Spring2014printversion

mosaic Spring 2014

Volume 12, Issue 2

A Magazine for the Literary and Visual Arts at Holderness School

mosaic

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Hello and welcome to another issue of mosaic!

Since the last issue, there have been some new and exciting developments to the production process. I continue to have more and more submissions each year, and this spring was no exception with over thirty submissions. The difficulty of choosing which pieces to include has become challenging. Fortunately, I found some help. This spring two rising seniors offered to spend time over the summer reading student submissions and helping to select the best. They also have helped with the proofreading process. Youngjae Cha ‘14 and Becca Kelly ‘14 have been a huge help this summer, and I look forward to continuing my work with them in the fall on this and other publications. Their student perspective is invaluable! mosaic, as always, is filled with a diversity of perspectives and opinions. To begin, the poems from Mrs. Lin’s class are beautiful and reflect the care our AP Language and Compositions students put into thinking and writing. As I started gathering material for this issue, I was also impressed with the technical skills of our Advanced Photography students. They have an eye for the important details and a certain playfulness that makes their work both rich in detail and fun to contemplate. And while the seniors contributed a great deal of talent and depth to this issue, the talent of the ninth graders should not be overlooked either. The excerpts from their biographies include details that reveal the level of intimacy they gained with their subjects through the interview and research processes.

I hope you enjoy this issue of mosaic as much as I enjoyed putting it together! Happy reading!

Emily Magnus Director of Publications

Ceramics on cover and this page created

by Beginning Ceramics students

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Poetry In Mrs. Lin’s AP Language and Composition class this spring, students wrote poems modeled on Richard Blanco’s “Looking for the Gulf Motel.” Richard Blanco is the fifth inaugural poet of the United States and visited Holderness in April. The students focused on Blanco’s refrain “There should be nothing here I don’t remember” as a kind of rhetorical insistence that everything in our fondest memories stay as we remember -- a denial of time’s progression. The students’ poems were meant to capture the same sense of nostalgia and wishful, sometimes stubborn resistance to change.

Looking for Pangani

By Taylor Mavroudis ‘15 There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

The 400-meter long, pure white sandy spit should be sticking out directly across from the Casuarina trees.

It should curve slightly to the right at the end, where the aqua water meets the pearlescent shore.

The squishy, murky brown seaweed shouldn’t be piling up so high along the coast that the village kids can do back flips, the stacks catching them before they hit the wet sand.

Where is the flat plain of sand before the drop to the spit where we should be playing football with Rama and Issa?

Instead, it is uneven and covered with the Casuarina seeds that stab your feet as you sprint across them trying to escape the searing sun.

Mum and Dad should be lying side by side on those woven sun-beds.

There should still be the crunchy maroon walls made up of dried palm fronds encircling our little shower and toilet.

There should still be that low grumble of the old quad bike we bought many years ago, struggling to carry the weight of Dad, Damon, and Benji as they slowly make their way down to the creek, fishing rods in tow, hoping to catch something, anything.

Mama Issa should be gossiping with the old mama from the village who rakes the seeds off the sugary sand.

There should be three young children, two boys and a girl, racing each other into the shallow water, laughing at whoever is the first to trip and tumble into the sand.

This should still be ours.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

As we walk along the stretch past the village, the children should be calling out, “Benja, Damoni, Tayla, njoo aisee, twende kucheza.”* Yet somehow, they don’t remember our names, or our faces anymore.

There should still be coconut shells in a huge pile next to the sun-faded wooden boat.

They’ve all been cleared away, replaced by fishing nets and stacks of mangroves.

The Lithgows should still be relaxing outside their tree house rooms, eager to be invited to come and ride the quad bike.

Now all I see are run-down structures, covered in dust and sand, waiting to be visited once again.

We should be able to see the fish flying through the clear water, as we stroll around the corner.

On occasion we should see a dolphin in the distance, glimmering in the deep sea.

Now all we see are dead washed-up turtles, sometimes four or five in one walk. They have been injured by boat engines or have ingested some sort of plastic.

Now that we’ve rounded the bend, there shouldn’t be any houses or construction until we get to The Tides lodge. But as we walk across the now rocky sand, every piece of property is covered with massive mansions, each two or three stories tall.

Telephone and electricity poles line the shore. When did this all happen? We should still be using generators to power our light bulbs. mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

5 There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

As we approach The Tides, the glass beach balls should line a path up to the bar and lounge area. Now they’ve been replaced by electric lamps.

I look to greet Saidi behind the great dhow bar, but someone new, someone younger, has replaced him.

Where are Uli and Stefanie? They should be welcoming the tourists from their six-hour drive from Arusha to the coast.

They should be managing The Tides, making it the most popular place on Ushongo beach.

Mum and Dad should be attempting karaoke with Corky and Kevin, as all of the children, my brothers and I included, hide on a couch in the corner of the bar, embarrassed by our parents’ terrible voices.

Dinner should be announced soon; Saidi should tell us we are having prawn cocktails for starters, like we always do.

After dinner, Benji should fall fast asleep on the beds by the beach, waiting for us to make our trip back to the plot.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

I am expecting a large green canvas tent to be standing in the strong winds as we finally make it back to our site.

Instead we have to walk 400 meters up to our little cement house, complete with air-conditioning and running water.

Darkness and the sound of crashing waves should engulf me as I fade into sleep, but now all I see is the light coming from Benji’s laptop screen, and all I hear is the hum of the fan right next to my bed.

Yet, this should still be ours. *”Benji, Damon, Taylor, come here, let’s go and play. “

Zihan Guo ‘14

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Arriving at the Cape House

By Lizzy Duffy ‘15 There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

Arriving at the cape house, sandy and sun kissed. Unpacking the car, a trail of sand sprinkles out along with bright colored beach toys, rainbow umbrellas, and rolled-up, wet towels. The sky changing from bright blue to a sunset as we sit down to dinner, freshly showered some. I should be dull rose color. Chicken parm laid out, thirteen plates on the table with white and blue placemats, everyone sitting in their usual places. Nana and Papa sitting like a king and queen at the head of the table. We should be able to see the river that feeds into the ocean and the sailboats floating aimlessly through it. Their sails folded up tight, their naked skeletons blending into the dark night. My oldest cousin and I should be sitting out on the back deck at the big white round table, the stars covered by the blue and yellow striped awning. Enjoying the warm summer night and dessert. The barrier that separates us from the younger cousin is a screen, but a murmur flows through. My uncle should be washing the dishes, and Nana should be sitting in the same spot on the couch with a view of the dark night and the orange streetlight. The other cousins should have snuck away from the adults after bringing up their red, saucy plates -- hiding away in our grandparents’ bedroom splayed out on the bed, watching SpongeBob or a Disney channel movie, making another appearance only to get dessert. Then the moon high over the beach, and the kids dragged to bed, all piled into one room, sharing sweet dreams.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

