2022 PROMETHEUS UNBOUND
Red Balloon and Reflection by PIERCE RYAN ‘22 1
G-Flat Major DRAWING BY DYLAN FURBAY ‘24
POEMS A SONNET TO EASY LIVING. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 CLOSET. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 REFLECTION ON MISSISSIPPI. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9 THE “NEW” MYTH OF SISYPHUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 THE ETERNAL TIGHT ROPE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 WRINKLES. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 WHERE THE HUMAN HEART LIES. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 SOMETIMES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 16 ON MASTERING ANOTHER HILL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 KATSO MIES (BEHOLD THE MAN) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
SHORT STORIES A PUFF AT A TIME. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CHASING LIGHTS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . MY DAILY JOURNEY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE SOLDIER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE WOODEN SPOON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ZOMBIE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The editing staff of Prometheus Unbound has voted unanimously to dedicate this year’s edition to outgoing faculty advisor Mr. Matt Dougherty. Throughout his more than 30 years teaching at Landon (including 12 as faculty advisor for Prometheus), Mr. Dougherty has opened the minds and touched the hearts of thousands of Landon students. Whether it be reading poems at assemblies, promoting writing contests (like Prometheus), or working with students one-on-one, Mr. Dougherty brings an enthusiasm for literature and language that Landon will dearly miss in his absence. Mr. Dougherty, we thank you for your championing of self-expression through literature. Enjoy your well-earned retirement!
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PERSONAL ESSAYS ART IS MEANINGLESS. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A CARDBOARD SOUL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE MUSIC OF COLTER WALL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE SIGNIFICANCE OF SERVICE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . THE BIGGEST GAMBLE IN LIFE IS…LIFE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
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SOUND OKEREKE. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
SENIOR EDITORS
John Wyatt ‘22, George Roggie ‘22
JUNIOR EDITORS
Spencer Hotchkiss ‘23, Gunnar Small ‘25, James Moncur ‘23
ADVISOR
Matt Dougherty
Augustine’s City of God DRAWING BY JAMES MONCUR ‘23 2
POEMS
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Wanderer Over a Sea of Mountains DRAWING BY JAMES MONCUR ‘23
A Sonnet to Easy Living
BY NICO SCHERMER ‘23
Slow tides, low waves, and easy breezes roll Quenching drinks pour nearby to satisfy Distant ships of foreign places far, Their troubles cannot reach us from there The sun beats down, cool water waits nearby No thought nor trouble can reach our minds, No When only boredom creeps about the fringe An easy fix is always at hand though This paradise is perpetual, yet Who knows where it leads or knows how it ends And when this bliss must finally close what then Will there be great rewards for my pleasure Or will the toils of others take them Will my life be spent well or just enjoyed
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February 22nd PAINTING BY PIERCE RYAN ‘22
closet
BY THEODORE DEMATATIS ‘24
i sit here in my prison of comfort a prison where i hold all the keys surrounded by bars keeping me hidden chains keeping me from being free this prison cell, a precious sand castle carefully sculpted to protect its lonely king yet the sand is fragile and weak a prolonged residence is a dangerous thing or maybe it’s a caterpillar in its cocoon eagerly waiting for its time to fly hoping that it leaves on its own terms unapologetically rainbow wings in the sky a prison, lonely king, or butterfly illustrate this feeling, no doubt but i sit in this closet, a closet of comfort waiting for the day courage will let me out
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Headdress PAINTING BY JEFF DUONG ‘22
Reflection on Mississippi
BY TEDDY TIBBS ‘23
I wrote this poem after a weekend visit to Mississippi, where my family is originally from. This car trip was from Memphis, Tennessee to Cleveland, Mississippi.
An old Cadillac floats past the snow-white fields, Its old dents have traveled here before. Soft blue-sky surrounds all, Enveloping the ground. The cotton ball clouds follow the aging white car. As we pass the ripe fields, I feel a sense of peace. I belong here, among the sprawling magnolias and cypresses. Old brick houses fall apart, Tin roofs rust to match the soil, Only dilapidated store fronts remain, A transient monument to ancient greatness. Something to live up to. In Cleveland there are too many yard crosses to count, This oasis draws people who continue tradition, They greet strangers as if they had known each other forever. Here, people preserve the old ways through dress, décor and kindness. As I walk through downtown, I wish I could stay forever, But life snatches me away from this strange paradise. Again, an old Cadillac floats across the cracked road, The clouds retreat behind us as “white gold” is harvested, Rolled into bales by men with no opportunity, Given shoddy homes and failing schools run with the promise of help. As the long car sails through the never-ending white ocean, I think about the people who will never live this land. Trapped in a world of concrete, tweets, and posts, Tall towers that touch the gray New England sky. While they denounce these proud people of being deluded and irrational, They believe that their few genuine experiences give them that power. A sad notion as I look out the window to the passing pecan trees, Waving a sort of goodbye as the Cadillac hums by. As the cracked road becomes more than a two-lane highway, My enlightened journey comes to an end. 9
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Icebergs DRAWING BY DECLAN JAMBERDINO ‘24
The “New” Myth of Sisyphus Rolling it up at a leisurely pace he bears the rock on his firm right shoulder. Saline sweat covers an immortal face brushing against the rough and tough boulder. Once in a while, Sisyphus takes his rest and looks back down the mountain’s fine incline eyeing yesterday’s footprints, and depressed impact craters from his previous grinds. O! How he has lost track of endless time! His hands now numbed greatly from calluses his arms strong enough to build palaces. Long gone were hopes of a successful climb. But his heart now burns with grand contentment no longer filled with scorn and resentment. For he wasn’t bound forever in chains to be pecked and healed, again, pecked and healed! Nor was he forever starved of a meal a scrawny skeleton that slowly wanes! How could he not accept his work with zeal?
