Les Vitraux 2016
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Artwork ~ Sydney Crawford
First Lines, First Strokes
The theme for Les Vitraux 2016 is “First Lines, First Strokes”. Inspired by the journey of our submissions, this magazine is an homage to each piece’s humble beginnings: the beginning lines of a writer’s work or the earliest strokes of an artist’s tool. To us, the beginning of a piece is succumbing to creativity. It is courageously taking an inspiration and molding it from an idea to something beautiful. And while that beauty is showcased in Les Vitraux, we also want to focus on the bravery of those beginning moments of a work. To represent those first moments of a piece’s creation, lines and brushstrokes were utilized as linking elements throughout the magazine to enhance the overarching theme of “First Lines, First Strokes”.
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ONLY WEAPONS: NOTEBOOK & LEICA a reflection by PENNY SELLE photography by HONOR SCHLEICHER
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T
he contemporary photographer Monika Bulaj states her aim is “to give a voice to the silent people.” After watching her TED Talk, I am at once humbled and invigorated. I am struck by her courage and conviction. She has been traveling for over 20 years, reportedly armed with only her notebook and Leica, a wonderful little camera that she uses like a nomadic paintbrush to painstakingly recreate the light and vitality from what so much of the rest of the world might be tempted to term darkness. Addressing the TED audience, she begins “I was walking through the [Polish] forests of my grandmother’s tales, a land where every field hides a grave, where millions of people have been deported or killed in the 20th century.” She goes on to capture, through word and image, the places and faces she met where she simply shared bread and prayer. And, fortunately for us, she documented those meetings. Her stunning portraits of both person and place remind me of Georges de la Tour’s evocations in oil paint with browns and ambers, where candlelight becomes almost personified: a silent character in an intimate scene, breathing life into our primal need for hope. Similarly, Monika’s lovely images are like hand-written invitations to a party celebrating our humanity, inviting us to a royal feast where stereotypes are smashed, and where the most humble among us are exalted and lifted up to be honored and praised for the wonders they truly are. After showing “Through Our Own Eyes,” the documentary created by the Midwest Center for Holocaust Education which features historic footage as well as still photographs and local Holocaust survivors’ testimonies from the Kansas City area, I always give my students
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an open-notes quiz and ask why, in their opinion, it is important to “remember” the Holocaust. I also ask them to list three things they can do, personally, to help make sure the Holocaust is remembered. Two of the most common responses to this last question are 1) to watch movies or read books about the history; and 2) to learn about places in the world where these atrocities might happen again, so we can speak out about them and not become complacent bystanders. Monika Bulaj’s art work does just that. Her photographs are beacons. They bear witness to her personal quest for a universal understanding of what it is to be fully human. Like Rembrandt, she literally shines light on the everydayness of human life. After visiting a school in Afghanistan where 13,000 young women hide the fact that they are going to school underground among the scorpions, Monika recounts that “their love of study was so big I cried.” Her reportage is easily accessible and moving. Through the clarity of her still images, we become party to both struggles and tendernesses. We see our similarities and are presented with a portrait of not just community but humanity. Ms. Bulaj seeks out individuals and spotlights their personhood. She enlightens by looking for commonalities and showcasing them. “I have been walking and traveling, by horses, by yak, by truck, by hitchhiking, from Iran’s border to the bottom, to the edge of the Wakhan Corridor. And in this way I could find ‘noor,’ the hidden light of Afghanistan.” Her photographs are like personal, intimate offerings, luminous altars celebrating all that we can be, and they are indeed inspiring. ■To watch Monika’s TED Talk go to this link: http://www.ted.com/talks/monika_bulaj_the_hidden_light_of_afghanistan
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Xenophobia by Elizabeth Burnham Both Aristotle and Alexander the Great shared this feeling of such hate Irrational fears often bringing gentle people to tears “New and strange people, places, and ideas are spawns of evil.” Dangerous thoughts and acts like these aren’t medieval; they happen every day
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Photoshop ~ Paige Behnken
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Good Morning, Baltimore by Madison Masilionis Fog of hairspray surrounds me, suffocating me with its sweet, sticky smell. The cherry red lipstick mattes my lips like drying paint; the lights of the mirrors illuminate my clown makeup covered face. Thousands of butterflies flutter about my stomach, waiting to burst through. Hundreds of hours of practice leading to this moment build up in my mind. The blackness of backstage surrounds me and my cast mates. Dance moves race through my spinning mind. The familiar notes of the overture start, the excitement grows and spreads backstage like wildfire. The maroon curtain opens and the fluorescent spotlights blind me. I see nothing but shadows of heads; smile, and let every ounce of energy and practice pour out of me.
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Photoshop ~ Katie Byers
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The Village by Tempest Malone I live in the foundation of an abandoned village My home is overgrown with weeds and bones of past lives My edges are burned by the fire of my enemies The skeleton of my village is held by the residue of hope Too hot that the blood that falls from my people’s wounds boil away Too cold for any beautiful thing to ever grow I live in the foundation of an abandoned village Where my skin has fallen into the dirt Where my bones rot every time my lungs try to give me air Where wars have rattled my skeleton Where love has failed to build my home again I live in the foundation of a dying village But the roof still protects my remains from the storm.