Loading the navy blue trunk, all piling in the back seat meant for three. Towels, coolers, sand toys, boogie boards, sunscreen bottles, umbrellas, chairs. Pulling into the long road, filled with cars that line the wooden barrier, holding the beach. Hot pavement burning the soles of my feet as I run to the equally hot sand, dragging shovels and buckets behind me. As my aunts, uncles, and mom unpack the car and set up camp, we run to the water, testing the temperature with our toes and running back. Digging holes to China, but meeting water. Building sand palaces fit for a prince, but hermit crabs take the mini thrones. Splashing in the water, avoiding the seaweed, and floating on the boogie board. When the sun reaches the top of the sky, a hat and shirt are forced on me as I scarf down a PB&J with a juice box and Cape Cod chips. Happily sitting on a damp towel with my older cousin sitting next to me. We should have jelly smeared all over our mouths, and our noses should be getting pinker by the minute. There should be the lovely tune of the ice cream truck rolling down the road, beckoning children and parents. The ice cream should be melting so fast, and then I should be running into the water to wash off. Digging, swimming, building, and playing cards all together under the shade of a rainbow umbrella should keep us entertained.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

After dinner, with dessert on the horizon and the sun dropping into the ocean, the kids should be on their way outside to play in the yard. Opening the brown, weathered shed, the wooden floor should be rough and splintery under your feet as you grab some kind of toy. We should be playing soccer, using the bench as one of the goals and the clothesline the other. Kicking it to and fro, getting friendly competitive. But soon bored, we should throw on shoes, grab our bikes and speed down to the playground in a different neighborhood, taking a left at the end of our road, bouncing over speed bumps. The playground coming in sight, we race to the roundabout and sneak through the posts that block it off. I should be flying down the green slide and running back to do it again. We should be swinging so high and then jumping off. Our shoes should be off and we should be playing with the sand, making piles and looking for cool rocks. Then, as the sky turns pinky orange, the three of us head down the wooden stairs, entering a small beach, only available when it’s smelly, low tide. The big orange globe should be spreading its last light through the sky, turning it blood orange and sinking into the ocean. As it recedes, the light house should be on and roaming the shore, repeating its pattern. We then should climb back up the stairs, put our sandy, wet feet into our shoes and ride home, talking and laughing, ready for dessert.

Facing page artwork: bottom left by Elizabeth Johansson ‘17, bottom right by Brooke Hayes ‘17, top right by A.J. Chabot ‘16 mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

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The Top of the Hundai Apartments

By Seo Jung Kim ‘15 There should be nothing here I don’t remember The top of the Hundai Apartment should still be Covered by the emerald leaves of the Platanus trees.

My sister and I should fill the small yard with young girls’ high pitched giggles.

When both are tired of wandering, we should bring random pebbles which will be our European teapots and teacups, plates that are painted with splendid pigments, and salad bowls with fresh veggies.

About one hour later, the sun should rest on the Platanus trees and when our mom calls our names through the kitchen window, my sister and I should start running into the house and chase each other.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember My mother should still stand with her grumpy face and scold us not to mess up her neat and cozy living room.

No matter what she says, my sister and I should run around smelling the scent of brewed coffee and leave our footprints with dirt on her favorite carpet until my father returns from work.

As soon as we see my father, both of us should dive into his chest.

While I hug my father’s two legs like a cuddle toy, his sweat and the smell of mom’s Miso soup should mingle together and come across the living room from the kitchen to announce dinner time.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember My sister should still be 12 years old and I should still be 6 years old and both of us should cling on Father’s two arms.

Now my fathers’ arms are too thin to lean our bodies on, his legs are too skinny to cuddle.

I want to run around the small yard with my sister I want to smell my father’s scent and sleep on his chest I want to chase my sister on my mom’s carpet, but everything has changed, including me.

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Looking for My Memory in Dream

By Zihan Guo ’14 There should be nothing in my life I don’t remember The pale white operation room without windows and the shadowless surgical lighting that can penetrate sunglasses should still be there like Roman soldiers faithfully and loyally guarding this new life.

I and my new born soul should still be listening to the voices in that room: Quietness and commotion, Joy and relief light and darkness and my mind should still be pondering about what I was doing in this hysterically peculiar world without shadows.

There should be nothing in my life I don’t remember My mother should still be lying on the operation bed, kissing me who was still stained with blood.

She should still be sharing her ecstasy with my father while the snowy winter night was still hesitating to depart from this northern oriental city at the beginning of February.

I should still be in my mother’s hands, fearing all the unknown objects and all the new terrifying sensations, while breathing the air that was so different, yet so familiar.

There should be nothing in my life I don’t remember The old man walking in the forest, breathing the humid air from the ancient forest, while watching the leaves falling off like a shower of snow.

He should still have the same soul as I do, with different eyes, nose, mouth, ears, fingers, and face.

Yet we should still have the same smile.

He should still walk his aged shepherd dog, and his dog’s name should still be Benjamin.

He wakes up before sunrise and drinks a big mug of coffee to start his day, and he makes blueberry pies for his dinner’s dessert.

When he is tired, the old me should fall asleep on the same sofa, and in his dream he should dream about the same bird that carried him to a different world with all those adventures.

There should be nothing in my life I don’t remember He should still be standing before his grave.

As his soul rises to heaven, his eyes should still be watching his family and friends grieving for his cold and rigid body that no longer belongs to him.

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The only law he followed was the law of life, the law of death and the law of reincarnation.

There should be nothing in my life I don’t remember Only in imagination do we remember.

And only in dreams do we imagine.

But which one is dream?

This one?

Or the reality?

(End) Zihan Guo ‘14

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Looking for Camp

By Becca Kelly ‘15 There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

The golden, rolling field should be closed in by a shiny, metal gate with the four different kinds of locks hanging on chains around an old wooden post.

The grass should still be matted down in two parallel lines, marking the path where the cars should drive.

The tree line along the short side should still be short and thin enough to spot a family of Bambis.

Memee’s antique croquet set, with the vintage colors and chipping paint, should still be set up, sticking out of the ground on the other side of the row of pines Poppa planted shortly after they were married.