BY BAO DUONG ‘23 Thus, he pushes the rock again today. like a robot, he machines ceaselessly fully zoning in, not swaying away. He chases an unknown goal ruthlessly. THUMP! Without any progress checks and limits he had surged onwards with intense vigor and now weight lifts from his burdened figure as it settles on a sunken summit. Yet, feeling not even a little glad silent Sisyphus stands startlingly sad listening to the weak wind whistling by. For the gods have seen the comfort he had punishing with boredom to drive him mad. Thus, perhaps to his punishers he cries: “Behold! Here is a man without purpose! No doubt the biggest clown in the circus!”
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Last Dance PAINTING BY PIERCE RYAN ‘22
The Eternal Tight Rope BY BEN KREINDLER ‘23 There exists an eternal tight rope that each man must walk. A narrowing path to the city of God, pushing, pulling, and tempting any who wishes to live freely in this world. The inescapable walk, an inevitable struggle between the good and the evil that resides in every man. Down below, the fated fall of man. One misplaced step sends a man into free fall. The regret will come too late, realizing he has lost out to the devil. His body suspended in air, he knows the demons, the moon-eyed monsters gazing up are his own. Joining the millions of men massacred by the darkness inside. All encompassing, the fated fall of man. The man who slips through, will never truly be safe. For most, the urge to gloat, to unleash a bellowing roar of triumph, is impossible. While keen on balance, he fails to be truly grounded. Never noticing that he stands on nothing but air. This man is truly lost. The demons no longer reach, for he is already in their midst. Waiting for his arrival, the fated fall of man. Legions of men, fallen victim to this tight rope of judgement, endless souls stranded in exile. The good few, watching, as darkness wins out. The fated fall of men.
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Wrinkles BY DYLAN FURBAY ‘24
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Those baby blues and pastel pinks organized into a tight gingham code, a delicate message, straight from Shep and Ian. Performance cotton for the man on the go, made to wick sweat and stay cool all day. Dry clean to prevent wrinkles.
A hurricane rips through the staircase and takes his bedroom door with it. Without a pause in his motion, he takes a single brawny swipe and whips his forsaken pack as the wrinkled linens bleed onto the floor.
A back-to-school purchase, his shirt is on the precipice of disrepair before November can shut its door. The underarm fabric radiates a full-bodied odor and boundless wrinkles by the top button challenge the definition of a collar.
His shirt, the carcass of a darling fawn, picked clean by a vulture, only seeking a snack. The wrinkles, a cataract on raw honey eyes, as if carefully starched and ironed into his moribund button up.
Single sleeve frozen in a lifeless wave, strangled by the drawstrings of the gym bag left in the corner of his room. Existence in hindsight, he pays no thought to its condition. Left to rot with the ripped pants and wrinkles.
Considering the condition it’s in, he’ll likely never wear the shirt again.
Where the Human Heart Lies BY ALAN MIRZOEV ‘22 The trees leer at the surface of the lake Like cruel sages swinging in the wind The lake leers back with its critics’ sharp visage, Mangled and warped, Warring waves withering the mirror away Suddenly, the lake clears Trees and grass appear to us, no longer barren and gray, Branches and blades tipped with honey and poison We long for the lake, grasping Because even a second of sweetness is worth torturous eternity But the ripples and waves win the war. We sit in each other’s arms, Waiting with heavy, heaving hope. My heart says to you, “One day, the lake will clear again.” The ripples claimed us long ago.
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POEMS IN MEMORY OF ED SUNDT Ed Sundt taught English at Landon for more than 40 years, beginning in 1967, as Chair of the department. Among other innovations, he created the present senior electives program. He contributed frequently to Prometheus, and authored three novels. He coached varsity soccer and baseball, headed the Middle School, was the Dean of Faculty and a Director of Upper School Admissions, advised the yearbook, served on many committees (chairing a few), and was engaged in work related to long-range planning, articulation of School purpose and mission, and efforts to diversify the Landon student body. He retired in 2012 and passed this autumn 2021.
Sometimes BY ED SUNDT Sometime today while I was Working in the yard (with hot heaven heaving thunderous Sunbeams down, with cardinals whistling), The glaring red-bright tulips Leaned in a circle, backward, Curled as if gymnastically rounding off The trick of blooming, And then released each petal Separately Into the short and fatal fall That finishes all such beauty. But what surprised me most Was that I did not see Until the end had come: Sometime, soundless, when my back Was turned - - - my mind on weeds Or springtime’s damp And aching knees - - Silent they fell, Brightening the dark earth For some time. Such soundlessness is ours Sometime.
