Winter 2025 IMAGO
IMAGO
Lakeside School’s Arts & Literary Magazine
IMAGO
Editors-in-Chief
Betsmona A. ’25
Imelda R. ’25
Design Chief
Staff Members
Cailyn C. ’26
Allie B. ’26
Gresham C. ’26
Evie C. ’27
Henry A. ’27
Brian H. ’27
Chloe Z. ’28
Matthew K. ’28
Advisors
Cover: “Lunar Ballet”
Lindsay Aegerter
Jim Collins
Imago: A Tatler publication
Max S. ’24
Printed by Minuteman Press, North Seattle
Winter 2025, Issue 40
We recognize that Lakeside stands on Duwamish land, and that this land was and continues to be of extreme importance to the Duwamish people. We recognize their continued cultural, social and physical relationship with their native homelands. These peoples were here before us and will continue to be here after we are gone. We understand and accept our position as foreigners of these lands.
WINTER 2025
Caileen W. ’27, Breaking Silence
Alex Z. ’24, The Guardian
Caileen W. ’27, Ticket Goodbye
Max S. ’24, Paris
Daniel W. ’25, New York
Cailyn C. ’26, 21st Century Girl With a Pearl Earring
Amber P. ’27, New Beginnings
Amber P. ’27, Moon Rabit
Yoseph K. ’25, Recreation of Liberia
Emily P. ’25, Chained Inside
Meira C. ’25, Theyyam
Anonymous, We Are Eating America
Anonymous, I Dream of Plum Trees
Anonymous, Please Drink Wine
Ian S. ’24, After the Storm
Anna F. ’25, 100 Post-it Notes
Vivian T. ’27, Hey, Sister!
Mason D. ’25, Tick Tock Goes Nature’s Clock: A Haiku Collection
Yoesph K. ’25, Recreation of Liberia (Artist statement)
Lael G. ’25, From Aya
Gresham C. ’26, Dusty Roads
Imelda R. ’25, Flooding
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS
There is a common belief that our understanding of the world moves in straight lines — a relentless march of progress powered by technology and data. Yet beneath this surface, stories cultivate a richer, more complex narrative. Every language and shared memory is an act of transformation, a delicate negotiation between what was and what could be. In these ways, we are all active participants in an intricate cultural web that stretches across continents and communities.
In this space between words and art, we seek the nuanced conversations that emerge when diverse voices collide and harmonize. How many languages can live in a single story? What worlds breathe in the margins of our collective imagination? Each narrative we explore becomes a bridge that challenges and elucidates how we understand one another — revealing the extraordinary, hidden within the ordinary.
As our contributors have charted unexpected landscapes, this issue has blossomed into a living dialogue. From Ian S. ’24’s invented language in “After the Storm” to the collaborative rhythms of our Tanzania Global Service Learning group’s “Dusty Roads,” we are excited to invite you to see the world through a kaleidoscope of human experiences. Our hope is that these stories will echo beyond these pages — into the worlds you carry.
Sincerely,
Betsmona A. ’25 & Imelda R. ’25 (Editors-in-Chief)
Caileen W. ’27
BREAKING SILENCE
Digital art, 2024
Alex Z. ’24
THE GUARDIAN
Drawing, 2023
WE ARE EATING AMERICA
and the earth spins faster \ than we are able to hold on \\ madness strings in our hearts as the bullets ring again and again \ a phone call, a drop in the tongue \ it rips off bone and sinew, a piece of sanity \\ this “epidemic” called america weaves its scent through our asianness and calls it equality and equity \\ we are only equivalent when \ we suffer the same amount, america says and hands us a gun \ loaded and pointed to each other \\ we thought we were being pulled \ upwards to the pristine platform of revelations \ and realizations \ and reformers \ but we are instead just sliding sideways and upside down \ as the earth spins around and around \\ we are eating america \\ and it stains our throats blue and white \ and washes away the gold \ 眼大肚子小 \ our eyes are too big for our stomachs \ and we cannot eat all that we carved from the pie of the world \\ never a day had i thought we would be killing each other on the soil of the promised land \\ had our battles shifted or have we consumed the offered dessert much too easily? \\ we come from a place \ where anyone can achieve anything if they work hard enough — system that accepts the best if they can prove it \\ but now, today, how can we prove we’re good at being who we are \ at such a simple thing called living \\ if i do not say these rotting edges exist \ can i preserve the delicate center of my existence? \\ hinting at insanity, we continue staring at the center of our white tiles \ as the earth spins faster and faster \ vision blurs beyond the very middle \\ for just how long can i hold my breathe \ until i am ripped from this surface?