The trees should still be there.

Photos below and on facing page by Greta Davis ‘14

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Our beds in Memee and Poppa’s ‘70s green camper should still be popped out and unmade, our Rugrats and Teletubbies sleeping bags unzipped and disheveled.

My brothers should still be waking up with marshmallows stuck to their faces because they had been hit by a wave of exhaustion before they got the chance to eat them.

Bosco, with his habit of putting his nose where it doesn’t belong, should still be knocking pots out of the cupboards, sending them crashing to the floor at random times in the night.

His tail should still wag with glee at his happy existence as he trots around excitedly, exploring the field he’d spend 10 years of his short life in.

Bosco should still be here.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

Old bailing twine should be dangling high up in the trees, with pieces of shredded blue tarp tied to them in fat, sloppy knots.

The old metal cabinets, painted white, should still contain old toy trucks and plastic shovels and sand toys.

It should be spider and web free.

A rusty beach umbrella pole should still be stuck upright through the hole in the middle of the old wooden picnic table, and there should still be a need for it.

The trees should not be that overgrown.

Open fields, a white church, and the longest covered bridge should be the only things I can see from the top of the hill as I lie in the questionable hammock Jimmy and Robbie built out of bailing twine next to the fire Poppa built earlier in the morning.

The hammock should still be there.

I should still be there.

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Landscape photographs by Chance Wright ‘14

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Looking for Gimlet

By Peter Hastings ‘15 There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

Gimlet should still have bumpy roads littered with friendly curves. Its fresh air should still smell moist, full of life and tropical, with undertones of sage. Orange shale mountains should still tower above Gimlet, trapping its homes in a beautiful prison. The flamboyant houses of the super wealthy should still pose on either side of the street.

One house, modeled after an African lodge, has a five-foot-long rusted metal fish sculpture for a mailbox. Another house, which is owned by Adam West, the original batman, has a decorative stone driveway with a Prius sporting a license plate that says “#1BAT.” The road should climb twenty feet to the top of a familiar hill. Thick, green woods should begin on the right side of the road. On the left there is desert, sage, and golden grass. The turn onto my Grandmother Kaki’s bumpy gravel driveway should always be the same. Five ripples at the head of the driveway should still alert people that they have left the road and entered a private place.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

Kaki’s driveway should still turn from dirt into smooth pavement, but in a few isolated areas, blemished with huge frost heaves. The pavement should still be completely devoid of crystals, making it an unreflective matte grey. I have never seen this driveway color anywhere else. Kaki’s lawn should still only be mowed around the gardens, which burst with reds, purples, yellows, and greens. The center of her front lawn should still be packed with miniature aspens, their leaves smooth and dark green on one side and light green on the other. They should still be planted so close together that the surrounding grass can only be cut with a weed wacker. The stone walkway to her doorstep should still remind me of the yellow and brown rock that trapped Aron Ralston’s arm in the movie 127 Hours. The ornate metal grate beneath her door should still hurt my bare feet, and the flame-like glow that radiates off of the wood finish inside her house should still draw me in.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

Kaki’s door should still squeak open as her idiotic yellow labs bark at the top of their lungs. Chucky, the oldest dog, still should not look like a lab. Kaki calls him a field lab, but I call him a mutt. The younger dog is named Duke and he is very sweet, but he barks way too much. Chucky should still try to scoot his tennis ball across the strange, rough, green granite slabs on my grandmother’s floor. Nobody should respond to Chucky’s attempts to play, because once you throw the ball for him, he will never ever stop bringing it back and plopping it on your feet or lap.

The green granite is ugly almost anywhere except Kaki’s house. As I walk into her dining hall, I should smell old dog food and fresh mountain air wafting in her through open windows.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember…

Through the screen door behind the dining table there should still be an elevated patio and large vegetable garden. I should still feel the urge to run and hurl myself off the patio’s jagged edge and toward the cold stream, which should still flow rapidly behind a small bed of flowers. The orange shale mountains that surround the Gimlet should still be framed through a break in the vegetation behind the stream. The dense forest of Kaki’s backyard should still remind me of the Amazon. The constant bubbling of the brook should still calm me the same way it did sixteen years ago when I first came to Kaki’s house in Ketchum, Idaho.

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Yazhi Li ‘14 Zihan Guo ‘14

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Zihan Guo ‘14 Yazhi Li ‘14

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Biographies During their ninth grade year, students are asked to write biographies. They begin in January by conducting interviews, gathering photographs, and completing extensive research in order to find out as much as they can about their chosen subjects -- usually a grandparent or a great aunt or uncle. Then throughout the spring, the students write, revise, and finalize short pieces -- extended metaphors, newspaper articles, personal narratives, etc. This year when their pieces were ready for publication, the students were asked to create websites, enhancing their writing with pictures, drawings, illustrations, and family trees. Below are a sampling of the metaphors and personal narratives of several ninth graders.

Gardening Gloves

By Hannah Fernandes ‘17 Imagine you’re wearing a pair of gardening gloves. Not a new pair, though, a pair that has started to fray at the seams and wrinkle in the creases. Small holes are starting to appear on the fingertips, and you can begin to see your skin poke through. A pair that looks as if it could use a good wash. But if you tried to put them in the washing machine, they’d fall apart, and yet they’re still holding on strong. Mud, dirt, and mulch are caked onto the palm and stuck in between the fingers. When they were new, they were obviously a bright, fun color, but they have since been worn with time.

I can remember, she has scolded my mom for not taking care of our gardens, and then happily gone outside to clean them herself. She’s almost eighty now, and yet she still sits in the garden for hours a day cleaning and repairing the flower beds. She has lots of wrinkles and she looks frail, but she’s one of the strongest people I know.

Her skin is tanned from the long hours in the sun, and it looks like her hands have a permanent layer of dirt on them throughout the summer. Whenever she comes in for lunch, I can smell the lingering scent of fresh mulch and flowers on her.

Now imagine a short, old woman wearing those gloves, crouched on her knees in the mulch, digging away at her gardens. That old woman is my grandma. For as long as

Whenever I see my garden or a pair of gardening gloves, it instantly reminds me of her.

Johnny D and His Kyak

By Cole Potter ‘17 The sun beats down on the kayak lying in the sand. The once bright-red new kayak has turned into a light-red old one. It lies in its place as it always has. It has been loved and used. The seat inside is loose, and the padding is wet. The kayak has seen many adventures with many different children, including me. It has been the massive pirate ship captained by my cousin and me, going out in search of remote islands and loot. That is who it is meant for -- children who come and play in it all the time.