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On Mastering Another Hill
Katso Mies (Behold the Man)
BY STEVE HOLLMAN ‘76
BY MATT DOUGHERTY
In classrooms set upon a hill He called young voices to be still With weight encumber’d words to glean Wonderous worlds, as yet unseen Beyond imagination’s reach The realm where master teachers teach And recognizing it might be Sisyphean, a futile fight To set undisciplined minds free And lead blind students to the light Still, he taught reason’s point of view The classic way; the method sound Yet not all passion to subdue By reason only not be bound And all our disbeliefs suspended When we reached his classroom’s portal Narratives begun and ended With the truth that man’s but mortal Enabling each unbridled lad To shed the innocence of youth And good to recognize from bad By prodding with a stick called Truth For those with greater appetite The rarer bloom, the deeper hue He taught us more than wrong and right But these encourag’d to pursue
You hire good people and let them work – Ed Sundt
In his old classroom, all is still He’s Master of a diff’rent hill Where no heart beats beneath his breast Here he has come, at last, to rest His frame lies still at eventide But not his words; they yet abide Those lessons that he sought to give Instilled in us, they do yet live Reminding each of us to be Masters of our eternity.
Where did you find them, though? ones who can lift a poem off a page and in to a young boy’s life, sketch a play in a time-out giving hope of a last-second win to the ever eventual loss Ones like you who sits through woeful Comedies of Unforced Errors who alone of all colleagues fills the frame of a theater’s double door supporting words made in the trouble of this flesh a bearing like a New England mountain, striding halls like the Babe coming to bat, more reliable than Cal, Jr. -- you who said once that a school’s essential is its teachers, reminding us all the ones who tell the stories frame the future.
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Piper DRAWING BY JEFF DUONG ‘22
SHORT STORIES
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A Puff at a Time BY PARSA LAJMIRI ‘22 “You’re late.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sorry, Mr. Tarr, but I…”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t want to hear it! You’ve already wasted enough time. Take a seat and get out your Liszt étude.”
The boy sits on the piano bench.
The boy takes a seat on the cold piano bench, struggling to find his book in the mix of things. Ugh. I know I brought it. Damn. Damn! He pulls out the book but accidentally drops it under the piano. After reaching for the book, he glances up. Mr. Tarr disappeared. “Mr. Tarr?” he calls. “Mr. Tarr, I am ready. Mr. Tarr?” Ugh, every time! Where is he? Our lesson time is running out. Well, not like it matters. He wastes the whole lesson performing his Yelling Études. Hopefully that cigarette he’s probably having shows him a thing or two. Mr. Tarr still hasn’t returned after five minutes, so the boy heads out back to the patio. He sees Mr. Tarr’s husband, Jim, gardening.
“Well…what do you want to play first?” “What should I play?” “Just take out a damn book.” Ugh! I didn’t practice my Starer. Calm down…calm down…he never asks me to perform that in the lesson. “You know what, why don’t you take out your Starer. I am in the mood to hear some of your rhythmic-deficient clapping and counting. You practiced it, right?” “Yeah. Yeah.” The boy takes out his book. “It was exercise number…85?” “86.” “Oh, yeah, yeah. 86. I forgot for a sec.”
“Mr. Tarr, I’m ready. Mr. Tarr, where are you?”
“Yeah, now start damn it.”
Oh god, did I wish him dead? Did that cigarette kill him? Wait, no, no, that’s impossible. I didn’t do it. I didn’t. He’s in the 30-year club for those cancer sticks. It wouldn’t be my fault anyways. Oh, maybe a new teacher is being godsent to me…
The boy begins clapping and counting the exercise.
“What are you doing there, kid?” “Nothing…nothing, Jim.” “If you are looking for Mr. Tarr, he’s somewhere being a pain in the ass. Aren’t I good with directions?” The boy heads back to the piano room. Mr. Tarr is sitting on the bench eating a donut. “Why the hell were you roaming around my house?” “I was just looking for…” “Looking for what? Some talent?” “I won’t find any here.” 20
“Stop. Stop! What did you even do this week?” “I…” “You what? If you’re gonna say you didn’t have time, don’t bother. There are sixteen hours in a waking day. If you failed to do the assignment, you chose not to do it. Nice try!” “But I had finals –” “I don’t want to hear it anymore. We are moving on to more important things. So, how else do you wish to waste your lesson time?” The boy holds his tongue. Mr. Tarr leaves the room for another cigarette. The boy hears him yelling at Jim. Good god. Here he goes again. Mr. Tarr returns.
“I have a question, Mr. Tarr.”
“Get out! Get…out!”
“What is it this time?”
The boy exits, holding back his tears.
“Is it okay if I work on the Starer exercises with Dr. Sturgletter?”
“Jim, I’ve seriously had it with him. Did you see how disrespectful he was to me?”
“No! What? Who’s Dr. Sturgletter?”
“What did he even do? The only thing I noticed was that bulging vein in your neck when you were reprimanding that boy.”
“A professor I have been corresponding with from the Peabody Institute.” “I’m your instructor. These are my exercises that I’m assigning you. I’m the one who is going to be teaching you this material.” “Uh…technically they are Starer’s exercises.” “Don’t change the subject. I am this close to throwing you the hell out of here. Since when are you working with Dr. Sturgletter? You never mentioned that!”