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Artwork ~ Elizabeth Arroyo
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Artwork - Mary Kate Wilcox
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The Enormity of It All by Anna Nastasi The noise drains away. And me, I’m left with the radiant darkness and The realization that This world that I know, This world as it has ever been known Has never been farther than this moment. And I’m okay to just exist. I’m okay to just breathe. Time crawls, yet it hits me again Because life’s full of punches to give and Daydreams to live But the race keeps going. What are we running from? My heartbeat is synchronized with the passing seconds And simplysuddenlyabsolutely I am connected to the enormity of it all. What a gloriously Human thing to feel.
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Photography ~Elizabeth Arroyo
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Shattered by Michaela Elsbernd
Terror seizes me as the scratching noise invades my nightmare. Gasping for air, I awake from another suffocating nightmare. Cold sweat coats my body; my hair is plastered to my face. The thunderous beats of my heart in my ears drown out everything except the consistent shrieking. Disoriented, I pat the spot beside me, searching for comfort. When my palm grazes the cold area beside me, reality comes crashing back. I don’t have anyone to comfort me since I moved away from home. To try and acclimate to the city, I’ve gone on one date, but I haven’t seemed to make a connection. His obsidian eyes bored into me over dinner. At the end of the awkward date, he took my hand in his scarred one as he walked me home. I didn’t feel anything when I was around him. Down the hall, the tree branches scratching the window’s glass continue to grate my ears. The noise, constant in the windy nights, begins to irritate. The grinding, the squealing, the shrieking echoes in my mind, reverberating until I can’t take it any longer. My feet hit the cool hardwood floor as I head to the hall window; streetlights harshly illuminate a sliver of the hall. Shadows lurk in the corners. The soft tread of my feet along the floor is drowned out by the tree. Outside, the branch flies against the window with a new force of urgency, casting shadows dancing along the floor. I open the window. The wood groans and creaks in protest and the wind rushes in a powerful swirl around me. I grab the unruly branch and snap it off, the dead wood soaring to the ground. With a mighty effort, I slam the window back down. Before I head back to my room, the glass shatters. Sharp shards fall to the floor, leaving cuts and drops of blood on the floor. My heartbeat accelerates and my breath catches in my throat. The sharp noise of glass breaking surprises me and I hit the floor in shock. I hiss at the pain of a bruise forming on my hip. My eyes whip back to the window, at the jagged hole of glass. The wind whips my hair around my face and cuts through my thin pajamas, raising goosebumps. My hair covers my face and I struggle against the strands, trying to peer outside. I don’t see anyone who could have thrown this up to my second-floor window. The tree outside wails and moans against the force of the wind. Warily, I try to get up, to get to my room and cellphone to call someone, anyone to help drive away this feeling of uneasiness. Pain shoots up my legs as I stumble back down to the floor. Glinting in the streetlight, glass pokes out of my feet. I reach my hands down the floor to try and drag myself away from the window. Instead of the deadly glass shards, my hands find something cold, smooth. A rock. Before my fingers can close around it, scarred hands reach from the shadows and pull me backwards. Any yell I had was soon silenced. The streetlight illuminates the glass like fire. Amid the shards, the dropped rock remains and one can read the words Behind you.
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Sophy Who by Lily Drouin Sophy who has hair like fire and a valley in her eyes, swims with the goldfish. Who is as smart as a light bulb and who doesn’t mind being different, Shops till she drops and never quits dreaming. Who makes up weird stories and doesn’t care who is listening who sings her heart out and dreams some more. Who dreams . . . who?
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Artwork ~ Mayme Loyd
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Artwork ~ Linda Blasdel
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King Peridot and Her Crown by Emily Bello
Third in the line for the white crown, Princess Peridot in the line, Peridot fighting for her life, Fighting for her life and their death. With them gone she fell in the throne, Felt at home with gold under toe. There she was, with love in her hand, Love of a Kingdom that she let stand. And finally she felt peace, The peace was hers, not ‘er enemies. And she did hunt all of them down, She did whisper, “This is my crown.” And there she was all by herself, Herself, and with only one blade. She said, “They’ll never find my crown. My crown nor will I ever be found.”