The kayak represents Johnny D, a man who has cared for many different people. Like the kayak, everybody loves him. He is always available to have lots of fun. Both the kayak and my uncle are home to the sea; it’s where they belong. The kayak will never be forgotten and will always be responsible for the happiness of many children. mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

Below: Qiangyi Zhang ‘15 Facing page, left: Haley Michienzi ‘14 Facing page, right: Yazhi Li ‘14

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My Grandfather’s Computer

By Carter Bourassa ‘17 On a desk in my grandfather’s house sits a huge stack of papers. If one were so bold as to venture to the top of that pile of papers and begin an excursion, digging down through those papers, one would eventually find an early 2000s computer. It’s about a foot deep in the back with a huge tower next to it, and it is a gross yellowing white due to its tremendous age and lack of use. It sits caught in a spider web of wires, all leading somewhere, but seemingly nowhere. This computer is, as any other computer, brilliant and sophisticated, yet it sits there, under a pile of papers, unused. The computer is old though; it is slowing down every day and doesn’t have much memory space left. If someone were to just plug in the computer and turn it on, with enough patience, it would be able to function, running complex formulas and lines upon lines of code, just like back in its hey-day. The files contained in it would open back up for everyone to read, an experience that would be captivating and interesting.

Unfortunately, this is the case with my grandfather re-

cently. He is getting into his older years and his memory is starting to go. All of his important “files” are beginning to be lost deep within him, waiting to be summoned up by someone with enough patience to fire up the system and wait for it to reboot. There is so much potential under that clutter, just like the computer, that has just been left untapped. He is living with a mind full of clutter, unable to bring out his brilliant mind as he was able to do as a young adult and renowned metallurgist.

I found this out while interviewing him for the biography.

His head, like the computer’s desk, is cluttered, obstructing his functioning. You can see him struggling to access facts and remember his company. The years of research and keynote speeches, mix with the files of German language and engineering. His wires are tangled; some may not be plugged in at all. I found, however, that with enough patience, I could get him to remember his thoughts. And then it all comes flooding back to him, like the files on the computer loading once again.

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An Extensive Research Project

By Carter Bourassa ‘17 It was my sister’s birthday, September 27th. She had just gotten home from school not too long ago and had sat down to do an extensive research project on World War II when my grandfather’s truck crawled down the driveway and came to a stop. He sauntered inside and came into the living room.

He was wearing his usual style of clothing; one all his own. He had on big gold-wire glasses and a nice white shirt tucked into his slacks, which were way too high and were held up at the extensive height by his suspenders.

He was bald in the middle of his head, but his white hair poofed up in a circle around his head, making him look like a retro Albert Einstein.

“Hey, Poppa,” I said, as an almost automatic response; he passed me on his way to the living room.

“Hello hello,” he responded in his usual, worry-free and casual way. After his early retirement, he had found way too much time on his hands. He acquired an air of relax-

ation to his personality, always seeming as if there was no where he needed to be anytime soon.

I then continued on to my room to settle in and finish a movie I had begun the night before. I enjoyed my movie for the remaining 45 minutes or so and then made my way back to the living room, where I found my sister reluctantly sitting on the couch listening to my grandfather ramble on about history. She looked at me and rolled her eyes. Not wanting to get involved, I made a hasty retreat to the kitchen as my grandfather began talking about his relationship to the Pennsylvania Dutch. My sister remained sitting there, bored out of her mind.

In the kitchen I found my father. As I looked at him, he laughed.

“What?” I asked “I told Dave that Pearce was doing a project about Germany in WWII,” my father replied, trying to get the sentence out before bursting out laughing.

My grandfather grew up in Pennsylvania, surrounded by the Pennsylvania Dutch and their culture. Later in life he studied German history and language and was now virtually an expert on all things German. Never did anyone dare to bring up anything German in his presence for the fear of sparking him off on a tangent about Germany, which could, and had, gone on for upwards of an hour.

He was legendary for talking endlessly about Germany, and everyone knew when he was about to start because he would say “Guten alten Deutschland,” meaning “Good old Germany.”

“That’s cruel,” I said to my father with a chuckle. “It’s her birthday too!”

I then walked back to the living room where there my sister sat, listening, sheer boredom on her face, as my grandfather defended Germany saying the Nazis were not representative of Germany as a country and in his opinion were not German at all. She gave me a bored look as I walked into the room, and my grandfather continued talking, and talking, and talking, precisely as the legends about him had suggested.

Jack Yanchitis ‘15 mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

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Her Name on the Wall

By McKinley Deery ‘17 “I found it!” I yelled to Nonna, my great-grandmother, who was standing just a few steps away from me.

My mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother came rushing over.

“Where? Let me see!” they all anxiously exclaimed.

“Right there,” I said as I pointed to her name on the wall.

Today was Nonna’s 80th birthday. In celebration of this, my mother, my grandmother, Nonna, and I decided to take a trip to New York City. Sixty-three years earlier, at the age of 17, my great-grandmother had travelled from her hometown of Tripi, Sicily, Italy, to Ellis Island in New York City. She came to start a new life.

Now, Ellis Island has been turned into a museum where visitors can view thousands of immigrants’ personal items that came off ships from all over the world. Guests can also observe the American Immigrant Wall of Honor, a memorial where you can view the names of thousands of immigrants who travelled here in the early 20th century. Her name was one of them, gracefully carved onto the memorial: Santa Presti. As my eyes glanced over at my great-grandmother looking at her name, I could tell in

her eyes that she was reminiscing, remembering when she first arrived here as a girl, not much older than me.

Nonna looked as though she was in another world. Her eyes were glassy, and she was breathing very slowly.

As I watched her, I saw the edges of her mouth turn up in a smile.

I wondered what it was like, being in a brand new place, not knowing a single person, and being expected to create a new life for yourself with no one by your side. She was so young, only 17 years old; I couldn’t imagine what she had to go through.

It was then that I realized how strong my grandmother really was. My whole life I had looked at her as Nonna, my great-grandmother who liked to cook and bake and take walks around her neighborhood, nothing more. On this trip, I felt as if I truly learned who she was. She was, and still is, a woman of independence, will power, and strength.

“I love you, Nonna,” I quietly said as I gave her a hug.

“I love you too,” she whispered as she hugged me back and we walked away.