“Don’t make me grab a taxi and leave you for the evening, Jim.” “I don’t think you understand…” “I don’t understand? I don’t think anyone understands me. That’s what needs ‘understanding.’” “I’ve had it with you. Being with you is worse than dying from tertiary syphilis.”
“Yes, I did.” “No! Your mother told me that. You didn’t even have the decency to say that yourself!” “But, what’s the differ…” “You are destroying this relationship!” “I didn’t mean to…” “Well, guess what? The road to hell was paved with good intentions.” “Because…‘civil’ engineers built them?” Mr. Tarr bolts past his living room and into the kitchen, yet still close in proximity. “You know I’m just auditing a course to get more exposure.” “You’re auditing a course? You never told me you were taking an entire course. You don’t need to expand your horizons when you aren’t even delivering at this studio! “But I’ve been…” “Quiet. Admit you treat this studio like it’s not a school. Bet you wouldn’t neglect to do assignments for school.”
As Jim storms out the door, Mr. Tarr notices a piece of paper nailed to it. The letter reads: Dearest Mr. Tarr, I am writing to you because the occurrence this morning has not settled well with me, and I feel the need to bring it to your attention. I find myself reluctant to come to the studio because of the maltreatment I receive during the lessons, which I believe undermines mutual respect and common decency. Therefore, I am leaving your studio. I am sad things are ending this way, but it is what’s best for me. P.S: As I left your home, I noticed your remote control was out of batteries. I would take a look at that. Mr. Tarr thinks for a moment, the letter trembling in his hands; then, he heads to bed. The next morning, a new student shows up – young, unpracticed, but not without talent. “Good morning,” the boy says. “Sorry I’m late.”
“No, but…”
Tarr pauses, patting the cigarettes in his pocket.
“I’m done. Just get the hell out of my house!”
“Let’s get started.”
“Um…but my mom’s not here yet…”
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Take Flight DRAWING BY HENRY LEGGETT ‘23
Chasing Lights BY JETT PEDERSEN ‘25 His tires rumbled under him, burnt out from the weight they had been carrying for the last couple hundred miles. The rearview mirror showed the highway stretching for as long as he could see, and he watched for a while as the painted concrete way home ran away from him, but that was what he wanted. That was why he was in his old 2004 Ford Ranger, heading to New York. “Gotta keep my eyes on the road,” he said to himself quietly, even though he was the only person out there for miles. The last sign of life he saw was the deer he had almost hit the night before; it had run out in front of him, not knowing that a car was hurtling down the road directly towards it. When he saw those big beady eyes reflecting in the headlights, he had slammed on his brakes so fast that he was lucky to have been wearing a seatbelt. Where was the deer going? What was he running from? He preferred not to think about it because it reminded him of where he was going and what he was running from. Unlike the deer, however, he had the radio for company, but more importantly to help push those thoughts down. The sun was beginning to set, and he no longer had to put the visor down over his windshield. He slowed to a roll, stopped, and pulled the handle on the door. He took in a breath of stinging cold air, held it, and watched it cloud in front of him. He needed it. Badly. Driving all day had taken its toll on him and his car, and its cheap black paint was starting to chip, revealing the silver color he had tried to hide for so long. Its bumper looked mangled from where a car had run
into him when he had turned out of his driveway only a week after buying it. He pulled the handle on the door and slowly got out. As he sat on the tall grass, he felt the temperature go from chill to freezing as the sun made its way down. The sun traveled the same journey from east to west every day, and he wondered how it found it so easy to make a fresh start. He couldn’t relate to it in that regard. He wondered if the sun ever got tired of making that journey. He wondered if it ever thought that making a new start somewhere isn’t so new after doing it so many times. With one final glance at his only friend, he watched as it dipped below the horizon and missed its conversation. The night sky illuminated his thoughts, and the chilly air reminded him he was, in fact, breathing. He debated whether things would be better in New York. Maybe. Doubt was a creature that had pierced his mind throughout his trip. Why would New York be any different? The places he had been before hadn’t been, so he had run away from them too. He thought if he were the deer from the other night, he would have turned and tried to outrun the car coming towards him, even when just crossing the street would be the smarter thing to do. He couldn’t change that about himself. He couldn’t keep the paint on his Ranger from chipping forever. He couldn’t outrun a car coming towards him at sixty-five miles an hour. No matter the scenery, he would still be breathing the same air that he saw in front of him on this cold night. He would always be himself, which he could never outrun.
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My Daily Journey BY EZRA MIMS ‘25 I am ecstatic! I know where I am heading, I know who is going to be there. I am ready for war; I am prepared to meet friends and enemies. As I get closer, I started to skip and gallop. Why won’t she go any faster? I see the gate open, yippee! I run and dance in circles with my mouth hanging open. A greeting of familiar faces, and off I go! I made someone mad, they chased me, and then I chased them back. I hurdle across the big brown woodchips and make a tackle. Then, I see my enemy... WALLACE! I assert my power right away, make him mad, and then fight back. Soon after, even though I am tired, I still want to keep fighting. “BEAR!,” I hear in the distance. “TREAT!,” she says in the same voice. Man... That treat was tasty! Till’ we meet again Wallace! Satisfied, I skipped back home, not bothered at all by the leash on my neck.
