Universal Truths
Springside Chestnut Hill Academy 2022 Pub
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Pub’s Mission Statement Pub is an annually published, creative arts magazine published by a cohort of student volunteers for the Springside Chestnut Hill Academy Upper School. The magazine provides Upper School students with the ability to share their written, visual, and auditory work with the community at large. We hope to inspire and motivate student artists to create, and we aim to celebrate a broad, diverse range of work in each edition of Pub. 2
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Universal UNIVERSAL Truths TRUTHS 2022
2022 Edition
P U B
Springside Chestnut Hill Academy 500 W. Willow Grove Avenue Philadelphia, PA 19118 sites.google.com/sch.org/pub Springside Chestnut Hill Academy pub@sch.org 500 W Willow Grove Avenue Philadelphia, PA 19118 www.sch.org | pub@sch.org
Letter from the Editors Dear Readers, In 2020 and 2021, various social, political, and individual events undoubtedly impacted the lives of every individual in a multitude of ways. While we were both literally and figuratively isolated during the pandemic, it was so easy to feel alone, whether that may be in beliefs, emotions, or otherwise. These life-altering events led us directly to last year’s theme of “Change.” After the glowing feedback we recieved on that very first revamped edition of PUB, we were eager to begin brainstorming themes for this year’s publication. We intended to continue on with the previous year’s theme but build on the idea in an entirely new way. Many long, thoughtful discussions ultimately pushed us towards the concept of “Universal Truths,” intended to illustrate the realm where different parts of identity meet with unity in our society. Our staff has carefully handpicked the visual and written works included in the magazine in the hopes that readers have the most empowering and enjoyable experience possible. We hope you all are able to let yourself explore new ideas and admire the work of the outstanding group of creatives at Springside Chestnut Hill Academy as you flip through this magazine. Best Regards, Your Editors-in-Chief Chloe Brundin ‘22 and Meena Padhye ‘22
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Table of Contents Written Works
“Fear in Silence | Hannah Lexer ‘22......................................................................................5 “Background Noise” | Julien Friedland ‘25........................................................................... 6 “Sister” | Anonymous............................................................................................................. 8 “The Death of Fall | Anonymous.......................................................................................... 9 “My Sunrise” | Nia Hodges ‘22............................................................................................10 “The Fifth Element | Nia Hodges ‘22................................................................................. 12 “And the World Shattered With the Sky by Per Xilium” | Carson Kaucher ‘22................ 16 “Wasatch Mountains” | Chase Newbold ‘22....................................................................... 18 “The Fish” | Anonymous...................................................................................................... 19 “I’m Missing Something” | Anonymous............................................................................. 20 “It Started on a Rainy Day” | Henry Brandstadter ‘22........................................................ 23 “My Nephew is My River” | Ha’oa Bode ‘24.......................................................................26 “Vitia Poems” | Carson Kaucher ‘22.....................................................................................28 “The Rhythm of Passion” Selections | Raven Kilcollum ‘23...............................................30 “The Storm” | Dean Deangelus ‘22...................................................................................... 31 “The Moose” | Paolo Marchiano ‘22.................................................................................... 32 “Isma” | Samaya Goodwin ‘23..............................................................................................34 “Miss Celie” | Samantha Simon ‘23...................................................................................... 35 “The Power of Beauty” | Tatyana Hall ‘23...........................................................................36 “Untitled” | Sofia Murray ‘23................................................................................................38 “Facing My Fairs” | Aden Goldberg ‘22.............................................................................40
Visual Art
“Opposites Attract” | Baylin Manusov ‘25.................................................................... Cover “Death by Roses” | Nelly Forrest ‘23..................................................................................... 4 “Untitled” | Iris Wilde ‘22...................................................................................................... 6 “Untitled” | Iris Wilde ‘22...................................................................................................... 8 “Untitled” | Terry Jackson ‘23................................................................................................11 “The Glory of Democracy Night” | Hamilton Xie ‘23......................................................... 13 “I Know the Way Home” | Wesley Jordan ‘22.....................................................................14 “As I Fell Asleep” | Wesley Jordan ‘22.................................................................................. 15 “Untitled” | Dean Angelus ‘22.............................................................................................. 16 “Backlit” | Franny Downs ‘22............................................................................................... 18 “By My Side” | Maia Collins ‘24.......................................................................................... 21 “Critiques” | Maia Collins ‘24...............................................................................................22 “Worn Bricks in Water” | Franny Downs ‘22......................................................................26 “Untitled” | Miguel Johnston-Peck ‘23.................................................................................29 “Untitled” | Elena Franklin ‘23.............................................................................................30 “Untitled” | Dean Deangelus ‘22.......................................................................................... 31 “Untitled” | Sofia Murray ‘23................................................................................................38 “The Third Eye” | Zane Dioin ‘23........................................................................................39 “E.E. Cummings” | Franny Downs ‘22................................................................................39 “Snake” | Elena Franklin ‘23..................................................................................................41 “Portrait” | Cooper Bode ‘25................................................................................................ 42 “Rooster” | Sela Perryman ‘24............................................................................................. 42 “Faces” | Alex Cross ‘25.........................................................................................................43 “Shadow Portrait” | Paige Murray ‘25..................................................................................43
