#x20AC;&#x2122;15

Osborne Writing Center

The Osborne Writing Center and its programming is supported by The William McKinley and Jessie M. Osborne Writing Center Fund, The Horvitz/Rosenthal Family Fund for the Young Writers and Artists Festival, The Grace Wood Bregenzer 1927 Memorial Fund, The Peyrat Family Fund for the Young Writers and Artists Festival, and the Hathaway Brown School Colloquium Fund. These endowments support an atmosphere at HB in which student writing can originate and evolve. The entire school community is indebted to and grateful for the outstanding programming that has been launched as a result of this generous philanthropy, including the publication of this annual arts and literary journal. For more information, visit www.hb.edu/write or contact Osborne Writing Center Director Scott Parsons at sparsons@hb.edu. Since its launch in 2014, Retrospect has been recognized for excellence in the annual Program to Recognize Excellence in Student Literary Magazines, including being the only school in Ohio to receive the Highest Award in 2016. We are thankful to AGC for bringing our vision to life. In addition to numerous other national and regional awards in 2016-17, Hathaway Brown student writers also won 113 regional Scholastic Writing Awards in nine different categories, and three students received national medals for their work. To learn more about our writing program, please visit www.hb.edu/write or contact Osborne Writing Center director Scott Parsons at sparsons@hb.edu.

Dear Reader Within these pages are the roaring voices of our diverse community. In workshops and art studios, with pencils and paint, the pieces in this collection were imagined on cold snowy mornings and far away starry nights. These poets, photographers, essayists and artists capture the beauty of travel, the hum of love, the chaos of family, the passion of defiance, and the thrill of growing up. We thank the writers and artists who submitted their work to us. From India and Iceland to New York and Ohio, we are in awe of their ability to illustrate the beauty that happens between the shoulders of a day at all edges of the world. Their immense creative power inspires us and we hope that you take the time to absorb all these unique perspectives. United in sisterhood, we claim what is rightfully ours: the poem, the painting, the picture, the body, the mind, and the soul. Whether you are a visitor, a student, a parent or a friend, we hope this work will stay with you like it has stayed with us. All the best, The Retrospect Editors

Top row (left to right): Sam Scott, Ellie Cascio, Rosalie Phillips, Taylor Herrick, Reagan Brady, Carly Wellener, and Lina Ghosh. Bottom Row: (left to right): Kristina Mullen, Arielle DeVito, Gigi Protasiewicz, Marisa Lancaster, Maria Perilla, Hanna Keyerleber, Chloe Schwartz, and Lane Chesler.

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RETROSPECT AN ARTS AND LITERARY JOURNAL OF THE OSBORNE WRITING CENTER

CONTENTS ON THE COVER ad infinitum by Carly Glickman ORIGIN

06 The wave retrieves is missing sand by Kalie Sommerfeld ’18

Crowded Sky by Chloe Schwartz ’17

Winter Islands by Jessica Young ’19 Baby Bottle Summer by Kristina Mullen ’17

Waves by Daria Gitiforooz ’19 Seeker by Leia Rich ’17

I am Third by Hanna Keyerleber ’17

The days would turn into memories by Jordan Stacy ’20 Rachel by Andreanna Hardy ’17

At 16, by Alanna Brown ’17

Pen on Paper by Sam Scott ’17

I Can’t Ride a Bike Without You by Regina Egan ’18 Rounds by Kayla Schwartz ’19

Growing Up by Tejal Pendekanti ’20

An Open Letter to Elie Wiesel by Tejal Pendekanti ’20

A Bite of Burnt Toast and the Sunday Morning Times by Grace Homany ’17 Bread in Denmark by Alise Adornato ’19

Where the Sidewalk Ends by Rosalie Phillips ’17

intercardinal by Arielle DeVito ’17

A Lively Collage by Annie Lewandowski ’18

Ta Prohm by Halle Wasser ’18

Home Is Where You Are by Eva Yeh ’17

Pennsylvannia by Maria Perilla ’17 Ode to my Left Hand by Audra Keresztesy ’18

Look to the Light by Kayla Schwartz ’19

Time by Alanna Brown ’17

Self Worth by Maria Perilla ’17

BOREAL

22 Grey blue mist in vast emptiness by Michelle Dong ’20

An Observation of Autumn by Vala Schriefer ’19

Delicate Wings by Caitlin Esteves ’19

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28 Night Breeze by Jennifer Wang ’19 Ocean Prayers by Vala Schriefer ’19 High Tide by Kaela Ryan ’19 Window Seat Views by Matilda Madfis ’18 From the Car Window by Jennifer Wang ’19 Cheetah Eyes by Molly Paine ’17 Midnight Prayers by Carly Wellener ’17 Misty Morning by Lane Chesler ’17 Cricket by Jenna Hahn ’17 Nova by Chloe Schwartz ’17 Lunchtime for Elephants by Margaret Kilbane ’19 Juicy strawberries stain her lips red. by Kristina Mullen ’17 To the Flowers by Alise Adornato ’19 Perception by Kalie Sommerfeld ’18 African Tree by Molly Paine ’17 November 3rd by Grace Homany ’17 World View by Taylor Herrick ’17 Fish Flow by Millie Privitera ’17 Sunset by Lane Chesler ’17 Singing by Vala Schriefer ’19 Write Me a Storm by Grace Homany ’17 Iceland by Stephanie Zhou ’18 Specks of mud sprinkle her toes. by Kristina Mullen ’17 Sheep Shed by Grace Amjad ’19 Morning by Vala Schriefer ’19 The Dance Show of the Ages by Kaela Ryan ’19 Ode to a Highway by Chloe Schwartz ’17 Winter by Jennifer Wang ’19 Realizations by Carly Wellener ’17 Warm and Icy Contemplations by Sukhmani Kaur ’18 Dancing on Glass by Layla Najeeullah ’20 Between Seasons by Grace Homany ’17

CARDIAC

36 Into the world, but never alone by Cynthia Wang ’18

What a Heartbeat Might Sound Like by Grace Homany ’17 Organ Donor by Delani Hughes ’17 What Happens Next by Stephanie Kaiser ’19

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

32 March 2004 by Sam Scott ’17

Love Letters to No One at All by Hannah Schmidt ’19

Tie Dye by Grace Beneke ’18

Dear Ken by Rosalie Phillips ’17 She was a fire; I got burned by Kathryn Doherty ’19

Dear Violet and Zoe by Eva Yeh ’17 Reflect by Andreanna Hardy ’17

On the Intersection of Physics and Chemistry by Alanna Brown ’17 Stars by Alanna Brown ’17

Cosmic Sense by Ela Passarelli ’18

Orbit by Chloe Schwartz ’17

DUALITY

56 Blending in but still marching on by Michelle Dong ’20

The Leftovers of You by Kathryn Doherty ’19

Dandelion by Molly Gleydura ’18

The Lovely Lavender by Annabel Meals ’17

Dear Cape Cod by Holly Galbincea ’17

Ford, Chanel, MAC by Raea Palmieri ’17

Mackinac by Maria Perilla ’17

Rock Reflection by Nell Bruckner ’17

The Breathing Art by Jacquelyn Ellis ’17

View from an Island by Tae-Hee Kim ’18

Delani by Andreanna Hardy ’17

Archway Greenery by Layla Najeeullah ’20

When Girls Don’t Love Their Bodies by Delani Hughes ’17

Love, and the Things I Can’t Say Out Loud by Lane Chesler ’17 Baci by Ela Passarelli ’18

We started as strangers, finished too. by Kathryn Doherty ’19

The People that Come and Go by Isha Lele ’18

Xylem and Phloem by Emma Borrow ’18

Half a Globe Away by Jennifer Wang ’19 Cinque Terre by Stephanie Zhou ’18

Identity Meld by Nell Bruckner ’17 Chilean Sunset by Leia Rich ’17

Venice, Italy by Stephanie Zhou ’18

Succulent by Lilly Rothschild ’18

Le Calme Avant l’Orage by Annie Lewandowski ’18

Dial Tone by Lina Ghosh ’17

An Indianized Thanksgiving by Isha Lele ’18

A Note About Love by Grace Homany ’17

Vacuum by Carly Wellener ’17

Fears: Growing up and losing you by Kathryn Doherty ’19 Where is This Going? by Matilda Madfis ’18

Caetera Desunt by Ellie Cascio ’17

Echo by Claire Martens ’17

Five by Alanna Brown ’17

Leaves by Hanna Keyerleber ’17 I Wait for the Days by Stephanie Kaiser ’19

Pieces by Elizabeth Stack ’17

Blue Sea Holly by Jasper Solt ’17

City on Fire by Kate Snow ’18

All-Powerful Eyes by Chloe Richards ’17

Dye the City by Farah Sayed ’19 Badshahi Mosque by Farah Sayed ’19

My Closet by Stephanie Zhou ’18

The Heights by Kathryn Doherty ’19 Letter to Africa by Sabrina Kunimoto ’17

Children of the World by Molly Paine ’17

Namibian School Children by Molly Paine ’17

Together by Kayla Schwartz ’19

Zebra by Katrina Frei-Herrmann ’18

Frost by Arielle DeVito ’17

The Other Side of the Window by Ananya Kalahasti ’17

A tail of sand washes away. by Kristina Mullen ’17

Suspension by Emma Picht ’17

Synapse by Stephanie Kaiser ’19

Opal by Stephanie Kaiser ’19

Quintet by Arielle DeVito ’17

Sorento, Italy by Stephanie Zhou ’18

My Family and Noodles in Thailand by Ela Passarelli ’18

Two Seasons by Erica Kahn ’18

Valparaiso, Chile by Carly Wellener ’17

RESISTANCE

72 Don’t let them hold you down by Molly Gleydura ’18

Black White by Sam Scott ’17 Destroy by Andreanna Hardy ’17 If I Could Vote, I’d Vote For Acceptance by Ananya Kalahasti ’17 Women’s March by Hannah Froimson ’18 In Response to Home by Warsan Shire by Stephanie Kaiser ’19 I Vote for Answers by Rosalie Phillips ’17 Boundaries by Jenna Hahn ’17 In Response to the Election by Stephanie Kaiser ’19 Elect Respect by Audra Keresztesy ’18 Nature’s Revenge by Jasper Solt ’17 The Morning After...The Election by Ela Passarelli ’18 Chronically Changed by Elizabeth Stack ’17 Master of the Lagoon by Rebecca Oet ’20 Untitled by Kayla Schwartz ’19 What blinds you from your truth? by Eva Yeh ’17 November 9. by Maria Perilla ’17 Heartbeat by Ela Passarelli ’18 I’ve Never Understood by Nell Bruckner ’17 Mind Blown by Jasper Solt ’17 Girls by Maria Perilla ’17 Up close, scars are just skin. by Crystal Zhao ’17

CONVERGENCE

82 Hand in hand, we stand together by Cynthia Wang ’18

The Water Stained Photograph Digital Painting by Rebecca Oet ’20 Poem by Lane Chesler ’17 ad infinitum Poem by Chloe Schwartz ’17 Etching by Carly Glickman ’18 Self-Portrait Poem by Lane Chesler ’17 Digital Painting by Rebecca Oet ’20 forget-me-not Poem by Holly Galbincea ’17 Painting by Arielle DeVito ’17 A Trip to the Movies Photo by Sukhmani Kaur ’18 Poem by Yardena Carmi ’19

Mountains Poem by Alexi Jackson ’17 Painting by Maggie Gehrlein ’17 Reflection Painting by Jasper Solt ’17 Poem by Ela Passarelli ’18 Ripples Painting by Layla Najeeullah ’20 Poem by Lilly Rothschild ’18 Haiku Photo by Hanna Keyerleber ’17 Poem by Jennifer Wang ’19 Flowers Poem by Alanna Brown ’17 Painting by August Sobolewski ’18

ESSENCE

90 She collapsed herself, like perforated edges by Alanna Brown ’17

Oxford Street by Kimi Kian ’18 Bob Dylan by Marisa Lancaster ’17 Thoughts on a Journal by Grace Homany ’17 Strawberry Blonde by Kristina Mullen ’17 Tinfoil Self Portrait by Maggie Gehrlein ’17 Arithmetic by Alanna Brown ’17 Wound Theory by Chloe Schwartz ’17 Enough by Sam Scott ’17 Annie by Molly Gleydura ’18 Is the American Dream Dead? by Regina Egan ’18 The Walking Apartment by Grace Homany ’17 Little Girl by Alanna Brown ’17 Jolene by Erica Kahn ’18 3 by Maria Perilla ’17 Untitled by Kayla Schwartz ’19 Strive to create. Give, don’t take. by Eva Yeh ’17 Emily Dickenson or Kate Turner? by Alexis Chauvette ’17 My Grandma by Ellie Cascio ’17 Spring at Case by Alise Adornato ’19 Containment Part II by Jasper Solt ’17 Food and Family by Crystal Zhao ’17 The Cicada by Madeline Howarth ’17 The Five People You Meet at Drugmart by Audra Keresztesy ’18 The Art of Friendship Bracelets by Eva Yeh ’17

115 Self Portrait by Maggie Gehrlein ’17

My Room is a Grave by Isha Lele ’18 Monster by Fatema Uddin ’17 Self Portrait by Brice Bai ’18

mu•sic by Grace Homany ’17

Conscious by Farah Sayed ’19

ADRENALINE

106 Written in flame addressed to god by Carly Wellener ’17

The Plan and The Crash by Maria Perilla ’17

Glow by Kimi Kian ’18

Watching your best friend go crazy by Claire Martens ’17 Invincible by Coralin Li ’18

mélusine by Arielle DeVito ’17

Ballet Dancer by Diana Malkin ’20

Again from the Top by Mackenzie Bruce ’17

Caged Beauty by Raea Palmieri ’17

Snakes by Lane Chesler ’17

An Introduction by Maria Perilla ’17 ti desidero by Ela Passarelli ’18

Connected by Farah Sayed ’19

Walking in Circles by Regina Egan ’18 Doctor by Dani Comp ’17

Lights by Grace Amjad ’19

Bruises by Maya Razmi ’18

Jump by Kate Snow ’18

Dancer by Coralin Li ’18 Slide by Kate Snow ’18

CLARITY

116 Sometimes darkness is clearer than light by Kalie Sommerfeld ’18

Mila by Coralin Li ’18

Amputations by Grace Homany ’17 Untitled by Andreanna Hardy ’17 Old Homes by Arielle DeVito ’17

Untitled by Andreanna Hardy ’17

Dear Dad, by Stephanie Zhou ’18

I Speak, Therefore I Am by Regina Egan ’18

Listen by Carly Wellener ’17 Somewhere, a Found Poem by Stephanie Kaiser ’19 The silence is an uncomfortable honesty. by Stephanie Kaiser ’19 JMo by Maggie Gehrlein ’17 Math, Physics, and the Death of a Loved One by Rosalie Phillips ’17 Every moment deserves your undivided attention. by Eva Yeh ’17 Untitled by Andreanna Hardy ’17 Praise by Ellie Cascio ’17 Free and Floating by Kathryn Doherty ’19 A Zombie’s First Breath by Alexis Chauvette ’17 Maybe distance was all we needed. by Kathryn Doherty ’19 The Newest Fad Diets by Alison Xin ’19

EVOLUTION

128 Ditch what prevents you from becoming by Eva Yeh ’17

New Bird by Hanna Keyerleber ’17 Songs of Experience and Innocence by Yardena Carmi ’19 Entomophile by Nell Bruckner ’17 Camp by Taylor Herrick ’17 Lady by Ela Passarelli ’18 Awareness by Vala Schriefer ’19 Grey Hairs by Rosalie Phillips ’17 Cindy by Maria Perilla ’17 Ocean Nouveau by Brice Bai ’18 Firecracker by Arielle DeVito ’17 Turning the Page by Lekha Medarametla ’18 Nurse Sharks by Taylor Herrick ’17 Containment by Jasper Solt ’17 Dishwasher Principle by Claire Martens ’17 Tree House by Jasper Solt ’17 November is an Arbitrary Month by Sam Scott ’17 Lost in the City by Matilda Madfis ’18 Instead by Arielle DeVito ’17

Shadows by Kate Snow ’18

Pulling Teeth by Stephanie Kaiser ’19 Rain by Maria Perilla ’17

Unforgettable by Kate Snow ’18

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CHLOE SCHWARTZ

CROWDEDSKY inspired by hanif abdurraqib on the day our mother died, she pressed a star into each of our hands, wrapped a finger round each of our wrists, looking into each of our eyes said “this world will cut you

bloody, its knife is already in your lungs, your heart is bruised, your head aches your head aches your head aches with all that you’ve lost; with all that we’ve let go with all that grates against your soul; i am not made of light i am just as much dust as you are, just as much sand, as much stone, as much human, and with these hands that are human, i give you galaxies with these hands that are human, i press your cheek and i tell you child, you are made of so much more than your lungs, your heart, your head, all that aches, all that is broken inside of you and inside of me; we are made of so much more; and darling, the stars loved us first, at the beginning of it all.”

01 Winter Islands by Jessica Young

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BABY BOTTLE SUMMER KRISTINA MULLEN

hree little girls sit on driftwood steps leading up to the faded yellow beach house. It’s the kind of summer night where the sun just melts into the horizon like an ice cream cone melting onto your hand. There is a gentle sea breeze in the air, just cool enough for your mother to threaten you with no dessert after dinner unless you put your sweater on. Families walk towards 3rd Avenue where the allure of restaurants, t-shirt shops, candy parlors, and ice creameries draws the crowds. Laughter intermixes with the caw of the seagulls as they swoop in toward the bay for the night.

the front steps and calls Catherine, my dad, and Caroline (whom my dad is holding) over. Catherine and I make our way up the steps, stopping in the middle to sit down. As I turn, I am careful not to scuff my new Hello-Kitty sandals on the dark wood. My dad leans over and plops Caroline in between Catherine and me. As Caroline kicks her legs back and forth, the heel of her white baby sneakers smack against the steps – prompting Catherine to hold them still. I straighten the creases of Caroline’s dress as my dad pulls her bottle out of her hands – the first mistake.

going to be slim to none. Her window of opportunity was dwindling and my mom knew they had only a limited time to snap the picture. Instantly Caroline was bombarded by a triad of voices; my mom loudly encouraging her to “look here, look at mommy,” my dad singing “peek-a-boo” behind my mom as he moved side to side to make her smile, and my aunt exclaiming, “Caroline! Caroline!” as she pointed at the camera. None of their tactics worked. Caroline’s wails continued to grow louder and louder as her face became as red as my cherry water ice from the ice cream truck.

All the kids are showered and clean – only the faint smell of salt water on their skin and little clumps of sand in their ears remain as proof of a long day at the beach. Their eyes are slightly red from the sting of the ocean’s salty water. While waiting to depart for dinner, some of the kids ride around the driveway in circles on their Schwinn bikes and Razor scooters. Others crouch by the neighbor’s pebble lawn and search for a smooth gray stone to take with them as a souvenir. The dads drink beer on the back porch while they film their kids and nieces and nephews on their black, chunky video cameras. The moms fix their hair and smooth their dresses while saying they’ll be “ready in a minute!”

Caroline loved food. She devoured everything in her sight as a baby. Born weighing 10 pounds, she was definitely what you would call a chubby baby. She never turned down a bottle or a snack. She clutched onto handfuls of Cheerios in her chubby palms so tightly you would think that she pulverized them. Whenever she finished a meal, her face resembled a sad puppy, begging for another treat. Her full cheeks, rolled thighs and large baby belly served as a prominent example of her exceptional appetite.

Catherine and I hesitantly looked at mommy and daddy. I kept my hands folded in my lap and my knees crossed as I awaited some action on behalf of my parents. Catherine held her arm around Caroline’s waist, restraining her from standing up. Catherine knew we had to take the picture and was trying to do her part, as the big sister, to keep order. She kept a sideward glance at my mom while I looked pleadingly at my dad, hoping Caroline’s crying would cease soon.

My mom and aunt emerge from the glass French doors leading out to the deck. They announce that they want to take pictures before we head out for dinner – possible shots that could be used for Christmas cards. It seems strange to me that they would want to use pictures taken in the summer for a Christmas card in the winter, but I don’t say anything. As they descend down the porch steps, my dad and my uncle glance over at each other and take a final swig of beer, knowing that this could potentially take a while.

Her caring nature and kindness emerged early on. During those weeks at the rental beach house, she never hesitated to share with Julia (our cousin who is a few months younger than Caroline) and always played nicely. At the beach, Caroline gave all of her beach toys to Julia whenever she asked, regardless if she was using it at the time. When Julia got hurt, Caroline hugged and rubbed her boo boo – she didn’t like to see anyone else upset. Due to all the love she devoted to others, Caroline became pretty sensitive. If someone was mean or if something didn’t go as planned, her big brown eyes would well up with tears and her bottom lip would quiver, instantly alerting my parents that something was wrong.

I follow my mom as she scopes the perimeter of the house, looking for a patch of pretty flowers to serve as the backdrop. She resolves on choosing

Consequently, when Caroline’s eyes began to swell with tears, my mom realized that her chance of having the “perfect” Christmas card photo was

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Finally they gave in. My dad walked over in defeat and granted Caroline her bottle. The perfect Christmas card picture would have to wait. My uncle let out a sigh of relief in the background, grateful that we could finally leave to get our dinner. Caroline ensnared the bottle in her little hands, gripping to it with her life. A slow smile crept to her face and she emitted a small giggle, knowing she had gotten her way. Catherine and I looked at her and smiled as my mom took the last picture. Caroline often got her way. Whether it was to stay up past her bedtime to watch a movie or get a lick of the icing beater, she always won. But, when Charlotte came along, she was no longer the baby. She was no longer the center of attention – my parents had someone new to look after. It was very hard on Caroline – her sensitive nature increased and she would start to cry at the drop of

a pin. My mom and dad always sympathized with her, being the third child in their families as well. I was continually jealous of how they always took her side and how they coddled her. When Caroline and I engaged in stupid little fights, I always bore the brunt of the punishment, no matter what wrongs Caroline had committed. However, I began to realize that there was no point to fighting as every time I hurled an insult at her, I would immediately regret it the second afterwards. Fighting became a waste of words and air. Even if it seemed unfair at times, I resolved that I should not be envious of her but rather appreciative of her. Through the years of my parent’s empathy towards Caroline, she developed an innate sense of compassion and understanding for others. She became my solace and comfort. I began to feel comfortable sharing my worries with her as I knew she would make me feel better. Her big brown eyes could hold tears for the both of us. It was finally declared that we should start walking to dinner at Marabella’s. I knew I would have to be careful not to get spaghetti sauce all over my white sweater. I succeeded at dinner but let my guard down at dessert. My strawberry ice cream from Springer’s dripped right down the front of my sweater. But, since the pony on my sweater was light pink, just like my ice cream, I concluded that it made a nice accent. As we strolled back to the yellow rental house, I gripped onto my dad’s free hand as he pushed the stroller in the other. I didn’t know then that in 5 more summers he would be pushing a new baby in that carriage. I didn’t know that we would move to New Jersey and then Ohio. I didn’t know much about the future, but I knew that the people I loved wouldn’t change. I would always have my mom (the people pleaser), my dad (the calming presence), Catherine (the concerned worry wart) and Caroline (the sensitive girl with big brown eyes and an even bigger heart).

02 Waves by Daria Gitiforooz

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I AM THIRD

HANNA KEYERLEBER

At Camp Christopher, the main gate is protected by pine trees, which line the path as my family and I drive in. The counselors greet us, speaking fondly of nature and community and something they call the Christopher Spirit. My family treks to the girls’ settlement and they deposit eight year old me in my cabin, Junipero Serra. They leave, and for a brief moment I am alone. I learn, however, that it is impossible to truly be alone at Camp Christopher. I am swept into a whirlwind of cabin bonding games by my counselor. Cabin mates go from complete strangers to dear friends in a matter of minutes. Our tight knit Junipero Serra cabin forms a community, and we become a part of ‘something’ bigger than all of us. The counselors tell us that the ‘something’ is the Christopher Spirit. We nod complacently and bang our fists on the mess hall tables, impatient for dinner. Throughout the week my cabin mates and counselors become my friends, and my friends become my family. Just like that, I have found myself home. We enjoy nature while swimming in the lake and we form a community through trust falls. We celebrate the Christopher Spirit while diving into a pit of mud, headfirst, no regrets. During a trust walk, our counselors lead us to a pine tree in the woods; carved in it are letters spelling out “I am Third.” This, they say, is the heart of the Christopher Spirit. I memorize the phrase and nod, not understanding. On the final day, the Camp Christopher community gathers at the main gate, protected by pines, to listen to the final-year campers give their parting speeches. Girls from Old James Gibbons, the oldest girls’ cabin, speak of how their years at camp were easy come, easy go, how they would give anything to linger a little longer. We clap for them, and they smile, though I do not understand the tears in their eyes.

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A year passes, followed by two, and then five more. I celebrate arriving through the main gate, lined with its pines, and I watch as girls from Old James Gibbons become counselors, become friends, become family. Through trust falls and swimming and repeated trips to the mud pit, I finally understand the Christopher Spirit. I learn, live, and breathe “I am Third.” My dear friends and I speak fondly of about our adventures. We have found our family, and we have found ourselves home. Completely by accident, I find myself to be a girl in Old James Gibbons, a final-year camper expected to give a parting speech to the camp. My family and I walk down to the main gate, guarded by the protective pine trees. As I stand up, memories sweep me up in a whirlwind, and I laugh at my younger self ’s foolishness in misunderstanding. “I am Third,” I tell them, “is the heart and soul of the Christopher Spirit. It’s caring for others, caring for the world around you, and caring for yourself. It’s what keeps our community strong and it’s what makes this camp our home. I stand in front of you, as a girl in Old James Gibbons, and I want you to know that summers here are easy come, easy go. I’d give anything to linger a little longer.” They clap for me, and I smile. Before I sit back down, I look over the camp. Younger campers are disinterested, but older campers have tears matching my own. My speech is over, but standing by the front gate, under the pines, I make a promise to my family. I promise them that Camp Christopher is my home, and that they will see me next year as a counselor, and that I will help them find the Christopher Spirit too. After all, my journey may be over, but I have come to camp to stay.

The days would turn into memories

At 16,

JORDAN STACY

ALANNA BROWN

I learned that the red-orange sunsets aren’t beautiful Because we can’t see things, Only the light from their shiny outsides.

I learned that looking alive is for soldiers in a straight line, Feeling alive is for the city at midnight, And being alive only happens sometimes. I learned that holding in tears is a life skill best learned early, Red eyes are a product of a bloodshot heart, And water should be colored with a clear crayon, not blue. I dreamt other lives I would be good in, Silver clouds I would spend girlhood in. I dreamt dreams so real that waking up hurt. I watched blood pour from inconsistencies, Pump through channels like lightning. I recognized it. I tasted it. I watched myself circle around my backyard, Run up and down cracked sidewalks. I watched time swim back and forth in a too-small pond.

03 Seeker by Leia Rich 04 Rachel by Andreanna Hardy

At 16, I learned there’s no small things. They pile up, like coins in a treasure chest. The journey is the star I was searching for.

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Pen on Paper SAM SCOTT She begins with the skinny, plastic cylinder cradled in her hand. It rests on the right ring finger, against her puffy callous built up by layers of skin, built up by layers of words. The curls, loops and swoops connect via onyx ink, manifesting expression, erasing thought. Push, stretch, press. Muscles tighten around each other, tying slip knot after sailors on top of figure eights, quelling freedom.

They are stuck in the tips of her phalanges but can’t escape. She tries to shake them out— no luck. Too tight. They are stuck in the pit of her stomach. Dig them out— rip up the hydrangea bushes, disrupt the echinaceas, scavenge through the soil, uproot the maple trees. Begin again, like a vibrant aurora. Plastic cylinder, calloused finger, onyx ink— begin again.

05 I Can’t Ride a Bike Without You by Regina Egan 06 Rounds by Kayla Schwartz

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GROWING UP TEJAL PENDEKANTI Growing Up: Crayons are replaced with pens Imagination ends

A n Open Letter to E l ie Wies e l

TE JAL PENDEK ANTI Dear Elie Wiesel,

Quite honestly, there is nothin g completely unique or specia l about your memoir. It is one many beautiful books that talk of about the cruelest moments of that time. You wrote about the appalling details of the Holocaus most t, describing every waking mo ment of it, of how the Nazis sto desire to live. You described how le your the prisoners slowly lost their soul. While these moments and language that supports it are ext the raordinary, the underlying the me of indifference that paralle makes this book stand out. ls today As you have famously said, “Ha te is not the opposite of love. Indifference is.” In the concentration camps, German soldiers and trusted prisoners rule d your life. The ruling prisoners didn’t comprehend that they were treating human beings like animals, reducing them to sav practices. Nor did they care. To age them, it was survival of the fitt est. They, along with the Germ soldiers, made life not worth livi an ng; they were just as bad as the Germans who had imprisoned them. A couple of years ago, my frie nd told me that a boy yanked her hijab down in the middle of street. She whipped around, par the tly out of anger, but mostly out of confusion – confused as to this kid would want to humiliat wh y e her in public. Confused as to what she had done to provok But when she asked, her fluster e him . ed chocolate hands scurrying to fix her scarf, he indignantly “This is America! If you want to replied, wear that, go back to the Mid dle East.” The surrounding white and col ored people simply strolled pas t. Today, Muslims are either persec uted or shunned. The growing number of “patriots” harass anyone brown, because they equ ate brown skin with radical ter rorists. They punish innocent Mu for the deeds of horrible people slims . But when Muslims are harass ed, no one ever stops to help Instead, they stand there, too the m. apathetic to stop such injustic es. They allow it, just like the tru prisoners. sted My friend’s story is common. It is one of many, just like you r book Night. Muslims are discriminated against simply bec ause of their faith. More and mo re citizens are becoming active about their hatred, and others allow it out of fear. Both the citi zen s and the trusted prisoners allowed their fear to consume them. Fear, instead of empathy, controls their actions. Your story should be a warnin g: no person should be indiffe rent nor hateful. No person sho be put through the same cruel uld treatment simply because of the ir religion. Your night, a dark per history, should lead us into a new iod in dawn. Thank you.

W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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A Bite of Burnt Toast and the Sunday Morning Times GRACE HOMANY Tiny toddler hands clutch the toast with white knuckles, munching quietly as peanut butter and banana spill off the sides, and honey shines on full round cheeks growing stickier by the bite. Bubbly children hardly notice the slight char, hidden by layers of sticky sweet sediment. Small crumbs of blackened bread cling to honey covered faces. The munching continues, bright-eyed, burbling, oblivious. All that is ugly she covers, as she always has, as every mom does. Band-aids on boo boos, kisses on foreheads. She turns the radio off when men start yelling hateful things. I think she knows, that the world tastes better when it’s not burning. She lets buildings stand as they always have, and leaves the oceans busy and blue. When we ask for bedtime stories the forest animals are friends, and we seem to forget that a rabbit would never ask a hawk for directions, unless it was for a one way ticket down his trachea. This world isn’t so bad. Wrapped in big soft fleece blankets we cider and cinnamon sticks by the fire. There is so much laughter, that our stomachs hurt by lunchtime. In the winter we stick our tongues out, and catch snowflakes like daydreams.

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She lets us be messy and run through the house with scabbed knees, and muddy feet, and too loud inside voices. She says, “You’re not having fun if you don’t come home a little beat up.” Bruises are okay, if they come from stones that were tripped on, not thrown. If they come from driveways or trail runs, or dog walks, not bullies with big fists, or men with too loud voices. There’s a world waiting for hurt, anticipating the sting of an open wound or the gasp of a punch to the gut. The worst will come if we let it, and will invite itself when we don’t. Sometimes the toast will burn, and we must drown it in honey, bananas, peanut butter, anything sweet enough to stick chubby cheeks with a smile. Anything. We will feed it to children, hoping they do not notice the way black bread crumbles easily, and falls apart before reaching their lips. Hoping they will still gurgle with laughter and stick their tongues out unafraid, as we used to.

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

One day too soon, they’ll make their own toast and it will burn. Maybe they will blame the toaster point angry fingers too loud. Rage at time ticking too fast, They’ll throw the toast away, hungry. Or maybe they’ll cover the charred lines with honey, and let a mix of sugar sweet bitter burn dance on the tips of their tongue for a second longer. Like a snowflake. Like a daydream.

07 Bread in Denmark by Alise Adornato

intercardinal

ARIELLE DEVITO

(i: north) there are glass-and-paper girls, here, who shimmer when the wind blows their way but i am stuffed full of sinew heavy with blood and marrow mud oozing under my skin

(ii: east) once upon a time, i wrote letters to myself, but i only know words when they are woven into my veins sliding down collarbones like honey; i cut my tongue on the envelopes

(iii: south)

Where the Sidewalk Ends ROSALIE PHILLIPS

There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before anything else seems to begin, And only air will hold your feet, And skin and sky will finally meet, And the cotton candy clouds taste sweet, As you leave tracks in the blue sand. There is a place where the sidewalk ends As all things must eventually end, And you may not want it to leave, When you see the cement unweave, It seemed unending, but deceived For there is a place where the sidewalk ends Forward you must continue to walk, Past the sidewalk’s end To see what no one can see, Beyond the very end.

i am the trees, sometimes, and the moths between their twisting fingers, leaves cut open by teeth, lace bones shuddering in the stillness of the day and stars held in cool palms

(iv: west) regret lives in the trachea traces each cartilage ring from lungs to lips breathing contractions, exhaling negation i shouldn’t have asked you to bring me back roses i should have wanted periwinkles

(v: center) i wonder if i don’t always have to be beautiful if i can be large and ugly and hollow with fireflies nesting in my irises and i can just be scattered bones sometimes who am i anyway, to deserve this body?

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A LIVELY COLLAGE ANNIE LEWANDOWSKI

PAPA’S SECRET RECIPE It’s funny how a simple dish of rice, chicken, and onions could represent every ideal I had for my grandfather. I remember requesting Papa’s Secret Recipe every birthday and special occasion. It was warm and savory, the perfect comfort food. Oddly enough, Papa never actually made me his signature dish, I only received the warmth secondhand. The son of Lebanese immigrants, my grandfather attempted to embody the quintessential mid-twentieth-century American man, and succeeded. From his family’s humble culinary beginnings in Warren, Ohio, he branched off to become a golf-playing, jazz-loving, comfortably middle-class lawyer. I never knew this man. I didn’t feel like I made that active of an effort to really know my grandfather beyond descriptions of him from other relatives and terse conversations with Papa himself. I knew that I loved him, and I knew that I loved sitting on the living room carpet playing Tiddlywinks while he watched the Golf Channel from his recliner (his choice spot for sleep, as well). I knew that he had played the clarinet and had flown planes during World War Two, but I can’t remember any specific memories I cherish between me and my grandfather. All I have is one endearing little concoction that made me feel closer to Papa that anything else.