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Blue
Polka Dots by Aneliese Peeler
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Photoshop Art ~ Londyn Adams & Amanda Seitz
The fan accelerated in its circular cycle
on the dusty white ceiling, with the sound of air rumbling throughout the room. Books and papers cluttering the now invisible blue sheets, millions of tiny white polka dots grasping each other’s circular shape while the lifeless and agonizing papers lie above them. Blue-green stripes surround the fluffed up pillows while soft white cushions lay still on the surface of the mattress and the sounds of my cat breathing surround me. A gray elephant from Ikea perches nicely beside the papers and I can feel its gaze as its cartoon eyes rest directly upon me, disturbing me slightly as I stare directly at it, Waiting for it to make the first move. A pile of shirts await me as I sit above the sheets. I ignore their plea and shove them to the corner, their expressionless form staring me down as I give in and set them in their assigned spot in my closet. I then stare at the soft and luscious blue-green blanket, forming a desire to feel its cozy texture. Taking off my jacket and throwing it in the corner, I rest my head on the chilled pillowcase. Slowly falling asleep in my baby blue walled room on a Monday night, I lie by my cat, his soft purring slowly luring me into a well deserved sleep. 21
Milestones by Elise Bishop
In the month of February of 1916, Emma Goldman was arrested for lecturing about birth control, parliament buildings were burnt down in Canada, and the battle of Verdun began in France, but the most important thing that happened in February that has drastically changed my life was the birth of my great grandmother Francis. On February 16, 1916 my great grandmother was born, and unexpectedly I got to grow up knowing the most humorous person that has the most optimistic look on life that I have witnessed. I remember always going down to her small apartment on The Plaza each holiday. Every Christmas, Easter, Valentine’s Day, Thanksgiving, and her birthday we would all drive down to see her and have a nice family meal. Her favorite was Christmas because we could see the Plaza lights from her patio, and we always would sing Christmas carols for her after we finished dinner. We would always move from the table to the living room and gather around and listen to her stories. The stories varied from her first job to the knowledge she could remember about King Tut. Whatever the topic of her stories, I loved listening to them and she always loved sharing them with us. As she got older, more of her sarcasm was revealed, still positive but always taking a twist on life. One of my favorite of her statements is “I wake up every morning, take a deep breathe and say I’m still here.” She is my favorite person to visit with, and the most exciting time was when I went to visit her this past Valentine’s day just a week before her 100th birthday. My family had planned a party for her , and we wanted to let her know who all was coming. She was put into a nursing home this past year and has gotten more depressed and is having some short term memory loss, so we go and see her a lot more to lift her spirits. To give her something exciting to look forward to, we told her all the details about the party and that family members were traveling from Colorado and Texas just for her. Moving her to tears, she became so ecstatic she could not wait. To cheer her up even more, we gave her a little gift for Valentine’s day. Being the chocolate fanatic she is, she was immediately ready to dive into the Hershey’s kisses she got and burst out laughing when she saw the small heart-shaped sugar cookie that was on her card. I felt so accomplished leaving the nursing home that day because I knew that at the party she was going to be so happy and feel so loved for a long time after. At her party she got to visit with loved ones she had not seen in years. She showed tears of joy throughout the party. She would have never imagined that this day would come. It was also something in our dreams that we thought would never come. Even in her darkest times, moving to a new place and losing her independence, she found it that one wonderful day of celebration. My great grandmother had made it to the milestone, the milestone that most people never even think of reaching. She turned 100 years old, something that very few people get to do, and I am so fortunate to Les Vitraux ~ 22 have been able to celebrate that with her.
Artwork ~ Elizabeth Arroyo
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Artwork ~Abby McLiney
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Suddenly, While Baking by Casey Engel
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend. ~Puck, A Midsummer Night’s Dream Childhood: enigmatic existence Laced together with questions And the collective memory the senses Send to the brain to be filtered, organized, Stored here and there Practiced, attempted, Or discarded entirely. You try new polishes and braids and recipes Miniature exertions of newly earned independence And so I observe From here, from there I paint and weave and mix my thoughts On what it is I am supposed to Do Say Be and Not Be. Well. Existentialism. There’s that. Grasp at the wonder of what is and is not there. Questions brew, they surface in most unlikely ways While baking cookies First the eggs; then the moment cracks open
Sweet girl, I say I may not know (oh ask me about a book, a comma, my day, the weather) Yours are questions I’ve yet begun to answer for myself and so I say The world’s darkness manifests as shadows Which may envelop or recede (“I am half sick of shadows,” cried Tennyson’s Lady of Shalott, The world’s darkness manifests as shadows but hers were merely illusions, safe, unreal) We all cast shadows, she says Sometimes it’s hard to catch them; sometimes they catch you. Point is, we all have them, don’t we, When the sun shines. Especially then. Are spirits shadows too? Ancestral ghosts who trace our well-lined palms with knowing fingers Manifest in most unlikely ways Existence: enigmatic realm Pieced together with questions And the collective memory the senses Send to the brain to be filtered, organized, Stored here and there Pondered, affirmed, Or discarded entirely. And then, we bake.
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A Letter by Khamedriah Grimes I was thinking of writing a letter. A letter to someone I know very well. Ok, I started with: “Dear-” Dear who? Dear to the girl who’s getting abused. Dear to the boy whose shoes got stolen. Dear to the man who can’t stop cheating. Dear to the single woman who’s working three jobs to keep her kids eating. Dear to the girl who gets around. Dear to the boy who got shot to the ground. Dear to the man who thought women were inferior. Dear to the woman who thought men were her only superior. Dear to the girl who’s pregnant alone. Dear to the boy who thought he was grown. Dear to the man who made mistakes. Dear to the woman who only hesitates. Dear to the screwed up world I’m in. Dear to everyone not comfortable in their skin. I wish I could write a letter to all who feel this way. I wish I could write a letter to make the pain go away. I wish there was a way this world could get better. Sincerely to all those who read this, since this was only a letter. Les Vitraux ~ 26
Photoshop ~ Lucy Bahner
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Artwork ~ Cheyanne Teasley
Verbal Shots
by Anissa McGinnie
They tried to tell me I was beneath them That I was a rock instead of a gem That they were the flower And me just a stem But things aren’t always what they appear So let me make something very clear The melanin in my skin does not determine my worth Cause I was a Queen Even before birth The way that I speak has nothing to do with my race You should pay attention to my words and not the color of my face
Yes, I live in the hood that doesn’t mean all I’m I good for is laying on my back Having 3 kids by 3 different baby daddies and they all sell crack My momma taught me better than that Matter fact she taught me so well I bet you can tell by my demeanor and personality and how my words cause a fatality to your fantasy in my reality And if you’re still clueless I’ll help you through this You wanna know how? My Knowledge is the gun My words are the bullets and your ignorance is the trigger Pow!