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The Soldier BY GUNNAR SMALL ‘25 As the Private sat at his post, he thought he could hear rustling through the thick brush. He aimed his spotlight, cutting the dark night and fog between him and the hidden enemy, watching through the jungle. The same dark forest he had been nervously and compulsively scanning the last six months, the same dark forest that had hid the slowly advancing enemy through humid hell, was suddenly full of life. The disturbance was not the innocent chirping of a bird or the prowling dance of a tiger that he had previously been so relieved to hear. No, the rustling was loud, violent, unpredictable: far too salacious as it reaped the purity of silence that had existed far before the American occupation, far before the human occupation. Not that the Private ever appreciated the tranquility that rarely fell upon the forest, or understood the meaning of the thick cloud that had shifted over him, any more than the guerilla’s location poised only a few feet away. As he pointed his rifle towards the sound, subduing any human instincts of running or screaming or crying restricted by his training, he stood up and walked toward the noise. He shifted aside the leaves and stared into the dark woods, catching a glimpse of movement deeper inside. Against his will and sense, the Private’s body moved farther and farther into the dark. He felt the trees down a path into the abyss, following the noise of whatever was ahead. The morning dew gathered upon his boots as he traversed the dark, with only the rough bark so familiar to him to lead the way. In a stage of darkness and humidity, he ran his fingers down the skins of the trees, the only consistency between his home and the narrow strip of jungle he now occupied. Before the war, the Private thought himself a pacifist, a creative intellectual, an aspiring writer. He had always walked through the forest in his backyard to find solitude, to find a place of tranquility and peace. As he listened to the shifting of the leaves, as he watched the first lights illuminate the beautiful forest around him, the
Private searched his soul for any familiar feelings that should have been conjured. The Private, a drafted man, cursed the army that had instilled conformity and loathed it for what had been deconstructed. Through his months of training and indoctrination, the Private’s creativity and compassion had been weakened, but he refused to conform to his feral masters. He started to make out the figure moving in front of him, wearing a dark green suit with a holster on his side. The Private raised his rifle towards the back of his enemy’s head, and as he grasped the trigger, the first beam of sunlight hit his eyes, shining through the treetops. The Private’s eyes washed with light, he stumbled over a sapling. For a moment, he stood in complete stillness and watched as the light fell over the shifting guerilla. His eyes were young and flaming, cold knives staring through the Private. He was a young boy, no more than 13, barely gripping the revolver in his small hands. The Private, with his eyes through the sight of his rifle, hesitated. His conscious fought against every ounce of its training to lower the gun. As the Private steadily lowered his rifle, the boy fired his revolver toward him. The bullet sailed past his right shoulder and struck into the tree behind him. Another shot buzzed his right ear and struck into the same tree. Just as the Private raised his hand, the boy landed a bullet in stomach. The boy, satisfied with his shot, lowered his revolver. Without a sigh or breath, the boy stared at the man who swayed in the sun. Without guilt or sympathy, the boy wandered deeper into the woods leaving his prey behind, to continue stalking the darkest parts of the forest. With his last fleeting seconds of consciousness, the Private smiled into the sun and thought of the boy, the living boy. Just as the Private offered forgiveness, he collapsed upon the base of the tree. With sights of spectacular shades of green he had never seen before, with rich smells of flowers growing next to him, with sounds of the living jungle surrounding him, the man rested in the shade. Exhausted, his head laid upon the fallen leaves. The Private rested in eternal tranquility, surrounded by a peaceful forest. And the war was over.
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The Wooden Spoon
BY HENRY MESSERSMITH ‘25
I remember all the Sundays as a little kid. Waking up to my Nonna, my mom and sister in the kitchen making the week’s tomato sauce. My Nonna, with the same wooden spoon she would only use for the sauce, waving it at me and yelling to “esci di qui!” (Get out of here!). It was not because I was a boy or because I would soak up the sauce with the crusty bread when I thought they were not looking. I was not welcome in the kitchen on Sundays during the sauce making because I had not reached that “rite of passage.” My sister Alexandra is nine years older than I am. She had transitioned from saucetaster to sauce-maker many years before. At twelve-years old, I hoped my Sunday would be coming soon. The MerriamWebster Dictionary defines rite of passage as a “ritual, event, or experience that marks or constitutes a major milestone or change in a person’s life.” As that boy looking into the kitchen, smelling the tomatoes, basil, and garlic simmering, I did not realize how much it mattered that I would eventually be allowed to hold the wooden spoon. Being allowed to enter the kitchen on Sunday mornings to prepare the week’s sauce was my first rite of passage from childhood to adulthood. As a young boy, I did not really have many opportunities to have a “rites of passage” moment. A few of my friends had already experienced significant transitions: puberty, bar mitzvahs, confirmations, graduations, and even driving. My mom, raised in a strict Catholic home, did not want me or my sister to have to abide by the “rites of passage” required of her. Therefore, the making of the sauce was seen as a true “rite of passage” experience for my family. It represented more than the passing down of the wooden spoon. Like a bar mitzvah or confirmation, it marked my transition from childhood to adulthood. As far back as I remember I was always allowed in the kitchen. I learned to cook from my father, how to bake from my Nonna, and how to burn food from my mom. However, the making of the sauce meant more. It meant I was ready to be patient, because my Nonna’s sauce takes all day. I would be responsible because this family recipe is sacred and cannot be shared. The Sunday sauce represented a transition in my life. It reminded me that we are always changing, and that life is always evolving. Standing over the large pot with bubbling sauce, I am reminded of a childhood book, Strega Nona. It is a story of a magic pot used by an Italian grandmother who uses witchcraft 26