HOLE IN THE GROUND We spent way too many afternoons digging a hole for the tree house in the backyard of my childhood home. I’m almost positive that this was the beginning of my highly idealistic and almost completely unachievable outlook on life. I thought that myself and Jack-from-next-door, my best childhood friend and partner in crime, were going to erect an incredible fortress complete with indoor plumbing, a tv, and a fully functioning kitchen. For months we would just dig and dream, despite the fact that the only tools we had were a couple of shovels and about three moldy 2x4s from Jack’s garage. Unsurprisingly, the idea never got off the ground, and that 10’x6’x3’ hole that stuck in my brain all these years hasn’t quite been filled up with satisfaction though I’m sure its concrete counterpart has been repacked with earth for years. This innocent little venture told me one thing about myself; I’m a schemer, and as much as I will deny this at any later point in time, I’m a hopeless romantic. Not in the sense that I’m forever on a misguided search for some generic Prince Charming, or that I get all teary-eyed at every rom-com to pass through the theaters (gag me), but in the sense that I refuse reality. I’ve got a splendid idea of what life should look like , and I want to have it all. I’m a drama queen and I take myself too seriously and can’t stand it when things don’t go my way (this probably is a factor in my ceaseless anxiety). I’m obsessed with the romance of ideas, and I’ve acquired all of the pitfalls that come along with that particular personality trait. This mindset will of course lead to many disappointments, it already has, and I will continue to deal with them ineffectively as I always have, and keep on searching for that unattainable quality of life that I’ve got all sketched out in my head. It just has to be that way.

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R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

We don’t make Papa’s Secret Recipe anymore. We hadn’t made it for years before his passing and my family’s evaded it since then, as well. I don’t even eat meat anymore. I feel a touch of regret when I think of my grandfather, and I think that’s inevitable, but mostly I feel filled up with vague, happy moments, akin to those I felt when filled warmly up with the broth of his singular, special recipe.

Many of the confessions I’ve just spewed onto the page were revelations that I made as I was writing them, and I may recant them later on, but I will stick with them for now. I kind of like giving myself form and flavor on the page in neater ways than I can manage in real life. I think I’ll keep it up.

08 Ta Prohm by Halle Wasser W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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Home EVA YEH

Is Where You Are

My brother Zach was born when I was 5 and a half years old. That September day, I woke up and my parents were at the hospital. A lady that was a family friend of ours helped me get ready for school. It happened to be picture day, so she did my hair and dressed me up real nice. Although she told me I looked pretty, the high pigtails and collared shirt made me extremely uncomfortable. She drove me to school in a scratchy old booster seat that smelled faintly of cheese. When the photographer told me to smile I put my teeth together and stretched the corners of my lips from one side to another. I couldn’t stop thinking about how uncomfortable I was. I wanted my mom to help me get ready that morning and my dad to drive me to school, not some lady.

ANN ARBOR, MICHIGAN

I’m eighteen months old. I’m screaming for my dad to come pick me up. I just burned my hand on a humidifier my parents warned me not to touch, but I didn’t listen. My dad picks me up, and takes me over to the sink where he runs cold water over my hand. He comforts me, tells me everything will be okay, that it won’t hurt anymore. A doctor friend of theirs gives me protective gloves to wear, to help the recovering process. Why did they even have a humidifier? Oh, well, they had just moved from a tropical island in the Pacific, Taiwan, and were now stuck in Michigan on a frosty winter weather. My mom was taking a class about childcare. It was mostly for people who wished to pursue a career in early education, but my mom took it to learn how to raise me. She had just landed in a foreign country and was still learning how to speak English; but she knew that she wanted to raise me the best she could, and worked hard to do so. My mom put vocabulary words all over the house, although I was only a year old and couldn’t read at all. ‘Refrigerator’ was posted on the fridge, ‘book’ was taped on the bookshelf, and ‘shoe’ was attached to the shoe closet. She wanted me to know those words as soon as possible; I think it was because the books that she read said that that would help with the child’s desire for learning from the everyday things in your life. I walked around the living room with my black medical gloves pointing at signs and trying to sound out words.

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TORONTO, ONTARIO, CANADA

MISSISSAUGA, ONTARIO, CANADA

It’s spring, our backyard is covered in white. It’s not snow, it’s the cherry blossom petals. A light fragrance of the blooming blossoms float around the house, squeezing through every door crack. The cherries will be coming soon. I’m so excited; my brothers and I climb the tree to get a closer look at what the blossoms look like. A few weeks later, small orange and yellow cherries appear. I pick a bunch of them and place them on the kitchen table. I eat one, they are extremely sour and disgusting, and they aren’t ready to be eaten yet. Somehow, I convince everyone that the cherries are delicious, and everyone eats them, and spits them out immediately. I laugh at them as they use napkins to wipe off and water to rinse out the bitter taste in their mouths. We laugh together. After a few more weeks, my dad cuts off a cherry tree branch; the size of the tree was surpassing what our small yard could take. He walks in the back door with a cherry branch in his hand, and it became an everyday thing. We picked the cherries off and ate them with so much joy and satisfaction. Our lips and fingertips were already stained purple, but we tried really hard not to dye our clothes with the cherry juice. The next day, I bring a cherry branch into school for my teacher, she says it’s the coolest gift she’s ever received.

BEIJING, CHINA

I’m on the subway on the way to school, there’s a lot of people around me, but it’s only 7 am. When the doors open, I squeeze through the crowd so I can get out of the train. Riding the subway in Beijing really is like squeezing in a can of sardines. A few weeks prior to the first day of school, my family and I had just landed in China for the first time. The apartment we rented in a dominantly Korean neighborhood was a lot smaller than the suburban house we had in Canada. How would all of us fit in this tiny space? I didn’t

think it was possible. My dad filled the mini fridge with drinks and tropical fruit and put cookies and crackers on the counter. He wanted us to feel at home. But this was not my home. This was definitely not my home. I couldn’t believe that I would have to live in the noisy city on the ninth floor of an apartment building. Never did I ever imagine this. School got off with a really rough start. I had to learn Chinese and make friends at the same time. Until then, I never struggled with anything hard in my life. I had the best friends, the perfect grades, and a complete family. Now, I didn’t have any friends, was failing every class, and my dad was away for business so much, we saw him about once a month. I was crying to my mom one night that I never wanted this, and that life wasn’t fair. She simply replied to me: “Life just isn’t fair, but we can try to make the best of it together!” I never thought that I’d get through that time, but I did. This environment could have torn me down, I could have responded to my situation with negativism and pessimism. Instead, I thought of this as an opportunity. I didn’t know what the opportunity was, and neither did my brothers and parents. But we all knew that we would learn something out of this. We sought to learn from things in our everyday life, just like we learned from the vocabulary signs on our furniture back when we were waddling toddlers. My family and I struggled to adjust, but it was the time we spent together that really got us through the day.

Pennsylvannia MARIA PERILLA

We drive into the dark night, 2 miles from Buckhorn, 2 hours from Philly; the setting sun a palette of paint behind us, water colors melting into each other, puddles at the feet of God. At a rest stop, the sky opens itself up to us, wide like a mouth. It’s been 18 years of seeing sunsets and I still grow weak under a purple sky. I read Mary Oliver to my mom as the day melts behind us while my dad snores in the back seat And I repeat the part about belonging over and over. After fourteen years, fourteen winters, three green cards, three houses, and three presidents,

CLEVELAND, OHIO

I’m back in my hometown. I try to make new friends and adjust to living in the U.S. again. Fahrenheit, miles, pounds, and gallons confuse me so much, but I learn. I’m living with my uncle and aunt and I go to a private girls’ school. It’s the first time I’m away from my parents for a long period of time. I usually don’t miss my parents that much, but sometimes I really do. I like being semi-independent; I like to do everything on my own; I like being able to fall back on myself and not someone else. But, although I want to be self-sufficient, I’ve realized that I need them. I need them during my high school years, the golden years when I learn who I am. Somehow, no matter how hard I try, I don’t feel 100% at home in Cleveland. I love the city, I love the relatives I live with, and I love my school, but I just don’t feel at home. When I first moved back to Cleveland, I wasn’t good about calling my parents, I felt that it was unnecessary and just another thing I had to worry about. But now, I call them whenever I miss them instead of putting that feeling away in a corner, shoving that slight feeling of vulnerability and homesickness in a shallow jean pocket. Home is where my mom sticks vocab words on pieces of furniture; home is where my mom helps me get ready for kindergarten picture day; home is where my dad carries a cherry tree branch into our humble abode; home is where my family and I struggle and comfort each other together. These are the moments that make us a family. Home is where they are.

We finally belong to this land. We belong to it and it to us, It continues to be the dream we’ve collected thousands miles for. In Bogota, my dad can navigate by way of which mountain we face. Here, the highway cuts through hills holding thin naked trees. Here, I consume the open road, this beautiful bloody country of mine. Above us highway signs make poems, their green reflections give moments of clarity from town to town. At the next exit, fast food markers glow on tall poles like neon stanzas in the sky. Headlights follow each other like flies. We make a flashing flowing river, A burning vein of travelers going home.

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ODE TO MY LEFT HAND

AUDRA KERESZTESY Even though you’re not my first choice, You will always be needed. You’re a little weaker than your counterpart, But you can still steer a car by yourself. Maybe you have a couple scars that make people cringe, But you protected what was underneath when I stuck you in that treadmill. You helped me grow up, Lending your five digits to help me count, And your flexible wrist to help me wave goodbye To the people I love. Without you, I would be “all right,” But never alright. 09 Look to the Light by Kayla Schwartz

You were driving through space and time before you even started the car. When they asked you if you wanted to live forever, you said yes, But you didn’t know you would watch trees freeze, and birds fly downwards, And ash fall like snow. When they told you that you could teleport yourself from Earth to Mars, you said no, But you didn’t know they would leave all the bees, and the seasons, and you For less chaos, more control. When they asked you if you wanted to master everything, you said yes. But you didn’t know how much you loved the scratching of pen on paper, the furiousness of a hand with an idea, Looking into the eyes of another lit up like a lamp. When they asked you to change, you said maybe, But you didn’t know that people weren’t meant to live forever, or know too much, or be alone.

ALANNA BROWN

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And that is why you are a solitary sequence of ones and zeroes On your one millionth birthday With no candles, no cake, and nothing else to wish for.

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

SELF WORTH MARIA PERILLA

In June I am suddenly aware of her. When I take off my glasses, airplanes become stars dancing near but not with each other, the way I’ve seen people do before they’ve thought of something clever to say.

And I will have lots and lots of babies. My home will be filled with books and music, dogs and tortoises, fuzzy socks and chocolate milk. My garden will be overflowing with wild flowers. The sunroom will be cool and the living room warm. The halls all lined with paintings. I will make big pots of spaghetti. I will fall asleep quickly and see my grandfather in my dreams.

Hand to hand, cheek-to-cheek, soft brown curl over caramel shoulder. An unruly eyelash. A furrowed brow. I dream of lean strong arms pulling me out of a deep salty sea. A long awaited burning breath.

If July brought any real regret it’s that I spent too many elevator rides thinking of other people and looked into too many mirrors for reasons to love myself less.

It will most certainly be enough. I will most certainly be enough.

My hips have stretch marks. Red and silver rolling river. White water rapids No mans land Storage space for: glazed donuts cheddar cheese cold pizza

Every time I write I fall in love with poetry again. And I am constantly in awe of the world I try to describe. In awe of the swaying branch framed by the classroom window. In awe of the blooming sidewalk crack flower. I write so that I can put my overwhelming love for pink clouds and bumblebees someplace outside of myself.

eggrolls

So that all this beauty does not consume me.

My hips look good in moonlight, look good in red, have rhythm, like to dance, like thick leather belts, 90s hip hop and hands.

The full moon peeking through my bedroom blinds.

Red and silver rolling river

The orange smile of sun rising over the pines as I finish my cereal.

Smiling sailor dreaming of sea W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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An Observation of Autumn VALA SCHRIEFER

I always love when the maples become nervous faltering under the sky Where the branches stick out like fish bones on an aquamarine plate ribs and spines; sharp silhouettes braving the blue I always shiver when the emotional wind crescendos through the woods composing the trees directing the pebbles to quiver into a steady drumroll I always nod respectfully to

the heaps of pale leaves huddling together against the cold They resemble small burial mounds adding an undulation to the seasonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s horizon I always wish to see where the trees retire on the ground, where it is soft and damp and their tired branches relax into geometric patterns and the blue sky seems less daunting

Night Breeze JENNIFER WANG

Nothing caffeinates like the wind at night. Stealing a breath with silken hands, flooding your lungs with sharp calm life. There is adventure that crackles when it enters your chest. And restraint. As phantom shadows stalk the night. And yet. The world is dark and you are alive. A breeze, a hand deft, resolute. Seals your eyelids, coaxes your chin toward the sky. A silk scarf that slithers down your neck. A dream that you can fly. 01 Delicate Wings by Caitlin Esteves W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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Ocean Prayers VALA SCHRIEFER

The sun butters the spine of the mountain as probing winds dissect the clouds. We stood in the boat, water coughing at us; salt in our eyes The turbulent water behind the boat juggles beads of foam, seeming to assemble into white ocean dancers; jumping and jittering, moments before exploding. With our hands seeking refuge in our pockets, 02 and our necks wrapped in scarves, we stand like slumped tombstones, listening to the sacred “om’s” of the water; we worship the ocean. The boat rocks rhythmically a pendulum on the ocean’s thorns. The clouds become shy; the sky stretches and yawns. The sun is tired of us and pulls its rays from the boat to the water where foam dancers trail behind and glisten gold. Huddled together, we silently poke the sky where white stars begin to pepper the evening. The boat slows and silence swallows the world. The waves dare not chatter or the wind murmur. The world bowed to the darkness and the ocean captured the night.

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FROM THE CAR The only thing better than speeding down a long road, is to do so with the windows open.

JENNIFER WANG

So that when the pavement swells on undulating hills, torrents of wind battle your face. So that you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t open your eyes. So that you canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t breathe in. There are oceans inside your ears and canyons behind your eyelids. There is an onslaught of gales striking your cheekbones. There is a deluge of cyclones racing from your hairline to your ears. And the only thing you can think of, is to hold on with every drop of strength you have. Because if your hands slip, you will be ripped back into reality, behind glass that shuns the wind.

02 High Tide by Kaela Ryan 03 Window Seat Views by Matilda Madfis 04 Cheetah Eyes by Molly Paine

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Midnight Prayers CARLY WELLENER The earthy scent of smoke Wafts down a flickering tea-light trail. Thoughtful, quiet breaths Scribble notes with sandstone hands And broken crayon bits Small candle sentries keep watch For shadows of trees cloaked in night. A gathering painted in firelight Letters to no one, to anyone. To God Accepted into delicate flames Careening toward pinprick stars Regrets inhaled as ash and tears Escape lips molded into song. A choir of June bugs in funeral shrouds Mourns the summerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bittersweet end The midnight prays silently to the moon

05 Misty Morning by Lane Chesler 06 Cricket by Jenna Hahn

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CHLOE SCHWARTZ “The cosmos is within us …We are a way for the universe to know itself.” – Carl Sagan At the beginning of time, humans roamed the endless cosmos, walking between binary systems and galaxies upon bridges of dark matter. We are all made of stardust now – we have always been made of the edges of supernovas – but back then, we shone; we held hands pressed through with diamonds, let our silver hair float around us, filled up the emptiness of the universe with the songs we sang back to the stars as we roamed the reaches of the galaxies. Playing with light is a guessing game. When you view a star from light years away, it shines, but the image might be centuries old; upon reaching it, you might find a supernova, a nebula, a giant collapsed in on itself from the pressure of endless nothing. When the humans were lucky in their roaming, they found a living star. For days and days they rejoiced, whirled around its flares in dance and song. In return, the star shone brighter than ever, singing out to all the galaxies that the children of light and music had found it worthy of love. When the humans were unlucky, they found a star pulsating with death. For days and days they mourned, listening to the soft stories it told with its final breaths. As they left the star, they sang in sadness, reverberating despair across the endless reaches of space and light. Humans walked among and upon planets, but only as stepping stones of their journey. The more eccentric would press stones from a world’s upper crust in between the diamonds of their skin as the people around them looked on and whispered. “How odd a thing,” they would say, “to want to hold on to parts of your journey; how odd a thing to wish to be changed.” Ira hated the starring. They never picked up pieces of a planet’s surface when others were around to see. Instead, they fell behind the group, let their silver hair drift before their face as they pressed their hands to the ground, letting lava and fossils and porous pumice seep into their skin amidst the diamonds and the darkness. Whenever their group stopped to rest between light years, they would trace the pieces buried inside them, whispering stories to themself of sideways rain and pearlescent clouds, worlds of fire and planets of fathomless ocean. There are countless planets in our universe; the probability of finding two of the same form within any being’s lifetime is unlikely to the point

of impossibility. When Ira’s group began to sing to the star we now call Sol, it was something of purest chance. As the dancers stepped into orbit, Ira hid behind their silver hair and fell back to the third planet from the star, misted with clouds that they knew held soft rain.

faster and faster, and Ira’s feet kept pace as they began to sing as they did to the endless stars. This time, however, their hands weren’t intertwined with another human’s – they brushed against leaves and stone, bark and veins of light, faster and faster in endless circles of orbit amidst leaves and rain.

Ira’s feet touched the surface of the new planet. As they stood, ocean stretching for miles and miles around them, waves crashed over and over their feet. “Welcome,” they murmured, and Ira began to walk.

The piece of the planets pressed into Ira’s skin began to crack and melt as they became drenched with water. As Ira felt the whispering memories begin to crumble and fade, they slowed, heart growing heavy with the same emptiness that their people roamed the galaxy to avoid. The heart of the forest continued its beating but Ira sank to the earth beneath their feet. As plants, still growing, threaded their way into Ira’s skin, they pushed out the diamonds, leaving only memories of the forest, its heart, and flowers turning gently toward a dancer drenched in rain.

They reached the edge of the water as gulls soared overhead, calls cascading over them as they stepped onto a shore made of sand and stone. In front of them, trees of soft brown and green rose higher and higher into the sky, masking the dusky darkness of the forest beyond. Ira had meant to come only to touch the rain, and for a beachstone – but now, they were entranced. They had never seen a forest like this before, green and endless and growing even as they watched. Something rustled in an inner tree, and Ira began to walk toward the sound. Planets and stars are not evil beings. They’re simply lonely ones, at orbit in the universe with little beside them. As Ira walked, the trees and the flowers bent toward them in greeting, twining around their arms and legs, petals and leaves pressing, pressing. The further Ira went, the darker it became, and the more they pressed, and Ira was travelling downward, downward, into the heart of something vast and endless and altogether more warm than the songs of the people who never once touched the stars they danced for. At the center of the planet pulsed the heart of the forest. The only light in so deep a valley, its tendrils reached out to the neighboring trees, imbuing them with a phosphorescent glow. Flowers rich in hue nestled gently in its edges as it beat and beat and beat, calling out into endless night for someone to look upon it. The trees lifted Ira up and over their last roots to set them in the hearts clearing. They whispered to the heart and all around Ira, the glow became brighter. Flowers turned their faces towards them as if to say, “welcome home, welcome home, welcome home.” Ira, enraptured, began to dance. From far above, the soft rain began to fall, soaking into the heart for the first time in centuries. The flowers grew, first in leaps then in bounds, reaching and reaching until they were intertwined with the endless clouds. The heart beat

The heart slowed its pulsing, and the trees dimmed their glow. Slowly, gently, Ira’s skin turned from pure blackness to the dusky brown of the branches that had carried them to the forest’s center. Flowers tied their way around their waist as they slowly stood and, without a backwards glance at the forest’s heart, began to walk back the way they came, trees and flowers whispering and pressing against their skin. At the beginning of time, a human named Ira walked out onto a shore made of sand and stone. They gazed out at the endless ocean as the gulls called overhead of southbound winds and a darkened moon. Their toes brushed over a stone, round and smooth and for a moment, they felt as though there was something important they must remember - but then, nothing. Above them, songs filtered down from the sky, notes of twinkling light showering down onto clouds and mountaintops, but Ira could hear only the forest and the sea as they sighed to them, “ home, home, home.” As Ira’s group left Sol behind, they sang in mourning, and it rained long and hard for ten full days and ten full nights. Even now, they wander the galaxy, walking between binary systems and galaxies upon bridges of dark matter, searching the child that they lost to soft rain and a lonely heart. We are all descendants of Ira, seekers of lonely and beautiful things, stones and fossils to press into ourselves and whisper stories about into endless darkness. And if you look up at the sky and feel an ache in your chest, it is because you have found something lonely and beautiful: something vast and aching, longing for song and dance. You have found the song of the stars; they are calling for the universe inside of you to come home.

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Juicy strawberries stain her lips red. KRISTINA MULLEN

To the Flowers

ALISE ADORNATO

Suddenly my heavy breath enclosed around me Beyond its fragility, it skillfully was perceived as powerful The experience travelled deeper, mysteriously becoming small Its color descended down the frail trail by the snow The intensity, of the purest shade of rose, rendered my heart Near such trail, opened a look of nothingness Somewhere, gladly imagined as everywhere For its look cannot be understood as made by somebody Its touch demands the help of nobody Never did fingers pick at its solitude Even my voice was shut in the slightest way It gestures for eyes first Those that are willing to imagine forever But my eyes closed with this wish Instead my hands touched for flowers Their petals unlike my heavy breath Yet because spring has yet to open They too will experience death When their texture becomes frail it is too late For Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been to many countries Whose flowers were just as light Each by each their petals crumpled It is something you will never forget

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R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

November 3rd GRACE HOMANY

Fall is here and it is so glorious that my face is melting off, and I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even notice until a leaf snagged where my ear used to be, and I became a scarecrow of golden maples and birch, stuffing myself with dry corn husks, crisp air, and apple pie. The breeze paints my sidewalk with thirty shades of fire and absent chlorophyll that speak an odd symphony of crunches and crackles as I shuffle by in search of a steamy mug of fireside chatter and heavy blankets. It is not winter yet, because the frost gathers on my fingertips, not my bones. I am shoveling nothing but absent minded pumpkins down the street, where they will be knighted as jack-o-lanterns and itch with a candleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s light while forgetful geese cloud the sky and I let cider stain the vacant lot underneath my tongue with hints of cinnamon. Finally it is cold and there is no jacket left unattended by a bare limb tickled in the breeze unlike the trees that seem quite exposed having excused their leaves to a premature gust. It is not winter yet, but it will be. 07 Lunchtime for Elephants by Margaret Kilbane 08 Perception by Kalie Sommerfeld 09 African Tree by Molly Paine W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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WORLD VIEW

TAYLOR HERRICK

My junior spring semester at The Island School was unlike any experience Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever had, surrounded by inspiring peers, immersed in unique studies. Most of my experience was in groups, working collaboratively. One thing I had to complete by myself was our physical education requirement, either a four-mile swim or half marathon. I decided on the swim because I knew it was a once in a lifetime opportunity. We woke up at 6:30 five days a week for our training. Throughout the semester, I endured snapped goggles, bad sunburns, and cramps with only the salty ocean to comfort me at those early hours. We worked together as a team during training, but knew the final four-mile swim was up to us individually. On one of our last days, we geared up for the four miles, starting at 6 am. When I started in the water, I was methodical with my strokes, making sure not to waste my energy in the first minutes. The water was choppy and the sky grey, but I pushed every move through the bright blue water to get myself there. At about quarter of the way I popped up to see the heads bobbing in the water, teachers paddling around in kayaks, and my fellow students cheering us on from nearby boats. I was alone in the process, as no one else could complete this swim for me, but I had the support of dozens to bring me to it. I finished my swim in around three hours and was greeted back on the beach with my teammates, lemonade, and one of the biggest senses of accomplishment. I have never enjoyed an athletic event like I did with my swim. It was one of those moments that pushed me physically and mentally. I appreciated being in such a naturally beautiful place with people supporting me; this was the perfect ending to my transformative couple of months.

10 Fish Flow by Millie Privitera 11 Sunset by Lane Chesler

Singing VALA SCHRIEFER

The words of songs shape my mouth, into the caves and cracks of some Scottish cliffs or the tiny moist creases that line between the scales of a fish.

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R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

Write Me a GRACE HOMANY

STORM

Don’t give me a boat; give me a boat in water. Don’t just give me a boat in water; give me gale force winds and crashing waves. Don’t just give me a storm, predict a hurricane, name it after that dog your neighbor had, that got hit by a car on the Fourth of July.

Give me a front row seat so close I can see the spit gathering at the corners of their mouths as they shout. I want to hear what they’re shouting about, but don’t make it all shouting. Have them holler, or yell, or bellow a good amount too.

Give that boat a captain too, make him seasoned on the high seas, but give him a quirk. Make him a fan of drag clubs, or drag racing, make him one-legged or seven feet tall. Give him a trusty crew, but please don’t make it a fishing boat crew. I want them out there for more than just a successful haul. Make them brothers or uncles or reunited friends, but don’t forget the storm.

Take them high and low, rocking and rolling bring these swells they sail over to life. I have never been in stormy seas, but after this I want to be able to feel as though I have. I don’t want to tell you how to finish this. All I will say is if everyone makes it back to shore, which they should with the help of that seasoned captain, bring me to shore too. Let me feel the soft resistance of land beneath my feet before you leave me.

Keep the boat rocking and the plot moving. Give them secrets and back stories and daughters and lovers. Let them be happy or sad, let them get angry and shout at each other. Stop trying to make it nightfall. The water should be a character too. Is it an ocean? A sea? A high sea? Is there really a difference? If there is you’d better tell me. Let me sit in the splash zone and taste the salt (if there is indeed salt to be tasted) gathering on my chapped lips.

Don’t drop anchor in a busy harbor, these men shouldn’t be from the city. Leave me soaking wet on the shore, dripping with whatever mix of ocean water and rain you deem appropriate. If you want, you can leave me with sunny skies, but don’t forget about the storm.

W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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Specks of mud sprinkle her toes. KRISTINA MULLEN 32 x

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

Morning VALA SCHRIEFER

The sun cracks a smile, the winds tumble and roll and tumultuous clouds stand still in my soul.

12 Iceland by Stephanie Zhou 13 Sheep Shed by Grace Amjad

Ode to a Highway CHLOE SCHWARTZ

The Dance Show of the Ages KAELA RYAN

Deep colored leaves fall Leaping off trees, pirouetting in the sky A dance show better than any you’ve ever seen As they get closer and closer to the pavement, They take a final bow And once they land, if you listen closely, You can hear applause from the other leaves When the applause dies down The leaves are forgotten But no one forgets their dance show of the ages

There is nothing so heavy as the wind that curls and pushes, swirling birds and leaves, and in autumn, I distill my sunsets, pour them out over the highway that thunders with gasoline in an oil-slick spill of light, over flowers, queen anne’s lace and the largest dandelions I’ve ever seen, the largest wishes on this side of the city, and I think that once upon a time, this hill was a giant and this freeway, a spinal chord, nerve endings

firing with steel and electricity and someday, I want to be that big; I was to lay down across the pavement, arch my back to let cars pass beneath me, and wait for flowers to grow from my skin, for trees to dig their roots into my veins and I will be a mountain; a cliff’s edge; an oil-slick spill of light, made only of growing things and bright lights that reach their hands toward the sky. W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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14 Winter by Jennifer Wang 15 Dancing on Glass by Layla Najeeullah

Realizations CARLY WELLENER

34 x

The trees are purple I realized as my eyes lapped up The shadows gliding along the forest floor The white snow in poorly shaved patches Reflecting a pink sky Dozing off under cloudy quilts The trees were purple Not the trite brown or gray That I had been taught to perceive But a soft purring mix of heaven and maroon clay Breathing so silently, That I neglected to noticed it sleeping

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

Warm AND ICY Contemplations

SUKHMANI KAUR

The cold, crisp air scrapes my light brown face, As I gallop back to my cabin, the only toasty place. My boots march through the trenches of fresh snow. My arms sway to an incessant rhythm as if I were in a show. The faint orange sun greets the dark horizon with a friendly smile. Anxiety rushes toward me as I realize I have to walk a few miles.

Each step, unique and purposeful, marks a new path. My shoes echo over the dark brown laths. I engrave my initials onto the snow-covered rocks claiming as my own. I attempt to pick up the rocks as my stomach replies with a haunting groan. I drop down in an abysmal hole near the stump of a lately cut evergreen tree. My legs refuse to stand as tall as the deciduous tree that once stood on this land with utmost glee. My glasses break when I try to put them on. The beaming light from my silver flashlight is astoundingly gone. I extricate myself from the pit with all my might. I have won this treacherous and gruesome fight. Upward and onward I persist and travel, Until I finally smell the well-known gravel. I yank open the huge wooden door. At last, I feel the warmth of the crackling fire as I stand on the familiar floor.

BS E ET AWS EOE NNS GRACE HOMANY Fingers tingle with what is left of the door slam, Who knew such an old wooden frame would rattle the bones of a young man? There is a mitten on the sidewalk that doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t belong to her. And the geese have left in a riot of honking and flapping. The V cutting a bleak November sky is far less perfect upon a second glance. Dead leaves, and hands stuffed deep in jacket pockets. Stiff jeans and air replaced by faint ghosts of breath Sometimes we are not told to go, but the seasons change. W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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What a Heartbeat Might Sound Like GRACE HOMANY

Quiet, like nighttime and footsteps we walk like this is the last time we will ever trek down the road. We grew up here, out here. We rode scooters and scraped knees. We didn’t ask questions because we didn’t wonder about things. We just ate stardust and we flew so high there was nothing we wouldn’t touch because we

could hear our own heartbeats. We read the backs of our hands. We traveled like sailors on a high sea. We laughed in the face of time, we didn’t wear watches. We broke down our cars and we walked quiet like nighttime and footsteps. We will not live forever. We took the pulse of the moment. We.

What Happens Next STEPHANIE KAISER

Today we said good night without having to wonder what happened next. I fell asleep without the count of a thousand sheep I have always needed, Knots of white wool getting caught in my spindly fingers. It was to the sound of your breaths, Long and sure, like an airplane was flying over my head, miles away. The white sheets wrapped around my body. I dreamt I had died in Egypt, And within the tomb was the cloth, suffocating me, burning me, drenching me. You woke up and felt me, tense, next to you. A hand slid over my side, and I was being swallowed all over again, But by your arms, I was okay with drowning. You brushed damp hair off my forehead, and replaced it with lips, dry and cracked. Yours. And I drifted off again, full moon eyes falling shut. Tomorrow we will say good morning without unlocking our hands. Traces of hot morning breath will fill the air, slipping out from the question mark we are folded into, But we, We know what happens next.

ORGAN DONOR DELANI HUGHES

When I got my first ID the tired woman at the license bureau asked me if I wanted to be an organ donor. I said yes. And then felt guilty. I found myself questioning just how useful a human heart a brain a soul a pair lungs really are if all they do is get tangled up and ruined by some other person’s lack of trust or inability to love and leave us doubting ourselves. And then I begin wondering about the woman who follows me is her heart heavier than mine? her lungs better at surviving the smoke after the fires you set? her brain more in sync with yours? her soul more connected to something higher—maybe something you believe in too? I hope that when I die my organs, if they are even still worth being used in someone else’s body, learn how to cleanse themselves. and give someone else a better chance at a full life and a true love.

W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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Love Letters to No One at A ll HANNAH SCHMIDT

MARCH 2004 SAM SCOTT The air is drenched in water. My lungs are heavy, expansion and contraction made difficult by the moisture of the ocean. I extend my squishy pink tongue to my lips and taste the salt ions that have landed there. The lub dub of my heart is deafening, mirroring the sound of the waves. It has lodged itself in my ears, as crisp and clear as an early morning sparrow’s song. Lub dub, lub dub, lub dub, lub dub– the rhythm vibrates my throat, rattles my chest. It is working harder than it normally does, oxygenating the blood at an extra fast rate, allowing me to slap one foot in front of the other against the winding concrete path– to feel the breeze of watery air on my sun kissed cheeks– to run.

38 x

Dear Love... You are the red sun, I’m the blue moon, And you need both to give rise to purple sunset. But you can’t see me, Through yellow shining stars, That turn you into orange sunrise. Still I know it’s our souls, That will intertwine, And make the galaxies explode with color. Dear Love... Boy, I’ve fallen for the natural disasters raging through your hands. The tornados on your palms lift me up and twirl me around the room. The hurricanes in your fingertips flood my throat with sweet summer lemonade. Dear Love... I love the way you lean sideways, And forwards, And backwards. I love the way you stand upwards, And slouched over. I love the way you sit proud, And relaxed. But most of all, I love the way you lay next to me, On chilly winter mornings. Dear Love... I’ve never been kissed before, But I want you to write the meaning of life, On my cheeks with your lips. And I’ve never been held before, But I want you to paint every universe, With your hands on my hips. Dear Love... You are the beginning and the end of time, The upside-down and the right-side-up. You are the glass half empty and half full, The light and the dark, The moon and the stars, You are my everything.

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

Dear Ken ROSALIE PHILLIPS Dear Ken,

01 Tie Dye by Grace Beneke

She was a fire; KATHYRN DOHERTY

The moon is currently in its fifth night of waxing. Your dog turned ten. His face looks more like yours every day. The administrative center of Bourbon County, Kentucky is a town called Paris. I like writing best with a 1.3mm lead mechanical pencil, the kind they give to kindergarteners. When caught in a rip current, you should swim parallel to the shore, not against the pull. I have eaten a PB+J every morning since the summer began. Last Sunday JJ made me french toast. At Christmas you sat on the sofa by the piano, far from the tree and fire. I still haven’t read your copy of the Art of Worldly Wisdom. My running shoes give me a blister on my fourth toes about once a week. I will never see all of the world. Neither will you. Michigan was the 26th state to enter the Union. I have a packaged rose scented soap on the floor of my room. I miss taking naps. I look forward to sleep. I once watched you doze off on the same couch in the same day more than three times. You taught me to build a fire and that to properly make french fries, the potatoes need to be fried twice. I still cannot calculate probability. I’ve found a lump behind my ear and a mole under my hairline. A peanut is a legume and not a nut. My dad stepped on my glasses. Your dog gets diarrhea when he eats bacon. I once memorized dozens of digits of pi, now I can only remember 12. I tell your brother I love him whenever I can. You are the only relative of mine who likes olives on pizza. I never asked you what your favorite color was, but I feel like it’s green. Michigan State has beaten University of Michigan the last three years they have played. JJ has stopped calling “Go White,” because he knows your voice won’t respond “Go Green.” I prefer Louis Armstrong’s rendition of Mack the Knife. You prefered Bobby Darin. Galileo Galilei invented binoculars. I read manuals because I know my father won’t. Nine out of ten drownings occur near shore or with safety close by. Bananas once had seeds. Humans cultivated them out. Jif creamy peanut butter contains 7g of protein per serving of 2 tablespoons. Math makes more sense than physics in my brain. I bought a legal pad for summer economics class. We moved your car so your dog wouldn’t see it. His name is Bogey but you called him Bogey-Boy. I call him Bogey-Boy. My right eye has worse vision than my left. Every 36 seconds, some couple in America gets a divorce. I’ve known every word to David Bowie’s Space Oddity since I was 7. You put a slice of orange in your beer and two ice cubes in two fingers worth of rye. When your brothers picked up your ashes, they took you for a drink. Their waitresses were named Ashley and Destiny. I often forget to change the filter on my thoughts. You had no filter. I’ve watched over 100 sunsets around a fire with you. I will watch 100 more. Catch up on sleep for me. I love you. Your Almost Youngest Niece, Rosalie

W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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Dear Violet and Zoe Dear Violet and Zoe,

This is your cousin Eva writing. You may think of me as the brilliant, very responsible, gentle-hearted, confident, hilariously comedic older cousin whom you look up to. But I’m here to tell you that I’m not always those things. I don’t always like sharing my food, I care a lot about what other people have to say to me, and I also have a hard time finding my place in this world. You might ask yourselves a lot of questions as you grow up. About gender, about life, about everything. I’m writing this as a junior in high school, so I’m not an expert on big life questions, but I’m also older than you, so maybe take a look at what I’ve gathered from my 18 years on this earth. Right now, Violet, you are a brilliant five-year-old who never hesitates to ask questions about our great big world and our perplexing life. I am so proud of you for being a great big sister to Zoe. You may throw unreasonable tantrums from time to time, but you’ll grow out of it, I’m sure. You are super friendly, so everyone wants to have playdates with you. Even adults enjoy being around you. Already, you’ve touched the lives of so many in our little community. Zoe, you’re such a rebel. You throw your spoons and cups on the ground time after time, just to see Mommy and Daddy’s angry faces. You simply just know how to have fun. Since your heart was fixed a few months after your birth, you’ve became happier and healthier. Most importantly, your parents are at peace knowing that hole in your heart is gone. At 18 months old, you learned to walk, but you’re too lazy to use those legs! What a funny child; your snotty and giggling face makes me happy every day. Here are some tips that may help you in the future when you’re struggling in being girls in this world: 1) Dress to respect, not to impress. 2) I think it’s totally normal to try on a million outfits before you pick one; you’re not alone, but just clean up after yourself afterwards. 3) Periods…yeah they suck, but on the bright side, that means you are able to possibly have a child in the future! 4) I wasn’t very “ladylike” growing up, and still am not, but I still have (some) friends! 5) Putting on makeup to cover up your acne will only make it worse, better leave it out in the open to disappear quicker. 6) If you ever find yourself standing next to a friend looking into a mirror feeling less pretty, I did too; this isn’t because you aren’t pretty, it’s just because you are different. Don’t compare yourself to other’s aesthetics, it won’t make you feel good. Black hair is just as pretty as blonde hair. 7) Try new things, always go out of your comfort zone. Get a new hairstyle, listen to new music, try new foods, try new sports, even make friends with new people; it’s how you discover who you are. 8) No, we haven’t had a female president yet, and yes, that should make you think, why?

