Tattler Literary Issue
Tattler Literary Issue PHOTO/\PHOEBE LAKIN
Poetry
January 8, 2013
2012-2013
Table of Contents
What a Life by Haerin Lee On Being Joon by Leslie Gil Before you go by Emma Plotkin Stop Loving Me by Emma Plotkin Breathe by Judy Cogan Bullying by Roosevelt Lee Foggy Windows by Nora Littell MELANCHOLY’S VISIT by Judy Cogan Monster Love by Roey Goldstein For Whom Each Stone Laid by Roey Goldstein Decisions in Dreamland by Bridget Fetsko Haiku by Irit Huq-Kuruvilla The Tragedy – Newtown Connecticuit by Roosevelt Lee
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Creative Writing by Eileen Sochia 11 The Dinner Party: A Napkin’s Perspective by Dorota Kossowska 12 The Art of Being a 64-Year-Old Woman in a 16-Year -Old Boy’s Body by Conor Coutts 13 Point of View by Claire Saloff-Coste 14 What love is by Emma Plotkin 14 The Hike by Siena Schickel 15 The Eternal Condition of the Lonely Hotdog by Christiana Birch 16 Interview: Student Artist by Tracy Lai 17 Gory by Christiana Birch 19 Infinite Subjects by The Tattler is the student-run Christiana Birch 19 newspaper of Ithaca High School. Teach by Christiana Birch 20 The Tattler was founded in 1892, Lifeboat Book by Nan Bell 21 and is published monthly. Phoebe Lakin Maya Patt Bridget Fetsko Audrey Kan Tenzin Dikyikangsar Leo Winters Erika Uchigasaki Julia Blier Maya Patt Savan Desuza Charles Chang Phoebe Shalloway Audrey Kan Anna Kutcher
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January 8, 2013
POETRY
What a Life Haerin Lee PHOTO/\MAYA PATT
Times are not really pleasing for many people Hopes are being crushed with a single blow Any person wouldn’t want that to happen That could be a mistake or not Thinking over and over sometimes gets you somewhere Either to worse dystopia or a happier utopia Seriously we don’t know what the outcome could be for anything Tendering such predictions can be solutions We are divided either to expect positive or negative As how we still discuss which charity groups be scams or not Surprise does not exist in production of the future All things have to be logical Teasingly ironic when surprises exist Ruining optimism or pessimism Understanding results can be difficult when outcomes are surprises Entering disruptive ideals from bad results to your perfect goals about life Fuck you sometimes quite badly Utilizing yourself to think what you did was Crap even if it really is not unless you switch your senses Knowledge could be all we need for life Even though it may not be a preventable gift to Reflect out all the unwanted surprises.
On Being Joon By Leslie Gil
PHOTO/\BRDGET FETSKO
Joon: He’s over the moon, On a spoon, Wearing pantaloons. Or He’s in a cocoon Floating in a lagoon Found in Cancun. Maybe He’s in a balloon On his honeymoon. Regardless, He’s never without his bassoon, Which looks maroon Because he’s in a musical commune, And He’s always humming a tune Sometimes it’s Claire de Lune. What a goon! How he croons like a loon! And look at how he’s bestrewn! Almost like a cartoon. Alas, it’s late afternoon— I hope he comes down soon, But he’s been there since Joon.
January 8, 2013
POETRY
Before you go Emma Plotkin
I die every day you crumble, I break when you sigh, I hope with my hands still, clenched, You’ll find from my silent cries A torture, a terror, a treason, We live life with or without reason. I can’t ask for love, I can ask for life but I will ask for your forgiveness because I couldn’t say goodbye.
Stop Loving Me Emma Plotkin
I laugh when you laugh, I laugh when you don’t laugh, I laugh because you don’t laugh, -You don’t laugh at me. I cry because you cry, I cry when you don’t cry, I cry because you don’t cry, -You don’t cry for me. I take because you laughed, I steal because you cried, I pushed because you... -Stopped.
PHOTO/\AUDREY KAN
If we all breathe one restless breath, If we asked for forgiveness for everyone but ourselves, If we chose to believe in every whisper and hand, could we feel love?
January 8, 2013
POETRY
Breathe Judy Cogan
Make a sound like breathing Make the sound every day silently Make it as soon as you wake up Make it as you bend at the waist To feed the dogs with wet noses from the dew Make the sound as you crunch on hard brown bread And even when you bite into a soft, sweet peach Make the sound twice if juice runs down your chin Make the sound in unison with the swish of your thighs touching As you walk through the room and pass by the woodstove Where embers are glowing after burning so hard all through the night Make the sound as the spoon tinkles against the teacup And comes to rest on a salmon pink saucer Make it often without counting Make it special Like the sound of freedom Make it awake and asleep Only slower in the dark At night when the sky’s stars are making it too Leaving behind their long licks of light Going nowhere in particular across the indigo sky Make a sound like breathing today In this moment Fill your lungs with the grace of it And as you exhale, hear the music of life PHOTO/\TENZIN DIKYIKANGSAR
January 8, 2013
POETRY
Bullying Roosevelt Lee
Don’t laugh at me, or call me names Don’t get your pleasure from my pain To bully me is wrong and completely selfish For we all were created the same The look in his eyes It scared me so My intelligent mind seemed to be the culprit But why do you bully me My parents, they mistreat me I don’t feel loved but hated I’m alone in my own home The sadness and anger grows and grows
No one here to help me It seems I’m all alone Why can’t you just let me be Why can’t you just let me lone He hits me — once, twice, three times And now I feel like I’m in the twilight zone Why do you spread these lies And yet I’m still on my own We both feel alone We both have feelings and they too have shown This is the source This has taken us both off course
PHOTO/\LEO WINTERS
But at last, at school I’m the center of attention And I make you look like the fool And all the sadness and anger I feel — is let out on you
Roosevelt Lee
Don’t laugh at me, or call me names Don’t get your pleasure from my pain To bully me is wrong and completely
Foggy Windows
For we all were created the same
The look in his eyes It scared me so My intelligent mind seemed to be the culBut why do you bully me
My parents, they mistreat me I don’t feel loved but hated I’m alone in my own home The sadness and anger grows and grows
But at last, at school I’m the center of attention And I make you look like the fool And all the sadness and anger I feel — is
Nora Littell
Rain Falls from nothing From a river of sky, The roar muffled by distance Feet pace cement With precarious definition Searching For the number That will carry them home—
It seems I’m all alone Why can’t you just let me be Why can’t you just let me lone
He hits me — once, twice, three times And now I feel like I’m in the twilight zone Why do you spread these lies
And yet I’m still on my own
We both feel alone We both have feelings and they too have shown This is the source
prit
The black on yellow— But within, There is only A glint of moisture And foggy windows The panes catch the brush Of a nose Small patch of clarity Amidst the blur World tilted From the eyes of a head On a tired body Limbs and hair And soft breathing Staring out the glass She is gone