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I Am Mute by Samantha Wilson
These voices in my head want out but social rules dictate me to stay silent. My reason and my creativity are clashing and I want to sing? but this human conduct I am programmed with tells me NO. past and present are conversing speaking of an intersection they are going fast to fast, wait come back... muse is whispering in my ear and yet I am listening to silence I still hear these voices blending, bending, roaring at times and yet I am mute. these voices in my head, the emotions that are clashing, the past and the present, the possibilities of the future. The everlasting shadow of death and destruction always whispering the instructions that they scream slowly entering my bloodstream bringing it to a boil. These thoughts I have of life and judgment day, screaming but mute. All these voices in my head, which one is me? I am mute in their world. and they are mute in mine. Am I scared? Is it society? Why me? Why now? Why these questions? Because they are all my voices. The good and the bad they are me. Les Vitraux ~ 30
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Photography ~ Kristin Hilgenfeld
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The Chosen Path by Olivia Neal
Four seasons circle, repeat, and change But rocky mountains stay the same. Observing the lifeless fall of the crisp sycamore leaves Always observe, breathing in the permeated molded leaves Down the slope is planted and plowed, slicked back like a boy’s damp hair. Seasons damage the plow and become scorched from summers’ tense rays. Moss surfaces onto the blurry waters. Tangling weeds thirst on the grass; They sprout through the crunched leaves and dominate the ground. All lifeless and silent until the wind strains two tumbling men downhill. Their presence and work breathes life back into the seasons. The land is groomed once again under the crown of recumbent limbs.
Artwork ~ Celia Kane
A land in need of care finds itself echoing ingratitude. The mountains harmonize one last thank you. The sight of their beloved view is restored. 33
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Photography ~ Esobel Moore
Two Faced by Izzy Winkelmeyer
I cannot stand your presence or kind words. I cannot stand each bittersweet smile. I am fragile like a tiny weak bird, And you’re becoming very hostile. I know you’re forever lost in your mind; I know no one can save you anymore. I know your narrow mind is far too blind, And all you ever start are long, cold wars. I wait for your long thunderstorm to quiet. I wait till the cruel, salty words end. I wait like the moon during the daylight, And for your sunlight to shine once again. I cannot leave the both of you alone. I wish a small part of me would have known.
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The Art of Heartbreak by Joileeah Worley
I’m just painting my heart, Illustrating my brain‘cause it’s truth in my heart and the inks in my veins. But see, the truth is you were never truthful I was never perfect... I was only useful. I used to paint this picture of us in my brain, but now all that picture does is bring me pain. I guess there was nothing left to gain. Nothing left to gain? more like no more room to dream. Baby, I tried to make art, but yo colors ain’t matchin’ the theme. Baby, I tried to shine bright but I needed you to beam. For youbaby just for you, I tried to sculpt the “I” in team. classic illusion I guess...you know things aren’t really what they seem. Sometimes the mold doesn’t fitThe mark just don’t get hitColoring in the lines is harder than before. Unlike Mona Lisa, and Starry Night, we can try with all our mightBut this is just one piece of art even De Vinci can’t restore. Les Vitraux ~ 36
Artwork ~Domino Colyer
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Photoshop ~Sarah King
Complexion Killed the by Anissa McGinnie
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My brother’s coming back from college today We spent all week cleaning and cooking Especially cooking Cause as he says “They don’t have no good cooking out here.” He was supposed to get here about an hour ago My momma says he is probably running a little late It’s now 6:00 and he still isn’t here My daddy says he probably got held up with some friends ok, I guess so but he knows he should call 8:00 comes around and the phone rings My momma says she’s got it so I ignore it but then i hear scream that stings and rush downstairs My daddy is holding my momma Oh So tightly What happened? I asked Nothing could be heard but my Mother’s cries The look in my father’s eyes His voice booming into why’s What happened? I asked My father let go of my devastated mother Anxious to know what’s wrong, I look up at my father “It’s your brother” he says. “The police, they shot him.” “He’s dead” That sound of my shattering heart made my ears go deaf The world moving in slow motion as i try to comprehend the fact that my brother is dead My brother is dead MY brother bled, and bled, and bled the street, now his death bed My eyes shedding tears to revive his bright soul the other half to my whole
Kid . . .