I DREAM OF PLUM TREES
昨夜梦中我遇到了我自己 梅花树枝透出月亮的泪痕
我已遗忘我为何拜访此地 “这些疲累的树亦将要枯死” 梦中的我与我说。“你也走吧”
但我张嘴回应时她已消失 冷森森的北风扑面而来 残红遍地，死寂无声 孤独的银河闪着冷光 我问天怎可以离开这梦世
但无人出现，无神侧听 （无声传出）
我迈像远处的高峰
Yesterday night dream middle I met myself
Flowering plum trees through moon’s tear tracks
I have forgotten the reason why I visit this place
“These tired trees will soon wither.”
Dream of myself said to me, “You also should go.”
But when I open mouth reply she already disappeared
Cold north wind blows towards face
Fallen petals cover the earth, deathlike soundless
Lonely galaxy shines cold light
I ask sky how to leave this dream world
But no one appeared, no deity heard (no sound came out)
I step towards far away high peaks
PLEASE DRINK WINE
The ash of burning Douglas fir trees
Smears the surface of the sky
Stealing the glimmer of the moon from her star-woven basket
I am halfway across the globe from the city where my long-forgotten scents and colors reside, collecting dust upon the shelf
Stilted recollections — of my smaller mind, smaller days
Halfway across the globe, the grime of crowded streets
Enveloped by a wash of faded heather gray
My youth appears as a blanket of smoke
Wisps of hazy memory
Halfway across the globe, a year and one day ago
My grandfather still thought Of my father, of my mother and my brother, and of me
And of tomorrow
Halfway across the globe, three years and some months ago
I saw my grandfather for the last time
I had forgotten about the thin, metal backseat of a squeaking bicycle,
Shaking from the cracked pavement and digging into my bony backside
As we rode past crumbling sidewalks and raucous shops
I had forgotten about the sound of my grandfather’s voice
Curving the characters upwards with his distinctive Shandong accent
I had forgotten about the dark oak cabinet upstairs
Smelling of mushrooms and wood ear
Filled with sweet, dried crataegus in clear plastic wrappers
I had forgotten about many things since I left the smog of my parents’ country
Leaving the brimming chest of my younger years
Inside the dark oak bedside cabinet
Today my father sits alone
With two porcelain cups of baijiu
One cup a pale, dusty green and another of a burnt brick kind of orange
He says he’s drinking one for his father
My mother says my grandfather would drink far more than one measly cup
I’m reminded of Li Bai’s poem：
【将进酒】 (please drink wine)
“
人生得意须尽欢，莫使金樽空对月“ he said
Live delighted in the joyous moments of life, do not let the golden cup sit empty facing the moon
I wonder if my grandfather misses the taste of his signature white wine
I think my father is worried he does miss it
Perhaps my reaction is just a bit delayed
I am glad I still remember you
But as the lumps of sylvinite melt from behind my eyes
I am glad the memories remain in the rain puddles of my mind
Where do tears hit first, the eyes, the stomach, or the throat?
I pray they do not wash away
Or perhaps everywhere at once, down to the velvet surface of my ribs?