No one here to help me
selfish
It’s the winter rain-Carries our breaths away Ghosts traveling the roads Between fierce trajectories Of water Falling down like arrows The river lets fly Its outcasts
let out on you
January 8, 2013
POETRY
MELANCHOLY’S VISIT Judy Cogan
It is October now And melancholy has settled In my bones She has brought very little Luggage With her Just a few sad memories Leaves dropped from Sleeping trees Sky colors darker and flatter And a little more grey Than usual She set her treasures Down gently Where they rest on my Diaphragm Impeding my breath Only slightly Some of her belongings Are mingling now In my ribcage If you tickle me Right there, They may fall out And shatter with a tinkling sound Like tiny blown glass animals In a curio cabinet I once knocked into Winter is coming on the wind When the ground will sleep And my spirit Well seep into rivulets in the Dark mud And be frozen in a snap On the fragile surface But for now, melancholy Is paying her call And I’ve welcomed Her in and brewed her A cup of tea
January 8, 2013
POETRY
Monster Love Roey Goldstein
PHOTO/\ERIKA UCHIGASAKI
Is it for love, or love’s embrace? Why do we spin tales of lovely fantasies, When from red to green does turn our face, When truth in self hath come from self-parodies. Is it by masks of time, or by its shield, That those stung by tender arrow do survive, What power ’gainst cuckold birds must they wield, While we wish to bleed for hope and hope’s connive. If ‘tis the mask to us reflection shown, If ‘tis the covered mouth and ear from us we keep, Then let this dead fiction be all we know, Then read to us ’til by page and page o’er we sleep. When not from rose, but us be cast the final dove, Then reflection changed hath saved us from our monstrous love.
PHOTO/\JULIA BLIER
For Whom Each Stone Laid Roey Goldstein
Enter those for which He was meant, For it was he whose back and brow lay bent, Step light for it is holy marble beneath your feet, Holy by time of his cuts through ’ery sheet, Speak soft for it is to His ears you wish to whisper, Led by the possibility of his greatest power, Gaze, Gaze into his awesome might, Gaze to what he can do on quiet’s night, While He may be watching, He is creating, Be in awe of time and what he made, But question for whom each stone laid.
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January 8, 2013
POETRY
Decisions in Dreamland Bridget Fetsko
When the day is over All that’s left is night You’ll never know what you’ve done wrong If you think all you’ve done is right And when you look at what you’ve done You’ll find that you are lost And although it doesn’t seem like it Confusion has a cost And when you look inside You’ll see an empty room An empty heart, and an empty mind An abandoned, empty tomb
Haiku Irit Huq-Kuruvilla
I seek distant shores. But upon my arrival, Are they still distant?
And when you keep on searching You’ll finally reach the good You’ll see a box of band-aids A hammer, nails, and wood And when you build yourself back up You’ll learn about your soul You’ll find some hidden answers To questions that you stole And when your dreams start fading This search will start to end You’ll pick up broken pieces That will finally get to mend And when you’ve learned your lesson That you’ve done both right and wrong You’ll leave this place called dreamland And you will then move on And when the night is over What reappears is day If you think all that you’ve done is wrong There’s nothing I can say
The Tragedy - Newtown Connecticut Roosevelt Lee
What a world we live in Full of killing and hate 26 people killed when This was not their fate A tragedy so sad Hearts filled with pain The one life they had An emotional scar to remain What a cruel thing he done All of it with a gun Families filled with fear Many flooding thoughts unclear Prayers sent from all over It will take time to recover So many people filled with anger All they really want — is an answer
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January 8, 2013
PROSE
Creative Writing Eileen Sochia
It’s funny, the way things happen. You know, when you try to go to sleep and your mind becomes thwarted with thoughts that were a million miles away maybe three minutes prior. This is how writing classes are for me but in reverse. You would think they would be blooming with creativity, give you thousands of ideas and the perfect place to shoot the shit. It’s funny only because this is so antithetical to my situation. I remember the first poem I wrote. It was in the third grade after reading all of Shel Silverstein’s Falling Up poems. I wrote it on the dedication page. It started as, “I know that I caught the flu.” I thought it was the shit. I mean I was impressed, I thought it could be the 155th sonnet. I started writing poems in this book in the margins around his. I think the first serious one I wrote was about Malcolm X. I was good for a kid, I mean I was really good. But not because I knew what I was doing, not because I knew how many syllables were in a line - hell, I probably didn’t even know what syllables were - the words just sounded nice. I knew how to string words together, and maybe by some stroke of luck these sentences always seemed to match and make sense, in the only way poems have to make sense at least. So I went with it, this writing thing. When my step dad died I was given a stronger reason to write. And to my dismay my writing got better. Being dismay only in that it was around this time I think I realized that most of the best art comes from misery. I know that sounds all melodramatic, but it’s true. I think when I’m best at writing, when I’m in the zone typing at the speed of my thoughts; I am the most antisocial version of me there is. I don’t particularly like people, I mean I love my friends and I think everyone deserves respect and all that but I’m just kind of an uneducated brat when it comes to social etiquette. And writing seems to throw any semblance of this etiquette I could have possessed in some alternate universe, right out the window. My vocabulary becomes limited to “yes, no,” and “what.” Like right now, if someone walked in, I mean it’s three in the morning and I’m alone in my room so I’d most likely have a few other things to say once I’m done with this paragraph, but they probably wouldn’t even get a “welcome” or a “hello”. I always write things in my head. It’s not that I write all of them down because most of them get left behind, my brain in just like one of those gobstopper machines from Willy Wonka constantly spitting out different combinations of words. It’s like an inner monologue autobiography on autopilot. It brings self-awareness to a whole new level. But it’s counterproductive; I’m a minute behind on the uptake. I don’t get the joke or manage to spit out “what” short like I’m annoyed when really I just wish I could pay attention better. So I can write like this and I do, I have since I was little. But the second someone actually asks me to write, I’m done. I’ve