Now I must live on with this hole in my heart Like a balloon popped by a dart I am devastated frustrated agitated While the guilty one is slumbering I am still recovering picking up pieces of memories broken by the authorities abusing the power of protection but I can’t yell objection all because of my complexion
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Artwork ~ Bilha Kahindi
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the
ghost
of a
star by Elizabeth Arroyo
A ghost of glamour, of illustrious living, Of chunky strings of synthetic pearls, And the rare glassy glint of a camera lens Sits perched behind her striking emerald eyes. The entrancing star blazing with fame whom she once embodied Never left her ever sharp spirit. It shows. In the meticulously quaffed spirals atop her countenance, Which on the surface is dusted cool, even collective, But silently is yearning for the crazed adoration It received in her crisp youth. Cardinal red glazed on her pout, Midnight atop her lids which glisten with minuscule patches of sweat. Wrinkles? What wrinkles? A local Marilyn, they once called her. She sits as a queen would, legs delicately Crossed, hands folded uniformly in her pink lap. Neck extended, challenging her admirers. That is, the customers chattering about Busily in the Orange County seafood restaurant for brunch, Consumed in their own lives, When they should be consumed by hers.
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This Simple Song Recorded by Aneliese Peeler
Perfectly strummed chords echo through the speakers of my computer screen A voice sounds throughout the dining room. As I listen, I can picture episodes from a movie scene With the sounds of the instruments beginning to bloom. I can hear the beats of the drums escalate While harmonies from the piano blossom. The words “Hold on tight” attempt to escape; I had no idea what I would do without them. I tried and I tried to make the harmonies just right, Not knowing what I would come up with. Little did I know, what I would find, Worked better than I could ever imagine. This was only two years ago but it felt like ages, A little hobby of mine has left me flipping pages. But now I know that it’s more than a sixteen year old’s fantasy. I know that it’s more than a starry-eyed daydream. This is my future; this is my reality. A simple song recorded got me believing in my fantasy I felt pride in my song, of course, you know I did But this simple song recorded, it didn’t feel small, it felt big.
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Photoshop ~ Paige Behnken
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Newport Excerpt
The Perfect Roller Skates by Kristie Pennock
5.A pair of white roller skates from Montgomery Ward with blue and red stripes on the sides.
of belonging. I was strong by proxy, being swept along by the others as they laughed and danced around me on their turning wheels.
Third grade was a rough year for me. By that time I had already left Pace Academy and was now at the local public school Arroyo Elementary. Mom had valiantly tried to keep me in Pace, but the money just wasn’t there, and she didn’t have the heart to ask Nana for even more than she was already giving. Going to Arroyo wasn’t exactly like going to some troubled inner-city public, but Mom felt as if she had failed yet again when I had to leave, and she had become even more despondent.
The only problem with roller skating was the rink. It cost money, and wasn’t very close by, which meant infrequent visits. We knew some kids did “street” skating- cruising around the sidewalks, avoiding the cracks. We decided to pursue this option. Kitty had an ancient pair of strap-on skates that apparently belonged to her mother. (Imagine that- roller skating existed back then!) But, the rusty wheels barely turned and the old, leather straps were so brittle and cracked with age we were afraid of testing them on our feet. For Kitty, the answer was an obvious one: buy a new pair of skates. We looked through the Sears and Penney’s catalogues, and oohed and ahhed over the pristine white, boot-type skates that looked like something a figure skater would wear.
My best friend Kitty and I discovered the wonderful world of roller skating that year after her mother hosted a surprise birthday party for her at Skate Depot. I was wobbly on my skates, but what a rush it was to watch everyone zoom back and forth under the shining disco ball! I stared, mesmerized as kids made circuits around the endless loop to the pulsing sounds of “Billie Jean” and “Hey Mickey”. All of them looked so cool flashing around the oval on their clacking skates, and though I could barely thread my way around the exterior wall, even being on the periphery made me feel a sense
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We sat around Kitty’s kitchen table, eating fruit rollups and pouring generous glasses of milk from the Adhor Farms bottle. No one else had milk delivered to their home any more. It was one of the millions of reasons I loved Kitty and her family. Drinking the milk always made me feel sick,
but it was worth it to examine the smooth, shiny glass jug and imagine a world where everyone had milk delivered in little wire crates to their front door. “These are the best!” Kitty opined as she poked her sticky finger at a picture in the catalog. I looked over her shoulder. “Wow! These are so awesome! And they even come in my size!” I gushed. On the page was the paragon of skate perfection- White Roller Derby skates with pink urethane wheels. “These are the ones I’m going to tell my mom to get!” Kitty said resolutely. “You should get this kind too, Kari.” “I will, if I can.” I said. “My mom might be a little harder to convince.” I had glanced at the price under the skates. They were definitely out of “casual purchase” range. That night when I returned home, I began the Great Roller Skates Campaign. I urged my mother to consider the several health benefits of roller skating, along with the obvious enjoyment they would bring me. I reminded her that though the initial outlay of cash for the skates was considerable, the hours of free fun I would have using them outweighed the cost. I even reminded her that if I had high-quality skates with plastic wheels, I would be allowed to use them at the rink, saving on skate rentals in the future. I mentioned that just such a pair was to be had in the JC Penney’s catalog, and they carried my size. She acknowledged my arguments with a frown on her face, and told me she would think about it.