| 14
Caileen W. ’27
TICKET GOODBYE
Digital art, 2024
S. ’24
AFTER THE STORM
Self-invented languaged
víradzháíl tzá
datz dzha da unahaín kédé álafíhaé
khrehanve khanáaché
uríchín ehluve, ivsa á maun da naséféndé
áadakvé ríeníl
khanáa íéé amídarené kílendí— afde á dzháa, rinamídan á kílen—
ivsa á énun da avnafíndam
víradzháíl kadé
tzi réave unaharé rinruéan da tzéndéáafén síllam á kílen ka dzha
áakhanuíl kadé
gu dzhazhín áakhanu ésva
khanáa ínkhrehaféun ríeníl
tzi ehlufín iv unalév
English
Translation
after the storm the only thing we hear are prayers whispered with the wind, forgotten dreams like flowers that didn’t know they could ever bloom the air tells us stories— dzháa’s voice, our own words— an echo of the people we used to be before the storm and the rain sounds like the tears that fell from our eyes only a moment before but we take another breath maybe the wind called to us always and we forgot to listen
Anna F. ’25
100 POST-IT NOTES
“La familia es para siempre,” decía mi amorosa abuela cuando mi hermano y yo peleábamos con tanta pasión que se podían oír nuestros gritos desde el buzón al final de la calle. Pero por desgracia, no escuchábamos. No sé por qué. Tal vez fue por las tardes bochornosas y opresivas de julio, en las que nuestra falta de aire acondicionado, típica de nuestra casa en Seattle, nos hacía sudorosos, inquietos, y sin nada más en lo que concentrarnos que el uno al otro. Tal vez fue por el aburrimiento implacable que llega durante las vacaciones de verano. O tal vez fue algo más grande, una brecha emocional entre nosotros que se había ido ensanchando durante años, llena de malentendidos que nunca nos tomamos la molestia de aclarar.
Era el verano antes de mi tercer año de escuela secundaria, un domingo alrededor de las 4 de la tarde, y yo estaba empacando mis cosas frenéticamente y luchando para cerrar mi maleta con cremallera. Tenía menos de una hora antes de irme al aeropuerto para vivir en Ecuador por un mes como parte de un programa escolar. Durante el viaje, no iba a tener contacto con mi familia, y me estaba despidiendo emocionalmente de mis familiares. John, por supuesto, estaba en su cuarto trabajando en una tarea de programación cuando llamé a su puerta para decir adiós una última vez.
—¿Vas a vivir con otra familia? —me preguntó.
—Sí, pero solo por un poco de tiempo. El 18 de julio, volveré a casa para vivir con ustedes otra vez. ¿Me echarás de menos?
—No —respondió él con su tono cotidiano, como si fuera un hecho. Y así fue, y el próximo día, llegué a un país
—¡Hola!—gritó un coro de voces, jóvenes y viejas, nerviosas pero ansiosas por verme. Pronto conocí a mi gran familia anfitriona: Katy de dos años, Kury de diez años, Joey de doce años, Gleyson de dieciocho años y los padres Nancy y Rafael. Y a pesar de que hablaban tan rápido, tanto en español como en kichwa, y vivían un estilo de vida completamente diferente al que yo estaba acostumbrada, formamos un fuerte vínculo. Me sentí especialmente conectada con Joey y Kury porque me recordaban mucho a John, de trece años. Todos los días después de ayudar con nuestro proyecto de construcción de la escuela local, pasaba tiempo con Joey y Kury jugando fútbol o subiendo a la montaña para ver las vacas de la familia, respirando pesadamente en el aire enrarecido a 11,000 pies sobre el nivel del mar. Ellos también eran traviesos como cualquier otro niño preadolescente; a menudo invadían los campos del vecino cuando se cortaba hierba para los cuy, y una vez, ¡prendieron fuego a una planta con un fósforo! No obstante, desarrollé un gran sentido de respeto por ellos. Reconocí su autosuficiencia, curiosidad ycreatividad, y a menudo deseaba que ellos pudieran conocer a mi propio hermano,
IMAGO | 22 extraño, desconocido y mágico. Después de un viaje en avión, luego un viaje en autobús, luego otro viaje en autobús en las montañas donde el conductor conducía tan rápido que bien podría haber sido una montaña rusa, nuestro grupo había llegado. Recuerdo jadear mientras subía mi maleta de cincuenta libras por un camino empedrado hasta una casa de concreto, la casa donde viviría con mi nueva familia anfitriona durante un mes. No tenía ninguna idea de qué esperar. Tenía las palmas de las manos sudorosas y la boca seca. Sin embargo, cuando llamé a la puerta de metal, me encontré con un amor abrumador.