to feed an entire village. My Nonna explained to me during the “passing of the spoon” ceremony that, just like Strega Nonna’s pasta pot, our sauce would feed our family and friends in abundance. If we had the basic ingredients, plus the secret addition, we could provide a hearty meal for our family. However, that is not the only lesson she was trying to teach me. The “rite of passage” from childhood to adulthood meant that I now had a responsibility to contribute to the community in some way. My family has used this sauce to make lasagna for families in need, for someone who lost a member of their family, or even to celebrate happy times. The sauce needs to be shared. I must now be someone willing to share. Unfamiliar cultures and religions celebrate the transition from childhood in adulthood in many ways. However, being allowed in the kitchen to help make the tomato sauce is not the same. No one lifted me up on a chair, I did not get presents, people did not dance or streak my face with paint. Unlike the tithing party in the book The Unwind, my “rite of passage” did not end when the party ended. I was expected every Sunday morning to help with all the steps to make the sauce. It meant that my passage to adulthood would take time. Becoming an adult would require more lessons from the other family members in the kitchen. As the years went on, the lessons changed. My Nonna is older and when she visits, she sits in the kitchen instead of standing. I have more responsibilities to make sure the sauce is just right. I know the sauce I make does not always taste exactly like my Nonna’s, but that is not what matters to me, it matters that I made the sauce and have taken over the spoon from my sister. For some, this may not seem like a real “rite.” Making sauce once a week can be seen as ordinary. However, the welcome into the kitchen meant more to me than any fancy party or ceremony. Instead of “get out of here, Henry!” my Nonna tells me, “Andiamo a la cucina Enrico.” (Let’s go into the kitchen, Henry.) My transition from childhood to adulthood may still be in progress; however, the first “rite of passage” of making our family’s secret sauce recipe was my first step. Besides the lessons learned, the meaningful time with my family, the sense of community and giving back, I know one day I will be sitting in the kitchen telling my grandchildren the lessons I learned.
Mike Tyson DRAWING BY JERRY JI ‘22
Zombie BY SIMON SCHWARTZ ‘25 The hospital seemed unmembered and the lights were blinking when the man limped in. He took a seat in the waiting room sitting still and remaining quiet; only the noise of the stinging lights and the screams that raged louder and louder kept him company. The hospital was full but vacant of life; his eyes were red and he felt something strange ever since the bite. What happened to the world? Everything had gotten worse ever since the vaccine came out. 27
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Weathered Branson DRAWING BY PARKER NOLAN ‘22
PERSONAL ESSAYS
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Art is Meaningless BY GEORGE NASR ‘22 Maybe it’s true. Maybe we’re all painted in the shades of our parents. But I believe that it’s who we are, not who we’re supposed to be, that defines us. All art is essentially meaningless; that’s why it means so much to me. A space to create, explore, make your own, share with others, and immerse yourself into; a space that is yours and everyone else’s. I had always done art, but I had never truly understood it. When I lived in England, art was nothing but a slot on the timetable, a waste of time. However, when I moved to America, I was isolated from what I knew; with a whole life left behind, I had no choice but to paint myself a new one. Art gave me a way to channel my negativity into a positive means of expression. Every medium struck me as a new experience; oil painting, architecture, animation, all merging into a sensation of freedom, of belonging, that I desperately needed at the time. I was proud to call myself an artist. But I never realised how much that really meant. It was only after a lunchtime conversation with my dad that I realised how lucky I was to have that opportunity, that freedom, of calling myself an artist without any familial pressure on my shoulders. Coming from a LebanesePalestinian background, it’s never as simple as just being yourself: for most families, you’re a banker, a lawyer, a businessman, or a failure. That’s how it was in my father’s household, and his father’s, and his father’s; that’s how it probably would’ve been in mine - something that I had
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never realised. My dad wanted to be a stand-up comedian; he had the talent, the drive, the passion; but he never had the one thing that mattered: a chance. He was mocked openly by his parents and labelled the failure of the family. Shackled, confined by their expectations, overshadowed by his “successful” siblings, he went on to achieve “success” as a hedge-fund associate. Still, he lost the one thing that defined him: passion. After that conversation, we paid the tab, left the restaurant and walked out as if it were a typical day. But my step was slowed by a sense of gravity; did I deserve this freedom? Should I feel shame for having what so many others don’t? Amid this turmoil, I realised what mattered; it’s not what you inherit but what you make of it. My dad made the conscious choice to break the cycle, believe in me, and support my ambitions. He taught me to value the privileges I’ve been given and, more importantly, that a spreadsheet doesn’t measure success. I won’t pretend that my artistic skills are unparalleled; I haven’t won any prizes; I won’t pat myself on the back and dub myself the next Michaelangelo, but therein lies the reason why I love art so much. You aren’t defined by what other people call “success” or “talent”; you aren’t defined at all. You’re free of labels, of constraints; you get a blank slate, and color it in with who you are. All art is essentially meaningless. That’s why it means so much to me.