Zihan Guo ‘14

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Photos this page by Taren Cook ‘14 mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

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By Haroon Rahimi ‘14

Yoomi Ren ‘17 mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

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Personal Essays Throughout the year students have many opportunities in their classes to reflect through the writing process.

Whether thinking about their experiences on Out Back, their memories of their families, or their perspectives on life, the students’ ideas are presented clearly and passionately. It is a joy to not only see how our students grow intellectually but emotionally as well.

Unfinished Business

By Luke Randle ‘15 Mr. Galvin gave my pinky toe one last poke, glanced up with sullen eyes, and said the words that still ring in my head today: “Luke I’m going to have to pull you out. You have frostbite.” I could not even comprehend what I had heard. I had to leave? I couldn’t leave -- not that day, not before solo, not from that experience. I did not know what to do. My group started to walk away; I turned to them and wished them good luck. Somebody gave me a hug from behind, and as they disappeared down the snowmobile path, the tears started to pour from my eyes.

I had waited for Out Back for three years, and now suddenly it was coming to an end. I wouldn’t be able to do this ever again, I thought as I sat, still crying, on the back of the snowmobile, waiting to leave the woods.

My dad’s car drove south down I-93; I was headed home.

All I could think about as we passed by Nashua and then across the boarder into Massachusetts was the woods and my group and where I should be. I shouldn’t be in a heated car with my dad right now, I thought; I should be alone in the woods curled up in my -20 bag next to a fire.

Over the next five days I came to find out how strong I really was. I had survived four nights in subzero temperatures, but I didn’t know if I was mentally strong enough to make it through the next five days, knowing I had failed myself and my expectations.

You hear about Out Back before even entering your first class at Holderness. It is the marquee moment in one’s Holderness career. Some even say it’s life changing; and solo is the pinnacle of the trip. Three days alone to think about anything and reflect on your life. I was not going to experience that, I thought, as I sat in the comfort of my living room. My parents bombarded me with questions, but I was in no mood to talk. Reluctantly though, I talked to them, but the conversation did not last long before I went to my room; I needed time alone.

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I thought about the days’ events, and I still didn’t understand; what did I do wrong? How could I have prevented the frostbite? I did not have answers, and the wound of being pulled out of the woods was still fresh. So fresh that the standard-issue whistle given to me before solo was still around my neck. It reminded me of how close I had come.

I had one more chance to be with my group, but that chance was still five days away. I convinced my dad to drive me back up to Holderness on the 13th -- the Out Back return day. This was going to be my chance to reconnect with my group.

As the days passed, they each seemed to last for an eternity. I was depressed, the most depressed I had ever been. I wanted so desperately to be back in the woods -to be with my group, my second family. My parents knew I was depressed, but there was nothing they could do, at least not until the day my classmates returned from the woods which was only two days away. With a blizzard on the way, I was worried that I would not be able to go back to Holderness, but my dad said, “If you want to go back, we’ll get you back.”

At 6:15 am on Thursday, March 13th, my dad started his car, and we were off. Through the snow we went driving at a cautious 50 mph on the highway; I was excited, but nervous. My phone buzzed; it was an email from Mr. Solberg. He was scheduled to pick up my group from the woods. He said he was leaving Bartsch at 8:20. As my dad and I continued up I-93, we realized that we might get to Holderness before Mr. Solberg was supposed to leave. I emailed Mr. Solberg and asked if I could join him when he went to pick up my group. He, of course, agreed.

This was perfect; it was a chance for me to reconnect with my group before they saw their parents. As Mr.

23 Solberg and I turned off I-93 at exit 28, my anxiety and excitement grew. I was hoping they would be as happy to see me as I was to see them. We took a right onto a seemingly abandoned road, and I knew we had to be close. A parking lot appeared and in the back corner of it stood ten individuals with big toothy smiles, screaming.

It was my group, my second family. Mr. Solberg stopped the bus and then opened the door. I walked down the steps of the bus, and before I even got outside, I was bombarded with hugs. My anxiety disappeared, and I was full of happiness; I belonged with this group of people; they had missed me.

The bus ride home was something I will remember for years to come, and I’m sure the rest of the group will too. The smiles on that bus were the biggest I had ever seen. About a minute into the ride Katie asked for music and Mr. Solberg obliged. The first song that came on was

“How to Save a Life.” A part of the chorus was perfect for our group as it went: “I lost a friend somewhere along.” I was happy to be on that bus because that’s where I belonged. Although Out Back did not go exactly as planned, it was nevertheless an experience of a lifetime.

There was one more surprise for me back on campus.

While helping my group unpack, I ran into Mr. Galvin, who was pleased to see me. He had emailed me earlier in the week and had alluded to me being able to go on Out Back next year. He told me after the sign-in ceremony that if I wanted to go again, I definitely could. I already knew the answer; it was yes. I had started something, and now I needed to finish it.

Keying Yang ‘17

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This I Believe

By Nick Gibson ‘14 The end of high school usually means colleges for most North American students. Back home in Nova Scotia, where I am from, it’s a simple thing applying to one of three schools in Nova Scotia: St. FX, St. Mary’s, and Dalhousie. Life usually then means going to one of these three schools with about half of the high school graduating class, and those who don’t get into these schools will go on to community college.

But there are also a handful of students who won’t follow in these footsteps and move on to something better. I am one of these students.

When I came to the states, excited to learn about American colleges, I was hit with a sort of punch to the gut when it came time to hear about the financial side of things. Back home I have friends who have gotten into school and received a scholarship of $4,000, and not just to a mediocre school but St. Francis Xavier University in Antigonish, Nova Scotia, the top undergraduate school in Canada. That kind of money will end up being enough to pay for a full year of education. Down here, I was looking at schools where $4,000 barely makes a dent in the payments for books and food. A school can look so perfect and wonderful until the poison apple of tuition comes into play. How is it possible that $56,000, the price of a new Mercedes Benz, is shrugged off by Americans as the normal price of education?

I believe that American college is overpriced.

No matter what your financial background is or where your parents work, paying over $200,000 for only four years of school is not as easy as putting together pocket change or searching for coins lost in the depths of a couch. Nobody is questioning where this money is going, only assuming that the education is worth its price.

These schools are reaching into naive wallets without even the slightest resistance.

For most people in this generation, they are going through the college process for the first time. Parents want to help so much, but in the end their kids end up worse off, just because things have changed over the last 25 years. If anything should now change, it should be schools finding ways to lower their tuition costs instead of giving students free passes to lives inevitably filled with debt. If living by the motto “Live free or Die” means I need to be forever in debt to schools that are mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

supposed to provide me with education and income for the rest of my life, while St. FX is waiting for me back up north, I’m going to need other reasons to keep crossing the border.