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Fear in Silence Hannah Lexer ‘22 This time it feels different Painful Every day the window I look out To see how the world is changing Is only Becoming smaller And the hope for people like me Is becoming smaller Today... Now, that I am supposed to be free in 2021 Why do I feel like nobody is on my side? Violent Violence is only growing, And I feel like my religion and race aren’t seen, aren’t valued respected in our society. The most beloved holidays to me are shown by defacing synagogues, statues of Anne Frank, Jewish stars And what does the world do? They post one thing on the internet and hope that it will fix the bigger issue
Platform users post their hate Tik Tok, Instagram Use their power to harm me through speech To watch people Who want to harm me And watch it slip through their fingers And see no fault in it. But, I see the harm I see the hurt In “death to all Jews” And I am simply silenced Unsafe As the days go by And survivors slowly start to die Their stories aren’t being shared These survivors will soon be forgotten Seen as the issue and not the victim Untrustworthy Am I just going to be identified as Big Nose White Skin Brown Eyes Brown Hair Just as they were years ago
Nelly Forrest ‘23 | Death by Roses | Colored Pencil
Does that make me an outcast in society? Does that make me not see the bigger issues in our world? Or does that just make me worried for my safety? Silent Should I just suck up my pain Just as the world says to Getting rid of my identity Leaving me to be perceived as a curvy, white woman, who is no longer driven by her ancestry And I am supposed to be okay with it But, what if I am not okay with it? As the year 2021 shows the issues in our society Why is my religion being persecuted in silence just as it was years ago? Remember Them Remember My Ancestors Remember Me
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Iris Wilde ‘22 | Untitled | Acrylic Paint
Background Noise
After Jamaica Kincaid’s “Girl”
Julien Friedland ‘25 This is how you let people know that you are not just a set of ears. This is how you laugh at the Hellen Keller jokes and ignore the deeper sting. This is the way you try to read lips through a mask, watching the outer mouth form an O. Ignore the people signing at you; you won’t understand them, and they won’t understand you. This is how you cover your ears with hair to camouflage them. What if I want short hair? No, short hair would make people stare. But they stare anyway. This is how you pull your hat down to blend in. But why do I have to blend in? I don’t want to become background noise. This is how you click the little buttons to make the world louder. Tell us if the sound seems too loud. This is how you teach your teachers to use the FM. This is how you keep your FM as you carry it from class to class. This is how to not lose them; don’t lose them. If you do lose them, this is how you bob your head up and down 8
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and pretend you understand what they are saying even if they are speaking too softly for you to hear. This is how to clean them. This is how you dry them. This is how you charge them. This is how you connect them. This is how you ignore the cracking and sputtering and the tinny turn-on sound that pops right into your ears. This is how you stand still and let the doctors stick tubes and silly devices into your ears. But my ears hurt and I don’t like the cracking and sputtering. Don’t worry about the sputtering, you’ll learn to ignore it. Sit still in the sound booth and wave at Elmo when he pops up. You will have to do these tests alone. Stack the blocks, clap when you hear the monkey bang his cymbals, raise your hand at the beep. You must not move when the audiologist pours gooey liquid silicon into your ear. No, you shouldn’t get sparkly molds. Why don’t we just make your molds tan so they blend in with your skin? Fine, we’ll make them sparkly and ocean blue. This is how you put them in your ears just right so they don’t fall out. They still fall out. This is how you tell people you have accommodations. This is how to look straight ahead into the speaker while it plays the same tune on repeat so they can calibrate. This is how to curl your tongue to make the Th sound. No, no, not an S. Repeat these words, will you? Dog, Baseball, Cap, Bat, Hat. Good, now what is a long, reddish-yellow vegetable that has green leaves and a long stem? Good job, now could you sit still for me for one second? Now don’t be late, it’s your first day of school, you know. And don’t forget your Hearing Aids. •
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Sister Anonymous I was a little disgusted If not annoyed at the fact That they seem to escalate Every situation like this. But after a moment, The giddy charm Strolled in the room Like a cat pouncing After a laser. It was hard Not to smile at the lack Of caring, the blatant
Wilde ‘22 | Untitled | Photograph 10IrisPub
Disrespect of such a formal Dinner. If we were still kids, Our parents would’ve yelled At us in a stop, you’re Embarrassing me type of way, But our dad chose to yell At us in a what the hell, I’m tired of this way that was Filled with plenty of words Our younger selves Would not have known.
The Death of Fall Anonymous
Fall, the changing point that ends the season A simple event that defies all reason Leaves change color soon to die Slowly fluttering down from the sky And as they fall the cold wind blows Throughout the town, the fires glow The day gets short as night encroaches one stark sign that winter approaches The pumpkins plastered everywhere On windows, shelves that once lay bare Corporate greed it’s clear to see Lays its hands on all that be Fall condensed into one flavor Pumpkin spice one cannot savor Shops and houses all one smell Till hence they hear the Christmas bell Fall themed ads to sell more goods One should simply see the woods Fall, the changing of the seasons Weakened by our unjust reason Pub 11
My Sunrise Nia Hodges ‘22
Is the universe. An old paradox. The natural world—sunrise packed in boxes. A sunrise of the moon—hidden from the Stars at night. Clean sunrise ready to be Dirty. Sunrise caving in on Skyscrapers. A sunrise to sights already Seen. Sunrise in dark corners. Candles Burn to keep away danger. Sunrise For waking up in bed. Sunrise. Sunset painted At sunrise. Ocean sunrise brings silence. Nature Created by machines. A sunrise, but no time. Time, but no sunrise. The power can’t take more Sunrise. Electric shuts off only to switch on Again. My door is open for sunrise to leave. Come back.