John. A medida que pasaban los días, comenzaba a extrañar cada vez más a mi familia, especialmente a John. Yo echaba de menos los chistes secos que John contaba en la cena justo antes de retirarse a su habitación. Echaba de menos las raras pepitas de sabiduría que John me daba cada vez que tenía algún problema técnico. Me estaba acercando cada vez más a mi familia anfitriona, y aunque estaba lejos de mi familia en Seattle, sentía que también estaba apreciando más y más a mi familia. También escribía mucho en mi diario, e hice algunas resoluciones para cuando regresara a casa desde Ecuador: 1. Reconoce aquello por lo que estás agradecida cada día. 2. Di “gracias” y “te quiero” 3. Sé más agradable con John...
El día en el que nuestro grupo salió de Ecuador fue emotivo, lleno de lágrimas y abrazos. A lo largo de los viajes en autobús y los vuelos, pensaba en cuánta agradecida estaba conocer a mi familia anfitriona, y me recordé a mí misma lo que quería llevarme a casa. Cuando finalmente entré en mi propia casa, me di cuenta de que John había sufrido una transformación similar.
Toda la casa estaba salpicada de una vívida pintura de notas Post-it, cada una numerada hasta 100 en la inconfundiblemente desordenada letra de John. Cepillo de dientes de Anna: #37/100. La computadora de Anna: #90/100. Después de horas de búsqueda, descubrí la nota número 100 acurrucada en un pequeño rincón de mis sábanas. Le di la vuelta y la nota decía, Bienvenida de vuelta. Uno de los rostros sonrientes y desaliñados característicos de John acompañaba el mensaje. Y así descubrí que seríamos amigos para siempre.
Winter 2023 | 23
English Translation
“Family is forever,” my loving grandma would implore when my brother and I fought so fervently that our screams could be heard from the mailbox at the end of the street. But unfortunately, we didn’t listen. I don’t know why. Maybe it was the sultry, oppressive July afternoons when our lack of air conditioning, typical of Seattle houses, left us sweaty, restless, and with nothing else to focus on but each other. Maybe it was the relentless boredom that often comes with summer vacation. Or perhaps it was something bigger, an emotional gap between us that had been widening over years, filled with misunderstandings that we never bothered to clarify.
It was the summer before my junior year of high school, a Sunday around 4 p.m., and I was frantically packing my things and struggling to zip my suitcase shut. I had less than an hour before I had to leave for the airport to live in Ecuador for a month as part of a school service program. During the trip, I would have no contact with my family, and I was tearfully saying farewell to my relatives. John, of course, was in his room plugging away at a programming assignment when I knocked on his door to say goodbye one last time.
“Are you going to live with another family?” he asked me.
“Yes, but only for a little while. On July 18, I’ll come back home to live with you all again. Will you miss me?”
“No,” he replied in his everyday flat tone. And so it was, and the next day, I arrived in a strange, unknown, and magical country.
After a plane ride, then a bus ride, then another bus
ride through the mountains where the driver was driving so fast we were practically riding a roller coaster, our group arrived. I remember gasping as I hauled my 50-pound suitcase up a cobblestone path to a concrete house, the place where I would live with my new host family for a month. I had no idea what to expect. My palms were sweaty, and my mouth was dry. However, when I rang the metal doorbell, I was met with overwhelming love.
“¡Hola!” a chorus of voices shouted, young and old, nervous but anxious to see me. Soon I met my amazing host family: two-year-old Katy, ten-year-old Kury, twelveyear-old Joey, eighteen-year-old Gleyson, and my parents Nancy and Rafael. And even though they spoke so quickly, both in Spanish and Kichwa, and lived a completely different lifestyle than what I was used to, we formed a strong bond. I felt especially connected to Joey and Kury because they reminded me so much of John. Every day after helping with our local school’s construction project, I spent time with Joey and Kury playing soccer or climbing the mountain to see the family’s cows, panting in the thin air at 11,000 feet above sea level. They were just as mischievous as any other pre-teen boys; they often invaded the neighbors’ fields to cut grass for the guinea pigs, and once, they set a plant on fire with a match! Nonetheless, I developed a great sense of respect for them. I recognized their self-sufficiency, curiosity, and creativity, and I often wished they could meet my own brother.