This I believe.

Ella Mure ‘17

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Dinner Tables

By Eliana Mallory ‘14 Chatter about town politics swirls around me; my eyes dart from adult to adult. At six years old, I know very little about city variances. We are around the dinner table at Snowbunny Lane, my childhood home. As always, the conversation has returned to the most recent City Council decisions. I entertain myself by flipping through the Encyclopedia Britannica, as much a staple of our meals as bread and cheese. The well-loved pages are soft to the touch. Suddenly, Papa, with excitement in his eyes, asks me to look up “home rule charter.”

Must be the next page… there it is. I pick up my spoon, tap it against my glass, and wait for the resonating ring to gather everyone’s attention. Eyes of all ages are on me as I proudly read about how a city, such as Aspen, implements a home rule charter.

Saint-Jorioz, the small French town where I attended elementary school and established lasting roots. We are in the midst of Sunday Soup, a weekly tradition with family friends. Savoring the aroma of carrot soup, I cut the fourth baguette and pass the cheese platter to Claude, my surrogate French father. He enthusiastically explains how the Roman aqueducts were built in Southern France. Dancing in the air, his hands try to express the mathematical brilliance behind the structures. I fall into a state of bewilderment as he uses several difficult phrases. I reach for the Larousse French/English dictionary as I ask him to spell out one of the words. gr...gru...une grue!

To demonstrate my understanding, I use une grue in a sentence. Claude’s beaming voice congratulates me as he embarks on yet another story about French history.

Mama, always a proponent of active learning suggests, “What about a bike tour of the greatest aqueducts?”

Mirte glances over, “Wait, how about you make that O look like a bike wheel?” Brilliant.

My pen moves faster. The spokes can represent a road. I continue to draw until the page has the appearance of a busy intersection. A distinct logo emerges that will eventually grace the skirt guards of all 100 bikes in Aspen’s fleet.

Harry Gates Hut, an alpine cabin nestled in the Colorado Rocky Mountains at 9,700 feet. The pine crackling in the fireplace fills the two-hundred square foot hut with the smell of Christmas. Looking across the table, I am youngest. Clad in ski clothes from our backcountry touring adventure, my siblings’ friends and I are immersed in a discussion about the Mountain Pine Beetle that is consuming our forests. Having participated in an internship with a local environmental group in which we studied the epidemic, I share how the outbreak is being curbed.

I spread out the map to trace a route: “Let’s go ski through the affected areas tomorrow!”

I am always searching for a dinner table. The simple structure creates a safe place for debate, passionate arguments, and resolution. It is a birthplace for new ideas and relationships that transcend generational and geographic boundaries. Curiosity and eagerness fill the air, leaving no back row for the shy or uninterested. No matter where, no matter when, I always hope to find myself around a dinner table, the inclusive shape encouraging connections no other piece of furniture can foster.

Qianyi Zhang ‘15

The Berko House, where we have gathered as a family for three generations. Enjoying chocolate molten cakes around my grandparents’ dinner table, my older brother, sister, and I are working on a strategy to establish and launch a bike share system in Aspen, WE-cycle. The merits of various ideas are exchanged, creating an atmosphere of opportunity. As I flip through brochures from other bike share programs, a graphic comes to mind. I eagerly grab my notebook and capture concepts to incorporate into a company logo… movement, transportation, sustainability, independence. I begin to sketch. mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

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Annie

By Emily Clifford ‘15 Frigid wind whipped at my back, warm fire thawed my feet, and the Out Back song was constantly sung -- by Nick Conner who screamed out the wrong lyrics all the way down steep trails and by the woodpeckers tapping along side him. For me, Out Back was a struggle; it was something I never would have pictured myself doing. This is mostly because I cannot stand being cold. By being stuck in the perpetual cold for 11 days, I learned many new things about myself. However, the most important ‘take away’ was learning the act of patience. Patience helped me persist throughout the most terrifying moments, such as when I fell into a river several hours into the trip.

I was a terrifyingly impatient child. I had trouble waiting for dinner when I was hungry, and I could never wait the 30 minutes after I ate to go swimming on a scorching summer day. However, these moments were petty compared to the issues I had when dealing with people.

I remember attempting to reteach Lily Hamblin all of the material in Skellgebra at the end of freshman year for our final exam. I completely broke down. Though this may sound narrow-minded, I could not understand how she couldn’t comprehend something that came so easily to me. Unfortunately, I gave up on Lily and her academic struggles; luckily, she found more tutoring success with Christina who possesses motherly comfort and determination. I have envied this ability ever since I noticed it, for I have longed to help a friend in need.

To me, patience is associated with motherly love and affection, which is how many experience patience first hand. Fortunately for me, I had a maternal figure on Out Back, who kept me sane and helped me find the patience I didn’t know I had: Annie Hayes.

Despite my prior speculations of Annie, we became great friends on Out Back. The whole first morning we hiked, sang, and laughed together, and for that, I will forever be grateful. For the hardest hours of the trip, Annie gave me a little bit of home. Surely she would have enforced the 30-minute waiting rule before going in the pool on a hot summer day. But unfortunately, she had no control over my entrance into the partially frozen river that sent a trickle down my every last vertebrae. The temperature that sends a much-anticipated chill through your soul as it softly penetrates your sunburnt skin is seemingly a perfect way to cool down. However, when you are already mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

freezing cold, this invigorating sensation is almost devastating. Falling into a half-frozen river on the first day of Out Back was anything but ideal.

As Nick Conner rounded the corner of the trail and yelled “DAMN IT.. Another river!!!” a sour feeling in my stomach began to swirl about. Approaching closer, the group recognized that this crossing would be difficult due to the depth of the water and the fact that there was a thin sheet of ice covering a third of the stream. Again, I panicked.

When it was my turn to cross, Mr. Lawrence stood on the other side, ready to lend a hand to anyone who could not climb up the two-foot rock wall; I didn’t even make it that far. Two steps into the water and suddenly my right food began to slide. I had mistakenly stepped on a large rock at an unforgiving angle. As my right foot slid, I tried to compensate with my left foot by attempting to take a step and regain balance. As a result of my careful foot placement, I realized I had slid my hello-kitty duct-taped snowshoe directly under the sheet of ice. By the time I had noticed where I had put my snowshoe, it was too late. Suddenly I felt as though my hips had given out and were being lifted right out of the air with a propelling force that made me topple over into the slurry water. My pack did me no justice, for it increased the difficulty of the situation. Luckily, Mr. Laurence shuffled over to me and gladly helped me to my feet again.