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Terry Jackson ‘23 | Untitled | Photograph
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The Fifth Element Background Nia Hodges ‘22 Noise Air. Water. Fire. Earth.
The fifth element lies thither. North. The ether of all creation, Waiting for you to look up and watch Earth wither away. This planet, wrapped in Infinity, is finite. Imperfect. Built too Elemental. Earth burrows into herself, Taking land under. Fire kisses the elder tree Then makes it die In seconds.
bend And take our homes. Our friends. Julien Friedland ‘25 But above, The supply of life is endless. Unselfish. Ugly humanity whisked
Away. Stars so close they glisten then Shine bright. Hurry else you miss all the planets— Heavenly bodies that swan amongst Celestial spheres. Gone in a heartbeat.
Willows weep And spill all their tears.
The ether, unlike her siblings, Is a withdrawn element
Water conceals her gift of life, So bodies must overflow at the mouths Of rivers.
—mysterious like the red sun.
Wind becomes angry, and Turns into twisters. Twisters 14 Pub
She does not alter Reality, for the Earth remains tilted Towards destruction. Hamilton Xie ‘23 | The Glory of Democracy Night | Photograph
But she invites you into her slender arms
She cannot save me from this Reality.
Without letting go. Built unconditional.
If all fools could fly, The sun would be eclipsed Forever.
She Is the nectar of all things Worth searching for,
A total eclipse Does not block the sun Forever.
I promise you.
Every three hundred years or so, It merely renders life more Mysterious. Infinite.
But how far The journey leads! She cannot Erase the ache in my feet. When I keel over on empty. Heat rises.
Panoramic. A gift from This universe To the next.
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Wesley Jordan ‘22 | I Know the Way Home & As I Fell Asleep | Acrylic Paint Marker
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And the World Shattered With the Sky by Per Xilium By: Carson Kaucher ‘22 Oper was leaving work. He was later than the others to leave As the machinery is difficult to navigate, Its winding gears forcing him to exit Far past the time he clocked out. When he stepped outside it was too late. There, upon his homeward bus were his coworkers, Limbs fused with the sun-stroked aluminum. He tried desperately to record the monstrosity before him, But the heat had already reached his body And before he could turn the camera to the bus Metal and flesh had already become one. Collapsed on the ground, stomach to the now infinite ceiling, His hand is now a glass eye that forever captures The terror of the rainbow above. The last thing he ever sees, now only waveforms around him.
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Proc was heading home on a plane. Her job extracting gold on the other side of Vitia Had pulled her far away from her parents, And thus, every holiday, she had to travel On a long white bullet through the long white fabric. But neither her nor her parents would know this was the final tear And that the sky’s impossible rainbow would cast light elegantly On the plane’s white paint through the rip it had sliced. She wept, for she was born to Vitia
And thus had never witnessed what was beyond the clouds Nor the powerful aura that split from Ignis. While other passengers took out their phones to record, She simply let her tears run down her face, Their colors being the same bloody rainbow as that out her window. Ignis reached down to the colorcovered thing and pulled it upward. Up, toward the heavens, where humanity always wished to be And Proc never knew she wanted. But that was just on the silver screen. It wouldn’t reach me here. Tura was in his hut. He always was one with nature, and so knew this day was coming. He warned us through his poems, which he shouted aloud In the golden lobby of Forum Eligem’s spire. He was written off as a madman, but now, when everyone is, He smiled a somber, satisfied smile. He stepped out of his home towards the jungle around him, The trees ablaze with hues not unlike those above. The metal eyes placed on the trees melt As they watch him walk into the forest. Cancerous growths on the bark sir and reach out to him, Boiling bubbles and flipping tendrils crying out in agony. Their arms reach out to each other, and as man and jungle embrace His flaming body and the flaming
trees melt together. But that was just on the silver screen. It wouldn’t reach me here. I was in my house. I had school work that needed to be done, And so I was reading away at an article on how our brains perceive colors While procrastinating through videos on my phone. Did you know that there is no wavelength that corresponds to magenta? Our brain simply constructs it when we see blue and red mixed. Outside my window, through the broken clouds, leaked in more colors, Wavelengths that didn’t, couldn’t exist, and which my brain wasn’t made to fake. Staring into the impossible sun I quickly averted my eyes, But it was too late, as the scars left on my cones Etched into my brain and the tears running down my face Were as red as the sunset I was used to viewing. I tried to scream but my nerves no longer reached my throat And my mind folded into itself, taking everything with it Until the world Was simply Nothing. I tried for the silver screen. But I couldn’t reach it here. But that was just on the silver screen. Pub 19 It wouldn’t reach me here.
Wasatch Mountains Chase Newbold ’22
The ridges floating on the horizon resembled a tear in the sky. Almost as if dark and light came into contact. The moon still as a kite rested as the horizon fought for a dominant color. Clouds peacefully covered the sky, therefore, picking a neutral side.