looked down from the diving board and seen all the possible situations in which this could end badly. Or at times, I see nothing at all. That’s the worst I think, having things to say and no way to get them out. That’s how people go nuts I think. When things get trapped inside and they can’t find their way out, through a pen, or tears, or a hand on a guitar. I had shit to say this year. I was filled with enough “creative energy” to get a whole damn novel out. My summer was exciting. Things happened that called for words, and that was all fine and dandy until about the third day of class. The first two days were fine because we started with a prompt. It was on the third day right about when he took a deep breath, looked us over and said, “What are you all looking at me for, now write”, that the panic set in. People awkwardly shuffled in their chairs and tapped their pens. God bless whoever had an amazing idea the last period of the day that they just had to get out, because I sure as hell didn’t. I read somewhere that the afternoon is the least creatively stimulating time of the day. And once I saw this (on some unknown ghostwriter’s blog for sure) I had my excuse in hand. Science had proven it for me. So I kind of scribbled things down during class and did the real stuff right before I went to bed. Or after I’d almost fallen asleep and I thought of some grand idea. Like this for instance. I had this idea that I had been working on for awhile. I thought it was really cool. I mean isn’t that how it always works, you think you’re writing the next Ulysses or something. I thought of it on the bus one-day right before I got home. And I got to writing. This was all before the class may I add, it was when I was actually asked to do the story for homework that I froze. A weird gawky version of my ideas found itself on a paper in front of me and I was not a fan. Neither was anyone else for that matter. I mean goddamn you can really get torn apart in one of those classes. You would think you were a grad student throwing around your dissertation to a bunch of professors of literature. Man I thought I would get out with a nice “yeah that was great! Cool!” and we would move on. Don’t get me wrong people were all kind and nice, they have to be don’t they? I’m just not exactly what you’d call the best receiver of criticism. It wasn’t until I stopped thinking about what to write about that I was actually able to do it. It’s the mice you see, continued on p. 12
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January 8, 2013
PROSE
CREATIVE WRITING
continued from p. 11
they’ve got all these places to go and I can’t get a word in edgewise when they’ve decided every other thing except for what I’m supposed to be doing is apparently “top priority.” I think it’s interesting to look at people’s faces when they’re writing. To watch the way they bite their lip, or groom their eyebrows. I think I have about as much fun people-watching as I do writing. And then there’s writing about people watching; that’s a blast. Sharing in class is like confession, except that the priest is a little bit snarky. And there are eight of them. And they’re definitely not saint-like. Also there’s no anonymous wall except for maybe third person and saying you just “thought of the idea out of the blue one day.” So there goes that analogy but you know what I mean. When I started writing I never intended for anyone else to hear it so I could say whatever the hell I wanted. I didn’t analyze what I was writing about. I didn’t wonder where it came from or if it was cliché, if the metaphor was too heavy or I was “developing my character” well enough. It’s like as much as I enjoy getting better, I miss when my haikus were enough. When I thought my Shel Silverstein impressions would someday get me the Pulitzer and I was better than everyone else was. Now everyone is good enough and we’re all really writing the same thing.
The Dinner Party: A Napkin’s Perspective Dorota Kossowska
It is a black tie event. Men dressed in sleek black tuxedos, crisp white dress shirts, hair gelled and slicked back. Bow ties and the occasional colorful pocket square can be spotted amidst the black and white. The women are modeling the latest trends, with gorgeous gowns in shades that seem to outshine the birds from tropical paradises. Their faces caked with makeup, smokey eyes and bold, deep wine-colored lips. The scent of musky cologne and bittersweet evening perfume hang heavy in the air. The old mansion slowly breathes with the sounds of heels tap dancing across the cold marble floor, the small talk, the gossip, the polite laughs, and the philosophy of middle-aged men, slowly balding. All bathed in the dim yellow light of the ancient crystal chandeliers, and the flickering candles, casting long frail shadows on the tapestry covered walls. The overwhelming mahogany doors creak open, and a new throng of guests float in. Among them, a pair of young wide eyed girls. Their eyes take in all that is offered, their dewy faces free of makeup beaming. A smile plays of their blushing lips, a laugh begging to escape. They waltz through the crowded dining hall, hand in hand, fading friendship bracelets on their slender wrists, cheap brass rings on their slim fingers, nails showing off chipped, glittery nail polish. Their boho chic attire is whispering with their messy, sun kissed hair that tickles the smalls of their backs. They’re doing the tango now, weaving a thread in and out of the mingling party guests, eyes set on the
near empty dance floor. They begin singing some song whose lyrics tell the hidden secrets of the Milky Way. They have kicked off their worn combat boots and oxfords, sliding across the floor in soft, fleecy socks. They shriek from joy and finally let out their laughter in bursts of high pitched giggles. They dance, eyes closed, to the music as though it is some sweet summer record meant for sipping iced tea on the rough parched grass, instead of a slow piece played skillfully by a stern faced string quartet. A silver bell is rung for dinner, shattering the growing party atmosphere, and the people make their way to their tables. The two girls head over their table in the middle of the dining hall, imitating the other guest’s seriousness, cracking themselves on the way. Their inspirations flinching not even once. As they settle down in their plush chairs cross legged, they sweetly deny their meal, prepared by a renowned, five star, chef all the way from France. Instead they gingerly pick up their utensils and begin to devour them hungrily. The waiter smiles politely, and promises to be back soon with some more water. The girls finish off their forks, spoons, and knives, moving onto their soup bowls and plates, crunching down on the porcelain. When the waiter returns with their water, they pour it out onto the floor, ice cubes skidding under the tables. As the sound of cracking glass dies down, and the floral arrangement and table cloth have been eaten, the girls lift their napkins up to their lips. And as they stuff them in their mouths, the party scene disappears, and the world goes black.