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R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

EVA YEH

You are girls, young women, females … gendered human beings. I had questions about why women are not expected to succeed as much as men; do you have any? Just because you are a girl, it doesn’t mean you have to dance instead of play ball, wear dresses instead of shorts, play with Barbies instead of toy cars, or read Little Women instead of Harry Potter (read both!). There is so much you don’t want to miss out on in the world. Do what YOU love and what pushed you to your full potential. Just because media tells you that you have to look a certain way, never change yourself for others, change yourself for YOU. That may be the most cliché thing ever, but I have held that truth close to my heart, and it’s taught me so much. You can exercise to look better, but do it for you and not for them. In other words: stay healthy and have fun. We are different in our own special ways, and the world would be a less interesting and eye-opening place if we all looked like the models on magazines. Celebrate how you’re different along with what you have on the inside. Just because the Asian stereotype is that you get good grades, focus on school, become very good at math and science, go to med school or law school, and then marry young and have children before 30, don’t feel restrained to that. If you want to become a DJ, work hard to create great music for everyone to enjoy. If you want to become a policewoman, work hard to protect our community and yourself. If you want to become a world traveler, work hard to save money and explore our world safely. Don’t give partial effort on multiple things, find what YOU love doing and give it 100%. In doing so, also remember your culture and where you come from, because it’s an important part of who you are. Just because the Bible says that women were created from and even for men, doesn’t mean we are subjects of them. Many people may say that the Bible is sexist, but I don’t gather that from what I’ve read. God created us equal human beings who have different roles in our life on earth to fulfill his will. Our church community does not downplay the role of women, but growing up I still did not have the positive view that women could make just as big of an impact in the church. Contribute to the church community as much as YOU can, behind the scenes or on a platform. Prove that sisters can be just as influential to the church as brothers, but promise me that you will be humble in doing so. Don’t be discouraged because what we consider to be truth doesn’t align with what you believe is your truth. Instead, find middle ground where can weigh in both truths and find where you stand on those. You might find yourself being pushed to mature when you consider these issues. That’s great! Keep up the good thinking. Lastly, just because we don’t often see women on political platforms, don’t let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game. Work hard in school, proving that you are smart young women ready to conquer the world. Look up to the women who have paved the way ahead of you, such as Michelle Obama, Hillary Clinton, and Susan B. Anthony. Even if you don’t make it to their level of high influence, try your best to touch the lives around YOU. Who knows how much of an impact one thoughtful moment can make. One day you may be the role model thousands of little girls look up to.

Tomorrow, President-Elect Trump will be sworn into office in front of our country. The day after that, thousands of women will gather to march as a demonstration of their feelings of hurt and fright in this past election. I can feel their desire for change, and I hope you do too. It’s what’s real about being a female human being in this world. Know that you are not alone, and know that the right way to get through these times, is to support one another. I’m not here to make you think the world isn’t a great place to be, or that you’ve looked up to the wrong person. I’m just saying this to let you know that whenever you see yourself from someone else’s perspective, look again. Remember what really matters instead of covering your face when glances (both literal and metaphorical) are thrown your way. Never consider yourself ugly because you’re not a blonde or brunette, Never let others ignore you or mistreat you because of your gender, race, or job, Never forget that God created you and loves you, throughout your whole life. Never respond to pain with violence, whether it be physical, emotional, or spiritual, You are #blessed. (Do y’all even still use hashtags?)

02 Reflect by Andreanna Hardy

The Leftovers of You KATHRYN DOHERTY

The flowers you left are dying Do you still think of me? You left me with the wolves I opened up, you shut down

Love, Eva Thursday January 19th, 2017

W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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The Lovely Lavender

ANNABEL MEALS Kisses turn violet on your neck And not from her lipstick Because violence isn’t always colorless And you’re not always silent Like our color wheel spun out of acrylics, watercolor matter She tells me the skies aren’t always lavender Their orbit falls out of reason found reaching seasons upon seasons upon seasons Till it is so far from your body you cannot recognize your own skin enough to fall To that lavender sky That she tells me isn’t always lavender and all I can think of is oh how lovely the violet would have looked had it stayed on the skin of a rose instead of falling onto my own

The Breathing

A R T

She’s gorgeous. Red hair is falling onto her shoulders, her head tilted down toward her phone. She stands tall, with her shoulders back and her legs steady, she is confident. She momentarily closes her eyes, revealing a universe of freckles dancing on her eyelids. Her eyes are a dark brown, yet hold a glow of light in them. She turns, looking at me. She most likely sensed my eyes tracing her body. Yet she smiles. And when she smiles I feel as if I’ve been thrown onto the teacup ride at Disney World. My entire universe is spinning; yet she is the only thought running through my mind. Her smile is infectious. Her teeth stand in perfect rows; a geometry student would be unable to find a flaw in them. Lines trace up from her mouth to her eyes, which are now framed with freckled creases. Giving a soft laugh, it is as if she knows I’ve fallen in love. I smile, searching for a voice that has seemed to flee my body. She turns back, her hair flowing, catching the light. I have to watch her shoulders rise and fall with her breath to remind myself that she is human. Despite looking like one of Michelangelo’s masterpieces, she is human. I feel the need to tell Leonardo da Vinci that he painted the wrong girl. Clearly there was a mistake and this is the real Mona Lisa. Yet she is not Mona Lisa, she is… what is her name? I look up to ask the breathing art what her title is, but she is gone.

JACQUELYN ELLIS 42 x

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

When Girls DON’T LOVE Their Bodies

DELANI HUGHES

When girls don’t love their bodies, they start looking for other boys and girls and men and women to lust after them. They start to think that someone out there in the universe could make them whole through compliments and love notes and kind gestures and sex and dinner dates and sweet text messages in the middle of the day. They lie to their parents and say that they’re going to ‘a friend’s house’. They are strategic about which friends they name – they know to rotate every week and inform the friends they have named that their mother thinks they are watching movies and baking cookies. But instead of a quiet night in with friends, girls who don’t love their bodies sneak a change of clothes into a bag and enter apartments of men and women who are too old for them or bedrooms of boys and girls whose parents are away with pits in their stomachs and lumps in their throats. And they let these men and women and boys and girls attempt to make them whole. And sometimes they do, but not for long; the feeling for being whole only lasts as long as the orgasm does. But for girls who don’t love their bodies, that is long enough. Sometimes it’s too long. And then the girls who don’t love their bodies can’t look the men and women and boys and girls they’ve spent the night with in the eyes. And so they go home, shower, and make up details about the night they didn’t spend with their friend to tell their parents. And after all that lying is over, they go to their rooms and place their heads on their pillows. Next, the girls who don’t love their bodies cry. Very quietly – they stopped sobbing over lost things in 7th grade. And three nights later they do it all again. With another man or woman or boy or girl: chasing a few seconds of being full. But this is just the story of girls who don’t love their bodies. The girls who hate their bodies are almost the same, except for the fact that they don’t lie anymore, they don’t cry into their pillows, and they very rarely come home. Girls who hate their bodies usually cry in the shower, for convenience.

03 Ford, Chanel, MAC by Raea Palmieri 04 Delani by Andreanna Hardy

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L VE, and the Things I Can’t Say Out Loud

LANE CHESLER

The first thing I remember is the smell. Then the trinkets. Then her wrinkly face. Grandma Gayle was not a happy woman: an alcoholic, a drug addict, and a smoker. When I was eight I walked into her apartment and held my breath. I remember my mother’s forced smile when greeting this old woman, and how everything shifted, atmospheres uneasy, no apologies given. I guess they had a rough past. I was twelve when before me I saw failed loves, lives, marriages, and people. No one in the family I knew was happy. Four years later she was dying. Of what, I didn’t know at the time—information too sensitive for an eighth grader, I suppose. We were in a hospice on the west side of Cleveland by the lake. What I remember is a piano and a garden. On that piano I played only sad songs—Oltre Mare, A River Flows Through You, Bella’s Theme, Corpse Bride—the monuments of the garden showed only epithets of grief and loss. My mom never left her side. She felt an obligation to stay and care for the mother she never truly had. I didn’t understand their relationship. It was twisted and painful, but knowing nothing else, it was accepted. The summer before my junior year my mother explained their relationship. I remember sitting on the grey suede couch at three a.m. after a bad dream. Softly she told me I was loved. That my irrational fears were irrational, my imperfections perfections, and my life my own. I had a mother and a grandmother who loved me. She had neither.

I’m in physics last week drooling and all of a sudden I thought: The weight of the wind was in my pocket: Lifting Soaring To impressionable heights. Lips parted Breathing currents, Tasting clouds. A gust tickled my fingertips As I played the sky And then I went back to air resistance.

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I was a six-year-old attending a ninety-year-old’s funeral. The house smelled of peppermint and warmth, the dead man’s hand held hard and cold. His name was Uncle Pete. We had never met before. He was my cousin’s uncle. Before the visit I read many books about families and little girls with loving relatives. My expectations for this gathering stood high. I wanted an aunt who played cards, a grandmother who baked cookies, an uncle who played football, and a grandfather who fought in the war. I remember bouncing in my seat, thrilled to meet new family—to have reunions and Thanksgivings like Arthur and the Jetsons. Instead I knew no-one, and no-one wanted to know me. At the funeral I remember sitting alone on the flower print sofas by the stairs on the wall, surrounded by the cream, stained carpet and old television sets scattered amongst china and statues of Jesus. People running and playing around me as I sat at an old wooden piano. I got up, grabbed my little brother, and walked outside to the playground across the street. We sat without speaking on the rusty, old swing set, staring at an empty bird’s nest. Everything was quiet until he asked, “Who’s Uncle Pete?”

I was freshly sixteen years old walking through the Cleveland Clinic to my Nana’s room. I wore leggings and a striped shirt, carried an open sketchbook. I was going to show my Nana a cat I drew during history that day. As I passed the receptionists, my father, brother, and I encountered my older cousin Tommy. He wore ripped jeans, a hoodie, adorned with tattoos, pierced ears, and a guitar across his back. We were the best of friends once, I still don’t know what happened. He noticed us. His brown eyes became stormy and with an air of justice he made his way across the silent lobby saying, “This is not what she would have wanted.” We sat in modern easy chairs listening to him accuse my father of stealing from his mother, and my father, ever the indifferent diplomat, proceeded to say, “Tommy you have no idea what you’re talking about. Shut up.” I haven’t seen him or any of my father’s

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relatives since, but I remember the clean inhuman chairs we sat in and the mud from my shoes on the white floors.

COZ 3003, 7-24-25, AG13, 30. A 200,000 mile license plate driving me through childhood, a Pythagorean triple memorized for my parents, the battery for the angel sitting on top of my Christmas tree, the jersey number of the man I love. Memorizing math is trivial. Falling in love is momentous. But no matter what, I remember each number as well as any other, and throughout life I’ll never forget.

We were en route to Pelee Island last year, my mother and I, in the big brown Suburban. My parents just had a huge fight and we were going to the island for some peace of mind. I remember reclining in the passenger’s seat with my warm feet fogging up the window and asking why my parents didn’t get along. The next twenty miles were driven in silence. After a while my mother formulated a response. The phrase I heard was “Every relationship has it troubles, you think two people are happy, but I promise you they’re not.” To this day that was the most depressing life lesson I’ve ever received. For a long time I had deified love. It was beautiful. Perfect. Intangible. I thought I had wanted too much. Before I fell in love I had no hope of a lasting relationship. I knew with confidence that one day I would get divorced, like everyone else in my family. My children would be as conflicted as I am now. Their memories would be heavy. But now I think I’ve found it. And it’s not just within my grasp, I’m holding onto it with both of my hands terrified to let it slip through, because even though now I know it exists, I’m afraid I’ll never find it again. That I’ll end up like my mother with a shadow of a possibility bound to her ring finger, and a defeated will to sever it.

05 Baci by Ela Passarelli

I have happy memories too. I’m eight and fresh off the Vancouver flight taking me to Tsukuba, Japan. It’s been maybe two days, but finally it was the New Year. My family packed ourselves into our small Toyota and headed toward Mt. Tsukuba. I remember waiting in the worst traffic imaginable on a winding road up the mountainside, moving so slow elderly men on foot quickly outdistanced us. At the top we washed our hands and ate squid balls off a stick as we watched the fireworks. We huddled together on a rock under the cherry blossoms, my dad’s arms around my mother and I, Calvin on the ground. I remember slumping into my father’s arms in the car ride home and writing excitedly in my journal the next morning. Reading to enraptured parents. Life was simple when I noticed nothing and enjoyed everything.

Perhaps my inclusion of this memory speaks to the guilt I feel for the accusations I’ve thrown, the fact that I can’t say these things out loud, the fact that I’m writing them down anyway. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that love changes everything. Every feeling, every ingrained inch of reasoning can be washed away with a smile, a gesture, someone holding your hand. Everything I have written was true, every feeling felt, every word said. But in reflection, the fact that my truths now are utterly incredibly different—that I no longer believe what I had for 16 years—is powerful. I now know with confidence that one day I will get married, like everyone else in my family, but it will survive. I will fight for it every day, every second. I will not give in. My children will not be as conflicted as I am now. They will find love. They will breathe currents, taste clouds, and play the sky. There will be no air resistance. Not from me.

We started as strangers, finished too. KATHYRN DOHERTY

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JULY 2004: DAMMIT, I WANTED A GIRL. I wanted a baby sister so I could dress her up and have someone to play cards with while our parents were at work. I wanted a friend that wasn’t as busy or as tired as my older sister. I wanted someone I could play with that wouldn’t look so sad and disappointed when they were forced to say no. But all my hopes and all my wants felt more distant than ever. A brother wouldn’t want to play with me. He wouldn’t want to play with my Polly Pockets or bright purple jump rope with Mirielle and Johanna, even if it did light up every time it hit the ground. He’d probably want to hang out with my neighbor KJ instead of me. His endless basketball shooting and never-ending supply of sticky, orange Nerf bullets would totally trump my drying chalk and hop scotch. Family came to visit to help and congratulate my mother, so I hid in the tree house to avoid questions like: Are you ready to meet your new brother? And, are you ready to be a big sister? Everyone else was so excited, and I couldn’t be the one to take away the joy my parents had from their growing family between their times of stress at work. We were at the hospital. This was it, the moment of truth. My sister held my hand as we slowly creeped into the room. My eyes landed on my mom, holding a precious, doll-sized baby as quiet as the night. I was speechless. Looking at his deep brown eyes and perfect skin, I soon forgot all my worries. Staring at him in my mom’s arms, I realized we would get along and he’d fit into my family perfectly. It didn’t matter whether he liked jump rope or not, I decided in that moment, in the hospital, that I would make something work.

AUGUST 2009: GATORS ARE BETTER THAN BLAZERS BUT NOW BLAZERS ARE BETTER THAN GATORS? I was nervous to be surrounded by completely new people. I realized with the birth of my brother that I was not great at change. As people come and go around me, and as I come and go past them, I can’t help but feel the slightest bit sad about what life used to be like. Laurel School was the only place I knew. It was there where I learned how to use an apple slicer while meeting my best friend Bridget, and there where I found my love of math with Mrs. Davis in the corner room we used. All the teachers knew me because of my sister and I felt a special relationship with them because of it. I may have only been eight when I was forced to switch schools, but I had never felt so comfortable somewhere in my life. I walked up the steps of the Main Entrance of Hathaway Brown next to my older, wiser, High School sister. My sun browned hair fell on my shoulders perfectly straight and slick. My mom straightened my curly, knot-filled hair for the first time the night before, and I felt absolutely beautiful and new, internally unready to take on the new challenge but externally acting like I was. That was until I felt showers of rain pour down my head, ruining my hair and dampening my new clothes. I ran inside and heard a bell ring. With that, my sister ran off and I stood in the middle of the hall, wet and lost.

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ISHA LELE

THE PEOPLE THAT COME AND GO

I arrived in the classroom five minutes after eight. What a great impression. Nineteen other faces stared me down as if I was a new exhibit at the zoo. Where was Mrs. Davis to greet me? Where was Bridget to save me the seat next to her? As the days went by, I felt more comfortable with my peers and new teachers. Everyone got used to the new animal in the room. I became just another exhibit at the zoo: a few people would snap a picture, and then move on to the next animal, exactly what I wanted. HB welcomed me, pushed me, but most importantly, HB started to care for me.

BUT WHY CAN’T I COME WITH YOU? Despite being six years apart from my sister, we were more alike than different. She had “weird” friends in my opinion and “weird” interests like Robotics and comic books, but no one understood my jokes and sarcasm like she did. She was always busy though, working hard to get into college and when she did, choosing between four great schools. As years went on, I felt more and more disconnected, but nothing would be worse than saying goodbye to her and losing another person in my life. Once she finally made the decision between Carnegie Mellon, University of Michigan, Harvey Mudd, and Tufts, she was ready to have fun. She started reaching out to me and helping with my homework, something we used to do before she entered high school. With her license we drove places over weekends, and she took my friends and I to our middle school parties without our parents ever knowing. She became the sister I missed so much for the last four years. Labor Day weekend came earlier than ever that year. It was time to drive up to Ann Arbor to say goodbye. I never experienced living without her. Our bedrooms were across the hall; I came to her for everything. But she was leaving, and I was more disappointed than she was. She was ready to take on a new road: a new road without me. She was ready to say goodbye and leave all our memories behind. She’s successful now. She will be in graduate school next year. I get a few texts every week. She’s happy, but the room across mine is still empty.

JANUARY 2015: YOU’RE TOO OLD TO HAVE A NANNY Snezana. Her thick Croatian accent greeted me every day after school since 3rd grade. She would wait outside in her bright blue Mazda that smelled of pinecones and her lavender perfume, trying to cover the scent of nursing home and vomit. She worked hard, with dark circles always around her eyes. She would come straight from her nine hour nursing job at an elderly care home to drive us around for the next few hours. My parents called her a “blessing” and “second mom” to my brother and I because that’s exactly what she was. With parents that worked almost 17 hours a day whether at their office, nursing

06 Succulent by Lilly Rothschild

homes, hospital, or doing paperwork at home, it was clear to say Snezana filled in the holes our family had to make to support our education and lifestyle. Unexpectedly, Snezana told us she was pregnant. Through our smiles and big teeth, we pretended to be happy, but secretly, we never wanted this day to come. We knew that she would have to leave us for her pregnancy, but also most likely leave us for good since she would be too busy as a nurse and a new mother. On her last day in January, we were both sad. Unlike my sister, I most likely would only see her again one or two times a year when she would get the chance to stop by. She was leaving me for new beginnings, and my selfish young self resented her for that, but my new high school mind was extremely happy for her. She had overcome immigration, an abusive first marriage, and brain cancer to find herself in the exact place she wanted to be: employed, married to the love of her life, and healthy enough to have a family. I was rooting for her my whole life, she was my biggest role model and I was proud of her.

FEARS: Growing up and losing you KATHYRN DOHERTY

As she dropped me home for the final time, she came out of the car and gave me a long hug. She kissed me on the cheek as a tear rolled down her face and handed me a note. She told me she loved me and ran back to her car as fast as she could with her wide stomach, and drove away. This was hard for her too, and she hated crying in front of other people. I went inside and fell in my bed feeling no emotions. I laid still staring at the ceiling, unaware of what to feel. Should I be happy for her or sad for myself? I still donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know that answer to this day. I miss her but Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m glad to have lost her to something bigger than myself.

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Dial Tone LINA GHOSH

The last time my mother told me she loved me was when I was in seventh grade. As I got onto the bus after the last track meet of the year the coaches told us to call our parents to relay our anticipated arrival time at school. I glanced at an older girl talking on the phone across from me. She rolled her eyes at whatever the person on the other end of the line was saying. After a moment, she looked around carefully and hurriedly whispered, “Love you too, Mom!” I was the only one who noticed the small smile on her face as she shoved her phone into her bag. The moment may have seemed insignificant to her and perhaps to the others around me, but it wasn’t for me. I dialed my mother’s number. “Hello.” “Hi Maa, my coach said we’ll be at school at 7:00.” “Okay.” She hung up. I held the phone up to my ear for a bit longer, contemplating a bit before softly saying “Love you” to the dial tone. The ebb and flow of my courage precluded me from voicing the question that was clearly formulated in my mind. Do you love me? In fact, it took years before the uncomfortable question surfaced from the depths of my heart to the tip of my tongue. Do you love me? It was after an hour-long drive back from dance class, after an hour of mental deliberation and silence, that I felt the closing of the garage door and the powering down of the ignition more emphatically than I had ever before. “Do you love me?”

07 Where is This Going? by Matilda Madfis

The incredulous look on my mother’s face singed the tips of my ears, but her expression soon melted into one of contrition that set my cheeks ablaze as she quietly replied, “Of course I love you.” As a child, I craved my aloof mother’s affection. I knew that she was homesick; her physical separation from her mother country and culture had severed the ties between her mind and soul, the latter of which she had left behind in her own home. My mind often reasoned that her love for her country overpowered her love for me. My mother’s loyalty to her culture was apparent through her tight adherence to tradition and conservatism. She was principled but also had extraordinary depth. I was raised in an environment that contrasted my mother’s. My friends and teachers taught me to be unreserved; I laughed about my embarrassing moments and asked too many questions, I grew my hair long and cut it till it curled under my ears, I danced, and I chose my own clothes. Meanwhile, she cried behind locked doors after a tough diagnosis to a patient, she scolded me for wearing shorts and sent me an article about rape afterwards, she cut her own hair but let me go to salons, she secretly recorded

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herself singing for her dying mother, and she hated shopping because it reminded her of the impoverished children begging on the streets in her country. On the topic of love, she was virtually silent. It was difficult for me to maneuver in her world of hidden emotions when my heart knew only how to speak out loud. It seemed as if she had constructed walls around herself to keep me out and herself in. Now, I recognize that my mother’s life has been a sacrifice, that she’s abandoned one source of happiness with the purpose of securing another one. While she hangs onto her culture in an effort to compensate for her physical separation, I hang onto the sole memory I have of the validation of her love – in hopes that it is perhaps I who can bring back the joy she’s given up. It’s true that we speak different languages, but rather than surrender to the barriers, it’s my responsibility to translate.

A NOTE ABOUT LOVE GRACE HOMANY

LOVE is a dog that waits by your door, no matter the day, tail wagging to greet you.

LOVE doesn’t like when you leave, but they let you go anyway, because they know you’ll come back.

LOVE does not care if you’re sweaty from the gym or mad about that physics test.

LOVE gets let out without a leash, and stays in the yard sniffing the lawn, scanning the sidewalk, confident the grass on this side is indeed greener.

LOVE is winding between your legs, tripping you before you cross the door jamb, then licking your face as you sit trying to stay frustrated on the floor.

Sure, LOVE may grow old and get arthritic hips or go a little blind, and you might have to flat out tell people to stop bringing you flowers, or stop buying you rugs because they aren’t much more than bathroom stops at this point, but that’s the best part about Love.

LOVE has a tail that’s just a little too long and knocks over vases on a monthly basis, so when people buy you flowers you make potpourri instead. LOVE can be a bed-hog, and a pillow-hog, and snore like there’s no tomorrow, but there’s always just enough space on a queen sized bed for both of you. In fact, some nights Love curls so perfectly against the small of your back that the rise and fall of your ribcages is nearly one. LOVE steals sandwiches off the counter and has been caught on more than one occasion nose-deep in the toilet bowl, yet somehow still gets excited to hear the delicate sprinkle of the food you pour in the metal dish. LOVE barks at reporters on NPR and at vicious intruders you call “Uncle Steve” or “The Mailman,” but Love listens when your hushed tone soothes.

When it lets you love LOVE more, because with every mysterious carpet stain clean up, there’s a memory of a walk in a park, or a particularly rowdy fetch game, that reminds you why you are now scrubbing bleach into beige. Because LOVE loves you back every step of the way, every day from the other side of the door, to the other side of the bed. LOVE is there whether you want it or not, slobbering, barking, licking, messy LOVE. While it may not be irreplaceable, LOVE, wagging nearly its whole body with unconditional affection, is unforgettable.

LOVE cowers during thunderstorms and cries when the lightning gets closer than “two Mississippis.”

Caetera Desunt

ELLIE CASCIO

Stowed away underneath the duvet cover and the aged wooden frame of my bed Unmoving, unearthed and untouched A box of memories Of a stolen faded shirt that still smells like you And a red hat you once placed on my unbrushed hair in the hazy light of the late night and early morning. The rest is missing; Caetera Desunt. Nowhere in that box could I put your fingers wrapped around mine, Tracing the lines of my infant-looking hand. I could not lay your freckles or the stretch marks, growing like roots of an ancient tree, along your spine. Instead, all I could put in this box Was the smeared ink on a movie ticket stub

Or the Polaroids you took when you lay in my bed as the sun sunk. The rest is missing; Caetera Desunt. Omitted is the laced underwear and embroidered belt cascading to the floor Or the jet black record player spinning in the fold of wooden walls, The corners of your mouth wrinkling slightly as you hummed Bob Dylan’s best songs. Unable to be confined was the tear that slid down your sunburnt cheek when you spoke about your mother Or your bright green gaze, staring at me patiently. Instead I had to settle For knowing Caetera Desunt For knowing the rest is missing.

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Five ALANNA BROWN

ECHO

y back is wet from the grass, and it is so dark that only the moon seems fully there. M And I’d rather pretend we aren’t really there. How can we fit two years into five minutes? Your hands are cold. There is dirt under your fingernails. But we are holding hands anyway, my warmth seeping into the deep abyss that is you. The silence is pervasive, but soft, and the stars fade in and out between the channels of the sky. I tell you to stop breathing so loud, and you smile. It is quiet again.

I watch her cup her tiny hands around her face. I love her – the way her eyes always look half closed, the way her black pupils reflect the light overhead. She is silent as we walk. She stops to play with the wind chimes. She stops to play with the leaves. She stops to give kisses to glass doors and watch her breath fade from frost to nothingness. You follow a few steps behind, pausing for just a while longer when we stop. You only come up once, to give her a single leaf, a little red one, scattered between the frosty blades of grass. She thanks you with that toothy smile, and we continue on, taking one step for every two of hers.

III

The flashcards make a sound like waves on the beach. You flip through with droopy eyes, reading the words aloud. You scold me for writing in pencil, which I can barely see, but I say that you are the reason my glasses are broken. Don’t you remember? Back in the snow, you stole them from me, laughing in the dark, and before you knew it, they had jumped from your gloved hands into the mounds of snow. And we searched, not knowing that the buried treasure was right beneath your left snow boot. But now, the snow is long gone, and the fans work overtime to keep us from drowning ourselves in sweat. Suddenly, we realize we are screaming. One of the fans falls on me. I roll from furry bed to matted carpet and laugh and laugh and laugh and laugh.

We are defying gravity. I squeeze my legs together in a useless attempt to minimize human contact with strangers. I watch you play with your reading light, and your air conditioner, and the window shade. I try to read, but I can’t focus with you squirming, and I find nothing else to do. The flight attendant asks you what snack you want. You ask her about her day. You order peanuts and cranberry juice, and I get pretzels. You chew too slowly. I turn toward you, and we laugh at something only we could find funny. You fall asleep gradually, like the shower trying to get hot, and I try to settle into my own kingdom of quiet. I am fitful – the announcements, coughs, and constant whirring sounds wake me up – but I eventually follow you into sleep.

There are leaves in your hair, but you don’t brush them away. You brought your camera because the sun is out, and you want to capture the last sunny days before the chill comes. You focus on a single leaf with your huge Nikon. The lens almost swallows the poor yellow thing. I stand back, watching you. I don’t remember what we learned that summer in photography class, but you held onto the knowledge like you were a fly, and it was honey. You caress your camera, adjusting the F-stop until the screen matches the picture in your mind. It is perfect, you say.

CLAIRE MARTENS You fill my world with puns about funny foods we eat and an ear on the other line that always wants to hear me But when I look at you, I still see a shadow of his patchy beard and grey eyes piercing at me as he pushed me up against a wall The thunder of iron and fear When I look at you, I want to forget his echo As I melt into something so simple in your arms And think of only sonnets and oil paintings And walls become walls again, not battlegrounds Your warm brown eyes offer a home to me as I welcome them to seep into the cracks of my shell I’ve built because When you hold me, his echo melts away and all I can hear is you singing bluesy love songs as you hum warm honey into my ear

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08 Leaves by Hanna Keyerleber

I Wait for the Days STEPHANIE KAISER

I wait for the days when those fall leaves cannot hold on any longer, But they cling to their skinny branches anyway, The way I gasp for air after breaking my underwater reverie. I wait for the days when I wake up to the slow purr of a cat on my stomach, Filling the chest cavity of cold air stained with morning breath. I wait for the days when the mailbox flag is up And I put a blade through the vessel to get to the soul of it all. I wait for the days when we have breakfast at noon, When I stand on your toes Even though I will never be close to your height, And our old CD player vibrates against my palm With your favorite voices from the â&#x20AC;&#x2122;80s. I wait for the days when I can fit in your suitcase, When I curl myself up and ask you to zip me in. I wait for the days when I beg you not to go, And my words are enough to make you stay. I wait every day for you to come home, But it seems that there is no place for me In the mantel photo frame that you smile at Every time you pass by. Do you ever wait for the days when you can come home to me?

PIECES

ELIZABETH STACK

The record spun round in its endless psychedelic circle while I, dazed by you, lied in the paradox haven we created You took my sanity and spun it like Alt-J and Kanye But I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t care Why is it that I feel whole with you, the one who is slowly taking apart my pieces like a jigsaw? The more you collect, the more I want to give I am a backwards beggar: instead of asking for more, I have been giving up myself to you little by little piece by piece

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Blue Sea Holly JASPER SOLT

You are the rocks by the water That, childlike, I stumbled on I wondered how names were carved in you Someone was more tenacious than the sea. You are not a piano Because you do not have all the keys And I am not a rose Because I don’t stand for romance. Rather, you are the sea And I am a weed. And, when springtime breaks, Alone we tango in the same wind. Your hands are grappling hooks Pulling me into cavernous blues Years later you handed me a pinecone And told me it was our secret

09 Together by Kayla Schwartz

A plant can never leave the earth. To save itself, it buries itself. I am a plant, with leaves like grappling hooks And I can never leave the shore.

A tail of sand washes away. KRISTINA MULLEN

ARIELLE DEVITO my first kiss sent frost creeping up my arms in fractals and curls as tightly coiled as the ones in her hair and when she let go I curled in on myself until the ice ate into my shoulderblades and crackled along my bone-burnished ribcage i’ve been cold, these past days, because the sky is heavy and thick with sparrows so i pulled you close and put your hand to my shivering wrists and told you that I feared someday I’d freeze to death. that’s when we decided that I’d live forever. that I would press your gilded lips to my temple and let your heat send drops of water tumbling into my hair and we would thaw together, as the millennia slip by as your fingers slip into mine

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The last time I saw Her, Silence stood between us. Like a wall bricked up from both sides, Expanding outwards with our mutual consent.

SUSPENSION

EMMA PICHT

It devoured the air, Forcing us to hold our breath Suffocating the words we wanted to say, By caging them under our tongues. But the words shone bright behind our irises, The only light to escape From our own keen-sighted black holes. We held each other’s gaze. Each yearning for the other to speak And lift away the thick comforter of Quiet. That cocooned our words in downy feathers. After a millennium our silence was shattered. Dismantled with a sledgehammer of words we didn’t want to hear. Words that held no truth and no future. And we parted ways, Choosing to leave those words still unspoken. For somebody else, Braver than Her or I.

SYNAPSE STEPHANIE KAISER

She walks along my every nerve ending, Stardust in her fingertips. And I know about that rule of halves, And how if I move halfway to her, Then half that distance, Then another half, I know, mathematically and logically, We will never, ever touch. But she’s never been the type to follow the rules. She doesn’t stop halfway to me, She reaches me in a way that envelops me, consumes me, And I could just keep taking her in. And logically and mathematically, It’s never made sense that she is mine. Screw that, she says, Because opposites attract and she is a beautiful whirlwind Of whispers and inches away and eyelashes, And I am stagnant and weary. And she takes me, and destroys me, Shatters me in the best way and examines every single shard Until she knows me, all of me. And she spends her day stitching me back together, Because science and logic be damned When the poetry of her hands is tracing My entire history.