Franny Downs ‘22 | Backlit | Woodcut Print
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The Fish Anonymous
The silhouette from above, A squirming fish in distress. We can do nothing, For in our lives, It is survival of the fittest. We are not ones to help, Flowing with the current is all we know. We see the water dance with the sun. This is how God created us, And we are not the ones to change that. I’ve seen many of my brothers and sisters fall Or should I say, rise. My tears never fall below me, For they are absorbed by the water. It appears that one of my brothers has floated above the water.
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I’m Missing Something Anonymous
I’m missing something. I’m not actually missing anything I don’t think, But I’m missing something. I’m missing time. I’m missing time to go to the gym, I’m missing time to see my friends, I’m missing time to do school work, I’m missing time to play hockey, I’m missing time to go fishing. I’m missing a lot. Maybe I’m not missing it Maybe there’s not enough, Maybe I’m not using it wisely. All I know for certain is that I miss it. And the time I need to take to do them. I miss the times when I was younger, Playing sports outside with the neighborhood kids I grew up with, 22 Pub
Staying up late at sleepovers playing Call of Duty Zombies trying not to wake my parents. I miss not worrying about college and loads of school work And the time I need to take to do them. I’m missing the time to take care of myself. I’m missing time to go to the gym, I’m missing time to play my favorite sport. I’m missing the time to stay active. I miss it so much. Maybe I’m not missing it Maybe it’s moving faster, Maybe I’m not being careful. All I know for certain is that I miss it. My brother once told me “Never wish time away” At a time when it felt like time wasn’t moving at all. Maia Collins ‘24 / By My Side / Charcoal
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Maia Collins ‘24 | Critiques | Charcoal
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It Started on a Rainy Day Henry Brandstadter ‘22
When the trucks and tanks rolled down the main street of town that rainy day, very few raised their heads in concern. Families just watched from their rattling thin paned windows as a column of supplies and soldiers flooded the roads. Some welcomed the men while many others stayed by their hearths, wanting to stay out of the wars of political unions. One man and his family had lived in the small town for many years before the war and had seen the town live hard lives in the mines. The man had worked in the nearby coal mine along with the other men. The man would work long hours for little pay, but it was all he could do. When the soldiers occupied the town, the mine was forced to close and construction began on some facility close by. The man and the other miners of the town gathered to discuss the soldiers. “They are ruining our livelihoods, I can’t pay to feed my family!” one said. Many bellowed in agreement but others retorted, “they are just trying to protect us from the war. If they need to close the mine and build, so be it.” When the meeting dispersed, the man went home to his wife and daughter and told them what had happened over a plate of cevapi at dinner. The wife, a woman who had lived in the town since she was born, told the man this time things seemed different. “There have been wars but never has the government needed to patrol and set up camp in or around our town,” she exclaimed. “The frontline is tens of kilometers away from here, why come here now?” Pub 25
The man couldn’t answer. He was an outsider compared to his wife and had lived most of his adult life moving from town to town looking for work. Only when he met his future wife did he decide to settle down. The idea of the war seemed stupid to him. Why fight for a union that is not meant to be? The man finished the evening with a prayer and went to bed that night thinking of what he would do in the morning when he woke up and had no job. What kind of job could a coal miner get besides mining? The man went to sleep unsure of the future for himself and his wife and daughter. It was May when the soldiers began detaining people. In the span of three days, a third of the town were pushed in trucks and sent off. When it came time for the family’s turn, the soldiers knocked down the doors of their cottage and restrained them all. The man tried to resist but was gutpunched by the wooden butt of an assault rifle. The man was forced up and pushed along with the rest of the family and neighbors to the back of the humming camouflage-covered truck. More and more bodies were packed into the truck. The man 26
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and wife discussed with the neighbors and other townsfolk about the violent incursions. As the man sat with his wife and daughter, he began a silent prayer. Many saw and joined in praise to Allah and asked for his protection, but many more who hadn’t been so violently removed from their homes protested the prayer saying, “the soldiers are just moving us to safety. Why waste your prayer here? We will be able to all pray when we get where we are going.” The man spat and told them what had happened to his home. Others told similar stories of shoves, threats, and violence. The truck swayed and bumped up and down. The truck eventually came to a stop. The soldiers barked orders to depart and get in line. When the man climbed down, daughter in arms, he realized they were at the construction site the soldiers made that forced the mine to close. He looked at the entrance to the camp and saw the eight foot barbed wire perimeter and various buildings inside. “This is a prison; we will need to stick together,” the man told his wife as soldiers ordered the line to move forward. When it came time for the family’s turn,
they entered the small prison entrance building. The soldier at the desk demanded names and birthdates and then told the man to enter the left door and the wife and daughter enter the right. The man looked at his wife and daughter. A sense of dread overcame him but there was little he could do. He hugged his wife and daughter and told them he would see them as soon as they exited the entrance compound. It was a pristine spring day when the old man arrived back at the camp. The once deadly perimeter of the camp had housed six thousand in cramped and exposed quarters. It had been around 28 years since the whole ordeal but the old man refused to enter the camp for a second time. Instead, he walked around, only looking in. Too much was lost for him to dare step back into the former camp. Every now and then, he would head back to pay his respects to his people and to his wife and daughter. He had never seen them after his farewell hug. Instead, after exiting the camp all he found was his soul riddled with memories of
constant hunger, beatings, the terrible smell, the rotten food, and fear of losing his family and his own life. He was lucky to survive the torture and mass shootings that no one saw but knew happened. He had also heard stories of how the women were treated. He had listened to stories of rapes and having to clean the bloody stains and pick up skin and hair after the torture sessions. Luckily, the old man survived the massacres but as for his wife and daughter, he had no idea. He did not reunite with them the day the camp closed and had waited for them for days after, in hopes of reuniting and relieving his burdened soul. The old man found no relief and gave up hope for his family. He began to imagine the pain they went through and the unceremonious death his wife and daughter suffered: most likely shot and shoved into one of the mass graves that littered the area. The old man finished his horrible reminiscing and placed his bouquet of flowers outside the dusty entrance. He cried as he walked away; he had to catch the next train back home.•
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My Nephew is My River Ha’oa Bode ‘24
My nephew is my river That I go to in times of stress. His flow of love His laugh of joy Refreshes my soul. When under stress, Just being in his presence Is therapeutic for me and
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Gives me time to settle down. When I’m getting hot, I go to him to cool down And reset myself. When he was brought to life, He brought life to me. My nephew is my river.