As the days went by, I began to miss my family more and more, especially John. I missed the dry jokes John would tell at dinner right before retreating to his room. I missed the odd nuggets of wisdom John gave me whenever I had a problem with technology. I was growing closer
and closer to my host family, and even though I was far from my family in Seattle, I felt my appreciation for them deepen. I also incessantly wrote in my journal and made resolutions for when I returned home from Ecuador: 1. Acknowledge what you are grateful for each day. 2. Say “thank you” and “I love you.” 3. Be nicer to John...
The day our group left Ecuador was emotional, full of tears and hugs. I still remember Joey and Kury’s bittersweet goodbyes, saying “Take care” and “Come back soon.”
Throughout the bus rides and flights, I thought about how grateful I was to have met my host family, and I reminded myself what I wanted to bring home.
When I finally returned to my own house, with the air smelling of freshly baked bread and the colors of the Pacific Northwest landscape overwhelming my eyes, I realized that John had undergone a similar transformation. The whole house was dotted with a vivid display of Post-it notes, each numbered from 1 to 100 in John’s unmistakably messy handwriting. Anna’s toothbrush: #37/100. Anna’s computer: #90/100. After hours of searching, I found note number 100 nestled in a small corner of my sheets. I flipped it over, and the note read, Welcome back. One of John’s characteristic scruffy smiley faces accompanied the message. And that’s when I realized that we would be friends forever.
21 ST CENTURY GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING
Digital photograph, 2024
BEGINNINGS
Colored pencil & chalk pastel, 2024
Vivian T. ’27 HEY, SISTER!
When I go to China, it feels like coming home. As soon as I step onto the plane, I’m bombarded by rapidfire Chinese giving me an early greeting, as if even the language itself is itching to go back to its homeland. It’s a strange feeling, to be sharing the same emotions as the old woman two rows up front, or the young siblings walking down the aisle. It’s also strange to be heading somewhere so familiar, yet worlds away.
In America, China is everywhere. I see China in the poorly spelled out romanizations on old Chinatown restaurants, the MADE IN CHINA logos on the bottom of pottery, the hanzi1 characters on tattoo sleeves and foreign shirts because they look “trendy.” I hear it in the Cantonese songs my dad plays in the car that are so ancient they’re older than he is, in the quick, fluid language slipped into naturally whenever we meet another Chinese person.
But the China in America could never compare to its motherland. For some reason, I feel more at peace than ever among the noisy streets and bustling crowds of zhongguo2, amongst a city that never quiets. Even though Chinese isn’t my first language, the words wrap themselves around me like a second skin, like they’ve always been there, waiting for me to come back. It pulls me into a river that never stops flowing — shops on the street with glaring neon signs and lettering that never match in either font or color; waves at me from aisles the height of my shoulder; calls me “little sister” while trying to sell fake iPhones and mock-up luxury brands.
1Chinese characters; 2China
Chinese whisks me along like the sibling I never had, where I find comfort in the shared culture between strangers—whether on the plane, at a restaurant, or even merely passing by on our separate ways. It brings me to mall complexes in skyscrapers 70-floors tall, flies me up to shout at the top of misty mountains, recites ancient poetry with me, and drags me to the best restaurant for yang rou mian3 we can find.
There’s this thing about China: The best, most authentic foods are never found in a shopping plaza or Michelin restaurant; they are never the ones in photos with big red LED signs, nor the clean and modern two-stories; they’re found in dingy alleyways and cramped shops on the side of a random street, known only through word of mouth. It’s a family-run business where they live directly upstairs and you’ll see the owner’s child doing homework a couple tables away; most people there are tired locals or relatives, air filled with a mix of regional dialect too fast, distorted, varied, for me to understand. But sometime between listening to the sharp accents of Chinese flit around me and trying desperately to bring it back with me to America, I realized I wasn’t really hearing China.