Opal I’ve never understood spinning gold, Never imagined the shine wink at me As I pull it through my fingertips. But now, I’ve heard her voice, pouring like a candle, Setting me ablaze. And I’ve swam in the clear blue ocean of her arms; Unsteady at first, wobbling in the salty waves. But now I am secure, even drifting out to where my feet cannot grip the sand beneath me – Fearless. She is blood red ink, staining my hands like clay dirt Stuck underneath my fingernails where I dig down into the earth To retrieve my heart from where I hid it, So I can share it with her. I am a sunflower, craning my neck to get a shred of her light, Up in the sky where she belongs. And in the sky, she has shown me that there is beauty in the clouds;

STEPHANIE

In bright blue canvases KAISER And paper greyness that envelops us all, Not just as the sun greets the horizon or the galaxies blink to life. She is an opal, and I am awestruck, Wondering how so many universes could possibly be contained in a life That might seem insignificant to the grazing eye, But whose every speckle and scar is a story I cannot wait to have traced onto my skin. Because when she is next to me, and her head fits perfectly into the empty space between my jawline and my shoulder, I think I know, in those moments, How a never-ending universe has followed the unpredictable, inevitable path that has found its way to me; How an impossibly infinite girl was born with golden fingers That have inexplicably, serendipitously, been held in my own hand. W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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Quintet ARIELLE DEVITO

Our table consists of the oddest quintet that I’ve ever seen. One Ohioan in leather jewelry whose greatest passion is talking about her cat, JT. One girl from Oklahoma City who writes scary stories and loves theatre as much as I do. One girl whose eyebrows draw a dramatic line across her face and whose cynical voice expresses opinions about everything from the incompetence of the US government to whether soft serve ice cream is better than the regular sort. One soccer player from South Carolina who can supply a relevant Carl Jung quote for any occasion. And me, fantasy enthusiast, costume sewer, lover of bees, and currently stuffing my face with angel food cake. The one thing that connects us all is writing. No matter how disparate our interests may be, we’re all ready to spend hours talking about the relative merits of writing in the past or present tense, and we all understand when one of us bursts into tears in the middle of reading a poem. We spend an evening wandering a graveyard and speculating about the afterlife. We call ourselves the Graveyard Writers Gang. We try, and fail, to make matching pins. We tell each other our stories over cake and lemonade at the Wiggin Street Coffee Shop. There was never a time in my life when I didn’t know I wanted to be a writer, I tell them. I’ve been told that I may as well have popped out of the womb with a pen in hand, already scribbling down stories. The others smile at appropriate intervals and pick up after I finish with their own tales of discovery and decision, how they came to the realization that they wanted to write and how they broke it to their parents that no, they weren’t going to grow up to be doctors or to join the family rug business. We pass around moments and stories like we pass around the cookies we all share, lighting up our corner booth with laughter. I’ve always believed that writing is about connection. Although sometimes I used to isolate myself from my classmates, hiding inside during recess to bury my nose in a book or skipping sleepovers to finish a series, I was always connecting with the authors I admired. When I was slightly too off-beat to be in sync with my classmates, I found companionship in Hermione Granger and Coraline, and when reality was too dull to bear, my adventures took place in Middle Earth and Narnia. And if I had a fight with my sister or my friends, I could always turn to Mary and her secret garden for a reminder that solitude was okay too, sometimes. And here, at this two-week writing workshop that feels far too much like home, I’m connecting with people that I would otherwise never have known. I’ve learned their names and their faces, and that Sarah doesn’t like mint-flavored things and Karena uses slang words in ways they were never intended to be used, but we’ve also all seen each other’s first drafts of poems and read aloud writing that we’d be too insecure to share with anyone else. There’s a smile tugging on the corner of my mouth as Maggie shows us a drawing she did the other night, and Lee mentions that it reminds him of something Jungian. Our love of writing brought us here and brought us together, and I can’t help but thank whatever deity there might be for giving me this passion and these people.

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ON THE P INTERSECTION OF H

Y S AND CHEMISTRY I C S

ALANNA BROWN Whenever you touch me, I’m not thinking about you. I’m thinking about how atoms are always moving and they won’t stop. I’m thinking that if you wanted glassy eyes and a blooming mouth, you should have called my sister. I waited for you like the logs wait for the flame But you – you burned like the front page. You want to complain that my head is full of morning dew and song lyrics, But water holds secrets you will never know: Patience, and calm, and consistency. But you prefer a head full of old typewriter keys and Ticonderogas. You have written down every fact, every mistake, every worry out for yourself, And there is no room in your big head for me. I didn’t ask for this water-child, or your graphite swirls, But I got them, and somehow, I will make the atoms connect.

Stars

ORBIT

ALANNA BROWN

CHLOE SCHWARTZ

You’re twinkling stars kids wish upon.

(If) We are the same stars, threaded into galaxies, (then) You are the softest of them, the quiet radiance and lemon tea and dandelion seeds, a cupful spilling over into a smile

Cosmic Sense ELA PASSARELLI

I miss you like the burning gold liquid from Venus, so rich in metallic content but lacking everything alive I guess our bodies are just echoes …broken salt in trembling patterns …the blankness of out-of-sync eyes galaxies dot the bruised and glowing arteries of artists dancing in the deep black, spinning through the multitudes of time small specks shimmer in the puddles of my moon-boots a deep red liquid that looks a lot like blood the souls of blackbirds are made of hard white stones that hit Earth, six million hertz explode when they fall my breath halts at the opening rings of blue oxygen my lips and closed wounds how did rivers of mercury learn to ﬂoat upside-down? help me because I can’t breathe when their eyes skim past me to the next one who I missed by a centimeter of time space and DNA  lost in a labyrinth of purple atoms and safety net pain so busy with the heat of the sun, they missed entirely the importance of its reﬂection

We’re sitting in a restaurant surrounded by anyone and everyone, threads of their stars pulling, pulling people talking and moving as I feel curls of gas (a chemical reaction) twist away and out of me You’re sitting across from me and I watch as you drink bubble tea (mango) for the first time And your nose crinkles at the unexpected boba And the threads slacken And the wisps curl in on me again (So) We are one constellation or in orbit, next door neighbors making houses in skies and teabags, tangling threads every time we say hello.

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01 Dandelion by Molly Gleydura 02 Rock Reflection by Nell Bruckner

MACKINAC MARIA PERILLA On the island the stars fill the sky like white bread crumbs on a black marble countertop. As I lay there on the cool grass, the big dipper shone in between the trees and the moon was a thin white smile pulled up by cosmic cheeks. There was a wedding on the island so people roared outside our window into the early morning light. And I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think about him leaving. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think about missed phone calls and silence between rooms. I thought about hamburgers, bug bites, and streams that flow forever.

A storyteller told us that spirits are said to appear regularly. Soldiers catch rides on carriages and women in white wail by the big stone gates. So I thought a lot about what it must feel like leave a soul behind. On the island, the sun sets slow like a winding down music box. Like it wants to be watched when it dips its glowing body into the endless blue. The whole world stops for a minute. The sound of slow breaths can be heard beyond the gardens, as liquid gold runs underneath the red rusting bridge.

I thought about turning into our parents, diet coke, and rain. W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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Dear Cape Cod HOLLY GALBINCEA

Thank you for the horseshoe crab skeletons that we collected on the beach. We would go early in the morning, when the tide was low, and find their shells. I was always scared to touch them, because of their pointy tails, but my mom would always reassure me. I won’t forget when we found a crab that was half of my eight-year-old body. We didn’t touch it, but we still have the pictures of me smiling next to it in my pink Speedo and boyish haircut. I always liked finding the little ones, so my mom collected the medium sized ones. We still have most of them. Thank you for showing me that I am allergic to cashews when I was in second grade. I would have learned at some point or another, but I’m glad to share the memory with you. I have since grown out of the allergy, but I will never forget the night when I ate a full bowl of them. It was a dinner party and I had never tried them. I ended up with hives all over my arms and the hostess had to escort me to the guest bedroom, where I slept and watched Disney Channel for the rest of the night. Thank you for letting me tie dye with my mom’s college friend’s children in their backyard. They always had t-shirts, pillow cases, socks, and even shoelaces for me to ruin. I felt cool hanging out with high school kids who worked at the ice cream parlor and I think they liked me too. One of them even let me tie dye one of her t-shirts from the ice cream parlor one time. Thank you for the peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, the ones that were so sticky they were almost too hard to eat. I have tried to make them at home, but I can never seem to get the fluff from the knife to the bread. I will always be in awe of how the sandwich shop on the corner can do it so well. Thank you for the baseball games that we went to; I’m still not sure where the teams were, but I remember that they had their own little fields for the summer and their own baseball cards. We would get peanuts from the snack cart and my dad would try to explain the rules. After the games, we could go on the field and meet the players and they would sign autographs. They probably weren’t worth much, but to me, they were about as valuable as the pros. Thank you for the beach about an hour away whose waves were almost too big to swim in and whose rocks would cut my feet. We would make a day out of it and go only once a summer. I bought ugly water shoes just so I could go into the water and somehow, the rocks would still cut my feet. I always found a group of kids that were there with their families and we slid down the sand dunes on boogie boards, only to get yelled at by the lifeguards. They had great mozzarella sticks at the restaurant there and my dad always ordered oysters. Thank you for the hydrangeas and the nights that we made fires and roasted marshmallows. My mom and Aunt Sarah would always wear lavender scarves that matched the flowers and drink wine in Adirondack chairs around the fire pit in the backyard while the kids ate s’mores. We would lay out blankets and look for patterns in the stars. The night sky was clearer than it ever was at home and we could always smell the ocean. Thank you for the hardware store that had a collection of string more abundant than any craft store at home. My cousins and I would spend hours picking out the best colors and making intricate bracelets. We bought a book of different designs at the hardware store once and we would all take turns learning how to tie a heart design into out bracelets. I still remember selling them on the beach with my cousins and spending our minimal profits on Green Monster Ice Cream at Emack and Bolios. Thank you for your warm days, cool nights, sunburns, seashells, pebble driveways, blue cottages and a childhood that I will cherish for the rest of my life. Yours, Holly

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03 View from an Island by Tae-Hee Kim 04 Xylem and Phloem by Emma Borrow 05 Archway Greenery by Layla Najeeullah

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HALF A GLOBE AWAY JENNIFER WANG

y cousin smiled, her tiny two-year-old hands gripping the edge of an iPad and a giant lopsided grin conquering the dimpled valleys and blushing hills of her cheeks. She pounded her feet on the floor, the way little children do, her shiny black shoes excitedly tap dancing on the zaffre carpet floor. The iPad dwarfed Anna as she hugged it to her chest. She gripped my grandma’s calf with one arm and thrust the iPad as high into the air as she could with the other. Bending down, my grandma replied, “You want to FaceTime your dad?” A grainy oval popped up on the screen, amorphous behind the murky glass. A dark outline bobbed across the hazy screen as lights flickered on half a globe away and the image sharpened. My uncle’s eyes gleamed when he saw Anna – or maybe it was just light hitting the glass screen. My grandma waved proudly to her son and entrusted the iPad to Anna, “Give your daddy a kiss.” She violently shook her head and emphatically waved her arms ‘no’ as my uncle’s face flipped upside-down and right-side up in my grandma’s hands, the iPad’s software desperately trying to keep up with real life. “Qin bu dao. Qin bu dao,” Can’t be kissed. Can’t be kissed. I can’t kiss him!

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She refused the iPad. “Bu zai! Bu zai! Ba Ba bu zai!” Not here! Not here! Daddy’s not here! This was the first time I had seen Anna FaceTime her dad since his visit the summer before, and I was amazed that despite how thoroughly integrated technology was in her life, she could still differentiate between a real person and a computer. She had learned to use a smartphone before she could walk and had explored her own reflection, not through a mirror, but a screen. Anna cavorted to the living room with the iPad clutched against her chest. Her short airy hair fluttered wildly as she pranced along a circuitous path to the windowed back wall. When she reached the chestnut colored couch, she gingerly propped the iPad up on an armrest so that she and the face were the same height. She could see her dad clearly now, and the screen seemed to melt away. In that moment of connection, Anna’s attention focused solely on her dad. The iPad was not part of the equation. I wondered, is the point to technology to be so elegant, intuitive, and integrated that it becomes invisible? How does connectivity, or lack thereof, change the structure of relations on a familial scale? Looking back, I wonder if it is a consequence of increased connectivity in the digital age that a contagious trend of popularism and nationalism has started to isolate nations from the hard-earned benefits of globalization. “Ba Ba! Ba Ba!” Anna shrieked. Daddy! Daddy! She stood in a pink azalea party dress, a little shy, grinning behind her eyelashes. Her hands squirmed behind her back as she stood peeking at her dad on tiptoes. Every few seconds she turned to the large family behind her and giggled like a chirping canary. Then she would whip her head back toward the glass to check if her dad was still there. Of course he was. One screen, one apartment, several satellites, half a globe, a few cities, one apartment, one room, one iPad away. On our side of the globe, my uncle’s presence made the lights glow warmer. The crowd of eight became a gathering of nine. What I found most beautiful was that everyone minded their own business, and my uncle was not a spectacle. He was a natural part of family. In retrospect, I

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

realize it must have been a completely different experience for him. While he perched in front of an empty table so that his head loomed life-size to us, we would have appeared as little figurines entering and exiting his screen. We would have been actors in a film playing on a lonely morning. I imagine that while we felt his presence as a real addition to the family dinner, he was only reminded of how isolated and separate he was from our world – the world of his daughter. My grandma strode over with a plate of apple slices and Anna quickly stole a piece. Without hesitation, she shoved the small white wedge to her dad’s mouth, but froze a centimeter away from the screen. She knew he wasn’t there, but she also knew that she cared for him. She didn’t say anything, just smiled a giant toothy grin that bridged the dimples in her apple cheeks. Through the iPad’s speakers, my uncle rambled, thanking her and insisting that she eat the slice. I watched his heart melt from half a globe away. My own dad walked over with the gentle smile of his, and my grandfather laughed proudly from behind. Other than them, no one saw. So it was in this moment that I appreciated, perhaps for the first time, my generation’s obsession with documenting every little insignificant detail of life. Almost as an instinct, my faithful phone flew into my hands and captured the moment just before the magic ended. Forever. Normally, I am unsettled by pictures taken of heartfelt moments. It almost seems like sacrilege to remove oneself from the candor of a moment and force a permanent copy of something ephemeral. But this picture, in all its rushed imperfections, remains one of my favorites. It just feels right. When I look at it, I’m not examining the next photo I’m going to post or calculating the artistry of the shot. What I see is a memory. What I find is a fragment of Anna’s character, the rawness and boundlessness of tender love, an idea, a movement, and a new definition of being human. Ironically, in the background of the photo, one of my aunts sits curled up in the corner of a couch with her phone in her hand. She is laughing, captivated by whatever secret wonders it offers, and completely oblivious of what is happening right in front of her eyes. While technology can connect, it can isolate. Exacerbating the world’s worst qualities, technology can become a tool of polarization. Ease of mobility and expression – all vital to free speech – often allow people to sequester themselves in bastions of ideas that they

06 are comfortable with. Instead of engaging new perspectives and voicing new thoughts, they hide in echo chambers where they only know people who share their own opinion and somehow arrive at the assumption that everyone must hold that opinion. As a tool, technology and the internet are extremely effective catalysts for expression and conversation. However, they remain reflections of the people who use them. Petty insults and controversial arguments will always remain a facet of connectivity, but so too will insightful conversations and purposeful criticism. In the 21st century, growing up as a civil student means learning how to navigate the world of fake news and angry egos while fostering our own values and contributing meaningful arguments to incendiary topics. It is necessary to think critically, to learn how technology works, and use it to break down boundaries created by centuries of spite and confinement. Maybe technology will become inseparably embedded in our lives, and maybe people will initially react to connectivity by receding to the closed-off shadows of insular nationalism, but technology powers new voices and creates a new dimension to being human. It is unavoidable that we will explore this new landscape and imperative that we learn how to use it to improve society. In our age and our society, technology gives us a way to tell stories. It lets us connect to people in different cultures and locations. It welcomes us into the hearts of remote villages, begs we listen to the hardships of desperate refugees, invites us to the vitality of urban life, and shocks us with the horrors of war. Being human isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just about knowing the stories of ourselves and our local communities anymore. We are too connected to ignore each other, to be ignored. Being human means knowing the stories of your neighbors, your country, the country across the globe, the community on the other side of the world, and the people in it. It means observing your spirited cousin as she interacts with her dad, from half a globe away, and realizing that you can give others the tool to experience the same connectivity forged in the zaffre carpeted room that day.

06 Cinque Terre by Stephanie Zhou

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Identity Meld NELL BRUCKNER

Ever since I was old enough to go to sleepaway camp, I’ve lived in what appears to be a sharp dichotomy between my winters in inner-city Cleveland and my summers in Northern Ontario’s wilderness. When I was ten years old, my parents searched “intense outdoor survival camp” on Google, and the first result that appeared was for a canoe tripping camp—founded in 1893— that boasts the largest fleet of wood-canvas canoes and a commitment to the “traditional style” of canoe tripping. The camp was Keewaydin Temagami, and for my parents, it was a perfect match. I was sent away for three whole weeks, and when I returned, blissfully bug bitten, I told my parents to promptly sign me up for next summer—I wanted to go for six weeks. Thus was the dawn of my love for the outdoors. I returned every summer, and when I was sixteen I completed my final canoe trip as a camper. The trip lasted seven weeks, starting in the northernmost road-accessible lake in Quebec and finishing in the First Nations settlement of Umiujaq on the Hudson Bay. Every August I would come home and was inevitably asked, “How is it adjusting back to life in the ‘real world?’” and when I was younger, the answer was usually “pretty hard.” As I got older, however, the two spheres of my existence started to meld together as I began to recognize that the “real world” and the “camp world” weren’t as different as I thought. To many, the streets of the inner city are as alien to them as the lakes and streams of Northern Quebec. For me, they are simply two sides of the same coin, and it has been living in Cleveland that has prepared me the most for facing the “wild north.” Like sending me to Keewaydin, my parents made a conscious decision to move to the inner city, because they wanted me to be exposed to as many different people and places as possible. They raised me in the city, sent me to school in the suburbs, and I grew up learning how to go in between. Being able to transition seamlessly from the inner-city gas station to the high walls of my private high school is part of what makes me who I am, and going to Keewaydin is just another transition that has been fit into the complex web of social, economic,and geographic spheres through which I traverse almost every day.

To put it simply, living in Cleveland has made me highly adaptable, and that’s what I love about canoe tripping: the need for adaptability. No two days in the city look alike, just like no two days on the trail look the same. Living in a space that’s wildly different from where my school, my church, and my friends are has made it so that I’m rarely caught off guard in a situation with which I am unfamiliar. Each day on a canoe trip you wake up on one lake, and by that night you’re on a different one. Each morning at home I wake up in one city, but I spend my entire day in a different one. It’s

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one with different people, different colors, different expectations, and a different socioeconomic status, but it is always the same me, simply living in between worlds, not wholly a part of any one singularly. They’re all intertwined, and I couldn’t be one without the others. Now, whenever I return from my time up north and I’m asked the same question about adjusting to the real world, I simply tell them that I never left.

Le Calme Avant l’Orage ANNIE LEWANDOWSKI

J’aime si bien le ciel en colére Les poids des nuages qui accrochent en l’air Ils cachent quelque chose comme l’ire d’enfance En criant les mots dûrs au transport du vent Tant que la grisaille appuye sur moi Et la foudre fait le jour de ce soir Je repose, avec un cœur allegé Et savour l’amas que Nature a fait

Calm Before the Storm I bask under the wide angry sky The weight of the clouds suspended in the air They hide something fleeting, like childish fury while screaming empty words carried hollowly by the wind As long as the grayness presses softly in on me and the electricity-drenched sky makes day of the night I rest, with a heart breathlessly light to savor the mess that nature has created

07 Chilean Sunset by Leia Rich 08 Venice, Italy by Stephanie Zhou 09 City on Fire by Kate Snow W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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An Indianized Thanksgiving ISHA LELE

nstead of my alarm clock blaring “What The Hell” by Avril Lavigne that Thursday morning, I woke up to smoke alarms and screams of panic. The smell of burnt wood and strong gas filled my nose as I soon realized that the first attempt on my mom’s part to cook a turkey had failed. Since it was our last week staying in the house I had spent my eleven years of life in, we thought it would be good to finally use the oven for the first time and make the most of a holiday we usually spent chowing down on Boston Market chicken and macaroni and cheese. When I walked to the kitchen to examine the damage, the sight of exploded, saturated turkey fat and oozing apples that were once inside a pie made me realize it was going to be another year of the premade fast-food. Once the firefighters had cleared out seeing no damage, my mom sat at the dinner table overwhelmed with frustration and sadness. She didn’t want her last memory in her first home’s kitchen to be another unsuccessful Thanksgiving dinner. As my dad was getting ready to leave to pick up the familiar Boston Market meal, my grandma soon jumped in with an idea. “Indian pizza!” she chanted. Indian pizza, more commonly known as thalipeeth, is a Marathi dish I had loved when I was little. After resisting to try it at first because of its brown color and slimy texture, my grandma named it “Indian pizza” to persuade me into eating a bite. After all, my grandma knew that anything even associated with pizza became automatically more delicious. Taking just a few bites of the cheese-less Indian cuisine, I was instantly hooked. It became the only thing I ate until my grandma left back to India the following week. After not having the dish for over five years, the idea of having thalipeeth as my last meal in this house was reassuring from the sight of the exploded turkey leg my sister was still trying to unlatch from the top of the oven. While my grandma, mom, and sister started putting the ingredients together, I realized my brother and I had nothing to do. All the televisions, bicycles, board games, and even jump ropes had been moved to the new house across town. My grandma, seeing us quarrel amongst ourselves trying to find some form of entertainment, suggested we helped cook. As someone who didn’t know the difference between a frying pan and a stock pot, I didn’t think I would be much help but decided to do so anyway. We all sat on the ground of the kitchen, chopping, shredding, and peeling away at our soon-to-be “Indianized” feast. Even my grandpa and dad started rolling the tough dough, taking turns after their arms became sore while laughing over how old they have both become. I took on my biggest nightmare, the knife. My mom guided my hands as we cut an onion into small pieces with each cut making my eyes tear more and more. Looking up, trying to blink away the tears, I looked around at my family. Everyone was finally together. My parents weren’t stressed about work and my sister wasn’t worried about her college applications for the first time in months. The sight felt so foreign to me that I started to tear up even more. Blaming the onions on my eye puffiness, I continued to chop as I cried tears of sulfenic acid and love. As spices flew and peppers soared, the Marathi dish was finally coming together and the spicy sensation would soon be on my lips. My grandma started frying each piece of thalipeeth one by one, swarming the air with intoxicating scents of garlic and olive oil. We all sat at the table in the kitchen, our one piece of furniture left, with plastic forks and knives in our

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hands, scheming how we would attack each piece as they came fresh from the stove. As one piece was put on the table, three people would fight and snatch over it until two gave it up to the youngest. My first bite when it was finally my turn, so thin and crisp on my tongue, blasted me back to the time when I was little and chowing down on the same delight alongside my grandma. I felt warmth inside me from the hot treat but also the memories of the time I was carefree and only had to worry about burning my tongue. I opened my eyes after the first bite and came to realize I was in another one of these happy moments. I wasn’t worried about anything and the most important thing was still family. Indian pizza, like it did before, brought me back to where I felt most happy. 25 pieces of thalipeeth later, the seven of us sat stuffed and tired from the feast we had just taken on. Lying back, we laughed at the challenge we just took on in contempt with the results. Although the thalipeeth was gone, we stayed at the table for hours, cracking jokes, sharing stories, and talking as if we would never see each other again. The next few days were packed with stress and hassle as we finished the big move. It almost felt like our family feast had never happened and we were back to the same pattern of rushing and chaos. A week later when everything was finally settled though, we decided to make a meal together, “for old time’s sake,” my grandma called it. We had so many great memories from the last house together, that the only way we could guarantee similar outcomes in this new home was starting it where we left off: together.

VACUUM CARLY WELLENER

A life is a small and precious something A ladybug rescued from a lamp Kept in Kitchen Tupperware Stuffed with leaves and dirt An oasis from the roaring of the Vacuum A life is a small and precious something A child extracted from the sea Kept in a detention center Stuffed with lost and desperate Voices trapped by the uncaring Vacuum

10 All-Powerful Eyes by Chloe Richards 11 Dye the City by Farah Sayed 12 Badshahi Mosque by Farah Sayed

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My Closet I

am wearing my favorite Chi-Pao with jasmine flowers entangled with gold detail along the red silk dress. The countless compliments I receive lead me to believe that modeling is in my near future. Sadly, this is my first and last time taking the trip to celebrate Chinese New Year in China with my grandparents. I am barely old enough to form English sentences like “mommy food” but somehow the ability to sing songs in near perfect Chinese comes to me like the yellow canary outside of my window, if it means putting a smile on my grandmother’s face. It was here at my grandparent’s small and cluttered apartment in Eastern Beijing where I took my first steps while mimicking my dad’s dancing. I remember the excitement and gasps as I stood up like a wobbly giraffe. As my mom helps my grandmother set up our annual New Year’s dinner, I hear the doorbell ring and loud greetings arise as my cousins, aunts and uncles arrive. I laugh and giggle as my cousins all greet me one by one, being the youngest didn’t seem that bad at all. It is here where I feel the most at home, where I spend the most time learning Chinese, not English. This is the place where I discovered the feeling of true family, in my red silk Chi-Pao with gold detailing.

I am wearing my favorite denim skirt and a t-shirt with so many daisies that I look like a tiny travelling garden. I woke up bright and early to make sure it was clean and not wrinkly. I even told my mom the night before, “The kids won’t like me if there is a stain on my shirt.” She laughed and washed it for the fifth time in the span of two days. It is the first day of kindergarten and of course I am scared but at the same time, excited. The night before I dreamt of a supply of endless snacks and my teacher giving me stacks of toys, double the size of my five year old body. By now, it has been a few years since I last saw my grandparents, a few years of lost New Year dinners. New dresses and animal sweaters push my favorite Chi-Pao to the back of my closet; I ask for pizza almost every night but still my parents try to remind me of my grandparent’s cluttered apartment, the home where I learned to walk. I rapidly eat my Fruit Loops as the bright yellow school bus I would soon learn to love comes cruising down the street. I jump up and run out the door in excitement as my mom chases after me with my Disney princess backpack and matching jacket in her hands. As I run the fastest my little legs can take me, I turn around and look through the window to see my mom waving goodbye with my lunch of last night’s dumplings still gripped tightly in her hands.

I am wearing a One Direction t-shirt that I had saved all of my allowance money to buy and my fuzzy pajama pants that are a little too small. It’s my 13th birthday party and my parents just put out snacks for the eight of us in the kitchen. “Turning thirteen is a big deal, Stephanie,” my friend Taylor explains, “You’re almost a teenager and you don’t look anything like one.” Usually in this situation, I would ignore Taylor because she just likes to repeat things she hears on her older sister’s TV, but this time I take it to heart.

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Turning 13 is a big deal. It means getting my ears pierced, going to the movies alone with friends, and finally looking like a teenager. But as I look down at my lanky body with the Chinese slippers that my mom told me to wear, I know I didn’t look like the other girls. At this point, my Chinese has almost disappeared from my vocabulary completely, only to being able to say Happy New Year when my grandparents call. Our family has become a mush of Chinese and American traditions. On Christmas, we open presents under our big evergreen tree, but have noodles and fried rice for dinner. I hadn’t realized until now how out of place I feel. My friends don’t treat me any differently but it is the subtle remarks that slowly chip away my memories of China. “What did you get on the math test, oh wait, of course you got 100%.” “Don’t you ever get sick of only eating rice and noodles?” “Ching chong, did I just say something in Chinese?” “Huh, you have pretty big eyes for an Asian.” On the outside, it may seem like I’m an American girl but that’s only because my Chinese past has cracked to the point of no repair. And so we sit around my kitchen doing makeovers and curling hair as my friends turn me into someone I’ll never know but always want to be.

I am wearing jeans in 90-degree weather because my mom said my shorts were too revealing. The air is thick and humid, as sweat drips down my back walking through a sea of people that look nothing like me. It’s the summer after freshman year and this is my first time being in China since 2012. I remember why I disliked these trips so much. Everywhere there are so many people, so many cars, trains, buses trying to find their way. As my brother and I walk down the street, I am reminded of the reason I don’t wear my shorts in public. People stare. Glances get exchanged. I hear whispers of an American flow through the humid air. From the outside I don’t look any different from my cousins or any child in China, but as soon as I open my mouth to speak, people can tell. So I cover it all up; I dress like any person on the street, speak my stuttering Chinese in public, just trying to blend into the background. When I think back to the time of New Year’s with my family, in my grandparent’s small and cluttered apartment, the memories are all a blur. A blur of who I used to be, a blur of wearing my favorite Chi-Pao and dancing around the living room, singing songs in perfect Chinese. I am no longer a Chinese from China but a Chinese American feeling out of place in a world she no longer knows.

I am wearing my bathing suit underneath jean shorts and an old tennis t-shirt, the letters faded so only the T and N are readable on the blue fabric. I stand in the doorway of our hotel room at the resort in the Dominican Republic. Sunburned and anxious, I slowly walk toward the pool, looking for

13 The Heights by Kathryn Doherty

an open spot to let the sun do more damage to my overcooked skin. See, it’s Christmas and I guess that suddenly means everyone has to be at the pool, waiting for Santa Claus to arrive. Each chair becoming more valuable, an image of Survivor starts to form in my head and needless to say, there are no chairs without beach towels laid awry or pool floats stacked on top of each other. I decide to play volleyball, feeling self-conscious of my obvious loner status. Shouts of joy and high fives radiating off of the volleyball court like the sand has some sort of sound system installed, magnifying its happy vacationer’s booming laughter. He watches me as I laugh and miss the ball for the fifth time, generating some pity from other teammates. He says he saw me at the pool yesterday. I didn’t believe him. Why would anyone notice a girl with skin a shade lighter than a tomato? But then again, it’s a good color on me. I giggle and turn, catching his sneaky glance just before he can move to look at something else. That is all I needed. Boys aren’t really a part of my life and I mostly blame it on my crescent-moon eyes and a tiger mom. But here in this moment, I feel as if my Chinese American self has dissipated into the sand, only to be left with butterflies in my stomach. He sees me for who I am. Even laughing at my sarcastic comments while we eat multiple plates of nachos, piled high with cheese. With him, I know my grandparents will approve and an extra plate at New Year’s dinner will be waiting. No one can take me out of this dream, a boy who made me realize I am not any different than the blonde tanning by the pool. But in two days, he will say goodbye, leaving me to face reality alone.

I am wearing a fancy black dress with heels that make me about the height of LeBron James. It is my parent’s 25th wedding anniversary, and to celebrate their matrimony, my dad bought tickets for the family to eat on the Nautica Queen. As the boat sets sail across Cleveland, my mom and dad fall in love all over again. From China to America, their love stretches across continents and after 25 years, it is never ending. My grandparents are getting older now. I live every day in fear that something might happen to them and they won’t be there when I graduate high school. In China, I took my first steps in front of their TV while my grandmother smiled and laughed along. Every milestone from kindergarten to when I lost who I was, they have been there to remind me of the feeling of true family. After 16 years, I have finally accepted it - no, not just accepted it, embraced it. I am Chinese-American and I am proud. Just yesterday, I was cleaning my closet, hoping to get rid of old pajama pants and daisy t-shirts, when I found that beautiful Chi-Pao with jasmine flowers and gold detailing. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind as I hung it in front of my black dress, standing proud and eager to accept the past as I called my grandmother to say Happy New Year.

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Letter to Africa Dear Africa, The moment I stepped off the plane, I had no idea what to expect; I wouldn’t say I had low expectations, but I certainly wouldn’t say I had high expectations of coming back a “changed” person. Of course, you proved me wrong. The bus ride from the airport to Njoro, Tanzania was the first time I laid eyes on your inner beauty. Everything they said about you was true: poverty, starving people, and more poverty. But over the course of my stay, I realized that you are much more than what they say. Through every half built wall, unpaved lump in the road, and starving child’s hand, I saw your true colors. I felt your heartbreak and kindness. Through every beaming smile of each child I saw a life that was nothing like mine, a life I would never have to experience. I wanted to hold your people, tell them I’m sorry, but they didn’t need my compassion. They are happy without the life that we think they deserve. Without running water, electricity, clean showers, toilets, let alone iPhones, computers, TVs, radio stations, or cars. They are happy enough with the same t-shirt to last them the school year, a garbage bag as a roof, the hard clay of the ground as a bed, the dry brown dirt as their playground, and a dollar to last them the day. They don’t need us for our materials, but as friends.

my life and that our friendship will never fade: no matter the distance, no matter the color of our skin, no matter African or American. And for all of this, and so much more, I simply say thank you, Africa. Not for changing my perspective of the world, and making me become more appreciative, but for being you. For exceeding my expectations to unimaginable levels. For showing me the simplicity of beauty in the world. For introducing me to the most beautiful, selfless kids I’ve ever met. For friendships I will always cherish. For opening your doors and allowing me to see the magnitude of beauty you have to offer. But most importantly, for proving me wrong … Sincerely, Serbrina

I will always remember the day Reema, a young girl in Njoro village, gave me a letter. She smirked at me from across the playing field and I saw her cheeks glow with embarrassment. She quickly ran over to me and reached out her hand, placing a piece of crumpled up notebook paper into my hand. The rough edges jabbed at the inside of my palm, I un-crumpled the half-torn, darkish tinted paper and it read: “Serbrina will you be my fiend?” This was the moment I fell in love with Africa. I looked up for her shining face and saw her smile glistening from behind a tree quite the distance away. I nodded my head yes and she laughed and her cheeks grew rosy red. She mouthed back, “thank you,” with a stern face, from across the playing field. My cheeks rose up to my eyes starting to burn, and I’m sure turning red, and I wiped my eyes with the corner of my sleeve. This was the first person I had ever met, that sincerely wanted my friendship. I could tell from the look on her face how much it meant to her. But I don’t know if she noticed how much it meant to me. The rest of my trip she had latched onto my hip. During the school day, we planned an activity for the kids. We told them to write down their biggest wish on a piece of notebook paper and open it a year from now. Reema stood up. After translation I realized she said: “What if we know our dream will never come true? Should we still write it?” The instructor responded, “Well, what is your dream?” Reema answered, “to go to America,” and looked back at me with a grin stretching from both ends of her face. I stared back at her, frozen, with no emotion at all. In less than two days, I would leave these children and return to America: their dream destination but my home. This was temporary for me but permanent for them. How could I - a white United States citizen, 18-year-old girl, without a job - help this girl achieve her goal? I couldn’t. But I did the only thing I thought I could do: remain friends. I will never see Reema again, but I hope she knows not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. I hope she understands the impact she has made on

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SABRINA KUNIMOTO

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Children of the World by Molly Paine Namibian School Children by Molly Paine Zebra by Katrina Frei-Herrmann Sorento, Italy by Stephanie Zhou

The Other Side of the Window ANANYA KALAHASTI A young girl drives in a rustic old Tata Indica, doors and old leather seats creaking, jolt, pothole, speed bumps in the road. her grandparents are sitting in the front, leaning against the window at ease, humming to the old â&#x20AC;&#x2122;60s tunes. the little girl, clutching at her sandwich: tomato-cheese-cucumber-coriander, crumbs dropping across her lap. driving out of the airport, her eyes: greedily peering out the window, alongside the lens of her hot-pink camera, soaking up everything on the other side,

the rash drivers of the gold and black rickshaws, goats and dogs scurrying around pedestrians in the middle of the traffic jam. the hustle parts, to the car, a little boy. his clothes: tattered, across his cheeks: dirt, his hands: shaking,

meeting the young boy face to face. with one fell swoop, she grabs half of her sandwich and hesitantly offers it out to the boy, his face lighting up with glee and gratitude as he hastily runs away to avoid the oncoming traffic. and the girl, well,

as he peers upwards to look into the car, his eyes meeting those of the young girl with a soft plead,

she quietly rolls up the window, calls out a soft and quiet good bye, brings up her camera to

carefully eyeing the sandwich in her hands.

observe the passing action through another lens.

with a soft nod, she eyes her parents, seeking a look of approval, rolls down the window with a rush of humid and sticky Mumbai-air gracing her fingertips,

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M Y FA M I LY A N D

Noodles in Thailand

efore traveling halfway around the world, I never really noticed the amount of food at home in America. I never noticed that when Americans get cravings, we have a gigantic array of flavors to choose from. We have exotic-looking imports from exotic-sounding countries. We have whole rows of just chips and pretzels at the grocery store. We have deep fried, well, everything. There is even customized water: water “infused with oxygen,” water with minerals, water with fizz. So when we crave something, we can find the most extreme version of it – double chocolate chunk brownies if we want chocolate, deep fried chicken if we need something greasy, pan pizza if dough and cheese is on the mind – and satisfy our taste buds without a thought. Meals reflect the experiences we have while eating them. A bowl of steaming soup will taste

ELA PASSARELLI

better when we are cold and sick than when we are sunbathing in the summer, even though each has the exact same ﬂavors. Eating forces us to pay attention to what we are doing and reminds us of what has changed since we last had the same food. However, sometimes the rich ﬂavors can overpower our senses, and eating can become less of a mind-body experience. Instead, we eat in a trance, and only our taste buds are stimulated. We forget what our meal felt like as soon as we swallow. For my family and I, it is easy for this to happen while we eat, because we are often distracted while eating, even if the taste of a meal is vibrant and delicious. We have been trained to multitask; I think about schoolwork during lunch, watch TV while I have a snack, and recently have started drinking tea while I shower. The food probably tasted good when I ate it, but I wasn’t paying

attention, and it has left no notable impact on my mind. However, even in multitasking we never fail to satisfy our cravings, and so we move through life without questioning the way we eat. Over spring break of my freshman year, my family traveled to Thailand. It was the cheapest trip we have ever embarked upon, because the Thai “dollar,” known as a baht, was 1/32 of an American dollar. One of the cheapest things to do there is eat, so my family did our fair share. We carried on American-style: fruit and crispy rice pudding for breakfast, noodles and rice for lunch, and meat for dinner. Each meal we had was dramatically different enough that our taste buds didn’t have to do much work. Each meal was fun, easy, and special. Needless to say, “paying attention” to food wasn’t something we gave a ton of thought to. During the middle of our trip, we did a three-day homestay with a “hill-tribe” family: a family who lives in a remote village in northern Thailand without electricity or other modern conveniences. During these three days my family and I learned more about eating than we ever have in our lives. Each meal we ate with our host family was the same: breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Noodles and rice with broth and some kind of green vegetable. At first, we were all incredibly surprised. Breakfast and dinner were exactly the same? At first, I hated eating the same thing so many times. My taste buds dulled. I stole chocolate out of my mom’s purse and ate banana chips – greasy, sweet, and fruity at the same time – to keep up with their demands. But after the first day, they adapted, and I learned we weren’t eating the same meal over and over again after all. The first night we ate noodles with the entire family and their friends on the floor of their house. I helped the mother of the family cook over a fire on the floor in the kitchen. My clothes and hair smelled like smoke, and my fingertips had been dipped in a fine charcoal powder. Since I helped to cook them, each bite I took of the spicy noodle soup presented itself to me: here is the basil, here is the ginger, here are the soft squishy rice noodles. I don’t even remember if it tasted good, but because the night was full of laughter and smiles and the type of respect only a language barrier can create, in my mind I remember it – and really vividly remember it – as delicious.