Franny Downs ‘22 | Worn Bricks in Water | Watercolor
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Vitia Poems Carson Kaucher ‘22
O Vitia! Your milky blanket covers dreams I sleep. Lime rolling waves cascade around my room. The roar of foreign creatures sound about Forever jungles with digested towns. Protect you do from rays of god above. You save me from the world I did depart. Lay me to rest when I take off this world When rays do catch and burn my weary form. O Vitia! They come corrupting gifted beauty with Sharp lines and silver capsules through the white. Their ships and spires pierce your white all with 30 Pub
My dreams, my heart, my love for all of you. The heat from man, their engines dear to them, Rains down upon my home and failing frame. Their god, the one above, seeps down to you. I dread what happens when it does arrive. O Vitia! I long for the touch of arms of grass. The warm embrace you’ve whispered me. But now your blanket’s holes grow wide And now I find that deep inside I know the sky is mad at me! Its light does shine at windowside. I want the outside blanket white But silver lines cut through into my dreams.
Miguel Johnston-Peck ‘23 | Untitled | Mixed Media
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The Rhythm of Passion:
Truth, Resolve, Workers’ Ballad, & The Fate of the Fly Raven Kilcollum ‘23 TRUTH
WORKERS’ BALLAD
Ah, the bliss of mental immaturity.
We remain ever so diligent with such exploited labor, Work; Day to day we run the world with no return in favor. Work, They say that it’s irrational to Work and not get paid, Work’s the only way to progress, but as long as we Work progress can’t be made.
why does it all have to die? RESOLVE as high as the magic carpet can take you, there comes a point of harsh reality where you realize that magic isn’t real. you aren’t soaring amongst the clouds, you aren’t on top of the world, you’re lonely and delusional in your bed. get back to work.
THE FATE OF THE FLY
Kill him.
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Elena Franklin ‘23 | Untitled | Charcoal
Dean Deangelus ‘22 | Untitled | Photograph
why does the Pest always flutter to the light? his impossible journey to his truest desire, will only
The Storm Dean Deangelus ‘22
A storm approached Bethany Beach, Delaware. This storm howled like a lone wolf on a mountaintop. The storm was mad and ruthless. The storm’s rain felt like it was being sprayed out of a fire truck nozzle. The storm blew sand that felt like small constant stings. The storm created waves as high as the Eiffel Tower. This was no ordinary storm. This storm was a killer. The storm’s waves battered the beaches like a boxer punching a bag. The storm turned the sky dark gray. The storm sent huge bolts of lightning to the ground. The storm wasn’t going away any time soon. The storm’s waves were going to be conquered by a daring rider. The storm’s waves were wild like stallions running wild in the plains but had the ferocity of a hungry lion. The storm’s waves were powerful, but it couldn’t match the will of the daring rider. This daring rider had ridden a wave in a hurricane.