“
So, I waited. Days dragged by, then a couple weeks. I had given up on the skates and resigned myself to cruising around the cul-de-sac forevermore on my bike. Like everything else I had, it was a little odd with its very 70’s purple sparkly banana seat and its gaudy (even by little girl standards) orange paintjob. My California Grandmother had picked it up at a flea market, and it looked it.
moment, it would all evaporate in front of me. I couldn’t take that chance with my skates. On the way to Honer Plaza, my mother reminisced about her own childhood trips to this shopping center. In her day, it had been “the” place to shop, and she shared stories about going to the Newberry’s dime store with her friends, and shopping for school clothes at Ward’s with her own mother. I loved my mother, but it seemed as if we were always a little out of sync. This was one of those rare, companionable moments when I really felt we were on the same wavelength, sharing something special. When we reached Honer, it was a typical 1960’s outdoor shopping mall that looked as if it had been passed over by time, which it had been. It felt empty and forlorn, but in the waning afternoon light, it also had an almost ethereal quality about it. It was as if it was meant to be a monument to the Retail Age in a capitalist society which revered the shopping mall as one of its culturally significant symbols. A museum air permeated the space. Mother and I sat in the car for a few seconds after she switched off the ignition, a silent reverence for the place passing between us. Finally, she broke the silence. “Well, let’s go. Want to go by the five and dime first?” She asked. “Sure.” I said enthusiastically. This was a great chance to extend the moment my mother and I were having. As great as the prospect of getting the skates was, spending such golden time with my mother was even more special to me. We trouped between the buildings into the still space of the mall courtyard, Mom homing in on the Newberry’s store. I didn’t have much experience with dime stores- by that time, they were a dying breed, largely catering to an older generation of shoppers. When we got in, it looked like your standard drugstore fare mixed in with an assortment of cheap tchotchkes. We strolled through the aisles, Mom pointing out all the places she and her friends had congregated, and listing off all of the ancient products they had bought. After that, we wandered over to the large, square Ward’s building with its very 60’s “MW” logo handles, and entered the store.
The skates were really pretty ugly, if I was being honest. While the ones I wanted looked like something a graceful figure skater would wear, these looked like something more suited to a masked wrestler.
“How would you like to go out and look for those roller skates today, Kari?” My mother casually asked. She might as well have asked if I would like to ride a magic unicorn to Candyland and become its eternal princess. Inspector Gadget was forgotten as I flipped around in my seat to face her.
“
My mother approached me after school one day as I was watching Inspector Gadget episodes on TV. Inspector Gadget was my very favorite show, and I tried hard not to miss a day of it. Even at my sickest earlier that year, I had crawled out to watch the good Inspector.
I ran ahead, eagerly seeking out the sporting goods section. Surely, Montgomery Ward’s must carry roller skates, too! When I found the section, I noticed that they had a couple of styles of large women’s white boot roller skates, but the ones in my size were different. They were white, all right, but they had two diagonal stripes- one blue, one red- on the sides of the foot, making them look like a boot/sneaker combo (we were still a couple of years in front of the high top trend). I stopped, and examined the skates. My mother came over, and looked over my shoulder. “Are those what you wanted? I thought you wanted them to be all white.”
“Oh, Mom! Yes! I would, I really would! Where are we going?”
“Well, I do.” I said. “But this seems to be it in my size.”
“Let’s go to Ward’s at Honer Plaza. You did say they had some there, right?”
Damn my stupid baby feet! I silently fumed. Why does this stupid body of mine always have to fail me? If I wore a normal size, I could probably fit into the women’s skates.
I barely heard what she said, so great was my joy at the moment, but even if I had, I don’t think I could have corrected her by telling her the skates were at Penney’s, not Ward’s. I was afraid if I did anything to spoil the
(Continued next page)
45
“We could wait, maybe look someplace else someday. Probably not today, though.” My mom trailed off as she looked at her watch. Her eyes were beginning to get that far away look again, the look that she got when she wanted to retreat into her books. Someday. That word was the bane of my existence. I had grown so tired of believing in its vague promises. Someday had been my father’s favorite word, and it ranked high on Mom’s list, too. I had learned a long time ago that whenever I heard “someday”, what it really meant was “never”. “No, these will be fine! Honest, they will! The stripes are barely noticeable!” I pleaded. “Are you sure?” Mom asked. “Really sure? Because I know you, and I don’t want to hear any complaining later.” I swallowed hard. The skates were really pretty ugly, if I was being honest. While the ones I wanted looked like something a graceful figure skater would wear, these looked like something more suited to a masked wrestler. I knew, though, that the chance of getting the “right” skates was slim. Would Mom have the money later on? Would she be willing to rouse herself from her books to look for them? “No, I’m sure. These are great. No complaining. I promise.” I blurted. The deal was done. My mother helped me find the right size, and we took them to the counter. When I got home, I tore straight over to Kitty’s, bulky skate box tucked awkwardly under my arm. When she opened her front door, her blue eyes got wide. “Are those skates?” she asked breathlessly. “Yes, they are! Mom and I just got them!” I answered, equally as breathlessly.
“
“Woooow!” Kitty said, drawing the word out.
I beamed. This was probably the first time I had something Kitty didn’t.
I flipped open the box, and sat down at her doorstep. I tore at the white tissue surrounding the skates, and together we stared into the box, beatific smiles plastered across our faces.