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19 The next afternoon there was a wedding in town. The couple was remodeling their house for their life together but still held the wedding in the gaping walls and floors anyway. The whole town attended and after the ceremony (which we missed) we arrived to a house stuffed with people of all ages. Men perched on the rafters and beams, children darted from under the front porch, women squeezed in every corner of the kitchen. The loud Thai music was in a constant battle with the sweeping torrent of voices all speaking one unified language – I would’ve given anything to speak Thai at that moment. Women performing the dangerous balancing act of holding a large platter with one hand raced by us, shoving bowls of food at men who threw up their hands and agreed to stuff more in. We found room between groups of friends in a small corner and sat on the ground, accepting sloshing bowls of rice and noodles. I too remember that meal as colorfully as I remembered the dinner the night before – I can’t exactly remember the taste, but I remember how the soupy noodles sprang up with the music, how I mimicked eating like the experienced Thai girls, how the food was racing and wild and unfamiliar like the culture I observed. The morning we left we sat outside on their porch, our backs stiff from sleeping on the ground and our hearts open with the simplicity and beauty of pure human kindness: the only kind that brings true goodness into people. We ate our noodles and rice with a melancholy hum in the air. We didn’t want to go but knew that we didn’t belong there, at least not permanently. I remember that the rice tasted like goodbye, the noodles like the past, the water like a newfound trust in human existence. The simplicity and bright loveliness of the morning was condensed into a broth that seeped into our souls. In those days, I learned what “mindful eating” really means. When I ate before the trip, I didn’t have to do any work. The food was hand picked for the experience I was having, and that was all I needed; I didn’t have to pay attention to how I felt or what was going on around me. When I was in the hill-tribe town, the tastes were the same, so to satisfy any cravings I had to use the experiences. Before learning this, I couldn’t understand how cultures around the world could eat the same small group of foods over and over again. Now I realize that to them, they aren’t; they have just learned to use their experiences to change the way their food impacts them. Our Thai hosts’ taste buds – and mine, while I was there – were sharpened to the smallest change in spices in their rice or noodles, the nuances of different seasons’ vegetables, or the temperature of the food when served. But most importantly, when they ate the same meal again and again, the flavors weren’t the

18 Two Seasons by Erica Kahn 19 Valparaiso, Chile by Carly Wellener focus. It was the experience they had while eating it. It was the attention they paid to their surroundings, the way they felt during each bite. That is what allowed their meals to become special and memorable. I can’t tell you what it felt like to eat a banana or drink milk this morning, but I can still describe the essence of the meals I ate with the family in Thailand in full detail. I am thankful for the different types of foods we have in America. I don’t think I could eat the same meal every day for my entire life after I have known a world of exciting and new ﬂavors. However, being in Thailand taught us a very important lesson about the way we eat. We take eating for granted. We eat for the surface pleasure, to soothe and satisfy the little dots on our tongues and the necessary, routine hunger in our stomachs. If we want to make the most of eating, we have to change this.

Because of this experience, my family now tries not to go to extremes; it is too easy to satisfy a craving in this way without any thought. It is too easy for us to focus on our vivid foods and forget to pay attention. Every day, I try to eat as much distinction as I can, taking in my surroundings and looking inward at the way I feel, as small of a moment as it may be. It is important that we, as a culture, get better at tasting the nuances in ﬂavors, pay attention to the experience, and hold on to the way we feel. Eating can open us up to our surroundings and tap into the current moments in our lives and realities in our thoughts. The days my family and I spent eating in Thailand taught us that we don’t need a billion ﬂavors to enjoy our food. We only need to broaden our experiences and our listen to our minds.

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SAM SCOTT

BLACK WHITE When I was younger, race wasn’t a thing. It wasn’t weird that I was the only black girl in my grade, and I never recognized that I wasn’t a reflection of my peers. The words black and white meant nothing more to me than panda bears and 101 Dalmatians. Sure I noticed that my dad’s skin was darker than my mom’s, but it didn’t mean anything to me; all I knew was that he was the color of chocolate and she vanilla and together, they made caramel colored children. I didn’t know that to be brown, to have some extra pigment in this country, meant harboring the weight and repercussions of a tragic history. My world was a bubble of ignorant bliss. Fresh out of fourth grade, I was excited to make the leap to middle school. In August, I checked my mailbox every day, waiting for my schedule. One day I got something unexpected: an invitation to the welcome barbecue for new black students. I was very confused. I wasn’t new; I was entering my eighth year at my school. I wasn’t black, or fully black, so I really didn’t think I fulfilled any of this gathering’s requirements. My mom had similar thoughts, though they seemed to be angrier than mine. “You’ve been at that school your entire life! You don’t need to be welcomed! And who am I? You’re not just black, they clearly forgot you’re half white too. Stupid waste of time.” And since ten is a pretty impressionable age, a stupid waste of time is what acknowledging my differences became. But when school started, blissful ignorance no longer cushioned my reality. I got jealous of all the girls’ perfectly long and stick straight ponytails. Since I was a fifth grader, I was allowed to straighten my hair, so I fried it into oblivion, trying to tame the wild curls with 400 degrees of direct heat. My friends realized that I was different than them before I did. This realization was unfortunately exhibited in misguided and ignorant ways: asking me to rap a song or teach them how to talk black or show them the latest dance trend. My skin color was all they saw and never failed to make me stand out so how could I not be ashamed of myself? Whenever someone said “You’re black” I was quick on the defense with “Well only half!” It made things easier, ignoring the unbearable. Then someday far away from fifth grade, I saw a picture of Michael Brown’s dead body lying in a pool of his own blood on the street. My pieces clicked, the puzzle was finally complete. I understood that police officers could murder black people and use their polluted definition of a criminal as justification. I understood that boys I think are cute will reject me because they “can’t date a black girl.” I understood that, in America, there is a massive historical likelihood of facing mistreatment for simply being black. My mom thinks I identify more with my black side, that I don’t like being white. But that’s not true. I know who I am. I am black and white and Cherokee. I am determined and grateful because of it. Since I don’t fit into an obvious category and it’s too frustrating not to slap a label on my box, the world says I’m black. Dark curly hair, tan skin and a wide nose fuel that assumption. Like all people of color, the word black comes with heavy judgments, cultural inferences and preconceived notions, but also a beautiful bond of perseverance, deep love and exceptional strength.

01 Regardless of what my family and I know to be true, my experience in this world is as a black woman. So I embrace who I am through all lenses. To myself I am Sam, vibrant and complex, surpassing all scales and spectrums. To the world that I am black to: I hope someday you see the rainbow kaleidoscope I truly am.

01 Destroy by Andreanna Hardy W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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If I Could Vote, I’d Vote For

ACCEPTANCE

ANANYA KALAHASTI

When I was in fourth grade, I was the victim of bullying. So much that I started looking to move schools in sixth grade, even though I was thriving in Montessori. I started fourth grade in 2008, right when President Obama was first elected. When I asked my parents why they supported President Obama and wanted him to be president, they said it was because he accepted us in this country as Indians. I understood what it felt like to be marginalized for my identity even in my classroom. I was too young to vote this year. Aside from being a debater, I was a fellow with the Hillary Clinton Campaign and Ohio Democrats this fall, and that’s where I learned that while I personally believed in Hillary Clinton for a multitude of policy reasons, that this campaign wasn’t just an effort to break a glass ceiling. I live on the edge of Cuyahoga County, where the deep-rooted Democratic support starts to turn into conservative values, and fall in the Trump line of support. But the stories I’ve heard here, of love, forgiveness, anguish and grief, that’s what this campaign was for so many people. A movement to look to equality and representation and fair voices in DC, and regardless of how one individual campaign goes, that movement can never die.

many people hated me in this country, and wanted me gone, just for the color of my skin. I was born here, I’ve lived here all my life, and I’ve never felt so out of touch with everyone else around me. This wasn’t just an election between Democrat and Republican. It was an election that thrived on the bigotry that one candidate put out, and how many Americans took it up. The first presidential election I saw and understood, in terms of policy and perspective, was that of Barack Obama in ’12. As someone who aspires to study international relations in college, the compassion and humility Obama showed in office was characterizing of my outlook on this country, and the world. So today, my heart does go out to every minority community in this nation. We’re faced with a candidate who has marginalized every identity different to him, and has made us feel fear in our own skin and lives.

To say I was upset Tuesday night would be an understatement. I was awake until 3 am, until the final call, talking to friends from all around the world. Not only did I know the efforts that had gone into this election, but I felt for this cause as well. I’m a 16-year-old Indian girl living in the US, and the fact that we ended up with a candidate who took every instance to shoot down the differences between us, that was what broke my heart. I cried that we elected Donald Trump, someone who has failed to understand what makes America so strong in the first place: that we, as a nation, embrace diversity and tolerance in perspectives and experiences.

But now, I will spend four years hoping that Donald Trump is a good president, hoping that maybe I was wrong, and that he can be a president to bring together our nation. Despite over a year of criticizing his platform, and the discrimination he has sent, what else can we do now, aside from trying to work with him? The partisan gridlock we’ve faced for eight years now didn’t help us, nor will it in the future. Yes, I will continue to condemn Trump’s bigotry and past hateful words. But for the people who need it most, I hope I am wrong about the type of leader I think he will be. There are people in more critical situations than I am, and for those people, I pray that Donald Trump doesn’t end up being the leader that I feared our nation electing. And I hope those who supported Trump this election, can find it within themselves to condemn the hate crimes that have gone on for the past few days.

This is an election that has rooted divide in the hearts of so many Americans. Relationships have been broken over this election. But never have I seen such fear and hatred in the words of so many. It’s not even the majority of people who voted for him. But those voices are loudly heard. I’ve never realized how

Above all, I hope that we continue to push our issues and make them heard at the front of this country. Our fights don’t end here, and the future will continue to be bright as long as we have a positive outlook on it and keep our voices heard.

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In Response to HOME by Warsan Shire STEPHANIE KAISER

The Great Wall of America, Is keeping us safe, They say. They tell us that human lives don’t matter, When those lives are mothered by a different motherland. And when we declared independence That meant we’d never be dependent, We promised we’d never look weak And They say helping others makes us look weak. They told us stories of Ronald Reagan, the emancipation proclamation, the won world wars, and the ice cream sodas on Friday nights. This is what makes us, They say. This is what makes us, and we are unmade by those Who the economy hasn’t trickled down to, Whose skin determines their status, Who are fighting their own world war against injustice,

I Vote for Answers

And whose lips aren’t made for sippin’ ice cream sodas, But for screaming that this is more than unfair, This is hatred, bruising us red, white, and blue. And They just shout back that They are not to blame, They are the cure for a poisoned machine, And the way to stop the poison from spreading is by locking everyone up inside. And I guess They never thought to go outside and look out, Up at the stars, The stars They wave on Their flag so proudly, The stars that are exactly the same On the other side of Their walls, The walls They build to keep us out, And the walls we build, Brick by brick, Hand in hand, To keep Them from spreading Their poison to us.

ROSALIE PHILLIPS I have frequently found myself reaching hands into a bucket of black paint searching for details that will make the abyss seem welcoming. Sometimes I find a stray star tucked beneath my untrimmed fingernail or a comet that pools itself in the creases of my palms, And I’ll see why humans find beauty here in the darkness. I’ll feel a comfort in being coated in the unknown. But, sometimes I’ll find nothing. I’ll retract my hands and all I will see is paint, sticky and far from a canvas. I cannot tell you how to make the light appear. Nor can I show you how I’ve made things float to the surface. But I can show you the bucket. I can teach you to reach there yourself.

02 Women’s March by Hannah Froimson 03 Boundaries by Jenna Hahn W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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In Response to THE ELECTION STEPHANIE KAISER

To my brother, You are to blame. It was your first election, and in your mind you could not decipher who would be the lesser of two evils, so you took the coward’s path. You do not get to distance yourself from a disgusting man who will lead our country into the gallows, Because in remaining silent when you should have been loud, you put us in there and tied our noose. You sat idle, and you lost your chance. You did this. You let hate and fear win, and I cannot, for the life of me, understand why. You didn’t even think about standing in line to cast the first ballot of your adult life. What you call a lapse in human judgment I see clearly as a lapse in your intentions. Because good intentions don’t do a thing When the people holding the lighter ask you to bring a match and instead of leaving, Or bringing a bucket of water, You just stay there, Another twig in the pile of kindling. I see too much of our father in you. Maybe if you saw the world as what it is – imperfect, an asymmetrical mesh of greys that bleed into each other – and not as the black and white, clear as day, solved puzzle you seem to think it is, I wouldn’t be mad at you. Maybe we could be mad, together. But you sat back, and you let your apathy be hijacked by hatred. You’ll never understand why this isn’t fair, because empathy is something you have lacked from the day you sent me into the hospital to get stitches and then complained when you were grounded. Actions are not without consequence, Well, neither is inaction. Choosing to do nothing is the same as doing something, When that same someone doing that same something that you pretend you are immune to Is breeding hate, and violence, and is taking a sledgehammer to every Law and amendment and democratic right That stands in his way. And to you who said that your one voice wouldn’t matter, You’ve clearly never tried screaming,

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Though I hope to God one day you learn, That a sore throat and burst lungs and bloody fists from a lost fight Are worth every heartache they cause, because they mean you found your backbone And you chose to use it, Rather than let it turn to ash from neglect. Because they mean you stood up for what matters, And for once, for once, You understood that being detached means attaching yourself To the one with the bulldozer, To the one who wants to roll me right over until I am just a crack in the sidewalk, You step over, to save your own spine. I hope one day you find something that is worth fighting for, Because I learned today, That you never thought I was worth a damn thing.

ELECT RESPECT AUDRA KERESZTESY I’m voting for respect this year Let everyone be who they are What gives anyone the right To judge, to analyze, to criticize What anyone does? You stand out amongst the other candidates With your pensive silence and relaxed nature Respect has no face to fall victim To the hatred of the world, No religion to be questioned, No demographic box to fit Respect is fresh and new in this election In a theater of negativity, hate, and corruption Some voters say there are no good options this year, But they must have forgotten about respect

04 Nature’s Revenge by Jasper Solt

The Morning After...THE ELECTION ELA PASSARELLI

Last night I wrote two sentences down on the pad of paper next to my bed. “November 8, 11:34, Tuesday. Trump may win the election. By god, by justice, by love, by our country, please do not let this happen.” When I got up at 6:00 in the morning, I didn’t check the news. I took a shower and cried into the hot pulse of water. I brushed my teeth and had to angle my toothbrush because there were cuts where I had chewed my lip. I pulled my sweatshirt on and grimaced and then I steadied myself. I walked into my mother’s room. My whole family was lying on her bed. I didn’t get in. I didn’t want to ask so she told me first. “Is it a joke?” I asked her, but by the time she replied I had already walked out of the room. The first piece of media I saw was the flash of a phone screen: TRUMP TRIUMPHS in large newspaper letters across the top of the article. Those two words will forever be branded in my mind as the announcement of the end of this long election, the start of “making America great again.” Until today, I had not thought about what that means. The slogan itself had been a nonsensical entity for the past few months, a representation of the one thing I thought was never going to happen. I disregarded the words and everything surrounding them. But now, for the first time, the mantra means more than empty promises and a campaign of lies, hatred, bigotry, and downright unprofessionalism. And I can’t help but get stuck on one thing: what does great mean?

What is great? Was the flash of hope I felt, for women, for America, great? What about the great wash of panic like water – the intake of breath – the utter greatness of forgetting how to breathe? Is putting on a brave face and powerful attitude great, or is it greater to simply allow the voice to be hoarse and the tears to cascade across sullen cheeks like slimy fuel? Is cordiality great? Is she great for calling to congratulate? Is he great for the outrageousness of it all? I don’t want to cry or show defeat or anger or the painful, so painful humiliation because I want to be fair and just and sensible. I don’t want to fight. I just want to get it. And yet as I hear my friends succumb to the temptation of resignation, of acceptance, I want to scream across the country to slow down and stop and stop and stop and stop before being carried off to make America great again. May I ask – what will you do, Donald Trump, Mr. Trump, President Trump, to make us great again? What was so great that we lost? Were we great when we legalized gay marriage? Was Roe v. Wade great? Or is the eighteen year old girl who has her baby the great one? What about the one who doesn’t? Will racism be great? Is sexism great? When you grab us women “by the pussy,” is that supposed to feel… great? Mr. Trump, what do you want for us? I can’t understand, although I want to so desperately.

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Chronically Changed ELIZABETH STACK

Chronically Changed, for the Better Over the summer of 2014, I went from singing at concerts and hiking up mountains to lying in a hospital bed, vulnerable in a stale paper gown wearing those “sock shoes” that don’t fit right. I was diagnosed with two chronic autoimmune diseases: Autoimmune Hepatitis and Ulcerative Colitis. I felt as though I was stuck in a Freaky Friday dream. All I wanted was my real life back, because this one couldn’t be real. But it was. Every day I had a new appointment, an MRI to endure, more blood to give, another procedure to sit through, and worst of all, more pain. However, the pain was not the hard part, what I struggled with the most, and will continue to struggle with for the rest of my life, is the emotional piece of the diseases. I came to the harsh realization that this would now label who I was, what I was allowed to eat and drink, where I could go, how people would see me and more importantly, how I would see myself. As my condition became more public, I watched from the sidelines, as my friends remained invincible. I, on the other hand, became the one they pitied. I did not recognize myself. My beloved piano, the one thing I could always rely on to take my mind off life, now had no effect on my mood. My love for the outdoors was not my happy place anymore. All of the things that made me who I was began to fade away.

changed from “Why me?” into “Why not me?” I started to notice the little things that made me happy instead of the big things that I couldn’t change and used them as outlets when I wasn’t feeling good, emotionally and physically. With this outlook, I began to love the things I once loved again, only even more deeply. The comfort of my piano and my eccentric teacher became my little secrets to staying sane. When I am sitting on the wooden bench, the music takes me to a place of pure serenity; I forget about any problem I am having and focus on the way it makes me feel. Hiking is the same way. The smell of the Juniper, the colors of the wildflowers, the puddles under the pine trees, and the heaviness of my breath all give me a sense of calm and clarity. I would like to say that piano and nature help me cope with these diseases, but I actually think that my diseases facilitated my love for the two, and the subtle appreciation I now have for the smallest of miracles in everyday life that I wouldn’t have ever acknowledged otherwise.

Although my body reacted beautifully to the medicines I was prescribed and I was on the path to my first remission very soon after I was diagnosed, the hard part for me really started the fall of my sophomore year. Practically overnight I became different; I would never be the invincible, normal teenager again. Even if I looked the same as everyone else my age, laughed at the same jokes and studied the same subjects, I felt alone; and for the first time in my life, I realized that neither my parents nor my friends could bear this for me. These chronic diseases now had to play a part in my daily decisions and I was the only one who could truly deal with it. So when was the day I figured it all out and became the person I am now, happy and complete again? I couldn’t tell you. But with the help of time and a lot of reflection, I realized that if I ever wanted to be happy, I had to use my individual, completely unique, and somewhat unlucky experiences to shape the future me. My attitude

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05 Master of the Lagoon by Rebecca Oet 06 Untitled by Kayla Schwartz

What blinds you from your truth? EVA YEH

NOVEMBER 9.

MARIA PERILLA

November 9.

I am still wondering it now.

When I was four years old, I came to this country a running bubbling caramel colored fast talking thing. I held my mom’s hand when our plane took off and from what I remember that was the scariest part. We rented the top floor of a house in Shaker Heights so weren’t allowed to jump up and down. Every week my mom let my brother and I pick out a toy from the dollar store. English was a new taste in my mouth, as was pizza and PB&J.

I read somewhere in the storm of tweets and posts that grief is work. My English teacher, red hot with rage, handed me an essay by a poet named Hanif. It ended in, “I think we’ll make a way. Despite.” I don’t know if we are supposed to hope now, or fight now, but I think we ought to try. Or at least keep moving, keep writing, keep marching and roaring. I am not going to pretend that I have any of the answers although I have searched for them in so many eyes.

For the first time in my life, I saw snow.

At least, I cannot deny this: even through our tears, even in our mourning, I felt a fiercely courageous resilience in my friends. My friends who are my teachers. My teachers who are my friends. All the people that have become my family. They held me up that day, and yesterday, and today.

I believed in the American Dream because I believed in my father. I believed in working hard and hand me downs. I believed in the dream because that’s what it was. A dream. A miracle of a thing: four Colombian immigrants inside a warm house, a yellow striped school bus, a box of 64 crayons, a Wendy’s, a blue truck, a pink tutu, a green card. On November 9th, I woke up to a world that did not feel mine. I woke up to the darkest despair I have ever felt in my life. I saw the people that I love looking hollow and defeated. I saw the heaviest sorrow settling onto their brilliant minds. I searched for something to hold on to, but it was too dark, too grey, too cold, and too dead to want to try. I wondered if there was anything left to salvage.

When I went home after swim practice, the sun still colored the sky violet, and the trees still stood raining gold. I may be afraid, but I am still American and I define that as “Making a way, despite.” I may be lost but I am not alone. I am here. We mourn, but we move. We mourn and we march on.

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I’VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD NELL BRUCKNER

I’VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD How a man can look at a woman And think to himself That her body is more entitled to him Than to her That her hands grasp for him Rather than herself That her legs, wrap him better Than they can wrap each other And he can take her For himself And when she wants it to end He tells her no Because he somehow believes In the sanctity Of life I’VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD How a girl can look at a boy As he cries And think to herself That he is weak That he cannot grasp

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A heavy bowl Because to be a man He must be strong He must carry the entire world-the whole weight of his masculinity In his arms not in his brain, nor heart, nor self But in his arms I’VE NEVER UNDERSTOOD How a person can look at the world Can document the suffering Of countless brothers and sisters Can see the polar bears Losing their ice Can see a child Losing her father And can think to themselves That because the problem is not their own That it somehow does not exist In the continuum of humanity

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She was deeply depressed She came home each night To a made dinner table And could not eat Because she was consumed By the impossibility of happiness In a city that never grows In a house that is losing value In a family growing apart But then she saw a dog A mangy, skinny dog And it followed her to work And she gave it part of a bagel And in that moment she realized That the city never grows and the house is worthless But it is the connections to each other That matters the most So she took the dog to the kennel And signed the papers And within a week the dog was hers.

Girls MARIA PERILLA

Girls were told to be quiet. Girls were told to be still. Girls were too tall, too short, too skinny, too fat. Girls were told not to drink at parties. Girls were told he is only looking for one thing. Girls were told that once they give it away they can never get it back. Girls were told they are made of pieces that can be taken from them. Girls have so many pieces taken from them. Boy tells Girl that she belongs to him. Boy tells Girl that this is romantic. Girls were told to stand up straight like pine trees. He said that Boys only like Girls with spines like pines. Girls were called gardens, gates, temples, trophies, statues, shorelines, canvases, cars, and slow soft falling rain. But Girls kiss Girls on wet grass Girls write poems. Girls laugh loudly. Girls are kind to the red rivers running down their hips Girls are not gardens. Girls are not churches, or shrines, or fenced in fruit.

Up close, scars are just skin.

CRYSTAL ZHAO

Girls are Girls are People. Girls are Bones, are Skin, are Teeth. Girls are Mean Marching Bands. Girls are Singing Trumpets, Swinging Mallets, Roaring Drums.

07 Heartbeat by Ela Passarelli 08 Mind Blown by Jasper Solt W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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01 Digital Painting by Rebecca Oet

THE

PHOTOGRAPH Thirteen years ago the world was halved by a horizon: hard, crisp, defined. In this water-stained, curving photograph we are standing on top of the world, my brother and I. A world of browns, blues, and golds. Swallowed by the earth that wraps itself around us, his hand is in mine, and we stand in tiny Timberlands rooted into the ground as sure and as strong as the trees beyond. A cell tower stands unaccompanied in the distance. Fragile. One gust of wind would whisk it away, but as sure as it would fall, the two of us would not. We are unaffected by the clear skies and hard cold. My hold on him is light, he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even grip back, but it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t matter. We are so young, so dependent, and so inseparable.

DIGITAL PAINTING BY REBECCA OET INSPIRED BY POEM BY LANE CHESLER In the picture the plains of Saskatchewan are strong. The trees defined, the grass has character. The entirety of the earth is accompanied by itself, and all behind us is not alone. In the picture we stand together. But in the distance stands my future, the seventeen year old cellphone tower alone and fragile looking back at who she was and the brother who always loved her. Now she stands alone, slowly falling down without his hand holding hers rooting them both into the ground.

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ad infinitum once, an old man told me, diphylleia grayi flaking off his skin, “the universe is nature’s great experiment in loneliness; galaxies sink heavy between atoms, and silence rests leaden because it knows what comes for us are the quiet breaths, wind studded with dandelion seeds, blankets frayed at every corner and gaps between fingers where another’s hand was laid to rest, what comes,”

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POEM BY CHLOE SCHWARTZ INSPIRED BY ETCHING BY CARLY GLICKMAN

said the old man, veins pressing, pressing, against translucent petal skin, “are the dandelion seeds; are the universes we dream of for ourselves, comets, supernovae, binary orbits, they come for us like our mother’s journal entry on the first time we ever laughed, like every tuneless guitar chord we’ve ever played, at once, on cue, like the book we lost on the 12:00 bus to New Hampshire, notes pressed into every margin, like the first edges of the ocean around a highway bend, like bad coffee and wind chimes at dawn,

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

and the universe,” said the old man, tipping his head back and back into the summer rain, “is what we’ve made of it – it is the lyric sheet folded over and over between our nervous fingers, it is all the smiles we were too scared to give, spilling out onto our lips, a waterfall, it is the mornings when we felt every inch of the galaxies between our atoms, it is our bones; it is the earth; it is all the dust and studded seeds, above, and then, below.”

I’m fading With steel wire hair bound By lines that hold me Into nothingness. To a world I don’t recognize Where American children gaze At starless skies wondering, And the foolish strong steel themselves Behind a grey skinned beauty Staring back at them.

Self-Portrait POEM BY LANE CHESLER INSPIRED BY DIGITAL PAINTING BY REBECCA OET

forget-me-not POEM BY HOLLY GALBINCEA INSPIRED BY PAINTING BY ARIELLE DEVITO When you peel her back, Her layers of sorrow and defeat, There lies a bed of flowers, White and yellow, That press against the sky And yell to invite you in. But, wallpaper is hard to remove And once it is plastered, It is there to stay.

02 Etching by Carly Glickman 03 Digital Painting by Rebecca Oet 04 Painting by Arielle DeVito W W W. H B I N R E T R O S P EC T.CO M

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A TRIP TO THE MOVIES PHOTO BY SUKHMANI KAUR INSPIRED BY POEM BY YARDENA CARMI The movie theater spat out its dazed disciples eyes glazed, a little wobbly like newborns blinking at the suddenly mundane afternoon light. The weak yellow sun that cast everything a little less sharp and the people who were somewhat less beautiful and a sky that was lit up with less danger To which they breathed relief, though slightly disappointed.

Mountains POEM BY ALEXI JACKSON INSPIRED BY PAINTING BY MAGGIE GEHRLEIN

The mountains stand tall and proud in the distance. Cold But the gaseous orbs in the sky burn blindingly bright. Reflected Old thought, old times, the blinking eyes under the water. Stare Wait until everything blends. Together Have faith that they will always be there. Waiting They watch over you, keep you. Safe Just like the mountains.

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05 Photo by Sukhmani Kaur 06 Painting by Maggie Gehrlein 07 Painting by Jasper Solt

REFLECTION PAINTING BY JASPER SOLT INSPIRED BY POEM BY ELA PASSARELLI I miss you like the burning flow of gold liquid from Venus so rich in metallic content but lacking everything alive He said our bodies are just echoes broken salt in trembling patterns the blankness of out-of-sync eyes Galaxies dot the bruised and glowing arteries of artists spinning through the multitudes of time small specks shimmer in the puddles of my moon-boots A deep red liquid that looks a lot like blood The souls of blackbirds are made of hard white stones that hit Earth, six million hertz explode when they fall my breath halts at the opening rings of blue oxygen my lips and closed wounds rivers of mercury that learned to float upside-down

Help me because I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t breathe when their eyes skim past me to the next one who I missed by a centimeter of time space and DNA lost in a labyrinth of purple atoms and safety net pain dancing in the deep black so busy with the heat of the sun, they missed entirely the importance of its reflection

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What made you content what made you feel ‘in the moment,’ How did you ever react so lightly? you were encapsulated in so much good.

PAINTING BY LAYLA NAJEEULLAH INSPIRED BY POEM BY LILLY ROTHSCHILD

You stood on your tiptoes peering into the monkey’s cage wondering why you could swing on ropes When you strapped on your helmet and rode into the moonlight But then again a leader showed you enjoyment When did you ever find it yourself? When did you ever find it within yourself? When did you become so present that you didn’t think otherwise? You felt infinite then when you slid across the lake You left a ripple that faded as soon as someone took your spot That boat embodied your past You smiled a pure smile. It was being bad to the bone That’s when it was You broke the rules that only you enforced You realized you were living when someone insignificant said “why not!” When you lost sight of your breath in the thin chilled air You couldn’t control the beat of the drum let alone the beat of your young heart You said that you wouldn’t listen though But you went right ahead and told them they were right Until you opened You welcomed the end Yet your purest presence was so short and ended Simply by being in the future You forgot your past You just kept thinking about the next hurdle You are excited to leap and jump and soar But why can’t you settle down and go for a walk? Why were you so scared to dig deeper when you figured it all out? One day you could find it and maybe hold on We know you are scared that your hands will blister You can hold onto the ripples in the water But the rocks slipped from under you Well, you didn’t grab on tight enough.

08 Painting by Layla Najeeullah 09 Photo by Hanna Keyerleber 10 Painting by August Sobolewski

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The table shook The rusted screws unlatched The boards shifted You fell and laughed

Haiku PHOTO BY HANNA KEYERLEBER INSPIRED BY POEM BY JENNIFER WANG Eyes flutter open Serenity of a lake Best not look away

Flowers

POEM BY ALANNA BROWN INSPIRED BY PAINTING BY AUGUST SOBOLEWSKI

Flowers are not supposed to bloom in darkness. At least, that’s what they said Eyes aflame, lips chapped, hair Reaching for whatever smoke cloud the wind would bring next. But flowers in the night are still rising, Reaching their tininess to the moon. If there is no sun, so be it – This adversity is their fuel. The flowers will make the night theirs, Masking the pint-sized color And the shadowy light As something that is their own. Since the sun isn’t rising today, They blossom for it In plum And golden And linen And sky. If we die, we will do it With smog in our hair And roses on our fingertips.

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Dylan Bob

MARISA LANCASTER London 1967 cigarette hangs from the left corner of mouth timeless face hidden behind dark sunglasses Bob stares at me from the wall with his messy hair Through closed lips he gently hums, like a Rolling Stone Bob leans back on the balcony of a London Hotel the hotel is contained by 25x33 frame in my bedroom He looks ready to push himself off the railing and walk towards “May god bless and keep you always, may your wishes all come true.” he whispers into my right ear as I leave the room for the day at 6:32am and remember sometimes it’s okay to feel like a rolling stone You used to think since he sang about rolling stones, he was a rolling stone Uncle Mark would’ve been disappointed 01 Oxford Street by Kimi Kian

THOUGHTS ON A JOURNAL

GRACE HOMANY

This journal is for dates I’ll never forget why I remember, and snippets of conversation that have hung in my ears like headphones ever since I started caring what other people had to say. This journal will be a lot like other journals I keep, so I will treat it like I treat them. I will be nice to this journal. I will not blame it for writer’s block or hurl it across the room. I will not use it as a weapon to harm, or a Band-Aid to rip off just to see the scab come with it. I will not always write endings, I will not always be happy with my work. I will drop this journal, and spill water on it, and leave it in the library on more than one occasion. But I will find this journal again, and I will fill it cover-to-cover, line-to-line. It will be saturated with me, and what I think, and who I am, and what I am sorry for, and what I am not so sorry for, and what has hurt me, and what has healed me, and how I know what I know. It will be filled with my thoughts, my stories, my characters, my qualms, my pregnant pauses, and ugly grammatical miscarriages. If you read this journal, read into it. Get dirt under your nails and have fun. Don’t see my stories like I do, hate my characters, or my line breaks, or the fact that I can never decide if I like writing better in pencil or pen. This is my journal and a year from now it will be full, but it will still be mine, and it will be teeming with all sorts of everythings that I have chosen to house between these cardboard walls.