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The Moose Paolo Marchiano ‘22
Prologue In a ditch in the Talkeetnas, whose location I have no desire to call to mind, there was found this journal, covered in mud and soaked through, barely legible. Upon finding it, I brought it home to Philadelphia, where I transcribed it here for you to read it. It says the following: Chapter I This is the journal of Wilbur Bock. If found, please return to 1619 Judges Road or call 331-4450-9260 May 21st, 2020 After I got laid off from my job at the meat packing plant, I had options for the first time in my life since high school. The only problem was the government had closed down all the places that might normally hire me. I desperately tried to find work, but my labor was unfruitful. On the cusp of homelessness, I moved in with my mom. June 29th, 2020 I haven’t written for over a month now, so I have a lot to catch up on. Things have gotten so much worse. I figured that being an undignified, 33-year-old man living with his elderly Mom because he’s out of a job was rock bottom, but I was wrong. It turns out that Delilah has been cheating on me for over 2 years. I couldn’t even come to terms with it for several days. But I’m done now. I’ve lost faith in society. My only friends were at the meat packing plant, and they all cut ties with me. Delilah doesn’t care, the government certainly doesn’t care, and even my elderly Mom wants me out of her hair. So for about a week an idea has been bouncing around in my head. And today I’ve decided: I’m going to Alaska. July 4th, 2020 I sold my father’s heirloom gold watch (don’t tell Mom). It got me just enough money to buy everything I need for this trip. I don’t know how long I’ll be off the grid for. Maybe I will come back before winter, and maybe I’ll never come back. But I know that there is nothing for me here. No friends, no girlfriend, no job, and despite this nation being a democracy, no representatives who represent me. Here is about what I bought for the trip, pardon me if I forget some things. An SMLE Mk. IV, and 100 rounds of .303 ammunition. I bought a down sleeping bag, 34
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a parka, gloves, snow pants, rain gear, a tent, a fire starter kit, a hatchet, a huge backpack, a first aid kit, a water purification kit, a fire starter kit, a hunting knife, enough non-perishable food to last a week or two, boots for summer, a pot and pan, boots for winter, reusable water-proof plastic bags, trekking poles, gaiters, fishing gear, and three books to entertain myself. Don Quijote, Moby Dick, and the Bible. There is a lot that I may have omitted because it isn’t important or that I have simply forgotten. Of course, I also bought a plane ticket for Anchorage. It departs on July 14. July 14th, 2020 I’m on the airplane as I write this. Until now I have never been on an airplane, but I find it rather underwhelming. I left Mom a note explaining my disdain with modern society and culture, and I hope she understands. I do hope I see her again, but at her age it’s unlikely. Here I am, on the edge of adventure, the edge of a brand new life. Flying over British Columbia was really something. The mountains are still snow-capped, even in the dead of summer. July 15th, 2020 I’m writing this at the breakfast table of the hotel. Today will be the last day that I speak to anyone, unless I come back from the woods. Update: I am on the bus to Cantwell. Five other people are on the bus, but I haven’t spoken to any of them. In only 30 minutes I will get off and walk into the woods forever. Finally free. I haven’t ever been free. I’ve had the illusion of freedom, but always an invisible force pushes me in one direction or the other. Choices are always being made for me, but never by me. Update: I am in my tent now. My legs are burning. I must’ve walked 2 miles into the woods away from the road. That doesn’t sound like much, but my pack and gun weigh 80 pounds. I’m exhausted, and for the first time in a while I can go to bed without my phone, or alcohol. There is a huge smile on my face right now which I couldn’t remove if I tried. When I wake up nobody is going to tell me what to do. The sun never sets during the Alaskan summer, so I can go to bed whenever. I started a fire once I set up my tent and made hot water, which I am clutching to my chest right now to keep me warm. I can’t wait for tomorrow. Chapter II July 16th, 2020 Yesterday was a year ago. Today went by so quickly and took so long. Let me catch you up [...]
Read the full story in PUB’s online magazine at sites.google.com/sch.org/pub Pub 35
Isma
Samaya Goodwin ‘23 The following story was inspired by Kamila Shamsie’s “Homefire”
Isma awakes to a pounding at the door of her enclosed apartment. Isma climbs out of bed with the crust of night still fighting with her eyes.Who is awake at this ungodly hour, Isma thinks to herself as she prepares to waddle to the door half asleep. The room that is usually filled with white light is now covered by the darkness of the night. Isma flicks the lights on, but the brightness is too inviting for eyes so she turns them off. As she gets closer to the door, Isma makes her final adjustments. Isma rubs the last remnants of sleep out of her face and throws on her turban. “Dr. Hira Shah?” Isma questions as she opens the door and throws off her turban. Dr. Hira Shah storms into the apartment kicking off her shoes, but she still hasn’t said a word. The silence makes Isma uneasy, but she chooses the silence over noise. The rain pounding on the skylight soothes the fiery anxiety building up in the pits of Isma’s stomach. “Tea?” Isma asks Dr. Hira Shah. “Please, but I’ve come here for more important things.” Dr. Hira Shah’s words come out dry. Walking over to the stove, Isma reflects on the tone the doctor used, full of an energy unknown to Isma. Isma was used to a warm and loving energy from her mentor, but something felt different. Hira Shah looked different. Her hair was untamed, her clothes were rags, and she just didn’t look like the sophisticated and put together figure that Isma had admired for so long. “Two spoons of sugar?” Isma smiled, trying to lighten up the gloomy aura that started to settle into the air. “Isma…” she heard those four letters differently. The letters sound like an unknown tune to her ears, but somehow she still knows the melody. “I don’t know how to say this but Eamon and Aneeka are dead.” Isma froze. Multiple thoughts came into Isma’s head at once. First Paravaiz died and now Aneeka has followed in his footsteps. The two kids Isma mothered into adulthood are gone and soon to be forgotten. The same invisible mourners will come for Aneeka as they did for Parvaiz. Two pieces of Isma’s heart are now gone, and it left her heart completely broken into two, but in an instant Isma’s mourning was cut short. [...]