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January 8, 2013
PROSE
The Art of Being a 64-Year-Old Woman in a 16Year-Old Boy’s Body By Conor Coutts
I stepped out of my door on that cold Wednesday of October and anticipated the hours leading to my ... event. I had prepared, planned and was now ready to display the courage to become someone else: someone of the opposite gender who was significantly older than me. Was it risky? Could I get heckled or stared at and even aggravate some? I hoped so. But the goal was humor - self-inflicted humor inspired by wit and the desire to have fun. And so, I walked to my bus stop in size 8 Vera Wang brand shoes, which were extremely distasteful, most likely because I had purchased them for three dollars at the Salvation Army four days prior. And the shoes hurt: they were one of the most painful things I had ever experienced and I instantly had to limp. But I had to do it. I had to live the life, portray the role, and be recognized - be recognized as the Honorable Lana R. Craig, of course. We had planned this for 2 weeks and I was experiencing many things - anticipation, fear, humor. I was wearing virtually the same thing that she would be wearing: a red jacket, velvet black pants and black flats (ouch), and of course a black clipon flower which she had lent me. I would not only dress the part for the costume, but also act the part and put on the whole ensemble. Over my tilted glasses balanced on my nose I would give any students that I recognized a raised brow and simply say, “Good day, Mr. ___” or “Good morning, Ms. ____” and to any of my teachers (her colleagues) I would remind them that the staff meeting on Wednesday was bring your own booze - something she would most certainly, jokingly say. But I would also do improvised sar-
casm Craig-style, too outrageous to print. Through the halls and in the classrooms of IHS, I would be Lana R. Craig. Once I arrived at the bus stop I was greeted by jaw dropping confusion by my fellow bus stop mates. When I stepped, nay, limped, on to the humungous bus I was met with a very dumbstruck bus driver probably disturbed by my spiky red hair. I plummeted into the seat and faced forward until the bus came to a halt outside of IHS. Walking into the office entrance I was stopped by a very energetic young student (possibly a sophomore) that belted the phrase: “Oh dear god! You’re Ms. Craig!” and to that I replied, “Yes, yes I am, now will you get the hell out of my way?” I walked past H-Courtyard where I was met with cheers and phrases like: “Best costume ever” and “That’s frickin’ hilarious”. I just waved a very feminine wave which entailed a slight ‘twinkle’ of the fingers. I strutted up downstairs H and headed to the K wing so I could share this brilliant outfit with the real Craig. The Craig. When I finally arrived at K-17 - the room which I so desired - it was locked. I thought (in Conor thought): “Where in the name of the Lord would she be?!?” However to my content she was spotted by me in the copy room and I strutted her strut into the copy room where the secretary Ms. Cindy Dew simply lost it: “Ahhahahhahah OH hahaha I - Oh god haahaehehohhohohihhhaaaa OH GOD! hahahahahaaaa!!!” She was crying tears of laughter and I simply said to her, “Do you need therapy?” Then I turned to Ms. Craig who was beaming, and she said, “We look the same - this is scary.” Then I said a prepared joke: “With this war on women, yesterday I was teaching the AP and now I’m in Spanish 1!”
Almost constantly her World Languages colleagues started pouring into the room: Mrs. O’Dell and Sra. Zelkida, both of whom cackled with laughter. I walked down the halls holding the real Ms. Craig’s arm to her classroom and even the ESL kids, who surely didn’t know her, cracked up with laughter and remarked how clever it was. Then, I marched up G and was greeted by many verbal “way to go’s”, “that rules’”, “you rock’s”, and not to mention so many saying “what the hell?” coupled with the occasional “what the f***?” However I just smiled and did that feminine wave. I liked the confusion of all sorts; it was quite humoros and it made me know that I had already achieved my goal. I stepped in to my Global 1 Honors classroom which was taught by a new teacher (Ballard) so I was almost certain he would not recognize me. When I walked in there was some upperclass students’ meeting for the Red Cross club. Everyone said it was the best costume they had witnessed in their entire lifetime. And then I leaned by the podium where Mr. Ballard was standing and whispered, “Who are these idiots?” To that, he shouted, “That’s not nice!” I then told him I was in character and he nodded and laughed. It turns out that one of the girls who occupied his classroom during zero period was one of the photographers for the yearbook, and although I had to go show off my costume to some people before school, she just had to have my picture with Sra. Craig. So I obliged and the photo was taken. Throughout the day the excitement continued. In one of my classes the teacher was actually elated and had me teach a lesson as Ms. Craig to the class. During the beginning of second period in Ms. Murphy’s English class, I was to give a book continued on p. 14
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January 8, 2013
PROSE
THE ART OF BEING A 64-YEAR-OLD WOMAN IN A 16-YEAR-OLD-BOY’S BODY
presentation which I ended up doing in character insults and jokes to my fellow students, most of whom had Mrs. Craig as a teacher, so it was particularly fun. Then, the rest of the day, I continued to get recognition and support and laughs, and people even took pictures with me - lots of pictures - most of whom I didn’t even know. Then more pictures with
Mrs Craig for: the ITA, the district website, personal preference, the office of an assistant principal, other friends, and of course, me. Being Ms. Craig was divine, to say the least. This experience taught me many things, one of which being that no one is too old to have fun. Of course Halloween is a holiday geared towards young children, but if done
continued from p. 13
with preparation and a thought-out costume (like, Ahem, this one), it can be a real stunner. I learned that risking the things of dressing up in public in drag, risking looking like an idiot really does pay off and is fun. This experience was rewarding for me and my fellow students, and honored Ms. Craig for being a fabulous and very mockable teacher.
Point of View Claire Saloff-Coste
Study Hall. The ultimate example of uncalled for stupidity. The “class” that begs you to feed it work, even if you have none. If you don’t, it will eat you from the inside, creating a strange feeling resembling the sense of boredom. Then there are the people. The ones who listen to music so loud the birds in Brazil can get a chance to hear it. Then they repeat it, much to the enjoyment of the other animals. For the lucky few who have a friend in that dismal time turn all that has been said upside down. They feed the class-monster with their laughter, and you feed it with yours, so the monster doesn’t feel the need to eat you. A strange gift indeed (so remember to thank them if this applies to you), for nice company in Hell is seldom found.
I’m not saying Study Hall is bad. Oh no. I’m saying that this might be someone else’s point of view. Especially those with the loud music. They try to drown out their work so the monster hardly gets a bite, so they can’t hear the teacher telling them to turn it down. The teacher, who is the caretaker of the beast, tries to communicate with these people and shout for them to turn down their tunes and do their assignments. They comply for the time being until the caretaker turns his or her back. Up goes the music as if the students fear it would fall before their ears could swallow it. There are still some who do their work. Ones that don’t have anyone to talk to and feel work should be done on time. Silly humans.
What love is Emma Plotkin
It’s not that I think love is some shitty fairy tale they tell to little girls to make them feel like they have something more to live for. I just don’t believe that love is like it is in the movies. Eyes don’t connect, breathing doesn’t halt, sappy music doesn’t play. You meet someone, they share common interests, common socioeconomic status, common background. You get along, you move in together, it’s all great. Then you have a big fight, you get pregnant. He walks out. Your ex-boyfriend calls out of nowhere and says he misses you. You meet him somewhere at a diner and tell him you’re pregnant. He gets you a meatloaf sandwich because that’s your favorite. Then he tells you he’s gay and is thinking of adopting. You work out a contract. He signs some papers. Your baby pays for college, a really nice college too, Yale. That’s love, when a baby loves a mama so much she pays for college, and not to be a lawyer or a doctor. Not a profession that helps someone else, that is able to repay your debt to humanity. No, mama wants to be a journalist, so she can finally articulate to baby, what love is.