I just stared. Sure enough, it was The pair of skates. The beautiful skates. The right skates. “Uh huh.” I replied. “Really great. They are…really great.” “Let’s go skating!” Kitty squealed. I dragged out my inferior, striped monstrosities, and we slowly wound our way along the sidewalk, Kitty beaming, and me following soberly in her wake. I tried to like the skates. I tried to be mature and grateful. But something inside was growing. A pressure constricted my throat and compressed my chest every time I looked at my skates. Ugly. The word hissed through my head. Two days after Kitty got her perfect skates, the thing growing in me had taken over. It was jealousy, in its most naked form. I wanted what Kitty had: It was as simple as that. I wanted the mom and dad, the big house that was mine, the shelves of toys, the playhouse in the back yard. I wanted the scratchy ginger cat Candy, and the goofy-but-lovable spaniel Marietta, and even the frustrating older brothers Bryce and Tommy. I wanted the security and the warmth and the certainty and the sense of belonging Kitty had. And yes, I wanted the skates. Not just because they were beautiful and right, but because they were exactly what I said I wanted. Because they represented a mother who cared about what I wanted, and was willing to go to the trouble to get what I wanted, not someday, but now. I was distant and brooding as I walked home for dinner after spending hours skating around the cul-de-sac with Kitty. I had already removed my skates, tied the laces together, and carelessly tossed them over my shoulder. Kitty, however, never wanted to remove her perfect skates- they were an extension of herself, new wheeled feet she was bent upon putting to every test. When we parted she was smiling widely, taking short, sideways steps up the steep, grassy hill that made the inside of the “U” of her driveway. The bright pink wheels bit into the soft earth as she made her way to the smooth tarmac at the top of the hill, and I barely caught the whoosh of urethane spinning on the solid surface of the driveway as she glided up to her doors, conqueror of the hill and wellpleased that her new appendages had proven once again to be up to any task. I turned away, fists in balls at my sides as I walked swiftly up to my back door. When I reached the door, I stopped and stared at the glass slats of the jalousie window, my reflection broken and distorted into pieces like a warped jigsaw puzzle. I worked my fists at my side, uncertain of what I would do next. I finally took a deep breath, and entered into the stillness of the little utility room, dumping my skates into a clattering pile on the terrazzo.
Two days after Kitty got her perfect skates, the thing growing in me had taken over. It was jealousy, in its most naked form. I wanted what Katie had.
“Try them on.” Kitty said, almost whispering. I quickly peeled off my shoes, dug the paper out of the toes of the skates, and crammed them on. The first thing I noticed was the weight- wheels are heavy. Then, I realized sitting on the ground may not have been the best choice, as I couldn’t stand. Finally, Kitty helped me haul myself up, and I stood in wobbly glory at the top of her driveway, the last streaks of sunset coloring the sky. The euphoria lasted three days. On the third day, it was Kitty’s turn to show up breathless on my doorstep, box in hand.
Les Vitraux ~ 46
“
“You are sooo lucky! I don’t even know when I’ll get mine.” Kitty continued, sticking her lower lip out in a pout. “Maybe never. Mom doesn’t even seem to care.”
“Looky! Look! It’s my skates! I told Mom that you had some, and that I just had to have them… and look! It’s even the white ones with the pink wheels!” she enthused.
It was the last time I ever used them. I slowly walked into the family room, where Mom was sitting, flipping through the pages of a magazine, waiting for my Nana to come down the hall, ready for dinner. Living with Nana meant eating out almost every
night, as she hated the mess and smell of cooking in her pristine white haven. Mom looked up as I entered, and began to speak. “There you are! I thought I was going to have to come out there and get you. I know you love skating, but you …” She trailed off. Something in the look on my face made her reconsider the end of her sentence. “Uhh… did something happen, Kari? Was Tommy teasing you girls again?” Mom automatically suspected Kitty’s older brother Tommy for my sour expression because he seemed to live to torture us. He was older- a 7th grader at Hewes Junior High- but still young enough to take perverse pleasure in tormenting little girls. Many a playtime with Kitty had ended with me running home in tears to my mother as Kitty pleaded tearfully to hers. Mom was unintentionally giving me an easy out with her query- I could fabricate some offense of Tommy’s as the cause for my mood, and forget all about the ugly cancer that was eating away at my insides. I almost did it, too. I almost told a whopper about Tommy. I almost let the bubbling jealousy inside me subside. But the words wouldn’t come. I started, and stopped again two or three times. I clasped and unclasped my sweaty hands as I looked down at the floor, to my mother’s puzzled face, and back down again. Then, the torrent came spilling out- a barely intelligible rant between choking sobs. “Mom, the skates… are wrong. I tried to like them. I know this is how I always am. I know it is wrong. But…but… the skates! (sob) The skates are important! Kitty always gets things that are right- always! I always get things that are wrong! Why does everything come easily for her? (sob) Why is everything so hard for me? (sob) I want white skates! Pure white skates with no stripes. (sob) And I don’t want them someday. I want them now! I want to be as good as Kitty! I don’t want to be wrong any more, Mom.”