Read the full story in PUB’s online magazine at sites.google.com/sch.org/pub 36
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Miss Celie Samantha Simon ‘23 The following poem was inspired by Alice Walker’s The Color Purple Dear God, She writes. At home she suffers abuse From supposed loved ones For women are either monsters who seduce Or domestic slaves Meant to cook and clean a cave Dear God, She writes. She isn’t somebody But only A body Dear God, She writes. Her daddy calls her ugly And she believes him His hateful dominance rooted in pain For he too Was once in chains Dear God, She writes Why is this happening to Such a good girl to be alive She cannot fight She can only survive Dear God, She writes. She’s no longer a good little girl
She’s a good little wife But what’s the difference If both fear for their life Dear God, She writes, Her sister stripped away Now she’s alone with him And all she can do is pray To a god who don’t look like her Dear God, She writes. But she does not say Through her childhood Her mouth slowly molded into clay So she never speaks out Never questions the men Who make her doubt Her voice and her beauty Dear God, She writes. Her pains will never go away But still one southern day She abandons survival And chooses to fight Now, Dear Nettie, She writes.
To the white man’s dismay There is a god who looks like her To whom she can pray Dear Nettie, She writes. The prison that he constructed Was simply a mental one In which he will be abducted Or has he been already? Dear Nettie, She writes. Her mouth of clay is slowly breaking She is learning to accept her voice And in turn he is aching, quaking His power is no longer her defining force Her own truth she is making And finally one day: Dear Nettie, She gets to say, I am the color purple as god created me I am beautiful And I am free
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The Power of Beauty Tatyana Hall ‘23 The following story was inspired by Kamila Shamsie’s “Homefire” The days were dark. Isma’s apartment lacked its familiar warm scent. Her curtains remained closed and blocked any light that could seep into her apartment. The television remained turned off and Isma sat in silence, with the sound of her tea kettle filling the air. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyeliner began to run off of her eyelids. It had been a few weeks since the first news coverage of Isma’s baby brother’s death. “Pervys Pasha,” is what they had called him. The world only knew him as another Muslim terrorist. Isma wondered if she was responsible for the image that the media painted of Parvaiz. After all, she was the reason that Parvaiz was not allowed back into his own hometown. Weeks had passed, yet no one was around to ask Isma how she felt. She was in pain, yet her sister Aneeka took all the grief for herself. It seemed as if Aneeka used the death of her twin brother to her advantage. She watched her sister gain popularity through the media. Isma sat at her kitchen table and drank her tea. She glanced at the newspaper that sat on the counter. “HOJABI.” They used this word to describe her sister. Isma usually tried her best to ignore the news coverage that was related to her brother’s death, but this particular word struck her. “What does that even mean?” She muttered to herself as she stared at the newspaper that sat in front of her, which demanded a new set of eyes to read its contents. She took a sip from the tea that she drank to cope with the desperation she felt that nobody was around to question. She snatched the paper from the counter, hesitantly forcing herself to read more. As Isma read beyond the headline, she was instantly reminded of the confession that Aneeka gave to the police right after Parvaiz’s death. She thought about that moment when she stood before Aneeka, her independent little sister who imprudently 38
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fed a statement to the media about her secret relationship with Eamonn. Isma realized she had never gotten a chance to even think about how she felt about Aneeka sleeping with Eamonn, the boy that Isma had questioning feelings for. Isma’s mind immediately flashed back to the moment when she first met Eamonn. She pictured his dark black hair, his warm brown skin, and his muscles that were clearly defined through his shirt. She pictured that young British boy who stood at the counter of her favorite coffee shop, helpless and alone. Isma reflected on her relationship with men. She thought about her hesitancy around any man who stood in her path. Aneeka always charged towards the men. She never avoided the power of masculinity. Isma began to wonder how her own baby sister could betray her trust. She glared at the photo of Aneeka on her wall. She stared at her sister’s perfect, proportionate face that her black and white scarf draped perfectly around. Isma looked at her face in the frame next to to her sister’s. Aneeka made her feel ugly. Aneeka’s caked face, pictured next to Isma’s bare features. The attention always surrounded Aneeka, whether it was in her childhood years, with other men, or even from the chaos that erupted from the death of her twin brother. Aneeka’s beauty had allowed her to lure in any man that she wanted, even if it would harm Isma. Was Isma really in love with this man, or did she just crave the validation that came from Eamonn’s love? Isma decided that a man was not important enough to destroy the relationship with her sister that she cherished so deeply. Losing another sibling was something that Isma could not afford. After Isma put the newspaper in the trash, she realized that tears were falling from her eyes. She grabbed her jacket and looked at the picture of her sister one last time before leaving her apartment. Her sister’s beautiful face stared back at her. The word “hojabi” lingered in her mind. Isma wiped her eyes, smiled, and stepped through the door, out into a world where beauty seemed to be the only quality that mattered. •
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Untitled Sofia Murray ‘23
She’s beautiful She’s alive Her brain is on fire Yet the butterflies remain alive She tries to cope She feels heavy and filled But she has hope Thump thump thump How is she now? People wonder if she’s the same She takes a vow To make sure no one feels this way
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Zane Dion ‘23 / The Third Eye | Mixed Media
Franny Downs ‘22 / E.E. Cummings / Pencil Sofia Murray ‘23 / Untitled | Colored Pencil
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Facing My Fairs Aden Goldberg ‘22