I was hearing the rowdy shouts of street vendors saying, “kan yi kan, mai yi mai4!” I was hearing the laughter of my eight-year-old cousin, whom I had seen once when she was two, then disappeared from her life until last year. I was hearing the gossip of aunties at family gatherings, all of us seated around countless round tables. I was hearing my dad, belting out old Cantonese songs in the car. And 3Lamb noodle soup; 4“Come and look, come and buy!”
through all of this, Chinese stays by my side, a constant in this sea of ever-changing things. It lives with me, growing independently yet intertwined all the same. It’s my almostmother-but-not-quite tongue; my sister tongue.
Chinese is whispering in my ear, saying little sister, don’t you remember? If you can’t, don’t worry. I’ll remind you. Chinese reminds me of a red string that tugs from across the sea. Chinese reminds me of the New Years spent celebrating with firecrackers. Chinese reminds me of cousins seen once in years. Chinese reminds me of my father united with both of his brothers after more than a decade adrift. Chinese reminds me of coming home. Because home isn’t a place. It’s a memory.
Digital art, 2024
Mason D. ’25
TICK TOCK GOES NATURE’S CLOCK: A HAIKU COLLECTION
This piece was written as a blog entry during the 2024 GSL Costa Rica trip.
While no end in sight
Futures in Yorkin seem bright
Stare at stars in night
Many new faces
Smiles, laughs, stories, singing
Deliberate pace
Kindness has been shown Much more than just a mere loan
Never walk alone
Rain is approaching
The birds no longer singing
The sloth stopped clinging
River flowing fast
The stream’s joy will always last Light no longer cast
Sounds of soccer near Ball moves quickly through the air
Time is ending — fear
Yoseph K. ’25 RECREATION OF LIBERIA
Digital photograph (interpretation), 2024
ARTIST STATEMENT
The original photo I chose is of a child soldier in the streets of Liberia holding an assault rifle. This was a time of political unrest in the nation as their president at the time, Charles Taylor, was charged with war crimes. The photo was taken by Chris Hondros, a war photographer, who spent a lot of time in Liberia during that period. Unfortunately, he passed away during his time there due to the circumstances of war.
I chose the photo because as someone who has family ethnically from Africa, more specifically, Ethiopia, there are many wars in the continent where many soldiers are adolescent children, and that impacted me. That is why I used my younger and older cousins in the photo. The photo made me think about how I would feel if my seven-year-old cousin was pulled into war and made to keep an assault rifle with him at all times.
For this photo, I chose an open area, similar to the photo, because it seemed fitting to keep that. Although I didn’t exactly recreate the outfits, they are very similar to the originals, and I had both wear a white T-shirt. This is because I knew that I wanted to bring the white-out in the shirt of my younger cousin. After all, he was the main focus of the photo. I also tried to make it slightly off center like the main photo because it brought the feeling of being unsettled, and I wanted to keep that. Furthermore, I chose to play with the texture, as it brought more out of the black-and-white aspect.
Lael G. ’25
FROM AYA
This piece was written as a blog entry during the 2024 GSL Senegal trip.
Even though it’s only my first day in our new home of Nidiayene, I’ve already received my Wolof name & learned dozens of new Wolof phrases, as well as playing many rounds of Mancala with my host siblings. A precedent of inclusion and learning was set as soon as we entered the village; dozens of people came to a welcoming ceremony just for us.
Men were playing drums, and our contact Matou translated many speeches from excited villagers, including the Chief of the entire village. The ceremony got us on our feet by the end, when the Storyteller (Griot) came out. She’s a woman whose job is to attend public events around the village — performing stories and songs for those attending. With a megaphone to amplify her voice, she sang along to the drums before inviting us all up one by one to dance alongside her. She even called me up twice! Even with so many students and trip leaders there, she took the time to share her culture and expertise with each one of us.
I had been feeling a bit nervous up to that point, but she most certainly broke the ice. These feelings of inclusion and warmth only continued at my homestay, where Aicha & I stayed with our host father, Sen Diouf, his two wives Aya and Noogay, and their many children. There were also many children in the house during the day that were Sen’s nieces and nephews.