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Strawberry Blonde KRISTINA MULLEN

My hair is strawberry blonde. Not platinum, not red, but a fusion of the two pigments. Ever since I was little, I have been proud of my hair color. In a sea of brunettes, blondes and redheads, I felt unique. In kindergarten when asked to draw a self-portrait, I grabbed the yellow, orange and red crayons, determined to match my hair shade exactly in order to do it justice. After slaving over the picture for much longer than necessary, I handed my picture to my teacher with a smile, comforted by my knowledge that even if my name wasn’t on it, my teacher would know it was mine. Having three other sisters, I was always used to sharing things. Whether it was dolls or clothes or books, I grew accustomed to writing “Mullen” (as opposed to my first name) on all of my belongings because my things were theirs as well. However, I rejoiced in my strawberry blonde hair since, among my sisters, I am the only one who possesses strawberry blonde locks. Though I enjoyed being grouped with my sisters and categorized as a “Mullen,” I always felt grateful for my strawberry blonde hair, which set me apart from my sisters. My infatuation with my hair color was not a manifestation of my vanity nor did I perceive myself as particularly “beautiful.” Moreover, I relied on my hair color to serve as a defining aspect of myself. Around the age of 8, I came to the most horrific realization. As I finished blow-drying Grandma Bunny’s silvery hair, she admired my pigtail braids and referred to me as “Pippi Longstocking.” With fondness, Bunny remembered how her sister used to braid her long, strawberry blond hair into two tight braids for school every day. Never before had it occurred to me that Bunny’s hair was not always a silvery hue and with dread, I imagined myself as an old woman, without my strawberry blonde hair to frame my face. Though difficult to conceive at first, I was faced with a new prospect; the idea that I could not rely on my hair color to separate me from the crowd forever. My realization worried me. With each passing birthday, I pictured the looming infiltration of gray and silver strands of hair. Though my imagination heightened these fears, a legitimate concern took hold of me. I wondered how any individual, let alone myself, could be unique when we all faced the same silver fate. Compelled to distinguish myself from others, I thought about how I was perceived in the world. I’ve always assumed an obliging and compliant role at school and at home. Good manners were second nature to me, as was accepting without questioning. Throughout my life, teachers, friends and relatives described me as kind, polite, respectful and sweet. These adjectives, though complimentary, struck me as impersonal and detached. Such words could apply to anyone and by no means were specific to me. Throughout middle school, I grappled with who I wanted to be. I thought that I could

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02 Tinfoil Self Portrait by Maggie Gehrlein

identify myself with a passion or interest. With interests so varied, I struggled to see myself only as a singer or writer or scientist. I didn’t want my personality to be confined to one realm. At that moment, I resolved that I didn’t want to be one noted throughout my life. Like my hair, I want to be two toned. I want my personality to be shaped by my experiences and my beliefs. I know that who I am today is not who I will always be. My personality will mature and evolve as I am exposed to new places and people. However, I hope that my personality will always represent me. Independent from the judgments and pressures of others, I hope to always remain true to my values and my strawberry blonde hair.

ALANNA BROWN After the hectic eyes and the frenzied pencils, Only the chalk dust remained. It flowed from one panel to the next as the ghost of our mathematical maelstrom. The classroom was left in ruins. Who would stop to pick up a dead thing, already forgotten? The aftermath of our apocalypse was empty stomachs And the fluttering of empty times tables. They made you stop and think, these ruins did. Maybe chalk dust and children is what cities are made of. Maybe we could fix the crumbling ruins with our blackboards and ripped textbooks. Maybe long division and wooden desks were our utopia.

Enough SAM SCOTT

Filling my mind with endless chatter, convincing me that half truths are absolute, questioning what doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have answers. Who am I?

Wound Theory tell me again about the dream where we are happy, silence curling across our skin as we lay on our back with stars growing on the grass around us, as we are sky, we are sky, we are sky; tell me again about the dream where there is a city strung with winter lights, a city where the sky is empty and the stars are here, seeping deep into the sap of the trees, of our marrow, of our eyes; tell me again about the dream where the birds paint the sky soft and heavy, curling feathers around air currents and brittle fluorescence, as city dust settles in their lungs, in their lungs, in their lungs;

CHLOE SCHWARTZ somewhere, she is still alive and the sky is not so full anymore, so heavy and soft with the hurt that seeps out of us, that we cannot hold beneath our skin; somewhere, there are no tears on your fingertips; tell me again about the cuts best made by sunlight, about the absences of brightness and how it is a jagged edge, how it aches until you can only smile;

I am not who I think I am. I will not let you shatter my glass, dull my light. The world is dense but from density comes form, and from form comes illumination and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m going to shine god damnit. Who am I? I am not who I think I am. I refuse to believe in the flowerkilling, stomach rumbling foul smelling fear of never being good enough. Because I am too bright to see you any longer.

tell me again about the dream of a rooftop under a soft and heavy sky, where all the stars have come home for dinner, to a city that shines as bright as they are, as sunlight, as the sky.

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Is the American Dream Dead? REGINA EGAN

The Power of the American Dream Over a century ago, Hannah McNamara and her family left their home, community, and lives in Ireland to arrive in the United States. Details of their trek have fallen through generational crevices, so neither my Grandmother nor I know much more than names and lineage. Yet, those facts are humanized when we see her portrait on my Grandmother’s living room wall and are reminded of her life and experience. The very fact that my own heritage and history involves the story of immigrants reflects my sympathy for the plights of American immigrants and my understanding that the foundation of this country was built on diversity and human courage. For people like my ancestors, the McNamaras, the “American Dream” has been essential to attracting immigrants, and shaping the country’s identity. Even before the term was coined, and arguably the country was founded, the American Dream has since existed. Whether as a reference to the agricultural opportunity for European emigrants in the eighteenth century, the myriad possibilities and freedom in the western frontier, or the influx of twentieth-century immigrants, throughout the duration of the United States, the American Dream has stood for the socio-economic, and political opportunities that lie uniquely in this country.

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While the cause of its appeal may have shifted during different time periods, the bottom line is that the American Dream is a source of hope and motivation to many. As an American citizen who’s lived in Michigan and Ohio practically my whole life, I really have little authority to discuss the American Dream firsthand. However, I do know about how the American Dream affects the U.S. on a practical level. While no issue is black or white, the American Dream does not have one single effect. Domestically, the U.S. benefits from a greater number of intelligent professionals, but also has to deal with any issues that may arise from those with less productive contributions to the country. Diversity yields more disagreement than homogeny, but the produced collaboration, culture, and integrative problem-solving have been worth it, and still are. Today, the American Dream is alive. Even though the twenty-first century may present challenging views to immigrants, the underlying hope is not unfounded. It’s not a promise of success, which is subjective by itself, but instead it’s a promise of opportunity. Success is not certain in the American Dream, but neither are the conditions that allow hope to flourish.

The Walking Apartment

Little Girl She savored the complex, But missed the simple things Like sweet grape juice And water droplets on leaves.

GRACE HOMANY 8. These walls are not the pillows they appear to be. The glue is divorcing the wallpaper, and bending toward the light. 6. The ceiling fan is broken, and hangs crooked like a noose. Pulling the string to turn it on seems suicidal.

ALANNA BROWN

5. There is a light spot from a once-hung picture frame, probably a happy family frozen in black and white or sepia tone. 7. S unlight scratches the floor, and dust is revealed upon its touch, but the laughter of the warped wood suggests that rain knows this space too. 9. Sometimes the furnace in the corner talks, like an incoherent grandfather. He bombinates of mice in the pipes, and aches in his foundation. 1. T he faintest pencil marks are etched into the doorframe. heights of sticky fingered children slouching into adolescence, grow up the wall. 11. There is no kitchen table, no oven, no microwave, a rusted stain exhumes the shadow of a refrigerator lost. 14. Still vibrating with a series of endless aftershocks, the ceiling fan is hanging as the furnace begins to speak. 2. O nce upon a time, bread was dressed with peanut butter on this countertop, which bows out like a hollow ribcage now. 10. The air isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t soggy, and there is something refreshing standing here trusting a clean, cavernous breath. 3. T he sink is deep, sturdy inside the curving counter. Hefty suds never crested the basin, there is no high water mark. 4. The wall is scabbed with holes from nails, an acne that reminds where pictures were hung in heavy frames. 12. The high cabinets lay void of plates, drawers do not tinsel with silverware, what was built to contain, holds nothing. 13. The room is not scary, not empty, not barren rather not in use, like a book trapped deep in the shelves, gathering dust like sea glass, pockets shining. 03 Annie by Molly Gleydura 04 Jolene by Erica Kahn

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Strive to create. Give, donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t take.

MARIA PERILLA

The highway is wet and grey but a fat orange moon sits over dust in the sky. After that moon the trees shed their leaves and the road is covered in gold. Orange, red, yellow, copper, and crimson. A cardinalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wings, a glass of red wine, the muddy brown footprint of a well worn boot.

EVA YEH

After that moon, the sun burns a deeper gold. Amber peeks through blades of grass on hill after hill after hill. A chipped porcelain mug. A fogged up pair of glasses. A marching band. Wool socks smoked like paper at the foot of a bed. A slow breathing body curled under cream-colored covers, knees pulled into chest. A fat wiggling worm. Blue freckled eggs in a round nest. A greedy grey squirrel. The sun starts to dip. Slow then quick then the suburb drops into dark. Cell towers and airplanes wail in the night sky. The streetlights turn on. The sky is the deepest blue yet. Three sleeping bodies curl inside of the house. Three sleeping bodies croon through the night. Three windows are left open. Three nervous hearts Three dreaming minds And 567 miles away a blurry giggling boy falls into his cab. A shining silver river slides under a bridge. Moths circle streetlights. Mosquitos steal fat juicy bites

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Emily Dickenson or Kate Turner? ALEXIS CHAUVETTE

The rigidity of your pose frightens me. Backs straight and hands clasped. One dark set of eyes welcomes me, while the lighter set issue a warning. Perhaps the camera flash blinds your happiness You look frightened to preserve your image. The dark look coming from your eyes stains the photograph like the ink of a squid. I am not a predator, but you are still someone’s prey, for scholars search for you among the fossils. Your picture as precious as dinosaur bones. Are you truly who your eyes speak you to be? Your eyes beckon, but your dress flashes a warning. Perhaps the prey has outsmarted its predator yet again donning old fashioned fur to mask what is beneath, the prey that the world seeks. But the one they want isn’t you. it is her, the one with welcoming eyes, for she doesn’t know the heartbreak of a widow after she moves her ring off her fourth finger. She writes about the chill of snow, yet she forgets the chill of a ring finger missing its ring, unprotected from the paralyzing wind. As coy as you are, blue footprints give you away. Like a cat and mouse game: To be the cat would cause a rebellion, but as the mouse you embody a rebel. Which one are you? Rebel or rebellion? Cat or mouse? Left or right? Dark eyes or light? Emily Dickinson or Kate Turner?

05 Untitled by Kayla Schwartz

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ELLIE CASCIO

My Grandma

My grandma was not worried about crafting the perfect chocolate chip cookie. The blue and white checked cookbook cover, full of empty faded pages, is perched on the shelf silently watching her carry the cellophane bags of sprinkled star cookies. When we bite into them, sparks rain down, collecting in a granulated pile at our feet for the dog to bound over and lick up before my mother notices. The innocent trace of pink sugar on the corners of grandma’s mouth mirrors mine and the giggles of a shared cookie was far sweeter than any chocolate chip cookie those other grandmas made because we didn’t have to march into battle with a sponge in one hand and the bottle of Dawn dish soap in the other to combat the dirty mixing bowl.

My grandma was not worried about saving the ham in the fridge for the next day like my mother had planned. Instead, we sneak downstairs and giggle in the soft white glow of the refrigerator as we alternate pulling pieces off the ham and stuffing them into our gaping mouths, pausing to listen for my mother’s footsteps. We are thieves, stealthily stealing the crowned jewel that happened to double as a honey baked ham. My grandma was not worried about being like those other grandmas. She did not bake, knit, cook or clean like grandmas were “supposed to.” No, she was one of a kind, not worried about being like the other grandmas. My grandma taught me to play the piano even when my fingers were too small to spread across the keys. She made me instant mashed potatoes when my stomach ached and gave me a ginger ale in a green and white checked plastic cup. She would tell me she knew I’d be just fine in this world because of the way my older brothers cowered away from my girl power. She taught me to always use paper plates because dishes be damned and she opened my ears to Frank Sinatra. My grandma was not worried about being like the other grandmas.

06 Spring at Case by Alise Adornato 07 Containment Part II by Jasper Solt

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FOOD and FAMILY T

he stereotypical Asian mother is strict, held up by a steel spine reinforced with old-world values. My Asian mother is not this woman. Perhaps she was at some point in her life, but the realities of raising children without much support meant that she had to choose which ideals to uphold and which she would drop. Today, I have a mother who keeps tabs on my emotional well-being and always discusses my options before making a decision. We share a close relationship that has mostly steered clear of the dreaded dysfunctionality that my older sister experienced throughout her adolescence. I like to think that I know her, and that I know what to expect from her. I know that she hates when my sister and I don’t act like model minorities, so neither of us is rushing to tell her that my sister has gotten three tattoos and countless piercings. I know she won’t speak up if slang goes over her head when we joke around, so I make a point to define terms in context. And I know that she’ll never tell me to go away, but even so, I can tell when she needs space. With this kind of relationship, it is easy to forget that while she has been with me for my entire life, I’ve only been around for about a third of hers. It is always startling then, when slivers of her past life and identities come to my attention sprinkled atop steaming bowls of noodles, caramelized into the golden crusts of tempura, and stewed into fragrant herbal teas. A few years ago, food was much blander in our household. No one had an appetite for anything that was remotely golden or fragrant when we dreaded staying at the dinner table too long for fear of an argument breaking out. Feuds were messy, and they criss-crossed outside of our immediate family, but I was spared due to my age and knack for discretion. The situation became progressively more tense until, with our reluctant support, my sister left home for a while. All at once, the house was suddenly quieter than it had been in years. In the absence of slammed doors and muffled tears, there emerged a hole that revealed itself to be a vacuum when we found that we didn’t know how to define ourselves without the backdrop of conflict. We didn’t know how to interact anymore. For years, our conversations had revolved around whether I knew what my sister was doing, or if I knew why she was acting a certain way, but even so, I never really felt neglected. I knew my mother cared about me deeply, but as someone who was close to both her and my sister, I was also fully aware of the precedence Shelley’s problems had over mine. In those long years, I tried to be helpful to both of them, naively believing that after everything was sorted out, we would resume where our relationships had left off before the start of the conflict. Obviously, I was wrong. I soon realized that I didn’t know what to say to this woman who was certainly not the same person that had, years ago as a young mother, chased me around the house to kiss me even after grueling shifts at the hospital, and she, in turn, did not know what to do with the serious, introspective young lady who had taken the place of the doe-eyed girl. I remember looking at my mother’s familiar face one day, and feeling a rush of something infinitely older than my meager twelve years pass through me: the bittersweet acknowledgement of the passage of time, and the inevitable changes that came with it. Her hair was completely grey – I could see exactly where her roots had been when she last visited the salon – and her face was gaunt where it had once been pale and supple. For years, anger and determination had cast an unhealthy glamour of intensity about her, but without it, my mother was visibly tired. But she, as well as everyone else in the house, benefited from the shallow sense of peace and extra time that came from the issues being swept under the rug. My mother and I participated in the collective

CRYSTAL ZHAO

delusion that the increased amount free time was completely a blessing, with no strings attached, and no emotional riptides waiting to suck us under. We engaged in typical mother-daughter activity, playing card games, reading, and shopping, all while pointedly ignoring the stilted conversations and long pauses that punctured our times together. We eventually tried to cook together. I suspect we both hoped it would be a way to be in each other’s company without having to endure the awkwardness that a busy kitchen’s clamor covers up. Our first dish was a traditional Chinese dish of steamed eggplants in soy sauce, topped with scallions and sesame oil. I picked scallions from our small garden, letting the clear, viscous goo drain out of the hollow plant before rushing it back to the cutting board to avoid dripping on the carpets. Then, I cut the spongy fruit into uneven, slanted slices while my mother mixed the delicate sauce and washed the rice. We were sitting at the table afterwards, enjoying the simple meal in our usual silence when my mother started telling a story I had never heard before. Instead of a tale of hardships and woes during her childhood or her time as a new immigrant, she softly recounted her intense hatred of the aubergine during childhood. She would hide her portion in the most unconventional places, including the exhaust pipes of random parked cars. I laughed, enjoying the good company, rich flavors, and the mental image of my mother at age seven dropping steaming eggplant off the side of her six-story apartment complex. While enjoying the crisp sweetness of water chestnut cake, I learned that my mother used to flirt with poor, unsuspecting boys in order to receive sweets and favors. Over a shared bowl of green tea ice cream, she revealed that in college, she would sometimes leave cartons of ice cream out so that her roommates would become disinterested in them, leaving her to enjoy her favored melted form of the treat. I had been trying hard to figure out who my mother was at that moment when we were both so vulnerable, but now I suspect even she didn’t know. Titles and positions she had taken for granted her entire adult life – mother, wife, individual – were suddenly in flux. Instead of attempting to define her as she was right then, I was riding along with her as she built herself up again from youth to middle age, and learning who she was before my sister and I existed. As it turns out, we were remarkably similar. As she finished her stories, I smirked and asked her to check the flowerbed underneath the kitchen window to see if a celery plant was flourishing – by the amount I dumped there in my youth, there should have been a veritable commercial farm growing in our yard. The concept of a mother being a whole, multifaceted person with her own lifetime’s worth of failed relationships, cringe-worthy moments that resurface just before sleep, and secret running jokes has always been difficult to grasp. By definition, we only know our mothers during the time when their lives revolve around caring for us. I do wonder if I would be friends with my mother if we were the same age. I doubt it. Our personalities wouldn’t mesh if were weren’t obligated to work problems out and see each other constantly as we do now. I can easily imagine an alternate universe where my mother is that ultra-feminine girl who uses her innate cuteness to get her way, and I am who I am today, a critic of those types who occasionally eats my homemade facial masks before I can get them on my skin. If, in this other dimension, we somehow beat the odds, and are friends, I guarantee we would still be searching for the best pho places, trying out new cuisines, and enjoying freshly steeped cups of tea together.

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The Cicada MADELINE HOWARTH

n the year 2013, a small portion of the east coast of the United States was virtually overrun by an abnormally large population of cicadas, the chirping insects most know only by the shells they leave behind.

Now, most cicadas are rather unremarkable beings; like other organisms, they hibernate for a period of between nine months and one year before emerging, mating, and dying. That’s it. There’s nothing more to it. But this particular set of cicadas, the ones on the east coast, were an extraordinary subset of this rather unextraordinary animal. The reason? Their hibernation period lasts not one or two years, but a whopping seventeen. Seventeen years. Underground. Alone. Embraced by nature, virtually unthreatened, cozy in the earth warmed by the sun, they lie for seventeen long years. Above it, the world is not so kind. A predator, gloating over its still-warm kill, becomes the prey of another hunter, this one faster, stronger, smarter. The food chain claims more victims daily, by the hundreds, by the thousands, by the millions. Those creatures which do not eat are eaten; those creatures which do not kill are killed. Youngsters are born, elders die, and at every stage in between face the utmost peril of simply living. And into this world, a baby is born. She is yanked, screeching at the top of her lungs, from the insular, protected, friendly, nourishing world of her mother’s womb into a new, unfamiliar, and strikingly cold place that will ignore her birth, give no attention to her life, and grieve not her death. But she doesn’t know that. All she knows is that, having been placed in her mother’s arms, she is still safe.

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The cicada hatches, and immediately discovers gravity, falling from the side of a tree branch onto the ground with an indiscernible plop. Newly born, it makes a home for itself in a small burrow, whose circumference is less than that of a penny but which is absolutely the perfect size for this particular insect. And it falls asleep. Uncaring. Unthreatened. Unharmed. For the first three years of hibernation. The baby is a baby no longer. She has grown exponentially since that first day, and is now so tall that her charts put her in the 99th percentile for height. And she is a handful. She has just learned to use her mouth for something other than eating, and is taking full advantage of this fantastic new ability. She asks questions about everything–simple ones, for the most part, the ones she has wanted to ask all along. “Why is the sky blue?” with quizzical eyes looking up at her father. “What is _____ called?” with one chubby finger pointing at a foreign object. “Why are my eyes brown?” with her amber orbs wide open, peering, perplexed, into the evergreen ones of her mother. But every so often, she hits a question that neither of her parents, nor her grandparents, nor any adult in her life, can truly answer. “Why am I here?” The cicada, meanwhile, is perfectly content to use its mouth for eating only. Hungry, it sucks on a tasty root until it has leeched every last drop of juice available. Satisfied, it burrows around a bit more. And then? Well, then, it just goes back to sleep. For another five years. Above it, life goes on. The baby is a baby no longer. She has nearly doubled in size and in intellect since the cicada last stirred, and for just the third time in her life, the first day of school beckons. Her uniform, freshly pressed, is horribly itchy, her haircut is far too short to be flattering, and the imbecile who has been assigned to the seat next to her is conducting his very own California gold rush in his left nostril. But she doesn’t notice. She is too busy flipping through each weathered textbook her teacher hands her. And her head begins to swim as she sees all the new knowledge that will be hers in just one short year. She would have begun to read those books right then and there,

just to get a head start, had she not been interrupted by a girl with long, dirty blonde hair, who introduced herself as Molly. It is with Molly that she will spend the next five years discovering that, even if her mother is right and home is where the heart is, outside is where the fun is. And what’s more, outside is where the knowledge is. And the more she learns, the hungrier she becomes for more of that knowledge, and the readier she becomes to strike out on her own to find it. The cicada has sensed a disturbance. Its spindly legs have become slightly cramped in its hole, perhaps because it has grown or perhaps because of minute changes in the surroundings. In any event, it is uncomfortable, but it goes back to sleep anyway. The girl is uncomfortable, too, but despite the fact that it is 2:00 in the morning, she doesn’t go back to sleep. Her computer sits in front of her, the screen displaying an unfinished essay about who-knows-what. She’s been having a staring contest with the screen for close to two hours now, because her fingers just refuse to touch that abominable keyboard, and because she had done something stupid and started asking herself that very same question that no one would ever answer straight when when she was little. Why was she here? At 2:10 that morning, the girl began to cry. Because after thinking on it for over two hours, she couldn’t think of a single answer. Little one, if only you could see yourself in just two more years… The time has come! After seventeen years, the cicada is ready. It emerges! It molts! It snacks on a leaf! It finds a mate! It dies. Only a shed exoskeleton stands testament to its 17 years on earth. The time has come. The baby girl is a baby no more. She emerges! And she is terrified, because now she has to move for good out of that beautiful home, which is horrible, and she has to be responsible for herself which is even more horrible, and once again, she will be alone, which is most horrible. But when she leaves, something strange happens. It is not, in fact, so horrible. She buys a snack on her own dime, for the first time. She falls in love–not immediately, but slowly, and as she opens up to him and he to her, they are like twin flowers blossoming in the spring. She deviates from the cicada’s path. Because she does not die. She thrives. She has seen the world, she has lived it, and now she is ready for it. She has grown up, through love and kisses, through adversity and anger, through loneliness and very, very near destruction. She was not protected, she was not insulated, she was not held hostage underground. And now? It’s all worth it. All the trials, all the pain, all the loneliness. Because she is not afraid. And she knows she will leave behind far more than an exoskeleton.

THE FIVE PEOPLE

You Meet at Drugmart AUDRA KERESZTESY For eight hours every weekend, I work, and I watch. A drug store can get dull for a teenaged cashier, But the people never do. First comes the blue-collar man, With dirt-coated hands, slinging a case of beer Onto my counter, Barking an obscure brand of cigarettes at me. I shudder at his raspy “Thanks, sweetheart” as he walks out. Next walks in a mother with four kids. I hear them before I see them. This poor woman thinks the solution for silence Is thirty dollars-worth of candy. Waltzing in third is the band of teenagers Who “know” they are much cooler than me. It’s Saturday night. While they’re getting drunk with their friends, I’ll be organizing a shelf of mouthwash. The customer that is worth my patience Is the dainty old woman buying cookies And a half gallon of milk for the week. She asks me my name because she can’t read my name badge, But she already knows it’s beautiful. Finally, I see a family friend, Someone who didn’t know I worked here, A welcome break in the consistent flow of strangers. I feel like part of the real world again In our two minute conversation about my sister in college. There are not merely five people to meet in Drug Mart. There are variations of each. Some are friendly, some are mean, But to me they are all just customers In my eight hour day.

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The Art of FRIENDSHIP BRACELETS

EVA YEH

t was a typical December day in my middle-class Toronto suburb. I was in fourth grade, a blizzard hit us and we were out of school for the day. There was probably 10 feet of snow accumulated from hours of snow falling from the sky. I loved winter, so much of it made me happy: Christmas, hot chocolate, gingerbread cookies, snowshoeing, cross country skiing, ice fishing. Some say I’m a Native Canadian hatched in an Asian body. On that particular snow day, I found myself sitting by the crackling fire in our living room bored out of my mind. Somehow the snow outside just wasn’t calling my name as loudly as it used to. Was I growing up? Was I becoming too old for the snow angel making and the snow ball fights? Eventually, my mom suggested that we invite Rachel, a high school student that went to our church, to come over and teach me how to make friendship bracelets. Remember, I was a little girl in fourth grade that didn’t ever hang out with those big high school kids. So naturally, Rachel was the coolest person in the world to me. The fact that she was in my living room, with her cool bag of stuff, in her hipster beanie and side braid, was just…wow. She asked me what type of bracelet I wanted to make; she drew designs on a napkin that had some tea stains from my parents’ breakfast and told me which ones were harder to make. Being the adventurous person that I am, I picked the hardest pattern. It was a fish pattern, Rachel had one of those on her wrist. The colors were fading because she’d been wearing them for a long time. She taught me some basic knots and I went on making my bracelet, being extra cautious to not mess up. Loops within loops created a pattern that although small and simple was at the same time so intricate and beautiful. I took me a few days, maybe even a week to finish the bracelet. When I finished the bracelet, the white, lavender, baby blue and rose pink strings woven together made me feel so accomplished. The time, energy, and concentration I spent on this cord of strings was shown on this finished product. I wore it on my wrist proudly, swearing to never take it off until it broke. Ever since that first bracelet, I fell in love with the art of making friendship bracelets. I realized for the first time that I could create something unique and beautiful with my own two hands. In sixth grade, our class was trying to raise money for our graduation trip. Because I and a lot of the girls in our class were into making bracelets, we decided to make a bunch of different kinds and sell them at the Winter Show before Christmas break. It was the first time any of us made money with our own talents and our own hands. We poured out hours and hours of our time into this project. There were always some unfinished bracelet taped to the edge of my desk, a colorful plethora of strings swinging from the straight wooden edge. During recess, we’d always sit cross legged under a shaded tree, piles of string on each of one of our laps. Although the project wasn’t a huge success, because we didn’t make much money, we bonded over those bracelets. The time we spent working on our colorful woven strings made us closer and better friends. I connected with all those girls in a genuine level. Traditionally, friendship bracelets are given to friends to signify a friendship or bond between two people. But now that I think of it, I hardly ever gave bracelets to other people, and hardly anyone gave any to me. We were young and naïve, and it seemed too hard to give the thing we worked so long on

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away. However, to me, it was still a symbol of my friendship with most of my friends, because of the time we spent making them together. I find that as I grow older, I still tend to hold onto things that I spend time and heart on. I become attached to what I made or created, something that I feel belongs to me. I don’t consider this is as an act of selfishness in any way, but rather of love and intimacy. I re-assign significance to those things I keep. The bracelets I wore still signified my friendship with the girls I made them with. They were not valued less because they weren’t given to others; instead, I valued them more because of the effort I put in them. In the same way, I realize now that whether it be ideas, thoughts, or even physical objects, I always liked to keep them to myself, because they were mine. The summer after sixth grade, I moved to Beijing, China, from my middle class Toronto suburb. It was a huge change for me. I had to re-invent myself to fit in. It was hard to make new friends, learn the language, and deal with peer pressure all at the same time. I often found myself on my bedroom floor in the middle of the night asking myself how I got here and realizing that I didn’t have a choice – my dad’s job caused our family to move to the other

He died six years ago with so much life left in him. Years of pollutants and chemicals had caught up to his skin and only a sad, limp figure was left on my bed. Grandpa’s medication slowly filled my jewelry box, and pearls started turning into pills. I tried distracting him from the pain by playing board games or reading his favorite classics, but the discomfort was too much for him and my efforts too childish The day before, we played one last chess game. Since the first time I could pick up a piece he had managed to capture my king first, but that day I won. One of the happiest moments in my eyes, and for my grandpa, the proudest. As if this was his last task at hand, to prove that I was capable of anything, he let himself into the hands of a power much stronger than himself. He always said, “make the most of a bad existence” but like the “Iron Eyes Cody” song lyrics, his existence wasn’t bad, so where did he go, who is going to capture my king, and why is my bed empty?

ISHA LELE

My Room is a Grave side of the world. But I was pretty social, and I wanted to become friends with everyone as quickly as I could. So one day, I brought some bracelet string to school. The girl who sat next to me saw it in my desk and asked what I did with them. I showed her the bracelets I wore on my wrist, and she said that she’d never seen anyone make bracelets like those before. I told her I could make her one. When I was finished with it, I gave it to her, and she proudly wore it around her wrist. Word got out that I was really good at making friendship bracelets, and soon enough I found myself making friendship bracelets for most of the girls in my class. Although I no longer kept the bracelets I spent hours making to myself, I still enjoyed making them for others. I didn’t feel uncomfortable or sad giving them away or sharing them. It taught me that sometimes you have to share the things you love, the things you hold dearest, the things you think belong to you. There is another kind of joy in giving what you love to someone else. Without really realizing it, I’ve held on to making these bracelets. In my messy desk drawer filled with post it notes, candy wrappers, and eraser scraps, unfinished bracelets lie, waiting to be rediscovered and held on to. They remind

me of the tall snowbanks on the day I first learned the fish pattern. They bring me a sense of peace in times of anxiety, when I create something simply beautiful with my own hands. It reminds me of the countless international friends I’ve made in China, and how I learned that there is another kind of joy in giving or sharing with others what you love. Most importantly, it reminds me how important friendship and connecting with people is in my life. Growing up and working hard isn’t easy, but having people to go through these times with makes things a little easier. After all, just like music legend Prince said: “…we are gathered here today to get this through this thing called life.” We were not put on this earth to be individual human beings who do not interact with each other, but to help each other get through the day. The friendship bracelets on my wrists remind me of that every day.

08 Self Portrait by Maggie Gehrlein

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Monster FATEMA UDDIN

When I was 12 years old, I distinctly remember reading Monster by Walter Dean Myers. During this period, I became acutely aware of racial injustice issues present in the world and in my life. In the novel, a young black man feels betrayed by society and is a victim of unjust stereotypes. For those three weeks of reading I lived my life through his perspective – stepping back and analyzing my surroundings at all times. I made sure to observe the nuances of facial expression and body language present in those I interacted with. I soon came to a realization that stabbed me with reality: I was a variable in a sea of constants. For as long I could remember I tried my hardest to ignore who I was and decolorize my skin and culture. Growing up in a school overflowing with unaware, ignorant kids with little experience of variation made it difficult to show off my henna during recess, or announce my name proudly with the proper Arabic pronunciation that was intended. Looking back at this fragile time in my life, I constantly felt the enveloping atmosphere of xenophobia everywhere in my cold junior high building. When I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t even recognize the image – every ounce of color and individuality slowly pouring out as I walked further and further away. I remember so vividly the isolation I felt when my social studies teacher jumped in surprise when she found out I am Indian and Muslim. “I’m sorry for singling you out like that but I was just so shocked!” The next day, I was reminded again of the reason I was hesitant to be so open with my classmates, when a group of boys tied the scarves we had made in home economics class around their heads, staring my way and claiming they were the Taliban. My reaction: to roll up my sleeves and jeans to try to distance myself in their eyes from the typical image of a Muslim girl. Of course, how could I forget about the time when my best friend of three years ran up to in me in the lunch line after learning this fact about me to ask, “Wait, so how many moms do you have?” Even though their attitude came from a place of ignorance, my preteen mind was convinced it came from a place of hatred. This was a low time in my life. Here’s the thing about life: you always picture the end before it begins. No matter what, you can try like hell to achieve your perfect ending and find your idea of happiness. Through most of my life, that’s the only way I’ve pushed through: I pictured myself 20 years in the future surrounded only by people who look like me and believe the things I do – far away from where I was at the time. But this was my mistake; instead of educating and informing others around me, I made myself the victim in a situation that could have gone in a completely different direction. This is why I raise my voice now to learn from the mistakes of my past. I believe in equality, and humanity, and respect for all. I look back on these experiences as a lesson, and important turning point in my life, behavior, and thinking. I am excited to make my mark on the world and stand up for diversity and acceptance. And as a Muslim Indian-American, I am excited about sharing my experiences and eager for the opportunity to come together with open-minded individuals to see and understand how their journey is different from or similar to mine. My experiences have made me passionate about diversity and empowered by community and kinship.

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09 Self Portrait by Brice Bai 10 Conscious by Farah Sayed

mu•sic

GRACE HOMANY

mu•sic /myoozik/ noun 1. T he space between water and rock that makes the brook babble; changed based on the weather, the rocks, the river, who’s listening. 2. The sound of the tide eroding shore, a disappearing and reappearing rhythm, steady and dependable, but quiet at times: The melody of rock beaten to sand/ The thump of a baseline/ My heartbeat/ The guitar he plays in the basement/ The percussive door slams/ The crescendos like angry whispers that blossom into shouts/ The walls of a home aren’t thick enough/ The absence of a sound creates a beat/ The absence of love is not a hateful space/ The end of my favorite novel is torn out/ The bruise from that fall won’t fade/ The shade of blue around a full moon at midnight/ The replacement of that screened door/ The chill of a November morning on just-showered hair/ The car tires/ The radio/ The drawing in the upper right hand corner/ An expiration date/ These strangers serenade me/ The comfort of a heartstring strung/ That guitar/ Wrists can break like toothpicks/ Wavy skies/ Navy skies/ Sunrise/ Stretching arms/ Sore muscles/ The wrinkles in my sheets look so small/ Ripples not waves/ Setting sail/ Leaving home/ Slam. mu•sic

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THE PLAN AND

THE CRASH MARIA PERILLA

The island was not a big island by any means. At first, it felt big, even monstrous, but two years later, the patch of sand somewhere in the middle of the Pacific felt as if it could be swallowed up at any moment. The plan was never to stay. The Official Plan of Interplanetary Life Contact and Vital Observations was only supposed to last three months. They were supposed to get feces samples and mucus samples. They were supposed to collect plants, rocks, and soil. A sign of life was the goal, just one simple indication of extraterrestrial life. The worst-case scenario would have been to come back with no signs, no proof of a living world. They had been to countless abandoned planets before but they always were able to get back home.