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January 8, 2013
PROSE
The Hike Siena Schickel
“Whose idea was this, anyway?” Michael asked the rest of us. Suzie and I both shrugged, too out of breath to say anything. “Guilty,” Goober yelled in his gravelly voice, stopping to look back down at us from the top of the hill. Goober looked like a god — the setting sun encircled him in a halo of light, making his entire figure a silhouette, along with his silly walking stick. The backpack strapped to his body added a few inches on his linebacker frame, making his outline look like a cross between the Hunchback of Notre Dame and the Hulk. “I. Hate. You,” Suzie panted as she reached Goober. It was almost comical to see such a massive guy like Goober flinch when tiny redhead Suzie punched him in his massive arm with a fist the size of a tangerine. I caught up just after Michael, who was already lying on the dirt path with his tongue lolling around like a dog and his sandy hair blending in with the ground. His arms and legs were sprawled in all different directions, and his chest bounced up and down like it was being jumped on by a small child. Everyone, even Goober, had sweat dripping from everywhere, soaking our clothes. Early on, I had been afraid that we would run into other hikers along the trail and embarrass ourselves, but then I realized that only we were truly stupid enough to hike in this kind of heat. The trees surrounding us were silent, as if made of stone. No gust of wind offered to help our intolerance of the hundred degree heat. It was just us, a beaten dirt path, steep cliffs, and a couple of tired crickets droning on. Of course it was Goober’s idea. “How much longer?” I asked Goober once I had regained my breath. His square jaw lit up into a toothy
grin and his blue eyes sparkled. He didn’t answer, which was always a bad sign. Instead, he turned and walked away from the rest of us, going off of the path towards a cliff. “Goober, what the hell?” Suzie said, but it was too late to turn him around. “Off to prove his manliness again. Leave him alone; he’ll be back in a minute,” Michael responded, still lying spread-eagle on the path. I threw a water bottle from my backpack to his chest, figuring he would’ve asked for it in a second. He gripped it with both hands and poured half of the contents onto his face, drinking a few drops of it. Typical. I let my backpack fall to the ground and began to follow Goober. I felt like a jungle cat, stalking its prey quietly before the chase. The dry earth didn’t help muffle my footsteps as I cracked branches and dead leaves, but he was already making a louder racket, so he didn’t notice me. The two of us eventually reached a metal fence, which barred adventurers like Goober from cliffs like the one in front of him. My heart shrunk into a tiny ball of nervousness. Something bad was about to happen; I could feel it. “I knew you’d follow me, you little creeper,” Goober said without turning around. There was a noise stuck somewhere in my throat, caught from my surprise and confusion. A little bit of it got out, so I sounded like a dying squirrel. “Hi Amelia.” “What are you doing?” I asked cautiously. Now he was the jungle cat and I the prey, facing each other with shifty eyes. “Suzie and Michael are probably waiting for us by now.” “More like Michael is too busy trying to make a move on Suzie while we’re gone,” Goober laughed. “I don’t think they’ll miss us.” My eyes nervously flicked from
him to the metal fence. I inched closer to see over it, only to find what seemed like a one thousand foot drop, straight into what used to be a stream. I had heard stories of guys like Goober trying to prove their manliness in places like this. Let’s just say there’s a reason there are a limited number of manly men in the world. I looked back over to Goober, who had already flung one leg over the fence. My eyes bugged out, my face ready for a stern and motherly scolding. “Goober!” This only made his smile wider than before, and in a flash, both legs were over the fence. The steepness of the slope made my head spin, but he looked down there and chuckled. My friend certainly had a strange way of proving his manliness, and the levels of humor were slowly declining. “Hank Cooper Peterson! Get on this side of the fence you idiot!” “Calm down, will ya ma? I’m only having fun!” Goober teased, laughing even harder as I felt myself turn red in the face. “You look like you’re about to explode.” I angrily stomped over to the fence to face him. His face was just as red as mine, but probably from excitement. His smile was blinding, showing off his father’s expert dentistry. He leaned toward the fence, stopping when his face was inches away from mine. His square face looked more normal up close. Like an optical illusion, Goober could look normal from the right angles. His crooked nose almost appeared straight, and his eyes were like the flashes of sunlight reflected off of a pool on a sunny day. It was hard to look into such a blinding face. “You need to relax. I’ve got this, don’t worry! This little slope is nothin’ compared to some mountains I’ve climbed.” “I’m not relaxing until you are on continued on p. 16
16
January 8, 2013
PROSE
THE HIKE
this side of the fence.” “Will you go out with me tonight?” “What?” I backed away from the fence in shock. I resorted to ignoring the impossible question and insisting again that Goober get his ass over the fence. He chuckled, leaning back, supporting himself with the fence. “Hey what’s that movie called, something about notes... Oh right! You’ve watched The Notebook, right?” he asked. My confusion mounted. “Of course you have; you’re a girl. Hey, remember how that guy asked the girl out while hanging from a Ferris wheel?” Oh dear lord, it’s official: Goober
is crazy. Goober threw his head back so he was facing the sky, still hanging on to the edge with his hands alone. Clearly he thought that we were in a movie right now, and that I would say yes. “I have plans tonight, Goober.” “Whatever you say,” he replied, and let go with one hand. I shrieked, unable to process what was going on. His other hand began to turn white, and I stood there, frozen, as he asked me out one last time. “This is what happened in the movie, right? I mean correct me if I’m wrong...” Goober’s face began to redden even more than before, and he squinted in the effort to keep a
continued from p. 15
hold on the fence. The crickets within the forest fell silent. The stone trees became fossilized from stillness. All I could see was Goober’s hand, slowly but surely losing its grip on the hot metal. It must’ve taken less than a second; maybe the sudden quiet had distracted him, or he just overestimated his own strength. A flash of panic. I’m a deer in headlights. A careless grin flashes to fear. White knuckles loosen. Four eyes widen. A hand reaches too late. Is it mine? Arms flailing. Falling, falling, falling. More reaching. I fall. He stops. Sound comes back. Goober doesn’t.