As soon as I settled into my room, children were pouring in, and they caught on to the rules of UNO, Mancala, and frisbee very quickly. Sen also quickly gave
us our Senegalese names. For the rest of our trip, Aicha was Noogay and I was Aya. Later on in the day, as we drank some sweet tea prepared by Aya (Sen’s wife, Aya), Sen stayed to answer all the questions Noogay and I had about Woolf. He taught us different grammatical persons in Wolof as well as how to talk about school, how good the tea was, and different animals in the courtyard. As he would tell us these new terms in Wolof, he would share more about his own life in the village.
He told us about his job as a French teacher to kids, and about the high school right next to his house and the hospital down the road. Sen also showed us around his home, showing where the animals, like a horse, goats, and chickens were kept, as well as where he took care of his mango and lemon trees.
We ended the day eating a shared meal upstairs with the women, as we had during Tabaski. Throughout the meal, many different women put chicken in my area and many laughed every time I said “Jere Jef” (thank you). To let the food pass, we walked around the village, but they cut our walk short to let us sleep. Even though it’s only been one day, I already feel so close to my host parents and siblings, all because of the different ways they supported and included us.
They are already so respectful to us, asking about what we need and if we’re tired. I hope we can show that same respect back through learning their language, traditions, and routines.
I’m excited for the journey ahead!
There are two important Wolof phrases that we’ve learned: Ngungi Ker Sen Diouf. We are in the house of Sen Diouf, and Ba Beneen Yoon — Until next time!
Emily P. ’25
Digital photograph, 2022
DUSTY
ROADS
This piece was written as a blog entry during the 2024 GSL Tanzania trip.
(To the tune of “Country Roads”)
Almost heaven, Tanzania
Lake Victoria, Kilimanjaro
Life is old here, older than the breeze
Younger than bananas
Growing in the trees
Dusty Roads, take me home
To the place of my homestay
Tanzania, South Bushasha
Take me home, dusty roads
All my memories, I am fond of
At Twegashe, teaching one another
Dark and dusty, see the fire-lit sky
Look up to see the stars shine
Brings a tear drop to my eye
Dusty Roads, take me home
To the place of my homestay
Tanzania, South Bushasha
Take me home, dusty roads
I hear the roosters in the morning hours, they wake me
It’s tea time for breakfast at my sweet homestay
Walking down the road, I get a feeling that it’s gonna be a good day
At Twegashe!
Dusty Roads, take me home
To the place of my homestay
Tanzania, South Bushasha
Take me home, dusty roads
Take me home, down dusty roads
This painting was inspired by a photo taken on the 2024 GSL Costa Rica trip.
Acrylic painting, 2024
Imelda R. ’25
FLOODING IN METRO MANILLA
IT FINDS the collar of your uniform easily. It races down your knee-high, white socks down to your shiny shoes. The sloshing will be stuck in your head all day. Better than morning prayer. Across the city, only prayers can be heard. As the rain has nowhere to run, its drops begin piling upon each other, flooding into streets. The murky pools provide no bottom but reflections that echo past horrors. Everybody remembers the torrential rain that created armies destroying homes and kidnapping lives not too long ago. A time when prayers provided more solace than doctors who were barricaded by bodies. The man who lives on the street corner — still with no home — dives into the dead sea searching for loves long gone. His wails and pleas in vain. The foreigner visiting for business couldn’t care less, praying instead that her boss forgive her. She is late for her meeting and soaked by the boy with the blue bike rushing to school. He prays that his essay survives. A perpetual cycle of hope pools a sense of urgency into the streets. Days like this all it takes is a little prayer to remember there is more to a storm than meets the eye.
FEATURING
ANONYMOUS
CAILYN C. ’26
GRESHAM C. ’26
MEIRA C. ’25
MASON D. ’25
ANNA F. ’25
LAEL G. ’25
YOSEPH K.’25
AMBER P. ’27
EMILY P. ’25
IMELDA R. ’25
IAN S. ’24
MAX S. ’24
VIVIAN T. ’27
CAILEEN W. ’27
DANIEL W. ’25
ALEX Z. ’24
Imago edits, designs, and publishes a literary & arts magazine for Lakeside School to showcase and foster student arts culture.