01 Glow by Kimi Kian

The plan was supposed to be carried out effectively and without any problems. Yet no one had predicted that there would be so much water, no one predicted that the air quality would clog up the thrusters, and not one engineer of the countless engineers in the department had considered a situation in which the ship would land and never fly again. And so, when the mission control failed, and the ship crashed on the beach of some island in the Pacific, no one on the crew was prepared to survive in a sandy desolate hell. To be fair, the Xerulian people have no concept of hell. In fact, they do not believe in any God at all. Although by Earth standards, any Xerulian citizen could be classified as some sort of god (or demon depending what priest, senator, or school teacher you ask), the Xerulians themselves do not put their faith in a higher power. They put their trust in science. However, even with their extraordinary minds, science failed the crew. There were three crewmembers on the ship, which was not unusual for a Planetary Expedition Team. In fact, it is important to note that Planetary Expedition Teams were commonplace in the galactic practices of the Xerulian people. There were three crewmembers: an engineer, a biologist, and a pilot. It is also important to note that Xerulian people rarely experience fear, for they have extraordinary hindsight and superior intelligence. They live mathematically. They do not make mistakes, instead they predict everything and predict accurately. This is all to say that although

the ship contained a standard crew size of superior beings with plans of a well practiced mission, there was an unrecognizable feeling inside the main cabin of unhinged, unpredictable, unusual terror as the ship spun, smoked, and soared uncontrollably. As the three crewmembers sat strapped in their seats, awaiting death, the metal walls of the ship began to glow and grow hot. The command board had no power, the mission controls were dead, and all there was to do was sit and spin into the vast nothingness of an unknown solar system. Although it was against what was taught in the strict interplanetary expedition training, the biologist closed her eyes and pictured her mother’s cool hands cooking eggs. She pictured the first man she ever loved, and she wondered if he still lived in the city. Although it was against training, the engineer closed her eyes too and remembered when she first saw her wife. She decided that the next baby should be named after her grandfather. She hoped it would be born in June. The pilot kept his eyes wide open. They welled up with tears for the very first time as he whispered to no one in particular, “I just wanted to see the moon and tell Jamie about it over coffee.” Then the spinning stopped. Metal against land against sea made a sound like no other, a sound that does not belong to this Earth or any other planet for that matter. The crew lay unconscious inside their glowing metal craft; death had not come, not yet.

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crazy

Watching your best friend go I don’t know if you’ve ever seen someone go crazy Their eyes begin to cloud and back away from you And the person you knew drowns into an ocean of catastrophic confusions and you don’t know what kind of life saver you need to throw them. April One second, her face would melt into the floor She would imagine fires before her and hear the commands of the voices. Moments later she would light up again Like when we were eight years old And locking eyes after the first snowball. May She said lines of the voices in her head, she began to only write in cursive, a strange language we hadn’t seen since elementary school.

CLAIRE MARTENS

I haven’t responded yet My own paper laying face-up on a table in my brother’s room, waiting for me To ask her Is that you Are those things you said to me, you or the girl I spent the summer with and watched sink into a stranger

If you see her, if you hear her squeaky voice among the yelling Tell her I miss her And have a letter for her

But there were days, in June, when she would wear the pink sweatshirt and I could stop worrying. Finally breathe again to await her return back to me Excited to hear my friend, and not the voices that kept her. She wrote me a letter in the fall And I couldn’t tell anymore She signed her name the same way she always had, but she still wrote in cursive She still had an echo of something I did not recognize squeezed into the lines of her letter.

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AGAIN

FROM THE TOP MACKENZIE BRUCE

02 Invincible by Coralin Li 03 mélusine by Arielle DeVito 04 Ballet Dancer by Diana Malkin

Enough stop not good enough “We dance to be free” Start again “We’re free to dance” Dégagé “I live to dance” From the top “I dance to live” Brushing the floor closing back into a close fifth “Breathe” Once more “I dance to breathe” Allonge Prepare chasse leap 1,2,3,4 Land plie rise to relevé Again More emotion more passion Let go Embody to be free Dance like gypsy not like ballerina Thick french accent even thicker russian accent Leap higher, longer, stronger What are you doing, no Extend your lines Focus Dedication Command, command, command Stop Again from the top “Dancers are the athletes of gods” Pirouette Good enough for now

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05 Caged Beauty by Raea Palmieri 06 ti desidero by Ela Passarelli 07 Connected by Farah Sayed

Snakes

I love randomly wandering in the woods. I love fishing and cliff diving. I love to rock-climb, hunt, and fish, anything that’s slightly dangerous. Above all, I love to catch snakes. I love to interpret the weather to guess their location, I love to take the environment into account to ensure my safety and theirs, and I love to release them as close to their homes as possible.

To catch a snake, you must first acquire protective gear, realize the protective gear will not help you, and throw the protective gear away. If you brought glasses, metal mesh gloves, shoes, arm guards, bulletproof vests, forget it, each perceivably useful addition will only hinder, harm, or harrow your expedition. The only requirements are a stick (arm length, circumference of a dime, preferably no bark), dog (optional, with bark), and a hair tie so your possibly-demonic curly hair doesn’t blind you every five seconds. Next, find possible snake locations, ascertain whether there are actually snakes in your possible snake location, and extricate the snake. This part is quite distinct from the actual snake catching because you have two options: move snake to a place where grabbing it is easier, or stick your arm into the hole and grab it. From experience, I can say that option one is a definite winner. The amount of snake-bite scars I have on my hands is absolutely ridiculous. Finally, catch and release the snake. Approach it from the front (with optional help of dog), offer stick so that the snake bites stick until it gets tired, then slowly advance. Once the snake is wary but not aggressive toward

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LANE CHESLER

the stick (about 1-2 minutes), GENTLY place stick on the snake’s neck, right behind its skull, and press it into the ground. Then, take your dominant thumb and pointer finger and gently grab snake below head, and use opposite hand to hold the tail end of snake (warning: do not let it secrete on you; it smells rank). After naming the snake, bonding with the snake, and showing the snake off, calmly release it into the habitat you found it in. If this method is difficult with both hands occupied, simply release snake into the water near where you found it, and it will return home. This step is important because snakes should not be harmed, and should be courteously returned post-catch. Although I have relentlessly pursued these creatures by swimming through lakes and quarries, climbing cliffs and rock breakers, and hiking through poison ivy, snake catching for me isn’t all about the hunt or the catch. It’s about experimenting with new ways to swim without causing ripples, or how to back up a snake without creating a shadow. It’s about celebrating moments of victories with my snake-hunting-canine-partner, Kimi, and preserving those moments in the form of tiny snake-bite scars on my hands. I can never outgrow catching snakes. I can say with certainty that every year I am on this earth, I will be out searching for new reptilian hiding spots, and teaching my friends how to determine the snake’s location based on the amount of sun and wind in the sky. To me, our environment is priceless, as are my moments with my dogs, and my snakes.

AN INTRODUCTION MARIA PERILLA

When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up I answered doctor, lawyer, accountant, analyst despite my overwhelming urge to say writer, writer, writer. From a young age I believed that writing was reserved for geniuses with tremendous luck. Writers have to have super human imaginations and fairies that put their manuscripts under publishers’ pillows. Because my parents moved us to the United States from Colombia and left an entire life so that I could have a better future, I grew up feeling I could not gamble with their sacrifices. I felt that I could not afford to fail. My future was already mapped out. I would get a good education to get a steady job. I needed safe and reliable; no setbacks, no daydreaming. Writing was too big of a risk to fit into my safe steady future, so I learned to compartmentalize. There was writing, there was life, and they had to live in separate spaces. When I switched to a new school, I signed up for the research program although I pictured myself in the writing center. Every choice I made reflected a future I thought I was supposed to have. I thought I had to choose between my parents’ approval and poetry. Between success and writing. Still I crafted poems after school. While listening to podcasts about poetry and watching interviews with playwrights and novelists, I filled my mind with words that sounded good. I went back to the basics, pulled out Shel Silverstein from my bookshelves and taped quotes to my mirror. I read stand up comedians’ memoirs for an entire summer. In my junior year, I went to poetry workshops after school. I spent countless Friday afternoons with a ponytailed poet named John writing as much as I could. When he

would come to Cleveland every couple of weeks I could savor language for a few hours, and for those few hours I pretended I was a poet because I loved the way the world looked like when I held up metaphors to it. It was the same feeling I got when I first got a pair of glasses. Even though it was in secret, I really did love all of it. I could not get enough of it. I was running out of space to hide it. Despite my best efforts, writing pushed out doubt. I started to carry around a notebook. I watched the sunset for a little bit longer and wrote down the colors. I observed trees just because I liked the way they leaned into each other the same way my dad leans into my mom after he gets home from work. I wanted to remember that. I wanted to remember the Thursday evening and how it blushed into dusk. I run into poetry at swim practice, between classes, and during lunch. At night it dives down from the moon and into my covers. I wake up in awe of dewdrops, find charm in my Cheerios and reach for my notebook so I can capture the road I drive to school on after a night of rain. I thought “writer” was a bad word; it is silly now to see how wrong I was. I thought I could put life and poetry in separate boxes, on two different shelves inside two separate houses, but you cannot separate joint from bone. The older I get the more I fall in love with the world. The more I fall in love with the world, the more I write poetry. Before, it had been as if I merely existed. Waiting restlessly for poetry to find me, hand me a flashlight, and say, “Go where it feels like something has always been missing. Write down what happens next.”

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08 Walking in Circles by Regina Egan 09 Lights by Grace Amjad

DOCTOR

Should I become a doctor? Slice open someone’s chest in the all white operating room with my purple vinyl sterile gloves? Don’t let the patient know that they could, or have a possibility of, or probably will die during surgery. They’ll probably wake up in the static of a television screen and yell to their mother and father below that they did the best they could! Instead make it seem that they “have a chance” of survival. The reddish purple line of scar tissue trailing down their chest will be the memory of the magic I performed. Will I be praised as an equal with God? I’ll only be thinking of pages in a book or numbers on an alarm clock when I sign the paper. “You better love school,” they say as I sit in my bedroom at my parent’s house trying to study for my high school science exam without getting the urge to press a revolver to my temples. My friends will all finish college, get their first “real” job, make money, raise a family, and I’ll still be desk-bound in a lecture hall Monday through Friday,

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DANI COMP

dreaming of bradycardia and telemetry and ventricular fibrillation, or even better, standing over a table of cadavers while a handful of my classmates collapse to the floor when they see that first cut made, when they feel that first cut made. It feels like watching yourself die and be born again to clean up the mess. Once I’ve made it, only if I’m good enough, My daughter may only get to see me at the dinner table, telling me about her day in the exciting world of a 3rd grader, while I can barely keep my eyes open to eat the meal I picked up from KFC on my drive home from the hospital. I dreamt of eating that breaded femur all day long.

It won’t matter because she will get to tell her friends that her mother is a doctor and saves people’s lives for a living. That’s rewarding enough. I think? This patient will bleed out, that patient won’t respond the right way to anesthesia, and you know the last patient of the day will have a procedure that lasts four hours longer than it was supposed to, and you’ll have to stay and check on them in recovery because they have an arrhythmia that could end it all. I’ll probably hate my life if I become a doctor. Sign my life away with the stroke of a pen as I write a check for more money than I have in my bank account just so I can get the education requirements to tell people they’re going to die. I wonder when I’ll have to give that first speech. “Ma’am, we did all that we could. Your husband, his heart couldn’t withstand the stress of undergoing surgery. I’m sorry, we lost him. You can come say your goodbyes now.”

I’ll make sure to practice before cracking the news. Who knew that becoming a doctor would have prerequisites in theater and acting? Memorizing the lines to the script of the hottest, newest production: Telling a Woman Her Husband Died Without Sounding Like an Asshole! Yeah, it was my fault that he’s not able to tell you how the surgery went himself, but he’s the one who chose to consume more sodium than my entire family eats, combined. But that moment when your patient wakes up from surgery, still hallucinating from the mass amounts of anesthesia used to keep them knocked out for over seven hours under the knife. They’re alive, breathing, even showing the slightest gesture of a smile. You did that. You’re the reason they can remember that their favorite TV show is Family Guy and that they like to watch it while eating chicken pot pie on their living room couch. You’re the reason their heart is still beating and their brain is still functioning.

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MAYA RAZMI

BRUISES

’m four years old and I stand on a rickety wooden platform. The shiny silver bars barely block the sunlight glinting off of the playground equipment. The sun’s rays kiss my skin, enveloping me in a blanket of warmth. Above me, the sky, a brilliant blue, is streaked with cotton clouds like white marble on blue satin. The monkey bars before me provide an impossible path to the opposite platform, and I stand there, looking up, poised to jump with my arms outstretched toward the sky, without a care in the world. I jump. My hands skim the scalding metal and for one moment – one glorious, death-defying moment – I fly through the air. I blink my eyes, and when I open them, a gasp escapes my lungs and I’m flat on my back with the sharp woodchips pricking my back like porcupine needles. I’m staring in shock at the azure sky.

The only rules are not to injure the other person. My teacher pairs me with a far more experienced blue belt – a young twelve-year-old boy with bleached hair and sea green eyes named John. He eyes me hungrily, eager for a win. My heart beats wildly as I sit back to-back with John, hands clenched into tense fists. I can’t help but tap my anxious toes on the grey mat, squeezing my eyes shut in a desperate attempt to calm down as adrenaline wildly courses through my veins. The room buzzes with a quiet anticipation – a nervous energy hanging in the air. My teacher yells for us to begin in a deep, commanding voice. “Hajime!” The Japanese word for “to start” rings in my ear to this very day.

While I had received many bruises before that day, that was the first one that meant something to me. The dull pain in my back and the sharp gasp of air was a constant reminder of my failure, and for every day that month I jumped off of that rickety platform until I finally succeeded.

Within less than a second, the young blonde haired boy has me pinned to the ground in a tight choke. I writhe desperately, struggling for breath. My instructor almost ends the fight, but I’m not finished. I’m determined. I wriggle my head through the gap between my chin and his elbow and flip him over so that I’m on top of him, my elbow poised at this throat, ready to strike. Somehow, I manage to overextend both my elbow and my wrist. I persist through the pain. I win.

I’m ten years old as I step onto the mat for the first time, one of only two girls in the class. My mouth hangs open in shock as I stare at the boys tackling each other on the mat.

The entire class stares at me in shock. The eighty-year-old man sitting in the metallic foldout chair in front of the class looks at me with discerning sapphire eyes and smiles.

I’m beckoned to line up by my teacher, who has papery white skin that crinkles around his mouth when he smiles. His laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep inside and is so loud and contagious that when he’s in the room, you can’t help but laugh too. His twinkling blue eyes that carry so much wisdom gleaned from years of teaching experience, also hold deep pools of despair that can only come from losing your best friend on the battlefield. He taught me countless lessons from his years in the war that I still carry with me to this day.

“You see?” he asks us. “She fell down but she did not give up. There is an ancient Japanese proverb: fall down seven times, stand up eight. You must never give up, no matter what.”

I’ve barely stepped onto the mat when I am told to fight. Fight? I think to myself incredulously. This isn’t sparring – or wrestling – this is pure fighting.

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I nod silently, still nursing my arm. Grinning triumphantly, I limp toward my seat at the end of the mat. Bruises, I soon learn, aren’t necessarily physical. They come from your best friend moving away and I’m sorry and that old, black and white picture of your dead grandfather on top of the brick fireplace in your living room. I’m thirteen and on the gym floor of an old elementary school. The wooden floor boards are slippery with sweat, and I’m breathing heavily. A

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

young boy of about thirteen advances. Before I can even take a step or block with my hands, a fist slams into my stomach. I fall back onto the floor, shocked as the instructor calls time. I’m fourteen and standing ready before my opponent, both hands on a foam sword, poised with my arms out in front of me, ready to attack. I step forward to deliver a quick hit to my opponent’s ribs, but as I do, he swings and the sword hits my head. I’ve lost. I’m almost fifteen and stand in a defensive position before my opponent. It’s the fighting portion of my black belt test, and everything until this very moment has come to this. I put up a good fight – punching and evading and kicking – until my opponent throws me onto the mat. I fall down onto the ground with a thud. My heart sinks inside my chest. I’ve failed. After years of training, years of falling down and getting scars and bruises and getting back up, I stand on the old grey mat, waiting in front of a row of instructors. Their grim faces stare back at me, and my hands are clenched in fists at my side, trembling. There’s an overwhelming sense of relief – the exhaustion, the joy, the childlike excitement. “I bid you welcome to the ranks of age old, respected and honored traditions as found in karate.” My teacher says. His voice cracks with pride. His face, weathered by age and war, is filled with joy, and the papery white skin surrounding his eyes crinkle even more as he ties the new black belt around my waist. Sweat beads on my brow as I gasp for air. I’ve been punched and kicked so much that I’m dizzy, and every inch of my body is sore and bruised and hurting. Yet – call it crazy or call it brave – I try again: I jump up and thrust all my energy into a jump spin hook kick aimed toward my opponent’s head. I intend to follow up with a few punches, but before I even land, his lanky, nearly six-foot frame advances and his long legs kick me in the side. I fall to the ground. I’m on the mat for what seems like an eternity, and my lungs are screaming for air. All I want to do is give up. And then I remember a certain platform, the shiny silver bars in front of me, and

10 Jump by Kate Snow 11 Dancer by Coralin Li 12 Slide by Kate Snow

hands outstretched toward a brilliant blue sky and clouds like white satin on blue marble. Fall down seven times, stand up eight. Instead, within less than a second I stand and deliver two sharp, quick kicks to his side. His green eyes widen in surprise, then narrow in determination. I can do nothing but prepare to defend as his muscles tense for an attack.

A flash of red hair. A whoosh of wind in my ear. A flurry of punches – and bam – I’m slammed into the pillar, defeated. Another bruise. He steps back and takes off his helmet. His short red hair is drenched with sweat and he gives me a wide grin. “Nice try,” he says, panting. I lost. Next fight.

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Amputations

GRACE HOMANY

I always thought it would be hard to lose a limb. I thought the phantom pains would leave me up at night, writhing and squirming as nerve endings learned that they are not free to feel as they used to. I thought I’d need painkillers just to get my mind off the agony, the split like a hatchet through wood that would divide muscle, skin, tissue, and bone indefinitely. I didn’t think I could ever get over that. I always thought I’d never make it if it came down to a purpling extremity and a tourniquet. I hate blood too much for that. I hate messes too much for that. But I am sitting here writing fresh off the chopping block and I am not bleeding, I am not screaming, I am not even numb. No, in fact, I am breathing easier than I have in a while. I’m wiggling the toes on my remaining foot, on the half of my body I still have, and I am smiling. I don’t need a morphine drip, and I slept well last night. My body didn’t stretch beyond my nerves, they ended where they have wanted to for a while, finally. Because a cancerous limb is not an asset, it’s been rotting from the inside out. I could feel it first inside of me, how it spread from my fingers to my palm, over my shoulder, down my back. It felt like my spine was a door with a draft except the chills never shivered right, and sometimes the air was warm. When they suggested amputation I told them it was probably too late, that my fate was sealed and there was nothing to do but let me rot as I was. Perhaps they could compost the cardboard walls when I was done, I suggested. But I woke up this morning, to find the gangrene missing, slashed like termite-ridden wood, all that was left was a clean scar well-stitched and resting. And me. I am left, a whole complete mind, a body that acts as I need it to, even incomplete as it appears to the naked eye.

Untitled

ANDREANNA HARDY the universe doesn’t owe us anything not even another sunrise so dance until the moon shows itself again and look your lover in the eyes because if death decides to tap your shoulder do not be surprised no days are guaranteed and life’s our greatest prize

I had no use for rotting arms, poisoned veins, heavy fingers. I am lighter now and I did not realize that I wasn’t afraid of phantom pain until now. See, I didn’t want to feel the breaking of it all, the finite separation was too much for me to confront, so I feared the aftermath instead. Funny how that works, now I’m fine. I’ll wiggle my toes, make a fist, sneeze into my elbow, and maybe tomorrow, what’s left of me will go for a walk.

01 Mila by Coralin Li

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OLD homes ARIELLE DEVITO

you came to my house on a Tuesday (I have never liked Tuesdays) and dripped brine all over my nice rug and asked if I had anywhere you could sit down I told you that I was done with all this and it was cold here, anyway, and your eyelashes were already thick with snow but you sat down on the couch and got sand in all the countless cracks of the wood floor and I offered to make tea but you said no, thank you, in your storm-cloud voice and you asked if I was ever going to come home and I told you that the ocean hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t been home for a long time now, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cocoa and sticky notes and bonfires and poems written in black sharpie in the spaces between my fingers

02 Untitled by Andreanna Hardy

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Dear Dad,

I don’t think I have ever told you but as a little kid, I dreamed of having the perfect Thanksgiving dinner. Holiday music would be playing while mom let me taste the mashed potatoes, the fluffiness reminding me of little pillows in my mouth. You would tell me some hilarious joke about a turkey crossing the road while peeking into the oven to make sure you didn’t burn it like last year. My younger brother, Jimmy, you named him after the famous tennis star, is just old enough to reach the dinner table and slyly sneaking a bite of mom’s famous pumpkin pie before you or I could see. This is how my dream would go, the holiday music never stopping in the flow of air laced with the smell of cinnamon and autumn. This is the dream that replays in my head like a broken stereo, over and over again until the song becomes just gibberish flowing through ears. Every Thanksgiving has been a little different ever since I can remember. Some years it’s a huge gathering at our house and closest family friends fill the dining room with sounds of laughter and chatter like a Dunkin Donut with custard so full, it might explode at any minute. Thanksgiving, a holiday that I intertwine with your birthday, is a time of year where we are supposed to be thankful for different aspects of our lives and eat your favorite chocolate cake from Costco. Don’t get me wrong, the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade is one of the highlights of the day because we always bet money on which girl is going to drop the baton first. (There’s a reason I always win; spoiler alert, the giveaway sign is the fear in their eyes) I think I’ve seen Charlie Brown Thanksgiving once. You put it on in the living room TV while I continued to beg for a dog, pointing to Snoopy as an excellent example. It taught me that a cartoon dog could make better stuffing than either you or mom can. The beautifully set dining room table, with the basic Thanksgiving food laid out miles long with no exit ramp in sight is a picture that has never been painted in our household. But I wouldn’t have it any other way. The four of us sitting at a table, decorated with dumplings and all-you-can-eat noodles, but of course there is no dessert because mom yells at you to watch your weight all the time. No prayers or saying grace before dinner, Thanksgiving blends into our daily routine. You come home to Jimmy and I doing homework while mom is cooking in the kitchen and when you say it’s dinnertime we all rush to take our spots. I’m sitting to the left of Jimmy, across from mom and just inches away from you. All four pairs of chopsticks lined up like little soldiers, ready to go to battle and defeat the tofu terrain. Shots are fired, blood splatters, my food isn’t going down without a fight. There’s a reason I love Thanksgiving, it’s because we don’t have any special traditions, no fighting over a wishbone, no time wasted from greeting relatives. We sit down and eat a meal like every other day, the same four pairs of chopsticks lined up next to their station of duty. “Dad’s going back to China again,” Jimmy casually announces on the drive to school one day. “Not a surprise,” I respond, “What’s he going to miss this time?” I’m not telling you this to offend you. I just want you to know that this conversation has become part of our

STEPHANIE ZHOU

daily routine. I remember the first time you left for China on a business trip. I thought to myself “that’s the worst plane ride ever, hope you don’t have to take it more than once.” I hoped wrong. You missed my first tennis match of the season, Jimmy’s next orchestra concert and my mom’s self-inspired trip to the Smoky Mountains, coming home once in a while and to bring us Chinese desserts and gifts that we couldn’t get from anywhere else. At first your visits were only jokes between my friends and I. Whenever someone asked where you were, they could answer it for themselves like the answer was stained on the back of their hands. I am not angry. How can I be? For a daughter to become angry because her perfect dad was working so hard sounds like the headline of a murder investigation. But I am selfish. Selfish enough to not understand why my dad isn’t there to watch me play tennis in the evenings. Why I can never find you in a sea of fathers and mothers, talking and socializing at a parent’s party. Guilty. Guilty of not being able to text you my everyday thoughts because at 3 pm you’re fast asleep, probably dreaming of our next family vacation when you can finally bring out the new camera you bought. I am not mad, but broken because the fourth soldier is down and no one can find him or his belongings; someone please notify the family. We all have those moments, I’m sure you have, when the sky is looking extra gray today. The wind sounds like screams from someone escaping his or her own fears. Those days are the worst. But when I look up at the sky at exactly 9 pm, knowing that’s when you wake up to get ready for work, the sky is no longer gray because we are both staring at the same sky as if we have the power to sweep a paintbrush across. The same sky that carried me to the bathroom when I thought the light switch was a trap, bought me a hamster and let me name it Angel, and the exact same sky that brings me heartache every time I say goodnight to mom and there’s a hole where you usually sleep, a hole big enough for me to fall through. When I found out that you were missing Thanksgiving this year, I didn’t give it a second thought. Like I said, it blends into the background and becomes part of just another family dinner. So please don’t worry you’re missing anything, because I promise you won’t be. There will be no wishbone to break, Jimmy won’t steal pumpkin pie and I know for a fact holiday music won’t be playing. My trivial dream won’t ever come true and I have accepted the fact that you will never be able to cook stuffing like Snoopy does. But that’s not why the dream won’t be coming true this year, it’s because there will be one less pair of chopsticks. You won’t be there to tell me a stupid joke about turkey or lose money because the brunette dropped her baton first; it’s my first Thanksgiving without a burned turkey. A Thanksgiving I will always remember for the wrong reasons and the only time I have fallen too far down the hole to see the dimly lit blue sky. Hope you have the best birthday ever; I will still be eating the triple fudge chocolate cake. Don’t miss me too much, Stephanie Zhou

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I Speak, Therefore I Am “Gdjeena.” “Tina?” “Gdjeena.” “Dee-nah?” “No, Gdjeeena.”

REGINA EGAN

The teacher cocks her head, squints at me for a few moments as if the key to understanding me is somewhere written on my face. I can feel the scalding stare of the other kindergarteners’ eyes on me as heat rises to my cheeks. Lowering my head, I trace my fingers around the letter S on the alphabet rug as if the remedy to this abasement can be found between the coarse, blue, polyester fibers. Next to me sits my best friend, Harrison, on the letter T. Another few seconds of silence pass until Harrison shouts— “She’s Gina!”

I’ve decided I’m going to be a movie star. Last week I was going to be a rock star, but now I want to be an actress. I’m only six years old, but that only means I’ll have more time to dance, and sing, and bask in the light of the silver screen. “But Gina, sweetie, you can’t be an actress. Actresses don’t have lisps or speech impediments. They can pronounce their s’s, r’s, and th’s correctly,” my mom tells me as we sit in the doctor’s office. I begin to feel restless and claustrophobic as if the white plaster walls are caving in upon my tiny four-and-a-half foot frame, entrapping me in the reclining, faux-leather chair forever. “This is why you need to go to speech therapy. You can’t be an actress until you can speak properly. Do you understand?” “...yesh...” I catch sight of the speech and hearing doctor standing idly by in the corner, probably contemplating the new ways she can display her perfect, lisp-less, movie-star voice. I don’t understand why they both seem to care so much about whether or not I pronounced this like tiss, river like wiver, or sit like sh—

“Gina?” asks Ms. Stewart while standing in the doorway talking to Principal Visto. Oh no. Recalling every past sin in my six years of living, I slowly stand up and follow Principal Visto down the hallway. Expecting some form of disciplinary action for a non-existing misdemeanor, I am surprised to find myself outside an unfamiliar second-floor room. Principal Visto notices my puzzlement and ushers me into the room, introducing me to the white-haired woman sitting at the table; “Gina, this is Ms. Debby. From now on she will be your speech therapist. You’ll meet with her once a week until your speech improves. Okay?” With a hesitant nod from me, Principal Visto pivots on her left foot and is out the door. I sit down at the tiny table across from Ms. Debby, noticing the chipping, cinder-block walls and the low, fluorescent-lit ceiling. Lined along the walls are stacks of board games: Sorry, Mouse Trap, Checkers, Battleship.

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“Hi. Gina,” says Ms. Debby, slowly enunciating every syllable. “Do. You. Know. Why. You. Are. Here?” “Yeah,” I say, shrugging and looking down at the table. “I talk funny.” Ms. Debby proceeds to explain to me that I pronounce my s’s, r’s and th’s incorrectly. When I pronounce my s’s, I should keep my teeth together instead of placing my tongue behind my top, front teeth. Ssssssss, sssssssss. That feels uncomfortable. She makes me read a packet of short stories about characters doing things like skiing in the snow, riding rollercoasters, or going to movie theaters, and then hands me a packet of readings to complete at home. She tells me that if I read really well, we can play a board game before I go back to class. I don’t quite see what board games have to do with speech impediments, but I humor her.

“Silly Sandy sleeps in silk sheets—Mom, I want to go to bed now,” I say determinedly as I furrow my brow and cross my arms, crumpling the corner of Ms. Debby’s reading packet. “Just two more sentences, Gina.” “Sadie saw zebras at the zoo with so many stripes. She slurps super-hot, zucchini soup with silver spoons. There. I’m done.” I say, pulling the quilt over my head. I can feel Mom sitting on the edge of my bed as she takes the reading packet from my hand. Gently, she pulls back the quilt. “But Gina, you need to keep practicing these sentences. You’ve made so much progress. You’ll be speaking properly in no time.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” asks Jessie while thrusting her index, middle, and ring fingers toward Alan’s face. “Tuh-ree.” “Say it again!” Alan purses his lips and self-consciously looks down at his brown loafers. Jessie’s face contorts into an acute sneer. “Say it!” She repeats. Standing in Ms. Andrews’s fourth grade classroom after school, Jessie and I face Alan. A year has passed since the last time I spoke with a speech impediment, but I can still feel Alan’s shame as if it were my own. I should say something to Jessie. Stop! Cease! or maybe Shut it! I can say these things now, but I choose to be silent. I have learned to speak properly, but I don’t speak at all.

PULLING TEETH

STEPHANIE KAISER You are like my last lost tooth, The one that can rotate in every direction, Except toward the single strand of tissue that keeps you in place, That holds you down. You are that tooth and I am that tissue And when we are finally torn apart, As predetermined by the universe, It will hurt like hell. And after you’re gone, I’ll feel it,

03 “I feel kind of bad for her,” Mom says, pulling out from behind one of the parked cars in front of the middle school entrance. “She can’t pronounce her r’s correctly.” Sitting in the passenger seat, I wrap my arms around my backpack and play with the side pocket’s zipper as if responding to her comments with zrhhp zrhhhhp. I know the girl Mom is talking about. We’re in the same eighth grade English class together. She’s sweet but doesn’t say much. “Haven’t you heard her talk?” she asks. “It sounds like she has a speech impediment.” I’m taken aback by Mom’s bluntness. This is uncharacteristically insensitive for her to say, especially to me who has only been speaking properly for five years. Zrh-rhhhp. “It’s too bad. Her parents should have put her through speech therapy. Then, there wouldn’t be a problem.” Zrhp, zrhp, zrhp! Heat rises to my face. Memories of past shame stir to life in my stomach. The alphabet carpet. Striped, zoo zebras. Alan. Did other parents talk about me this way? How can she say this?

Your absence noted more than your presence, Because while you were here, I thought you belonged, a perfect fit. But maybe, you were a baby tooth, Training wheels, Never really sitting properly unless I forced you to. After you’ve left, I’ll still feel the pain as I bleed out, a cotton ball pressed to my wound. And I’ll run my tongue over and over the gap you’ll leave, Between the before and after of us. And it will feel wrong and it will feel futile, But crooked teeth aren’t supposed to stay in, And you might just be waiting for me to snap For your chance to run.

“Mom...” “What.”

03 Shadows by Kate Snow

“Just—please, don’t say that.”

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Rain

MARIA PERILLA

you drive in the dark, in the rain unraveling the threads of your lives, untangling the ivy and root that still grow though they have stopped growing next to each other you drive in the dark in the rain the shining black road is the same shining black river that carried you through caves in Tulum the same river, silver in sunlight, that slipped under bridges in Florence veins of a world always alive alive under Orion’s belt, alive under the Big Dipper, alive and red and purple and blue and black and black and black you drive in the dark in the rain but you don’t tell him what you really mean for the first time your mouth is shut not running not spilling all over you drive in the dark in the rain but you talk about it the way you repeat rumors, a thing without a solid bottom to stand on you don’t say how she climbed over you, that you were both ship and sailor, rock and wave, astronomer and sky

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a stick drawing shapes in the sand and rain and rain and rain you don’t say that her hands are the same size as yours that they once traced your body

R E T R O S P EC T: A P U B L I C AT I O N O F H AT H AWAY B R OW N S C H O O L

that after Michael handed you an axe, and you washed off the smoke you woke up calm, rested, and sure and sure and sure.

CARLY WELLENER

If I remember anything from kindergarten, it’s that when other people are talking you must listen. Back then, I thought that listening simply meant paying attention and waiting politely for my turn to speak. This sufficed for many years, even as I entered high school and more of my classes became discussion based. Even though I thought I was listening, my brain was not fully invested and my thoughts were often elsewhere—thinking through my argument, looking for an opening and a way to get my ideas into the discussion. I didn’t truly understand what real listening was until the first semester of my junior year. In the fall of 2015 I attended the School for Ethics and Global Leadership (SEGL) in Washington, DC, a semester-away program that seeks to shape a diverse group of students into ethical leaders. As a SEGL student, I received leadership skills training and studied current national and international issues ranging from Second Amendment rights to the Israel-Palestine conflict. A particularly meaningful part of my SEGL experience was the periodic “Quaker-style” meetings. In these meetings, no one led the discussion or called on people to speak. Instead you simply spoke when you felt moved to do so. While this format could have easily devolved into chaos with the more assertive among our group of 24 monopolizing the conversation, we were kept in check by the Quaker meeting rules: You may speak for however long you choose, but you may speak only once during the entire meeting. At first I thought these boundaries were incredibly limiting. What if I had something to add on to what someone else said, or worse, what if I couldn’t share all of my ideas? As the semester progressed, though, I found myself no longer self-consciously worrying about having my voice or ideas heard above everyone else’s. Rather than sitting quietly thinking about my next point, I found myself absorbed in listening—giving my total attention to the person speaking. As my peers took turns fully and completely expressing themselves and talking out their deeply held beliefs, I found that all of our conversations improved as a whole. We had taken the time to truly listen and understand each other’s perspectives. Now when we had conversations about potentially polarizing topics like affirmative action or the definition of “ethnic cleansing”—which was quite often at SEGL—we could interact respectfully, even as opinions differed. This allowed us all to grow in the depth of our understanding of a topic, and more importantly of each other. I believe that the world desperately needs more people who know how to listen. Good listeners tend to be problem solvers, mediators, and are able to make deeper, more empathetic connections with others. This coming spring, I will take what I learned from my SEGL Quaker meeting experiences and share it with my peers at my high school. I have developed and plan to lead an elective class that will challenge myself and my peers to further develop our listening skills through meaningful conversations. With practice, I hope that we will all grow into more thoughtful listeners. As I’ve proven to myself already, listening is a skill that can—and must—be learned.

SOMEWHERE, A FOUND POEM

Listen

STEPHANIE KAISER Fingers the color of rose Open to death and do not breathe. Their fragile power cannot imagine That which is not near. Never experiencing mystery, Not perceiving beyond the nothing of which it has an infinite amount. Too small to understand when something descends to nothing, When spring shuts its fragile eyes, When forever cannot be deeper. I can enclose her with hands, Textured with snow and country and experience. I can shut her eyes and have her with me forever, But the beyond is everywhere, And rosy cheeks cannot be powerless forever. She will travel to death and back and be fragile but glad. And I will wish with this powerful intensity that She is not touched with the flowers and the death, And that she does not have to understand each heart’s mystery. But she is breathing, She is somewhere, She will start.