The only sound that filled the forest was the clamor of my chattering teeth and cold radiating off my body.

After trudging for what seemed like a mile, but was really only the 10 feet to shore, the group realized my situa-

27 tion was a real risk. All of them quickly went into survival mode, helping me lift my soaking wet pack off my back.

They practically tore it apart and took all of the contents out in order to find my spare clothes and other odds and ends. Annie, immediately grabbed my Crazy Creek chair and the two emergency synthetic towels and took me behind a tree and stripped me naked. I was incapable of any sort of movement, and my hands shook out of control when I even attempted to loosen the tie of my long underwear. I knew it was not enjoyable for her to take off her warm fleecy mittens in order to save me from my distress, but she did. She did even more than that; she whipped me dry, and held my toes to her belly because of their rapidly changing color (from white to pink to blue to purple). She stood with me for what seemed like eternity and told me a similar story about when she too fell into a cold body of water. Annie’s story, like her patience, immediately put me at ease. She reminded me that I was not alone in this situation and that incidents similar to this happen to everyone.

As I began to look retrospectively at my time in the woods, I realized that I had begun to learn patience from my group mates. I came to this realization the night right

before solo, when everyone was patiently waiting for the quesadillas to cook. As I waited for dinner, I began to replay the memories of the day over and over in my head.

Looking back, I remembered all of the great struggles I had faced that day: constantly removing my pack due to major post holes, making all of the peanut butter bagel sandwiches at lunch and being the last to eat, and most importantly, when our leaders got lost, we were forced to wait on the bank of a river for several hours. I came to the conclusion that if had I not fallen into the river on the first day I never would have learned how capable I am of ‘sucking up’ all of my complaints. The tattered and overused saying ‘Patience is a virtue’ described my situation perfectly. Waiting for other people to catch up, or even waiting for myself, was imperative because in a crucial situation, no one can be left behind. Experiencing the patience of my group members that first day opened my eyes to the importance of that quality. I thought to myself, what if they had just kept walking? Or what if Annie hadn’t helped me fully clothe myself? At that point in the trip I knew that my group would never leave me, and that their patience levels had grown just as much as mine.

Fairies by Jingyi Wu ‘14

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Graffiti and Clothing by Hailee Grisham ‘14

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Death, the Destroyer of Worlds Fiction by Nate Sampo ‘16 He remembered very little. Well, very little considering the magnitude of the mistake he had made. Lying on his bed, he attempted to recount the details of that fateful moment. It was all such a blur. Looking back on it, the repercussions of that fall, that glancing blow, amazed him -- that such a small incident, an extremely minute, tremendously insignificant lapse of seconds could cause the ruining of everything. Everything, that is, except for himself. Of course, the perpetrator of this mess would be the only person to be spared its horror. He dreaded the next few days.

What he did remember were small chunks. He remembered turning towards the corner of the white, polished lab, pretending to turn up the gas inflow valve connected to the beaker full of that awful purple fluid that had caused this entire mess, while actually putting a flask of the substance in an insulated pocket set in the inside of his overcoat. At that time, his thoughts fluctuated constantly between something along the lines of “Don’t get caught. Keep your back to the cameras. No one will know. What if someone sees? What if someone does figure it out?” and “I will be rich! All of my dreams will come true! I can quit this job. Don’t even have to work! Who says money can’t buy happiness!?” A very mysterious person, probably affiliated with a gang or terrorist group, offered him millions to smuggle just one vial of the purple stuff out of the lab, and of course he had agreed.

He was being used by the government to manufacture and research this fluid, so he why shouldn’t he take a share of the profits?

His next block of recollection came with the end of the day, just like any other. “Have a nice evening, George,” said the kindhearted receptionist as he slid his identification card through a slot on the desk much like a credit card, and activated the turnstile to allow him onto the elevator. He rode the elevator all the way to the top, to the surface, and got off at the ground floor lobby, an almost empty room with brown tiling and another reception desk with another slot for his ID card. A door was set into the wall across the lobby. He hustled to get away from that terrible place, that underground laboratory, that government-sponsored hole in the ground where death was mass produced. Now that was an amusing thought, he mused, he was carrying death under his coat. When he reached the door at the end of the room, he grasped the handle and noticed his hand shaking. “Come on,” mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

he thought, “It’s just another day at the office, another mundane day,” though he knew that today was anything but. He opened the door and walked out, into the side of the real lobby. Hundreds of people seemed to be there, walking this way and that, all dressed well with suits and ties, all involved in some kind of business procedure, all oblivious to the horror being made just feet below them.

To these people, today was a mundane day, just another day at the office. He turned back and looked at the side door through which he had just entered. “Maintenance,” it read, “For Authorized Persons Only.” He marveled at how well this had concealed the literally underground operation taking place these past few years, how something so simple as a sign and lock could deter these throngs of business people from this “Maintenance Closet.”

George, still lying in bed, decided then to take a break from all this retrospect and grab some water. He got up and walked across the room, opening the door that separated the rest of his apartment from his bedroom.

Walking into the living area, he grabbed the remote and walked to the kitchen. In the kitchen he opened one of the cabinets, took out a cup, and filled it with tap water.

He then turned around so that he could see the television and used the remote to turn it on and find a news station; he wanted to see what people were talking about at this time, on the eve of the apocalypse. After finding the local news station on channel nine, George listened, intrigued as the woman on the air talked about a homicide in Queens, a car crash blocking traffic returning home from work in the business district, and a group of meth labs busted around the city. He had had enough, and switched the television off. Finishing his water, he returned to his bed to do some more thinking.

He found himself remembering walking down the street from the office building to his apartment. It was an easy walk, just a few blocks through the residential and business district. He had done just this every day, and he just hoped that today wouldn’t be the day that someone decided to jump out from some dark alleyway and mug him. Today, they could steal millions from him. He felt the small flask again under his coat. The hard glass caused a bit of discomfort against his chest while walking, but it was well worth it for the money he could make. What he didn’t expect, or even think about, was the aggressive taxi driver running a red light through the intersection he

31 was crossing. At first, he didn’t think much of it; he was out of the way of the taxi and wouldn’t get hit, and only two or three cars were attempting to cross. But then, things changed. A moped in the intersection swerved into the crosswalk to avoid the taxi and crossed paths with George. They collided, but luckily the moped was hardly moving, barely glanced him, and only knocked him to the pavement. He fell to the ground, but was immediately back on his feet. “You okay?” asked the moped driver. George nodded. He started walking again, but something was wrong. He stopped at the end of the crosswalk and felt the front of his coat. It was wet. The flask had broken.