A Cardboard Soul BY GAVIN KELTY ‘25 An inanimate object that best embodies me is a pizza box because we both absorb “information,” enjoy meeting new people, and like to travel. These similarities may not be the most unique traits for a normal person, but I connect with pizza boxes on a different level. Let me explain. First, we both absorb “information,” which for a pizza box means the grease from the pizza, and for me means actual information and learning. Just think: a pristine cardboard box sitting there all innocent, but its brain is forced to absorb this unhealthy information (grease). I feel this same thing happens to me, where I put myself in a bad situations and am forced to be unproductive or take in information that could harm me more than help me learn. Next, we enjoy meeting new people and situations. Pizza boxes are delivered to anyone that wants pizza, which can mean an ordinary civilian, a billionaire with a mansion, a cultural hero, or even someone working in a top-secret location. This means pizza boxes are exposed to literally every kind of person, at every corner of the world. These connections can lead to friendships, or in this case, customers buying more pizza. I relate to this because I try as much as possible to expose myself to new people in new areas. Learning about new cultures and people keeps my brain fresh and cures boredom. Finally, we both love to travel. Similar to my last point, seeing new places and getting new views on the world is extremely interesting to me. A pizza box has no choice but to travel, and as a result, it obtains more and more patrons to their store. I believe that if I force myself to travel and leave my comfort zone, I will also make more friends and connect with people of different cultures that have different views on the world. Given these points, I can confidently conclude that absorbing information, meeting new people, and a love for travel are three solid points that connect my personality to that of an ordinary pizza box.
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Samuel L. Jackson
PAINTING BY PIERCE RYAN ‘22
The Music of Colter Wall BY JONATHAN WILLIS ‘25 Colter Wall is the best folk-country singer. His lyrics strike meaning into the hearts of listeners, his voice conveys raw emotion, and the instruments give each song character and feeling. Wall’s music may not be for everyone, but his uniqueness is one of the ways he is the best. Wall’s lyrics convey different themes and meanings. His words illustrate images and depict emotions which pierce the hearts of listeners. In “Johnny Boy’s Bones,” for example, he sings, Oh, who will bring back my Johnny Boy’s bones To lay ‘neath the trees of his Tennessee home A box, a box made of sturdy white oak With his arms folded up and his blue eyes all closed. These lyrics paint the image of a coffin laid out with a boy inside, conveying the solemnity of the moment. In this situation a father and mother desire the corpse of their child who died in the Civil War (“those mean boys in blue”). They want him to be buried beneath a forest on their property in Tennessee. The family is undergoing an array of emotions, from anger to guilt to sadness. These lyrics take people back to a time in their life where they had to grieve for loved ones. The power of Wall’s lyrics is one reason he is one of the best folk-country singers. Wall’s deep, throaty voice conveys raw emotion. Similar to that of Johnny Cash, Wall’s singing has a striking tone. His voice embodies solemnity, somberness, and weightiness. His range of pitch--from airy, subtone notes to low, resonant tones—is unlike any other. Wall manipulates his voice
throughout a variety of songs as well. In “Living on the Sand,” Wall’s voice is raw and grim, portraying the theme of the song, which is anger and stress. In “The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie,” his voice is deep, dark, and earthy. The main idea of the song is the Devil and the seriousness of his voice along with a slight murmur truly makes him great. In “Cowpoke,” a leisurely, pleasant song, Wall’s voice is much fuller, joyful, and smooth. This song about life on a farm is an example of Wall’s vocal flexibility. His voice and natural sound lend a unique quality to his music. The instruments in Wall’s music are another way that his music is great. They give the songs both character and meaning, an important aspect of folk music. The main instrument in Wall’s music is the acoustic guitar, which is quite flexible in the ways it can convey character. From the rough and hard way Wall plays in “The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie” to the smooth and careful playing in “Cowpoke,” the guitar is essential to his songs. In “High and Mighty,” a song about a horse, the sound of his acoustic guitar is smooth and playful, unlike that of a rock song; its rhythm reminds one of the sound of a running horse. The harmonica is another example of a key instrument in Wall’s music. The instrument’s “roar” is used throughout his songs. In “Henry and Sam,” about two of his best friends, the harmonica is used at its highest highs and its lowest lows. Colter Wall is such special musician: his lyrics illustrate images and convey meaning; his voice strikes raw emotion; and the instrumentation give his songs character. His music is unlike any other.