The Eternal Condition of the Lonely Hotdog Christiana Birch
“Do you think hot dogs ever get envious because burgers are, obviously superior in the world of barbeques?” I look at her. Let the game begin “Are you crazy? hot dogs and burgers are on the same level…—” “Yes I know that.” She sparks, cutting me off, “But one is always picked more than the other at these little gatherings.” She begins to zone out on this one topic. There’s a deeper motif than she’s telling me, but if I bring it up, she’ll deny it to her dying day, “And they must feel bad, too. Sitting on the grill, making friends with each other. Even though they’re both out for the same thing.” “To be eaten” Addie interjects. The daggers that come out of Nova’s eyes towards her cut down every particle in their path. “Yes.” I reach over and grab a hotdog and a burger. Problem solved. I’m no longer interested in what she has to say even though I know she’s going to keep talking. Just until her main point, extracted from the metaphor, has sunk into a deep place to fester in all of us. “No matter what, someone’s always a loser. In the grand scheme of things. Doesn’t matter if they’re equally loved by all grilled-meat lovers.” She looks at me with tears in her eyes, I know exactly what she’s talking about. At that moment, her bottom lip quivering back a silent outcry of helplessness, I knew the whole situ-
ation. “If you pick the burger, the hot dog will always envy it. and vice versa. It’s not fair.” “Sometimes it’s just a shady situation.” Addie answers, not realizing the apparent deeper meaning to our colloquial barbeque talk, “That’s just the way the world works.” “Is it, yeah?” Nova rhetorically asks. Eyeing her half eaten soggy hot dog. She darts her eyes over to Addie’s burger. Addie grabs the mustard and puts it on a knife, then slowly spreads it on the burger. She goes then to take another knife to spread the bbq sauce on the top burger bun. She then puts ketchup on the other side of the burger. I can see Nova growing frustrated with her careful placement of condiments. “I mean, I guess?” “Fine. Then I really can’t be associated with this nonsense any longer.” Nova gets up and begins to walk towards the playground. “Nova, wait, what’s the matter?” You can hear the confusion in Addie’s voice. Nova stops dead in her tracks. “Can’t you squirt condiments like a normal fucking person!?” I probably should’ve said something after all of that. Addie looked at me to say something to help her confusion, but the situation was too perfect. It DEFINED Nova’s thought process. I gently smiled down to my plate and shook my head. I pushed my plate, with both options into the garbage. Realizing only then that I wasn’t hungry in the first place.
17
January 8, 2013
PROSE
Interview: Student Artist PHOTO/\MAYA PATT
By Tracy Lai
I sat down with Jensen Lo ’14, math enthusiast, brilliant mad scientist, as well as talented musician, to discuss his role as the principal cellist of the Ithaca High School student orchestra, his music preferences, and his fashion inspiration. Tracy Lai ’14: How long have you played the cello? Jensen Lo : The problem with fences is that you can never tell if they’re asking for the number of lengths or the number of posts. If you are within one year of starting the cello, would you say that you have been playing for zero years or one year? If the former, then I’ve been playing for seven years. If the latter, then eight. TL: Um... let’s just say that you started playing in 3rd grade. Was cello your first choice? Did you always want to play the cello? JL: Back in 3rd grade, I wanted to play the double bass because it was the largest and most impressive-looking string instrument, so on the orchestra registration form, I checked off double bass as my first choice and cello as my second. Fortunately, the school didn’t have any double basses because they were too large, so I started playing the cello instead. Actually, that’s the same reason that Yo Yo Ma chose the cello too. I say that I was fortunate, because cello is clearly the best instrument ever.
Jensen sporting his signature look, a polo and sweatpants.
continued on p. 18
18
January 8, 2013
PROSE
INTERVIEW: STUDENT ARTIST
TL: Interesting. Apart from maybe being slightly biased, why do you say that the cello is far superior to all other instruments? JL: I think the main point is its versatility. It has enough range that you can play violin music at its high end, yet it’s small enough that you can move your hands all around the instrument with lightning speed. You can play faster or longer notes than wind instruments because you don’t have to breathe, and unless your arm is falling off, you can play when you’re sick. Plus, you can hold it across your lap and play it like a guitar, or electrify it to play awesome guitar solos. TL: Let’s say that you wanted to learn another instrument. Which instrument would you want to play? JL: Maybe the bongos, because everyone wants to be like Richard Feynman. Or actually, maybe a Theremin. Oh, you don’t know what that is? It’s like a proximity sensor that changes pitch based on how close you are to it. Hey, imagine a Theremin that you can control with your mind! TL: Wow, what a thought! That would actually be pretty cool. The IHS music department has had a long history of excellence that continues to this day. How has being part of such a wonderful program shaped your high school career? JL: The thing about high school is that sometimes there’s so much work that you just don’t have any time to play at home. The great thing about the high school music program is that you can always play something engaging every day. Mr. Myers and now Ms. Hecht have always been good at choosing real and interesting orchestra pieces for us to play, none of that exercise or practice book stuff. TL: I understand that recently you attended the conference all-state orchestra, a huge honor and accomplishment. Congratulations! How was that experience for you? JL: Thanks, I felt it was lots of fun. While I was there, I was dreading each rehearsal because they were so long and I was sore from the previous rehearsal, but after I came home and had a good night’s rest, I realized that it was completely worthwhile. In my defense, we had around eight hours of rehearsal every day, from Thursday to Saturday. I met a lot of cool cellists and learned a lot about music (tuba players are called tubists). We played some epic music like Respighi’s Pines of Rome and Brahms’ Tragic overture, and made lots of viola jokes, so it was a good time. Also, I got to try an electric cello, but they wouldn’t let me amp up the volume to 11. TL: I’m sorry to hear that. As a member of the orchestra, you have played many a wonderful piece and performed in many a wonderful concert. Has there been one piece that you particularly loved to play?