It was a cold November day, and I had just finished my juice box. I consumed the rest of a typical second grader’s lunch and followed my class inside. I trudged through the door of the Exchange, jealous of the line leader, when I heard something jarring: my mother. “Hey sweetie!” my mom bellowed as she approached me for a hug. I reluctantly accepted her embrace, feeling the 20 pairs of eyes of my class burning a hole through the back of my head. There was a book fair going on in the lower school and, as I would come to find out, my mom had volunteered to run it. My class was scheduled to visit the book fair multiple times, and in an attempt to avoid the embarrassment I had felt before, and reading in general, I vowed to miss it. When it was time for us to leave our classroom and enter the fair, I had a ‘sudden’ stomach ache and sought refuge behind the 80-year-old crusty curtains in the nurse’s office. When my class walked through the book fair on the way to recess, I escaped through another exit. And when I had no more excuses, I would end up ‘wandering off’ to anywhere else. My plan was successful. I was able to avoid the fair and my mom for all of my class’s visits; I thought I was in the clear. That’s when my mom decided to take an extra afternoon shift at the fair. For an hour after school I was trapped in the Exchange, surrounded by books. As a second grader, I was able to read competently, but I absolutely despised it. Reading felt boring and tedious; I was easily distracted. I decided to spend the time at school finishing the extreme homework that a sevenyear-old has. After doing some multiplication worksheets and guessing my way through the hardest spelling test I’d ever seen, I proudly packed my bag, confident that the hour was surely up. It had only been 10 minutes. “Mom, I finished all my work,” I boasted. “Can we go home now?” “No,” my mom said. “I still have to work the book fair. Why don’t you go find a nice book to read?” I felt appalled by her suggestion. “Can’t I just walk home!?” “Do you even know where we live?” she wondered. I glanced out the window then shook my head. “Go find a book,” she directed. I spent the next 20 minutes aimlessly wandering through the red stands of books, scanning the titles for something that remotely interested me. Finally, something caught my attention. It was a large, sparkling turquoise cover that shimmered in the light: The Guinness Book of World Records. I became infatuated with this book. Though I started out mostly only looking at the pictures, on my fourth read-through, I began reading the paragraphs in the margins of the page. It was then I learned the life story of a woman with seven-foot-long toenails. I read about the hobbies of a man who could swallow three swords at once. After wearing out the large, shiny catalog of achievements, I immediately grabbed another book off the shelves and started reading again. I walked out of the book fair that day with a stack of books in my arms and a smile on my face. From then on, I was obsessed with books. On the car ride to school and back, my face would be covered with a book. While my classmates would read a chapter in Harry Potter, I solved three of Encyclopedia Brown’s cases a day. While my brothers worked on their homework, I followed Flat Stanley on his worldly adventures.
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Reading made school a lot easier. I understood assignments better and my writing became more coherent and intelligible. I could now spell words like “achieve”, “either”, and “hygiene”. Along with being better at school, I started to enjoy it more, too. Reading exposed me to the idea that learning could be fun and interesting. School wasn’t just understanding that 2x4 = 8; it could also be learning about someone with long toenails. This revelation was mind-blowing and opened my eyes to the potential of school. ––– Now, ten years later, despite my humble beginnings, my reading skills have improved since second grade. I can now even read books that don’t have pictures! I’ve read a few of the Game of Thrones books and the memoirs of Elon Musk and Phil Knight. Opening myself up to the world of reading formally introduced me to the positive side of learning. I still have my same love of reading I developed during the book fair, but it has blossomed into more academic curiosity. I progressed from learning to read to reading to learn. And that has made all the difference. If seven-year-old me could see my literacy accomplishments, even he would be impressed.• Elena Franklin ‘23 | Snake | Woodcut Print
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Cooper Bode ‘25 | Portrait | Charcoal
Sela Perryman ‘24 | Rooster | Photograph
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Alex Cross ‘24 | Faces | Photograph
Paige Murray ‘25 | Shadow Portrait | Photograph
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Pub Staff Editors-in-Chief
Chloe Brundin & Meena Padhye
Editors
Amanda Cooney, Emily Eisenman, Jack Gaghan, Nia Hodges, Iris Wilde, Will Stutman, Chuck Norton
Faculty Advisors
Jenny Gellhorn & Emily Salazar Galaxy-themed watercolor backgrounds and accents created by Chloe Brundin, Meena Padhye, Amanda Cooney, Iris Wilde, Will Stutman, Nia Hodges, and Winslow Tracy.
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Colophon Pub is the student-run creative arts magazine of Springside Chestnut Hill Academy. The magazine is the final product of a yearlong activity that meets on Wednesdays during SAS, the final block of the day. September-January: the staff collects poetry, short stories, plays, essays, nonfiction writing, writing that defies caterogization, music, 2D, and 3D visual art from the Upper School student body. As work is submitted, the staff assesses submissions Design: Adobe InDesign CC based on how appropriately it fits the magazine’s annual theme, quality, oritinality, and style. January: the staff finalizes itws choices for Specifications: 5.5” x 8.5” trim, 42 pages plus cover the magazine and begins to edit. Each literary work is proofread at least twice and the writer is consulted if fundamental changes areneeded. Photography: All photography featured in this magazine is February: The staff determines the ladder for student photography the magazine by pairing visual and literary art and determining the most relevant pieces for Typography: Fredericka the each section of the magazine. March: the staff Great; Adobe Handwriting: begins to design the magazine with Adobe Frank; Big Caslon Medium InDesign CC. The magazine is sent to the publisher and distributed to the Upper School Printer: Quaker Printing student body and faculty within the last week of April.
Baylin Manusov ‘25 | Opposites Attract | Acrylic Paint