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The Significance of Service BY T. J. KIM ‘22 The beauty in a portrait is in simplicity. Two materials, brushes and paint, display the story of a person’s life. One simple pose represents the entirety of accomplishments that someone achieved. The portrait of U.S. Marine 1st Lieutenant Baldomero Lopez hangs in my father’s office and, Lt. Lopez not being a widely known figure, I was intrigued to learn who he was. Baldomero Lopez lead his platoon during the amphibious assault at the Incheon Landing during the Korean War. His platoon boat hit the seawall at Incheon, and he began to climb, using a ladder. As he got to the top, enemy fire sprayed everywhere. He then pulled the pin of a grenade and prepared to throw it, but he was shot in that arm, causing him to drop the grenade into the boat where his platoon waited. Lopez, being too severely injured to pick up the grenade to throw it, chose to sacrifice his own life to protect his Marines. He crawled towards the grenade, swept it under his body, and absorbed the full impact of the explosion. Little did I know at the time that that story would shape not only my view on leadership but also my own personal views on the world. The power of service to others goes far beyond the action being done. Service affects generations of people. Service inspires. Service brings humans together. Service creates opportunities for others, such as mine. Through continuing to hear stories of the Korean War and my history, I learned that I was never supposed to be here. On June 25, 1950, North Korea invaded South Korea and started the Korean War. In two months, the North Koreans marched all the way through South Korea leaving the city of Pusan. There, United Nations and South Korean forces
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formed a 140-mile line around Pusan, creating the Pusan Perimeter. Together, they fought a month-long battle before pushing the North Koreans out. Over 4,500 Americans died in the Battle of the Pusan Perimeter, and 12,000 were wounded. That battle is personally significant to me because my grandfather was born two months after that very battle in that very city. If those 4,500 American soldiers had not protected Pusan with their lives, then North Korea would have controlled the whole of the Korean Peninsula. If that were the case, my grandfather would have grown up in Communist North Korea. My whole family would have too, including me. Instead of attending a prestigious school with a world of possibilities in front of me, I would have been a brainwashed, malnourished teenager in a home without water or electricity and living in constant fear of being sent to an imprisonment camp. No freedom is free. Those soldiers impacted not only my family but also the country of Korea as a whole. Their service gave an innumerable number of opportunities to an uncountable number of people. Humans have the incredible power to change and influence the lives of others. Everyone is in the position they are in, in part because of help from others. We all get to have our experiences because of those people, and we can all pay it forward by changing the lives of those around us. Humans were made for connection, and that is why I believe that the meaning of life is to serve. Leaders bring people together to foster that service-oriented connection while belonging to that community as well and acting in the same manner. People may not remember what you accomplished, but they will always remember how you made them feel.
The Biggest Gamble in Life is … Life BY LUKE FINNELL ‘25 Being adventurous is always somewhat of a gamble, and depending on the situation, the simple act of deciding to take a risk can leave a profound impact on your physical health, and/or anything else in your possession that you are putting in jeopardy. These two examples, when I took a risk and when I played it safe, illustrate how a decision affected my life. Once I took a risk when a few friends and I were out skiing. We had just done the parkour course, and I thought it would be easier to go off the jumps. We raced to the lift line and eventually got a chair. Once we were seated, we all agreed to jump off the big jump in the middle of the course. After what felt like an eternity, the lift propelled us up and over the massive slope, and I launched off the unloading dock. With my skis slicing through the snow, and the cold breeze brushing against my face, I was at the parkour place in no time. We regrouped, and I took off towards the jump. I zoomed past a family of skiers, spraying them with snow as my skis dashed from side to side. As I skied closer and closer to the jump, I began to feel regret; this was not a good idea, I was moving too fast, and it was too late to turn away. Ten seconds away... my heart starts beating faster. Five seconds . . . my stomach starts to turn in knots. One second away . . . here goes nothing. The jump launched me high in the air, and I felt like a cow jumping over the moon. It seemed as if I had been in the air for ages, while in reality, it was a split second filled with a mix of terror and joy. SMACK . . . was all you could hear after my body landed face-first into the snow. I waited a moment before getting back up, and my friend helped me get out of the center of the trail so I would not get trampled. My back ached, and my finger was throbbing, but somehow I got my skis back on and made it down the hill. That was the end of skiing for the season. A later X-ray showed that I had a broken thumb. It also showed that I will never do a ski jump again.
Quite the opposite happened on a day when I played it safe. It was a beautiful day for skiing, not too cold nor too warm. I could feel the snow crunch under my large boots as my friends and I walked to the ski lift. Everything was going great: the slopes were good, and we had already done five runs. As my friends and I hopped off the ski lift for our sixth run, one of them noticed a tiny path in the woods that would require weaving through hundreds of trees. Immediately, my friend James, who rides a snowboard, waddled over to go down the path; he signaled for us to join him on the trail, even though it looked very suspicious, as trees were filling up the entire “path.” This was not an actual trail on the mountain; James would be going off course and off another trail. James eventually took the path, leaving us either to follow him or take the designated trail. I could tell that my other friend, Henry, had mixed opinions about it, but did not want to risk injury. I decided I was not going to ski down the “new” trail and would take the designated one. Henry chose the same path, and by doing this, we protected our safety and would not risk ourselves for one trail. These two examples, one when I took a risk and one when I played it safe, are times when anyone should most likely play it safe. In the first example, I took the risk of going off the ski jump (when I had never done it before)--a bad idea. I was putting myself at huge risk and ended up breaking my thumb. Compare that to the time I played it safe. They are both very dumb ideas but the example of declining to ski inside a forest is much worse than going off a ski jump. Many people go off ski jumps, and it is safe with enough know-how and practice Although sometimes taking a risk is worth it, other times such a gamble leaves scars physical and mental. My taking the risk to do something new was not a good idea, yet you will never learn if you don’t put yourself out there and try something new.
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SOUND
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Okereke BY GEORGE ROGGIE ‘22 scan code to listen
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Day Off at the Diner PAINTING BY PIERCE RYAN ’22