continued from p. 17
JL: I really enjoyed playing Dvorak’s New World Symphony with the IHS orchestra, and Elgar’s Enigma Variations were really beautiful too. It’s so hard to decide on just one though. TL: Is there a piece that you dream of playing? JL: I’ve always wanted to learn how to play the Elgar Cello Concerto. It’s not that difficult in terms of technique, but the piece is all about sadness and loss. I don’t really feel that I’m mature enough to play the piece yet. Maybe when I’m older. TL: Do you have a favorite classical composer? JL: Well, Elgar wrote lots of somber and thoughtful music, while Dvořák wrote really energetic and lively stuff. I usually enjoy one or the other, depending on my mood. TL: You obviously play a lot of and enjoy classical music. But are there other genres of music that you like? JL: I feel Motown is really awesome: absolutely the best thing that came out of the 1960s (aside from Apollo 11). Also my friends finally got me to listen to some modern pop, so I found that Cee Lo is pretty good too. Not only is he a really lively performer, but his name also really similar to cello, which is clearly the best instrument. Before I forget, J-Pop and K-Pop are also cool. TL: Very interesting and unexpected! One final thing. You always wear a polo, track pants, and white tennis shoes. What is the inspiration behind your unique signature look? JL: I’m not sure where I got it from. I’ve been wearing that outfit for so long. It’s like being a superhero (or a supervillain). The reason that I’ve stuck with it for so long is because it serves a dual purpose. When I’m sitting at my desk, ready to learn, only my polo is visible and I appear studious. When I’m standing up, my pants are showing and it looks like I’m ready to go. Proper above and party below. Also, I can always run away if there’s a velociraptor attack, which is always a real concern because the windows are so low and accessible to rampaging dinosaurs. TL: I totally agree. Have you ever worn jeans? A Tshirt? JL: I know that I own a pair of jeans that are three sizes too short, so theoretically I have likely worn jeans before, but I can’t remember a time when I have. And I wear Tshirts plenty of times. I have an awesome collection of Tshirts with math on them, but I only wear them on test days (not to read answers off them, the math is more obscure than that!) Of course, why wear a T-shirt on a normal day when I have tons of polos to choose from? TL: How many polos do you have exactly? JL: I own over two dozen polos.
19
January 8, 2013
PROSE
Gory Christiana Birch
Everyone told me that the extraordinary idea of it was better than anything else due to it’s simple form. It was always easy to grasp and its elementary whole made it a game to enjoy. Though highly graspable, no one told you it was seldom tangible. That it was constructed in a way that you could wrap your mind around, but never your hands. It was put together from laborious eager-
ness, and strange complexity which would prick your finger tips from the moment seized. And those were the parts that split you in half, quarters, eighths and so on until there’s nothing. Just the remnants of what used to be the antsy zealous you. Striving for that fascinating notion you had been previously told to reach. Just the gory melancholy bits left behind to fester into beauty. Giving false hope to others about to take the same plunge you had recently fallen. PHOTO/SAVAN DESOUZA
Christiana Birch
One day we’ll look back and remember how amazing this year was. How our lives are somewhat like the afternoon specials they used to play in the 90’s. Seeing our little problems that seemed so huge, and the people that almost gave us stress ulcers and migraines seem so insignificant, maybe even we seem insignificant to others, but that doesn’t matter. In a few months we’ll be done with the autopilot routine and default conversations we’ve learned to execute over the years, and be exiled into reality. Some of us will go to our safety or reach school, some will
Infinite Subjects travel, the select group will go on to become doctors and lawyers and business executives. But the lucky few will wonder what happened to the us we had before? In John Green’s novel, The Fault in Our Stars, two young teenagers battling cancer share an interest in a similar book, The Imperial Affliction, and fight to understand the cliffhanger ending. Under some misunderstood emails, they travel to Europe to ask the author about the characters’ lives after the novel. Already confused about their actual presence, he concludes the conversation with a blunt “They cease to exist after the completion of the book!” I let that sink in. At the end
of our high school novel, will we cease to exist? Will we become these meaningless stories and memories that flood back time to time while hearing any reference to the dreadful Frankenstein (the book, not the cartoon monster, of course.) or even simply smelling anything that may be shrimp poppers? No. When we leave here, we’re no longer the memory of the person sitting in the inner circle, studiously taking down notes about Kant and Sarte in Mr.Anderson’s philosophy class, or the scribbled doodle face of Macbeth’s dagger on Mr.Asklar’s desks. We’re characters in our own book. And therefore, like Perks famously says, we are infinite.
20
January 8, 2013
PROSE
Teach Christiana Birch
The slowly heating cloth wrapped around the slice of thick promising bread moistens the mahogany desk. It makes an outline that calmly withers into nothing. I’m just trying to focus on anything else but handing over the last thing that attaches me to him. To the man I love to hate, but will always hate to let go. I put the little warm bundle into his satchel. “Is that the last of it?” Red says in a booming voice. “Well, have it here then.” “Patience, Red. Patience. Here.” I toss him his satchel. We’re both still trying to put on this stubborn act because neither of us has apologized for the argument we had while I was making the bread last night for supper. Seems a bit ironic. “That’s it. You got your papers?” I ask. He nods, “How about your Bible? Gotta have that.” “Yeah, it’s right here,” he can barely look me in the eyes. He leans on the mahogany next to me and flips through his Bible a bit. Not really reading anything, or even skimming. Probably wouldn’t do him any good. Mama always said “The Bible isn’t any good if you’ve got your mind made up.” He , obviously has. “So, you’re sure you’re going to stay here? Teachin’ these little nothing to tr...” I cut him off. “Why do you call ‘em that, Red? It’s so....” I can’t find the word. “True?” “Rude.” I hop off of the desk and walk towards the makeshift chalk board. I run my fingers through the dust, making miniature figures with my fingers. “Look here,” he says, standing his ground, and slowly making his way to the chalkboard, “if a white man can’t make nothin’ of himself in this place, what on God’s earth makes you think a little negro can, Jazzy?” “And how do you know?” “Because they can’t, Jazzy!” He
grabs the sides of my shoulders and shakes them. Thinking that maybe, if he ruffles me up a little that his words might make more sense, “They just can’t!” I push away from his grip and stare at him. “Don’t raise that voice at me, boy. They can try!” Now, we’re looking each other square in the eyes, “Those who can do, and those who can’t teach. Right, Red? That’s what you drilled into my skull to think I’m some kind of last resort. But what about people like you? Those who can’t do, and can’t teach. What do you do?” He always hates when all I do is ask questions that I already know the answer to. At this point, everything is falling apart between us, but yet, no one is picking up the pieces. There’s no real use in putting pieces together that never fit in the first place. Those broken shapes are letting all the hidden jabs and insults flow straight out. I don’t want to hear anything more about it and he gets the hint. But he always has to have the last word. “You know that you’re just wasting your time, and theirs.” Those words sink deep down somewhere in me. Not in my brain, not in my gut, but in the cracks and veins of my heart to fester and to hurt more and more, every time I think about it. He looks at me and he can tell how bad it hurt me. He tries to pull me in to console me, but I step back. I stare at him, questioning. This is not the man I’m engaged to (or was engaged to) and whom I fell in love with. The kind, honoring man. This man is changed. Changed by these times. A man whose spirit has dried up and crumbled into dust. Just like these times. “I hope you find work in the west.” I say to the stranger about to leave my life forever. Red gazes out to the school yard. “They’re here, Jaz,” “Who?” “Your . . . children.” He closes the door with limited emotion. By the