“
good- and Mom was in the kitchen. I slouched into my seat, waiting for the reprimand to come, but it never did. I spent an odd, quiet night dressing and re-dressing my two Barbie dolls while I sat on my bed. No one talked about my outburst. A couple of days went by without a word. My Nana must have picked up my skates and moved them; when I went back to retrieve them, they were gone. I went out to my mother’s garage hideaway to ask her if she knew where they went, but I saw her back moving down the sidewalk to the driveway. As she turned the corner, I caught a flash of the skate box. I froze. Was she taking them away? Returning them for money? I wouldn’t exactly blame her if she did. I didn’t deserve the skates, and I knew it. Mom had tried her best with the skates, and I had been awful about it. But still… I ran into the house, clattering across the family room to the kitchen, where Nana was pouring some coffee from her ancient Chemex carafe on the stove. “Nana! Nana! Where is Mom going?” I cried as I skidded to a stop. “Calm down, child! Sop running and screaming through the house. She’s going to exchange those skates.” Nana gave me a pointed look. “Exchange them? For what?” “Other skates, of course. The white ones. She talked to Kitty’s mom and found out where she bought hers. And she asked your dad for some more money to make up the difference.” I gulped hard. My mom was buying me the white skates? The perfect skates? I turned around and tore back out of the house, Nana’s admonitions to slow DOWN following me out the door. I pounded down the sidewalk and burst out from around the corner to the driveway, but Mom was already gone. I ran all the way to the corner of the street, but Newport Avenue had swallowed Mom up, along with those striped skates.
No one talked about my outburst. A couple of days went by without a word. My Nana must have picked up my skates and moved them; when I went back to retrieve them, they were gone.
“
She took a few steps toward me.
I got the perfect skates, and they were more than I could have ever hoped for. They were white and beautiful, and even if the wheels were navy blue and not pink, they were still the most gorgeous skates I had ever seen. Kitty and I skated around and around on our matching skates, getting the years of use out of them I had promised my mother. I have those skates even now, and I still take them out from time to time, and admire their now-yellowing leather, remembering all of the fun times I had with them. But I always remember those other skates, too- the striped ones, and my sweet memories are always tinged with a little regret. I think about my mother that day I snapped- full of jealousy and self-pity and naked want- I think about how inadequate she must have felt in the face of that storm. I think of how hard it must have been for my mother to call my father, begging for the money. I wonder what she must have felt that day as she pulled into the rushing torrent of Newport, those skates sitting accusingly next to her on the wide bench seat.
“Go wash your face for supper, Kari. It will be done soon. Those meals cook quickly.”
I think about all of this, and wonder what it means. What did I lose that day the old skates went away?
And that was it. I didn’t have the guts to look at my mother. I turned and slipped into the powder room off of the utility room. I looked at my puffy, tear-stained face in the little mirror over the sink as I stood there, letting the water run. When I came out, Nana was busy folding paper napkins into little squares at the table- even our TV dinners needed to look
If I’m being really honest with myself, I know that in doing so I’m guilty of the same crime I committed all those years ago, because the right question isn’t what I lost to Newport that time, but what my mother lost, because this particular story is really about her.
I stopped as suddenly as I had begun. The physical weight of my torment must have been immense. I staggered backward, light and slightly giddy, thumping loudly into the doors that hid the built-in stereo system. My mother just stood there, looking at me. At some point, my Nana had walked in, and she was standing, staring at me as well. I suddenly felt the flush of embarrassment creep across my cheeks. What had I just said? I was going to get it for sure. I braced for impact. Nana spoke. “Well, Donna, let’s eat in tonight. Don’t we have a few of those frozen meals left? Let’s throw those into the toaster oven.”
47
2016 Les Vitraux Staff Editors-in-Chief
Chloe Barrett Pg. 18-19, 34-35 Grace Lesniewski Pg. 22-23
Design Editor -
Lily Coit
Editorial Board
Junior Editor - Megan Ostrander
Pg. 8-9, 36-37, 38-39
Pg. 24-25. 28-29, 30-31
Sophomore Editor- Anneliese Glickley Pg. 42-43
Londyn Adams Maria Arroyo Elsa Brundige Morgan Ciocca Emilie Connors Carolyn Crowe Anneliese Glickley Kristina Hagedorn
Designers
Pg. 20-21 Pg. 40-41 Pg. 34-35 Pg. 2-3. 4-5 Pg. 40-41 Pg. 6-7, 12-13 Pg. 42-43 Pg. 10-11, 32-33
Katia Hauptmann Ann Huff Samantha Johnson Clare Lappin Isabella Lightner Chloe Long Marie Orrick Amanda Seitz
Staff
Cover Pg. 8-9, 14-15 Pg. 2-5 Pg. 12-13 Pg. 12-13, 22-23, Pg. 36-37 Pg. 12-13 Pg. 20-21
Chloe Long, Marie Orrick, Gracie Snider, Natalie Williams
Advisors
Carole Wall-Simmons, Graphic Design Shawn Watts, Submissions
CD Production
Elizabeth Mulkey - Music & Drama Director Jason Ketter - Technology Director
Fine Arts Department
Linda Blasdel, Jenny Campbell, Alison Long, Kathy McShane, Elizabeth Mulkey, Michael Pesselato, Carole Wall Simmons
Language Arts Department
Katie Cox, Casey Engel, Shawn Watts, Melissa Wilcox, Janet Zacharias
Cover Photo
Stephanie Pino-Dressman - Campus Minister
Les Vitraux ~ 48
Notre Dame de Sion High School 10631 Wornall Rd. Kansas City, MO 64114 816.942.3282 www.ndsion.edu