This is again where a break in his memory begins. After this, he remembers being back in his apartment just a few hours ago, the dark stain on his coat still there, but almost dry by then. It was then that he had understood the significance of the secret antidote he had discovered while pretending to be further researching this deadly nanotechnology, this scourge the government was planning on using for war. He had discovered how to counteract the purple death, but upon administering the cure to himself, he had immediately abandoned the project and discarded the antidote, knowing that if he were fired, he would never get his chance to steal any of the death.

Discovering a cure to this “unstoppable” scourge would surely get him kicked off the research team. He had thought nothing of this discovery until now; now he knew that he would be the last person alive. Suicide had taken up a large portion of the thoughts running through his head. But he always came back to either one of these two thoughts: What’s the point; why not witness the end of the world, just to be sure it actually happens; and if I am to really be the last person left alive, maybe God chose me to live.

all gone now. He exited his apartment building and went over to his office building. The crowds that were there the day before had vanished. He opened the “Maintenance” closet door, swiped his card, and took the elevator down to the laboratory. The clean, pure white lab was eerie in the dark, and when he was sure nothing was still alive, he rode the elevator back up, exited into the fake lobby, then the real one, and strolled back onto the street.

Without all the people, noise, traffic, and constant annoyances, the street was very tranquil. Walking down the middle of the street, over the double yellow line, he entered an almost meditative state.

The purple death had worked exactly as the government had planned. Once let free, nothing could stop it.

Not even the bodies of the deceased remained. No, the death fed off of the corpses to sustain its deadly transmission. The world was empty. Walking down the middle of the street, he wished something would happen. That this would all turn out to be some awful nightmare, or some cruel prank. But ever more, as he walked, nothing appeared, nothing changed. He came to the edge of the city and turned around, walking along the middle of the same deserted street. Oppenheimer once called himself “Death, the Destroyer of Worlds,” upon the completion of the Manhattan Project. George knew that he was the literal incarnate of Death now. He had destroyed this world. And whether to remain in it and suffer the consequences of his actions, or to give up, and enter God’s realm, to be judged by Him and likely spend the rest of eternity with the Devil; those were his two options. He preferred neither.

Willem Brandwijk ‘14

George awoke late the next morning. He looked over at his alarm clock. 10:32. “Great,” he thought sarcastically, “I can’t wait to see what today brings.” He looked at himself in the mirror. A slight 5 o’clock shadow, black hair, pale skin, brown eyes; he seemed to be the same person he was yesterday, but he knew he wasn’t. Upon opening the door of the apartment, he peeked his head outside and listened for any noise. Silence. He went back in his apartment, opened the window, and stuck his head out, two stories above the ground. Nothing. No one was walking around, travelling to work, or getting fast food at one of those awful restaurants. No lights were on, no doors were open, no cars slowly rolled down the boulevard, stuck in traffic as they were just yesterday. No, that was mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

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Drawings by Qianyi Zhang ‘15

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Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address An analysis by Youngjae Cha ‘15 In Lincoln’s Second Inaugural Address, Lincoln confronted a deeply divided nation struggling in a Civil War. Although the end of the war was near, the hostility between the two sides remained unchanged. In Lincoln’s speech, he called both sides to set aside their differences and focus on reviving a unified nation in a rather “evolutionary” manner. By employing inclusive diction, allusions to the Bible, and a steady pace of speech, Lincoln minimized the present emphasis on the Civil War and instead underscored hope of reunification.

First, Lincoln used inclusive diction to galvanize public support for reunification. Compared to previous presidents, Lincoln avoided using direct words. Instead of using “South” and “North,” Lincoln employed generic adjectives, such as, “all,” “neither,” and “both” to affirm the similarities which “all” Americans shared. Because Lincoln aimed at rebuilding the union rather than raising his own political reputation, he did not congratulate the North for its close victory. Instead by repeating inclusive diction, Lincoln hoped to remind Americans that they were still one people. In the second paragraph, Lincoln claimed that “All dreaded it, all sought to avert it” and reflected the common wish of both sides. Also, the usage of the word “all” validated Lincoln’s belief that both the North and the South were obliged to help reconstruct the nation. Although Lincoln did accuse the South of practicing slavery, he emphasized that “both” held responsibility for reuniting the divided nation.

Coupled with inclusive diction, Lincoln alluded to the Bible to amplify the religious similarities of the North and the South. When Lincoln claimed that “Both read the same Bible and pray to the same God,” Lincoln stressed how both sides relied on the same God for support. However, the quote that made Lincoln stand out from previous presidents was when he stated that God “gives to both the North and South this terrible war.” To God—the primary actor in this war—there were no differences between the North and the South; in the eyes of God, both were simply victims and both committed iniquities. Through asserting that the war was a divine retribution, Lincoln avoided blaming a particular side. Then, he reinforced the mosaic - Volume 12, Issue 2 - Holderness School

religious similarities, claiming that “Fondly do we hope, fervently do we pray” to end this war. Because the war was a divine retribution on both sides, it was imperative “to bind up the nation’s wounds” together.

Finally, Lincoln’s gradual pace in his speech encouraged the Americans to end the war and progress forward as a unifying nation. After Lincoln acknowledged the deplorable practices of the North and South, he stated “and the war came” and paused for a few seconds. His pause suggested that there would be a shift in the speech.

Coupled with the subject change to “war,” the long pause implied to the audience that the speech would now focus on God — the primary actor of the war. Then, Lincoln ended his speech with a long sentence containing six commas, four semicolons, and one dash. With this lengthy sentence, he slowly yet emphatically called Americans “to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace.” Although Lincoln knew that the nation was still divided, he called the Americans to see past their differences and reunite as a whole nation. His gradual pace of the speech thereby ensured Americans that the conflict indeed could be resolved.

As such, Lincoln employed rhetorical devices and speech techniques that made his speech not only stand out from those of his political predecessors but made it evolutionarily effective. Despite the brevity of his speech, Lincoln considered every word in his speech in such a meticulous manner that it inspires, even current readers today.

Connor Marien ‘14

Holderness School Plymouth, NH 03264-1879 www.holderness.org 603.536.1257