The silence is an uncomfortable honesty. STEPHANIE KAISER

04 Unforgettable by Kate Snow

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PHYSICS

MATH,

and the Death of a Loved One ROSALIE PHILLIPS

Every

moment deserves your undivided

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I sit at a dinner table with my dad and two sisters. My father sips the foam from the opening of his beer glass and stabs a leaf of lettuce before pointing the fork’s tines toward me, saying, “Physics is the fundamental truth of the universe.” This is his platform in a presidential caliber debate that would claim many dinner table discussions to come. I, in return, hold to the notion that math is the fundamental truth of the universe. Math, after all, contains ideals that are not subject to the whims of the changing, expanding universe. My father proceeds to tell me, “Math was only created to further flesh out the physics of the world, it is only a tool that helps the machine run.” Since I was little, I’ve found comfort in patterns and stagnant truths. Breakfast, lunch, then dinner. Brush teeth, school, practice, homework, brush teeth. I clung to the idea of an input giving me a predicted output, smooth curves that ran through dotted points. Complexity and depth differed with dimension and rationality but things were always concrete enough to fit between the lines of my notebook. I was always careful to calculate any possible end behaviors and prepare the responses I could. Tracing each path with the fine lines I drew, I could find comfort even in the uncertainty of infinity. I lived expecting and adjusting based on the theorems of life. If you treat others badly, then they will treat you badly. If you fall, then your family will be there to help you stand again. If you study before a test, then you will do better. If the world hands you love, then you hold it close to your heart. In math, I could see an exact, round answer to why and how. My uncle died suddenly this past summer. His life was taken by the waves of Lake Michigan, the lake he swam in every summer since he could walk. Environmental conditions of a specific time and location resulted in a repeatedly tested input returning a different output. I had not considered this possibility. I had not prepared for this outcome. I began to feel gravity pulling me into the sand, sharp air resistance on my frame, and a bittersweet realization of expanding entropy. I noticed the small unexpected errors of everyday life, the non accounted for events or circumstances that amounted to seconds of time each hour: tripping on a stair, running into an old friend, missing the sounding of a bell, spilling coffee on physics homework. I wondered why you would bother thinking through a situation if you could never find a perfect solution. I wondered whether just by observing my life and trying to quantify it, I had fundamentally changed its outcome. We throw ourselves into turbulence that can land us in unbelievable joy and happiness or tragedy. In physics, I could see the hope and the reality to why and how. I understand better now what my dad was trying to impress upon me over leafy greens one winter day. You cannot live like you have the answer because the world is subject to change. Math is beautiful in its purity and absolute rules, but physics provides truth in its ability to shift as the universe around us does. I will still plan for the future and set goals for end behaviors I hope to achieve, but I will also let myself morph as my surroundings do. I will accept new love, mourn unexpected loss, and still plan time to study for the physics exam.

Praise

05 JMo by Maggie Gehrlein 06 Untitled by Andreanna Hardy

ELLIE CASCIO Praise that rainstorm that pours in through your open sunroof because sometimes people need to kiss in the rain and flowers need water to kiss the top of their petaled heads. Praise that dresser that stubbed your toe because that dresser is the guardian of all those memories stowed away in the back like the faded red T-shirt from your old boyfriend or the locket your mother gave you. Praise that song that makes you cry for sometimes we all need a reminder that we can feel again. Praise that curb of your driveway that you hit every time you pull in jolting your shoulder against the seat because that is the same curb you would race your brother with your arm extended to push him out of the way on rollerblades when he still lived at home. Praise that choir that made you cry during a church service for something you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe in because it was the reminder you needed that maybe there is something out there after all. Praise that broken bone because sometimes a bone needs to be broken just to be reminded that they know how to heal back. Praise those things you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think you should praise Because they are what make this life anything but perfect, In this mutilated world we live in.

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Free and Floating KATHRYN DOHERTY

OMBIE’S

First Breath ALEXIS CHAUVETTE Unpack the anxiety And let go of expectations. Acknowledge the stress. Let it go.

Accept that you must forgive yourself. I am not perfect. I am courageous. I am afraid of spiders. I am afraid of being overestimated. Don’t underestimate me. I have a voice, And it is powerful. I cannot be silenced. I will not be silenced. I am the only one who can take my voice away. I don’t want to be a zombie. I want to see the colors. Inside I scream, Outside I laugh. Inside I cry, Outside I smile. I forgot how to breathe, Ready for fight or flight. My mind shackles my heart, only my gut has the key.

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Anxiety jolts my heart And my mind runs rampant. I am guilty for ignoring my own voice. Robotic on the outside. Human on the inside. The blindfold is off. The volume has been turned up. I can finally breathe again.

The Newest Fad Diets

Hey there, people of Earth! Are you satisfied with your body? Of course not! There’s always new and exciting ways to change yourself, and here are some of the ones that are currently trending right now! Aren’t you excited? I’m really excited! So! Excited! To! Help! You!! Exclamation points are useful for looking genuine when I’m really just exploiting your insecurities for my own personal gain! Ha, so relatable! The Archaic Diet Why mess around with things like the Paleo diet when you can go back even farther? Let’s draw some dieting inspiration from the earliest lifeforms that arrived on Earth. Earth’s earliest habitable atmosphere greatly resembled volcanic outgassing, so consider a trip to Hawaii or Iceland. Personally, I would recommend Iceland. Not only is the scenery beautiful, but the frigid climate will help you lose weight as well. It’s been scientifically proven that cold is the best for weight loss. Stand at the lip of a volcano – don’t be afraid to get right up to the action. If it’s a little too hot for you, that’s actually recommended. It’s been scientifically proven that heat is the best for weight loss. When you’re positioned in a location to consistently get a stream of volcano gas right into your lungs just … stay there. After all, the earliest archaebacterial weren’t exactly the get-up-and-go type. If you feel a bit of burning or debilitating coughing, that’s fine. That’s just your lazy, consumeristic modern body rejecting the simple utilitarianism of the olden days. Eventually, if you persist, you won’t feel it anymore. Then, pretty soon, you won’t feel anything anymore!

Dismemberment You may have heard the little factoid that you can’t lose weight permanently because fat cells don’t die when you die-t. Thus, the only way to really get rid of fat is to cut it out with liposuction or some other surgery. But why bother stopping with just fat? If you really want to lose weight, there’s heavier things you can cut off – bone, for instance, or muscle. Heck, in one clean motion, you can separate 15-30 pounds from your total weight by lopping off a leg! If you’re looking for a less drastic drop, an arm (non-dominant, of course) can lighten your load by 5-10 pounds. Additionally, the resulting blood loss and shock can drop maybe another pound or so. Overall, this diet is incredibly fast, though a little messy. Nothing a couple rolls of paper towels can’t take care of! Really, there’s nothing to lose. Except a significant portion of your independent motion.

ALISON XIN

The Emperor’s Cleanse Recently, you may have noticed a new diet dubbed the Master’s Cleanse, which touts the benefits of drinking glorified lemonade and tea every day to lose pounds. But why settle for a measly Master’s cleanse of plebeian lemon juice and boiled leaves when you can follow in the footsteps of the great ancient emperors instead? After all, if the ancients decided that something was medically viable, it’s almost guaranteed to be accurate; you should always trust your elders. Simply obtain a large quantity of pure mercury and drink about half a teaspoon every day until you start noticing results to your liking. If it’s not working fast enough, don’t be afraid to increase the dosage to a full teaspoon, or even half a gallon every single day. When the first Chinese emperor tried it, all he experienced was a mild case of excruciating death. High Protein Diets Ah, a classic. Increase your protein intake and lower your carbohydrates to lose weight fast. However, recently, scientists have discovered that such measures typically rob you of important nutritional components. Luckily, there exists a fairly obvious solution to this dilemma. After all, if building your body is the problem, then the solution is to just consume other people’s bodies. You are what you eat, so if you’re (presumably) a human, then you should eat other humans. Everything that a human needs to be made out of is right there, and you’re being wasteful if you don’t take advantage of such a convenient package of nutrients. However, if you decide to pursue these methods, it wouldn’t do to eat unhealthy people – because then you would become unhealthy, obviously. Nutritionists highly recommend lying in wait next to gyms and recreation centers and ambushing the regulars, as those visitors tend to be in the best condition and thus the best quality meat.

Exercise…? What if you’ve tried everything on this list and it still isn’t working? Maybe you’ve even tried a balanced and nutritious diet, too, like some sort of commoner. But exercise is hard, and pretending like you’re trying by jumping on the next “big thing” in nutrition is easy, so I encourage you to sit on your hands and wait for the newest, shiniest, even better diets to come out in less than two weeks. Hopefully, this advice will help all of you conform to the practical and realistic beauty expectations that you absolutely have to live up to, or else risk being an unredeemable failure. Good luck in futilely attempting to change your pathetic, common, miserable life into something worthy of society’s standards!

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Songs of Experience and Innocence YARDENA CARMI

Song of Experience

Song of Innocence

Entropy The gradual decline of space and matter that makes time feels like an aspirin you’ve swallowed. Round berries like small planets boiled in syrup, pressed up against the glass in your mouth, your nose, your eyes breathe it taste it feel it can it, so swollen their skins might slowly burst Is how you feel when the sky hangs over your roof like a lid. And your bones are restless and try to move of their own accord out into the corners of your world you’ve rounded so many times yet you remain motionless. As it all drifts apart around you, atom by atom Falling, Falling, falling, still

Every hedge I haunt between the neighbors’ yards could be a forest growing, twisting, small scratchy branches that catch on my clothes. The clouds look like a trampoline I wonder what it would be like to walk there. The sidewalk unwinds endlessly, you almost can’t see it end from my front door. Once I peeked around the corner, only to discover a parallel universe, rows of houses and lawns just like mine stretching into infinity, each closed door hiding its own space-age alien family. They came and tore up the old tree in our yard. It’s been there for all of time. And in the huge ringed rotting stump they left in its place Is a hollow where a puddle has formed And next to the puddle is a snail. I watch for hours as the puddle reflects the clouds back at themselves, holding up one small perfect mirror so the sky can see, and the snail’s shell is brown and black and spirals smaller and tighter into Eternity

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02 Entomophile by Nell Bruckner 03 Lady by Ela Passarelli

CAMP

TAYLOR HERRICK

“You are one of those camp people, right?” I get that question a lot about my summer plans each year. I have the sticker on my laptop, I throw on camp t-shirts to wear to school, and I’m constantly texting my friends that are scattered around the country about our “campsickness.” It seems pretty typical of “camp people” at my age, but my love for the place that I spend eight weeks every summer is deeper than the canoeing trips or campfires. I started at the Aloha Camps in Vermont at age eight, when my father and teary-eyed mother dropped me off in 2007. I was greeted by a peppy girl who gave me my name tag and swept me off in the sea of introductions. She was among many impassioned role models that I found through my summers as a camper. Staff members like her and the transformative experience I had over my nine years as a camper were fortified by the camp’s mission statement: To inspire people of all ages to learn, explore, grow and be their best selves. The last part of the mission, being your best self, is a broad statement. The staff that I saw were strong women role models, always displaying enthusiasm and energy. I think this is the first time I witnessed real confidence and being okay with who you are. I am confident that these women are the people that brought me to be my true, best self today, a confident young woman with heart, enthusiasm, and a yearning interest to create a camp experience so impactful for girls like me. This inspired me to devote my summers to this place that I love and go on to become a counselor.

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I was coming off a short 36-hour stay at home after spending my junior spring semester away. Aloha is always a place I look forward to, but this year it felt rushed. Upon arrival in Vermont, I was pleasantly surprised when I learned of the immense amount of collaborative work the staff puts into being ready for our campers. Before the campers arrived, we were trained in how their brains work, how they learn best, and what matters to girls of this age. Once the campers arrived, it was difficult for me at first to put on a smile and find an eagerness to motivate and be positive every single morning. I had come off an inspiring semester-long experience where I had been so focused on creating something amazing for myself, a 17-year-old, but now that focus had to be shifted to the young campers and creating a great summer for them. An older counselor gave me wise advice, “You are going to cry, and not get enough sleep and want to go home sometimes, but you have to go out there to do your job and embrace the positivity the campers have because it will brighten your day too, as much as you brighten theirs.” This is one of those camp values that I always keep in the back of my mind: Be immersed and positive in everything you do. I became that staff, that magic, and now it was my responsibility to carry on the tremendous impact this place has had on me. The counselor who had handed my nervous, eight year-old self a nametag and introduced herself in the most energetic and crazy way was now me. I don’t take opportunities for granted. Instead, I immerse myself in new experiences with positivity. So, being one of those “camp people” has stood the test of time, shaping who I am and will continue to be.

HAIRS

ROSALIE PHILLIPS

Standing behind him in the line at the pharmacy, I wonder if his children ever told him the hair on the back of his head is greying. I wonder if when they scaled his jungle gym frame they ever stopped to mention the stray hairs splattered like stars behind his head. I wonder if the children knew what those follicles were, if they knew rust when they saw it slowly eating away the plated iron black of youth. When he collected his pills and left, I pictured him getting into a silver Corolla, a car that says “I’m responsible” without needing a vanity plate. I could see the empty bottles of diet coke in the wheel wells and the crushed up receipts he stuffed in the door. He drove above the speed limit but never got pulled over. When he ate, he threw his tie over his right shoulder and when he got home his eldest hugged him first.

Awareness VALA SCHRIEFER

Let me burrow in the breast of the earth, huddle in the shadows of the mountains, cry, and remember a time when I didn’t know I could control the world.

I bet he could feel the grey hairs like white hot pokers behind him. He doesn’t need his children to tell him his back creaks when he stands. Or that he can’t read without glasses. Or that he now needs a monthly trip to the pharmacy desk where he stands in front of a girl too young to understand the weight of grey hair. No. He can hear it speak to him. Telling him the clock ticks on and his son’s wedding may be further than he thinks. Telling him he is lucky to have lived so long already. Telling him to watch out. I wonder if I will ever get to have grey hair like his. I wonder if I will ever make the sensible car purchase and the stupid dietary decisions. I wonder if I’ll have enough children that I can call one the eldest and I wonder how long it will be before I am back here at the pharmacy.

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Cindy MARIA PERILLA

“Okay so,” She said placing her hands on her hips for emphasis and pausing to make sure she had everyone’s attention. “So I was going to like gonna ask him out, you know like casual, like not trying, cause like he had been eyeing me all night and I guess I had nothing better to do.” We nodded, she was glowing; she literally radiant. “So like I went up to him,and I was wearing that vinyl mini skirt, you know the one that Ted used to love before he graduated.” “C’mon Cindy,” said a girl sitting next to her in a tight red sweater “Just tell the story, it’s not like we have all day…” Cindy rolled her eyes at the girl and suddenly the girl looked like a scared wet dog. Silly girl. We all knew Cindy knew best. Silly wet dog-whimpering girl. “Anyway,” Cindy continued. “I started to walk toward him and we made eye contact but then he totally started hitting on some other chick right in front of me. Like what the hell man. And she wasn’t even, like, hot you know. Like I would totally get it if she was but she wasn’t.” She paused again, moving a hair out of her perfect face. We waited. “Well I walked up to him and I smiled, touched his thigh, you know did the whole thing, took him right from the other girl. You should have seen her face. It was…pathetic, yeah pathetic.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out some chewing gum. The bell rang. No one moved. “Next thing you know, we are in his car, you know, really getting into it, and I am looking into his eyes, he had these great green eyes… and bam! I cut right into him. I take his great green soul. Suck it right out of him. And like it wasn’t even hard. It was like cutting into butter, not even. It was like…frosting, yeah frosting.” Our eyes widened, we were so hungry for her, starving. “Well that was my one millionth soul. Delicious right? And who says Hell can’t be fun! And like don’t worry though you guys! You’ll all get there! It takes centuries of practice to be like a really good demon. And like I’m no Satan either, I just put in the work. That is what school is for.” With that, she popped a perfect pink bubble, and strutted out of the room into the fiery hallway.

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04 Ocean Nouveau by Brice Bai

Firecracker ARIELLE DEVITO

We are seven and nine and the both of us bubbling like champagne. She has a firecracker shout and her tongue is cough-syrup red, she has coils of hair ripping itself out of her head, she has wide eyes behind heavy eyelids and stubs of fingernails burrowed deep into her skin. She has my old plastic pearls and baby-pearl teeth and her thoughts are as green as the purse cutting into the back of her neck, as the plants we dig up in the backyard and tie into daisy-chains and onion-grass necklaces, and she only curls up when she’s laying in the soft clover watching how roly-polies protect themselves from the outside world. We are eight and ten and the world is built from stiff gingerbread and fingers sticky with royal icing. She has a smile that smells of sandalwood and freckles like pinpricks of stars across her shoulders, she has skin stained rainbow from melted crayons. She has hot glue snarled in her curls and my stolen paint striping her palms like scars. She has fingers numb for every card painstakingly folded and lettered, she has cheeks numb from smiles and kisses, she has eyes numb from tantrums and unwanted tears. She has two missing teeth and endless songs about them, she has an unbitten tongue pink from candy canes. We are eleven and fourteen and our checkerboard vision is blurred with laughter. She has stones from the riverbed in between each of her toes, she has an awkward gait and a shining smile, she has strong arms from borrowing my burdens. She has scar tissue building up under her scraped knees and too-tight hugs that almost hurt and a body that threatens to burst from its confines, she has eyes that have tired of seeing too-much, she has a cough that lingers long past its time and every inhale is filtered through layers of excuses before she can breathe. We are thirteen and sixteen and we walk on stilts a mile high. She has lace in her lungs and stretched across her thighs, she has eyeliner wings but shoulderblades light with empty space. She pins hair tight across her scalp and asks for scissors, she has sleep-heavy limbs that lunge away from her body in clumsy strokes, she has crooked teeth lined with curses and eyes that catch in shop windows and black-painted nails. She has scabbed-over wrists and cracking, bloody elbows, she has knives on her tongue where I have languages. She is fifteen and exhales rose petals with each breath. She has cigarette smoke staining her throat and pills polka-dotting her mornings, she has thirty shades of eyeshadow and a face she’s afraid to wear outside so she paints herself a new one every day. She paints herself whole worlds on old canvases that seep into the walls and shuffle people’s words until she’s satisfied. She has vines growing from the veins in her wrists and they’ve just begun to bud, she has scars branching like lightning from the soft flesh of her feet, she has a stutter in her palm’s life-line and she has a firecracker laugh.

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Turning the Page W

hen I was in elementary school, there was an unusual girl in my class. I saw her for the first time in second grade: it was the first day of school, and she was sitting in the corner of the classroom with her legs crossed, reading a thick chapter book meant for children years older than her. Her brows were furrowed in extreme concentration, her carrot orange hair covering her face, and only the morning bell sounding the start of school broke her focus. With an agitated yet slightly disappointed expression she rose up and chose to sit in the corner desk the farthest away from the front. I sat in the corner opposite her. I didn’t associate with my classmates too much when I was young. I was the shortest kid in my class, had two large front teeth, and sported a different headband each day of the week depending on my mood. I was the Indian who brought rice and curry for lunch every day until middle school and preferred to keep to myself most of the time. I was “weird” by elementary school standards. I usually sat in the back of the class with my hands between my legs on the first day of school, but that day I wasn’t the only one who looked out of place. I watched the unusual girl for the rest of the day. She didn’t talk to that many people either, and I wondered if she was new. She was shy, like me, and she sat alone with her nose buried in her book. I usually sat alone too, so I decided to join her. I asked her what her name was, and she rose her head from her book and with an unexpectedly warm and friendly smile, she answered, “Olivia, what’s yours?”

LEKHA MEDARAMETLA

kneeled on the ground and pleaded with her hands clapped together, as if it was her life on the line. “PLEASE, it’s the best book series ever!” She implored, almost in hysterics, “I have to talk to somebody about it!” I rolled my eyes and gave in, prepared to look up a summary online after getting bored a couple chapters in. Turns out, taking a chance on it was one of the best decisions I ever made, unbeknownst to me as I took in the title of the book in front of me: Harry Potter.

12 am ‘Kept what from me?’ said Harry eagerly. ‘STOP! I FORBID YOU!’ yelled Uncle Vernon in panic. Aunt Petunia gave a gasp of horror. ‘Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh,’ said Hagrid. ‘Harry – yer a wiz“Lekha?” My mom peeks her head through my bedroom door, with a surprised yet slightly annoyed expression on her face. “Lekha, you know it’s midnight?? How do you think you’re going to go to school tomorrow?!”

Olivia told me she had skipped first grade and moved up to my class, which explained why I had never seen her before. She had to deal with adjusting to kids who considered themselves superior to her because of their age and size, so she read because she needed an escape. We started to spend most of school time together, and before long I had made my first real friend. She was a nerdy bookworm, and I was an introverted Indian: we were wallflowers, and in a way I think that was what brought us together.

I close my book, irritated that I was stopped just at the best part, but leave a finger in the page I stopped.

SLAM

I give her an annoyed look, but pull out my flashlight the minute she leaves, smiling as I keep reading under the covers. Victory.

The teacher paused in the middle of her lesson on simple multiplication, and the entire third grade class turned their heads to the corner where Olivia and I sat. She had just closed her novel forcefully after reading the last page, and was now staring blankly straight ahead with her green eyes wide, as if she had been deeply affected by something unbeknownst to the class. She often read in class because she was bored, but she made sure to never call attention to herself – this time, she didn’t care that the whole class’s eyes were on her. Long after the teacher had resumed her lesson, Olivia still looked dazed. After class, she came to my desk and slammed the book she finished on the desk and craned down her head to look straight into my dark brown eyes. “If you don’t read this book series and love it, we can’t be friends,” she said, dead serious. I laughed, me not being the reading type at all. I just hadn’t found anything that interested me. First she insisted forcefully (which didn’t work for a tiny redhead half a foot shorter than me), then begged, then

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“I know, I know, I’m sorry – Just let me finish this chapter,” I say almost robotically. My mom raises an eyebrow but ducks out of my room, knowing it’s pointless to argue with me. But she checks in on me again after 10 minutes and forces me to turn off my light.

3 am I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. I want to finish the chapter, but my brain is throwing a fit – I need to sleep. I take a quick glance at the clock to calculate how much sleep I will get tonight, and my eyes widen as the clock reads 3 am. I never stay up this late just to read a book, but to my great surprise, this one has hooked me to the point where I have no sense of the passage of time. I smile, thinking I have become just like Olivia, enthralled by simple black ink telling a story on crisp white pages. The feeling of being in this world yet another at the same time is intoxicating. Reading feels like being in a dream while awake, which is why my tired, burning eyes are suddenly irrelevant the minute my mind transports me to a world unlike my own. Reading is a dream, one I never want to wake up from – and with that revelation, I understand why Olivia reads, and realize we are more alike than we realize. If we are not completely accepted in the world, we find another where we are.

From that point on, Olivia and I were bonded. Now the carrot orange hair draping over a book was joined by jet black hair, the seemingly opposite colors complementing each other perfectly. We were inseparable even through the rocky transition to middle school. By the third week of school distinguishable cliques had formed, and everyone outside of them drifted into social obscurity. It was a confusing time. I was conflicted between wanting to be above all the drama and thirsting to be a part of it. I didn’t care about being popular, but at the same time felt bad that I wasn’t. So instead of trying to fit in, Olivia and I decided to escape Every day after study hall, the sixth graders would throw their books in their lockers and stampede down to the cafeteria. It was pandemonium. The lunch line regularly stretched to the back doors, three teachers would patrol the room for noisy children, and you could smell the stench of preteen drama all the way from the gym. You could call it a less extreme version of the Mean Girls lunch room. But every time you looked to the very back on the left hand side, you could see two silent girls with their heads bent down at a 90 degree angle. Our red and black hair would cover our faces when you looked closer, and we would both have thick novels that almost weighed more than we did. Olivia and I were the most silent children the teachers had ever seen, sitting across the table from each other, content with just absorbing the words on the pages in front of us. But we were not silent because we felt awkward talking to each other. We both felt out of place in our new environment, but being together made us feel normal. We loved to escape into our own worlds, but having each other brought us back to reality. In other words, at school we were each other’s anchor. With each other to hold on, we were comfortable enough to put ourselves out into the world. We joined a few clubs, became library aides, and spent our days with people who liked the same things we did. We made a wonderful new group of friends, and school wasn’t as dismal as it seemed before. We had something to look forward to every day, and we grew comfortable with our environment. We navigated the halls with ease, always had someone to talk to in class, and didn’t bring our books to lunch anymore.

Then my parents told me I was transferring. “...Transfer?” “...” “But... where?” “A private school, honey.” With those words, I realized I was to be ripped away from my best friend, my school, and my newfound comfort and familiarity with my environment. To be pushed into a new world was essentially my version of armageddon. Every time I walked into school with the knowledge I was to leave it, I was struck with immediate sadness. I loved the locker I visited every morning. I loved my teachers. I loved my best friend. It took six years to feel I belonged in this previously hostile environment – now I was being told I was no longer anchored to shore, but was casting off into the unknown. When I finally told people I wouldn’t be coming back for eighth grade because I was transferring to a private school, I was met initially with stares, and a whole lot of judgment. Just like in movies, the public school kids saw private school kids as rich, privileged, and above all, snobby. And the fact that I wasn’t even transferring to a Catholic school, but a secular private school 45 minutes away that was inevitably more expensive, changed the way they looked at me. Olivia couldn’t accept it. She threatened to kidnap me and live in her already crowded home, or at least strike a bargain with my intransigent parents. Slowly, the reality settled in that we wouldn’t have each other every day

anymore. We were met with a fork in the road, and we had to leave on diverging paths. We promised to text every day, FaceTime every weekend, have sleepovers every month, and never lose touch – no matter what. We cried as we signed our yearbooks for the last time. The last day of school was the end of our world as we knew it.

In the fall I started at Hathaway Brown, and I walked up the large front steps for the first time on my own. I was very lucky to make friends almost immediately. I never sat alone at lunch, and someone was always willing to talk to me. But it just wasn’t the same. I missed having an effortless connection with the person next to me, and this internal loneliness turned me to reading once again. I always carried around a book with me, and I read almost every minute I had free. I still talked with Olivia, but reading made me feel closer to her. I knew that a few miles away, she was probably reading too, and it felt like I was carrying a piece of her around me. Reading was our last connection. But the sad reality is, friends grow apart. People adapt to their environment, and they change – it’s inevitable. By the end of eighth grade, Olivia and I were down to texting only once a month. We never had those weekend sleepovers, only FaceTimed once in a great while, and one of us was always busy every time we wanted to chat. We now had separate lives, and it seemed like we didn’t have time for each other anymore. I would get sad every time I thought about her. I was racked with guilt for not trying hard enough to stay in touch. I felt that I had betrayed her by letting our friendship go, and I felt bad that I wasn’t the same person that she knew. It seemed as though our worst fears had come true. As I grew apart from Olivia, I also stopped reading. I couldn’t even browse my shelf without being reminded of her. I stored away my Harry Potter books, my Percy Jackson books, and any other book we had enjoyed together. I was getting close to my new friends, but the guilt of letting another go was unbearable. She stuck by me for six years, and I repaid her by moving away and taking away our friendship. I felt responsible.

As the cliché saying goes, time heals all wounds. After being apart from Olivia for over a year, naturally I adapted to my environment. I solidified a group of friends, busied myself with the copious amounts of schoolwork, and eventually Olivia appeared in my mind less and less. My new friends were spontaneous, outgoing, and studious at the same time, and the more time I spent with them, the more I unknowingly changed to become like them. The next time Olivia and I casually met up, we couldn’t even hold a conversation because our interests had changed so drastically. I went to the mall with my friends while she went to comic-con conventions with hers. I did speech and debate, and she chose orchestra to be a part of a large group without calling attention to herself. By this time, it was clear that our personalities had morphed too much to be effortlessly compatible anymore. And that was okay. Friendship is something that can’t be forced. We will forever hold each other in our hearts, but it is better to cherish the times we had instead of trying to salvage something that has already been lost. What is important is that she was my first real friend. She made me feel comfortable with being who I was in a vicious world. Her invaluable companionship first helped me accept who I was, then accept that the world around me wasn’t that bad because there were people like her. Reading is how I pay homage to this friendship, and never forget it. The unchanging words on the pages give me comfort at many points in my life, like Olivia did all those years ago. No matter how upside down my world gets, I know that the characters in my books will never change who they are, and their familiar adventures will always have room for me. I shared that with Olivia, and my bond with her lives on in my love for the books on my shelf and the ink on their pages.

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DISHWASHER

Principle CLAIRE MARTENS

According to my father, there is only one right way to load a dishwasher. I can’t begin to count the arguments between my family of five huddled over our average stainless steel dishwasher, fueled by the fumes of Cascade dish soap. My dad, a stoic man towering 6’3”, demanded the bowls to be facing the front and in a perfect line to be able to fit in the plates behind it. His strong and strict approach of believing there is only one right way to do something seeped down the generation and haunted his offspring: me. Until I was in 6th grade, I never challenged this belief. There was one way to do something, one way to follow instructions, one way to fully succeed. My friend Ellen and I were in our computer class learning how to type quickly like all the working adults we see on TV do, training for the day we would join them. We were typing along with our software exercises and I realized that she was capitalizing her letters completely wrong. The program said to hold down the shift button, but she was pressing the caps lock key. It was madness. My 12-year old mind couldn’t and didn’t choose the right way to handle the earth-shattering situation. She was doing it wrong. So I had to tell her. My ingrained belief of one path to success was crumbling around me. Once I confronted her on her mistake, she eloquently asked me “I’m getting a capital letter, aren’t I?” Her question made my world reverse in its orbit. All of my life, I believed that discipline and obedience to instructions and knowing the right way to do something would lead me to success, to the right answer. I went home that day, trying to figure out what else would explode my own little universe, and decided to take Ellen’s approach to the dishwasher. This kitchen appliance was the king of all family fights, and I chose to naively provoke the steel monster. That night as I loaded pans and forks into its unforgiving jaws, I also placed bowls facing the other way, the wrong way. I poured in Cascade, turned on the machine of chaos and waited until my father unloaded it to see what insanity I’d caused. He opened the steaming steel master to see his nightmare. Spoons facing down, cups on the bottom shelf, plates not in rows. I swore a little bit of my father broke that night as he witnessed the chaos before him. I pranced over to him, bouncing with pride in my 6th grade mind, knowing I defeated him. He looked at me with disappointment and frustration. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, I asked “they’re clean, aren’t they?”.

I doubt Ellen remembers our interaction 5 years ago in the computer class, but I will always recall it as the instance that challenged the dishwasher principle. From that day it was proved to me that I could lead so many paths to success, so many different methods to be happy, to lead my life, to fulfill my own dreams, and the dishes would still come out clean.

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05 Nurse Sharks by Taylor Herrick 06 Containment by Jasper Solt 07 Tree House by Jasper Solt

NOVEMBER is an Arbitrary Month SAM SCOTT You forgot what it feels like to be warm, to feel vitamin D and ultraviolet light seep into your pores. You forgot how easily your joints twist and muscles stretch in hot, stuffy air. The wind is crisp and cool, a reminder that it’s early November, a contrast to the sun’s warmth that touches the exposed skin of your ankles, hands and face, unearthing memories of blissful summer humidity and cicadas. It all looks the same. The roof is still slate. The plants are still growing. The fountain is still waterless and a too bright turquoise. The bricks, though no longer perfect 90 degree angles, are still stacked and laid to form walls and paths. Toddlers shriek from the excitement of aimless thoughts floating in and out of their underdeveloped brains. Teachers scold them for their adventurous spirits, “No Reese, we’re not playing in the mud today please get out. Stop...stop! Zora come away from there. Chase come here. We’re going away from the plant.” You choke down as much of the fall air as your lungs allow. If you breathe, you don’t have to think. If you think, you can’t breathe. Your eyes scan around the garden. It feels smaller than it used to, you are bigger than it remembers. The bench you’re seated on is hard wood, a faded burnt orange

with paint chipping in places. It is where you sat in the fourth grade when your best friend told you she no longer wanted you in her life. The circular structure in the center filled with dirt is where, in kindergarten, you would submerge your hands in soil, coming out with filthy fingernails and earthworms. You’d let them crawl around in the palm of your hands before tucking them back into the ground. At recess, you would eat raw honeysuckle, a forbidden fruit that made your mouth water with recklessness. They are no longer there. The plants were ripped out from behind the wooden fence. A forbidden fruit exiled from the garden. You listen to the rustle of tree leaves that sound like they’re hushing, shh shh, trying to quiet the already still space. The bigger the breeze, the more intense the admonishment of noise. Their branches are thin and wispy, resembling an infinite network of ancient, gnarled wood fingers. The maples and oaks are the only things that haven’t reduced in stature and wonder. They stand firm and rooted. You hope you too can be strong and impenetrable, that you will remain grounded despite the never ending shifting and flux. You are older than you used to be, they are taller than you remember.

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08 Lost in the City by Matilda Madfis

Instead

ARIELLE DEVITO

The girl is pretty. She has a hooked nose and coffee skin and a pointed smile that looks like Peter Pan’s, if Peter Pan had been a teenage girl in a hijab writing someone’s name on the side of a Starbucks cup. She hands the cup to the customer, who is also pretty, but in a different way, with tight clothes and short hair and sharp eyes. The girl smiles at the customer, and for a second she considers asking for her number, but instead she just inspects the creases of her hands while the girl walks away. They don’t see one another again for years, and when they do, neither recognizes the other. The girl walks the half-mile home from work and passes all sorts of interesting people, with crazy hairstyles and t-shirts with curse words in capital letters on them, and she overhears conversations about everything under the sun. A man yells something at her, and she wants to flip him off but instead she pretends she didn’t hear and keeps looking at her phone, which is open to Facebook even though she hasn’t actually read a single thing yet. When she gets home, the house is empty because her mother is still working and her father is at an AA meeting and her brother is probably at basketball practice or off on a run or watching a movie with his on-again off-again girlfriend, so she goes upstairs and sits in the chair by the window of her room and watches TV on her computer instead of on the TV because it’s much farther way and the couch isn’t as comfortable, anyway.

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She’s lost in a nice buzz of thoughtlessness when she hears the door open and close softly which must mean her mom is home, because her brother always slams it. Part of her wants to go greet her but she knows she’ll just see her tired eyes and hear about how awful it is to work evenings, you have no idea, so she stays in her room and doesn’t think about much of anything at all until her mom calls up the stairs that dinner is ready and she’d better come eat before it gets cold, hurry. Dinner is a silent affair as always, three family members staring at one another and the fourth conspicuously absent (she’s pretty sure he’s out getting high with his friends, since he’s been gone for hours now). Her father asks how her day was, and she wants to tell him about the funny thing her friend said in Chem and the pretty girl at work but instead she says fine, thank you, and pushes her food around her plate because she knows he’s more interested in having an excuse to talk about his own day than in hearing about hers. And when dinner is over she helps clean up and in a moment of emotion her mom pulls her near and says, I love you, and she wants to say, I miss you, I miss how we never talk anymore, I don’t know the first thing about you these days and I can’t bring myself to ask, I’m worried that I’ll never know you again the way I did when I was young enough to understand you, but instead she says, love you too, and ducks out of her grip to run upstairs and stays in her room alone until she falls asleep to the sounds of her brother slamming doors and making a thousand excuses.

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19600 North Park Boulevard

Shaker Heights, Ohio 44122

216.932.4214