Personal Narratives

I See

By Robert “Cotton” Strong ’23

The image that follows may seem simple, but in my mind there is nothing more complex. This picture embodies everything about the best and worst months of my life, the months that make up this past summer. In the foreground, you can see rocks, a fireplace, rocks and a chair. I see my moments of peace, with the fire crackling, sparks flying from the unpredictability of the flame in the barely standing brick structure. I see my dog, his favorite spot is just out of frame, a grassy area where he stood preparing to protect us from his most violent enemy: the squirrels. I see my family, gathering near the pit near the end of the day, after we spent the prior hours going to our separate places at our separate times. Beyond this place, you see a boat, you see the bane- James Ann- and the boy on the boat. What you cannot see is that boy, me, struggling with the limited space. Jumping around buckets and crates is a process that I now do so efficiently that I now think of myself as the sole American Ninja Warrior. You definitely cannot even begin to imagine the sting on your nose, as you take in the smell of hundreds of dead fish. You can look at pictures online, but there is no way to appropriately describe pushing through the seemingly endless pile of yellowed herring that have aged so badly they melt like pudding in your hands. Even now, I can feel my exhaustion, paired with the seasickness that is inevitable for even the most experienced fishers. This twisted feeling in my stomach, my chest, my head was a daily routine for so long that even thinking of it gives my body the illusion that I somehow feel it, no matter where I am, or how long it’s been since I have felt any actual fatigue. is inevitable for even the most experienced fishers. This twisted feeling in my stomach, my chest, my head was a daily routine for so long that even thinking of it gives my body the illusion that I somehow feel it, no matter where I am, or how long it’s been since I have felt any actual fatigue. Past my own little bubble of struggle and fish, I can see my captain, grinning as he guns the boat he has named after his two kids, who he is no doubt thinking of as he ignores his constant pain. Beyond our struggles, you see an island, the oceans, the horizon, the sky, and you know of the world beyond. I see the 20-odd traps, each island in the distance, which are hidden from your eyes. I know that behind every island there is a harbor, which will be my point of escape, months after this picture was taken. I know that out in the blue desert, there are hundreds of lobsters already ensnared in yellow cages made just for them, waiting for us, waiting for me. I know that each lobster will feel like a victory in my mind but a step towards defeat for my body. I know that every one of those steps will make the image of completion more and more clear in my mind, an image that I know so well. So I see my moments of peace, until I finally reach them, when I see the fire crackling, sparks flying up from the flame so predictably unpredictable.

The End of Summer

By Mitchell Nazareth ’23 - Writer of the Week Winner

Looking back to the past, I have a strong conclusion on where my summer ended as a child. Growing up half-black in Boston was always a tough part of living. Everyone asked me who I was, and more specifically, what I was. Occasionally, I would get picked up from preschool by a white father, and other days a black mother. On the odd circumstance, both of them at the same time. However, the differences in my life only got more exaggerated once I was home. Nothing a child who could count his years alive on one hand could ever prepare for, even when he prepared for the worst imaginable. Two towering grownups clashing against each other, with booming voices that rumbled through my core.

Hastily moving up the stairs with my older brother in hand, a sinking feeling slowly starts to cut through me like a knife through butter. I briskly plopped myself down at the Spider-Man video game that we used to play on our tube TV. Bright colors began to flash as I took the controller, gripping it firmly in my hands. The sounds of arguing below me, slowly washing away like waves on a beach as it's replaced with the action in front of me. Comfort fills over me, and a momentary respite begins to flutter, my mind full with transformation.

Playing Spider-Man with my older brother, there was a clear border between the characters. Me, playing the hero saving the day, and the evil-doers distorted by a life of crime. But below me, the arguing that ensued was different. I idolized both sides, both mother and father. Both playing the hero in my story, I had to ask the question: who was the villain? My brain powered up like a rocket ship in search of answers far above my small, powerless self.

Passing the controller off to my older brother, who was far better at Spider-Man than I was, I started wondering more about the game I was playing. Who were the people I was fighting with? Why was I hurting these people so badly? Why are these people doing bad things that no one I knew personally would? To these questions, the game had no answer. Only I could come up with the answers to these questions that I was posing.

“Spider-Man.” Ultimate Spider-Man Wiki, https:// thedailybugle.fandom.com/wiki/SpiderMan.