time I realize that he said children and not “little nothings,” it was too late. I run outside to say anything back. An apology, a farewell, something... Anything. The buggy has gotten lost in the dust down the road, past the little broken-down tent on the side of the road that Red and I had meant to clean up every time we passed. It passes the little pub that we went to two night ago when Red found the ten dollars in his old overalls. It was the last bit of money we had for a while. We lived like royalty for that night. Gone. I just want to run into the school house, lock up the door and all the windows and cry. But, I can’t. The children are here with the other teachers. “And where does Mister Red wanna go at this time? He got work?” Sally says, gazing out down the road, looking at a different picture that I just saw. “Silly man, off to find somethin’ he ain’t lost.” We laugh to each other. “Miss Jay, Miss Jay!” Johnny looks up to me. “Miss Jay! What are we reading today?” Sammy asks, bouncing up and down. “You’ll see, did you all bring your Bibles?” All the children nod with their bright eyes. I start to gather them to come inside, out of this heat. I clap several times to get their attention. “Everyone! come on now! Miss Daisy, please go and get that pouty one over there, Jimmy. Isaac, get all of your friends, come on it’s time for class.” We all get inside, sit down and they all open their notebooks. For the whole lesson, I’m in a daze. My mind is far away from the formation of the letter g, or how numbers add up. I hate teaching liked this. Robotic. This is when Red is correct about wasting their time. But today I cannot help myself. I shoot down every question and ignore every misbehaved action, in fear that if I get off track for even the slightest second, continued on p. 21
21
January 8, 2013
PROSE
TEACH
I’ll explode. When Miss Laura takes the kids outside for lunch, I plop down at my desk. The mix of the heat and the frustration of the day make my eyes water automatically. I hold my head in my hands. I don’t even hear little Sam come into the school house. He comes over to me and tugs on my arm. “Sam? What are you doing in here? Go out and eat your lunch with the others,” I accidentally snap at him. I see he’s holding a piece of paper. “Can you read this to me, Miss Jay?” He asks. He always has this innocent smile that creeps on his face without even realizing it. “It fell out of my Bible, but I can’t find my Bible. And then these are the only pages I have...” He rambles on and on about how he came to acquire these pages that he has with him. It makes me smile. I prop him up on my lap. “First Corinthians 13:4, Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy,
it does not boast, it is not proud.” I look at him. My eyes start to water. I sniffle and look down to him. I can’t do anything but continue reading. “It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears.” A single drop of relief falls straight down from my eye. I wipe it quickly and then smile down to Sam who’s wrapping the piece of paper up and putting it into his tiny breast pocket. “What does that mean, Miss Jay?” he asks. I don’t have an answer for him. The festering words of Red come back up. Am I wasting my time
continued from p. 20
and theirs? I have read that book cover to cover, line by line. But... I can’t even evaluate a single passage. I look down at Sam. “This means that those feelings that you have for your Mama, and your Daddy, and for your educati...-” I stop myself. What am I saying? “Well you see, Sam, its describin’ . . -” I stop myself again. I look down at him and smile. “I have no idea, to be honest.” He looks at me and laughs. “That’s okay, Miss Jay. I don’t know either” He smiles exposing his missing bottom tooth. I just laugh and tears fall from my eyes. I hug him tight. I can’t decide whether these are tears of sadness or joy. “Now, go back out before your lunch gets eaten by the others. Go on.” He hops off of my lap and I stand up, fix my skirt, go over to the chalkboard, and start to recite as I write the number line. “Love is patient, love is kind.” I say, over, and over again. Patient. Kind.
Lifeboat Book Nan Bell
A book can save your life. I know because one saved mine. For my ninth birthday, August 14, 1959, my favorite aunt gave me a book: On the Banks of Plum Creek, by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Laura, in the story, has a lot of trouble being good. I too was my family’s bad child—noisy, irascible, and devious. I lied, I hid things, and I stole. Here’s what I had to do to be a model daughter, in my parents’ eyes: shut up. That meant enduring, uncomplaining, the attacks of my older brother: beatings, molestation, stalking. “There’s nothing wrong with him,” they’d say, or “Keep your voice down, you’re so loud!” And then they’d go back to their martinis or golf. Laura’s story showed me a different world. She was a wild girl very capable of anger and hiding things, and yet her parents dealt with her fairly and actually protected her from people being unfair to her. Laura’s parents punished her when she disobeyed, but the lines were clear, and there was no question that they valued her. I read and re-read that book, and then the whole series, over and over. THAT is a good family, I thought. I could make a family like that. My parents aren’t right about everything. Somebody out there will value me.
As I grew up, the anger faded and the resolve grew: some families protect their children; I will do better than I was done by. I can’t forget my experience, but I can use it in my life, to be different from them. I didn’t let my kids pound each other; I listened when they complained. I got them help for things I didn’t know about. I told them I loved them every single day. I made a lot of mistakes, too, but they were different ones from my parents’. Now my mother is dead and I have inherited that very same brutal older brother to care for. Sadly, I was right: there IS something wrong with him. Now he has a doctor and a diagnosis: paranoid schizophrenia with hypersexual tendencies, and everyone knows he needs to be under professional care the rest of his life. He is in a group home. He has to be watched to make sure he takes his medication; without it he could be one of those rapists or murderers (“He seemed like a harmless old guy”) you hear about on the news. This I believe: there is a story out there in some form—a book, a fairy tale, another person’s life story, that will show you a different way of living and it will save your life. If you don’t need saving, another person’s story can make you feel less lonely. Keep looking. Don’t give up. You will find that story that will lift you up. This I believe.
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January 8, 2013
PHOTOS CARTOON/\CHARLES CHANG
CARTOON/\CHARLES CHANG
The Tattler thanks all the talented artists who submitted photos to the Tattler Photography Contest. The first-place winner was Phoebe Lakin, whose work appears on the front cover. Honorable mentions go to Audrey Kan and Anna Kutcher, whose photos can be found on page 24.
PHOTO/\PHOEBE SHALLOWAY
PHOTO/\AUDREY KAN
PHOTO/\ANNA KUCHER
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