GATE 2012

GATE

2 0 1 LITERARY 2 MAGAZINE

THE MADEIRA SCHOOL

8328 GEORGETOWN PIKE

MCLEAN, VA 22102

Gate Magazine 2011-2012 The Madeira School

Table of Contents Front Cover Rorschach Branches: Kate Woloshin Page 3 A Guiding Light: Annie Sherman Page 4 Untitled photograph: Sibilla Grenon Sound Sound Poem: Jackie Schipani Page 5 Hurricane: Anonymous Page 6 Adults Have It Easy: Devan Smith-Brown Untitled photograph: Anonymous Crowd: Helen Yan Page 7 Windy Paths: Chiara Marton I Remember: Jody Baik Page 8 The Leopard: Katherine Jiang Runaway: Chiara Marton Page 9 Bicycle: Kathy Chen Eyes Like a Child: Anonymous Page 10 Voice: Kate Woloshin Page 11 Rebel Rebel: Lauren Simione Page 12 Dream: Erin Cox Skin and Bones: Charlotte McIntosh Page 13 A Realization: Anonymous Untitled: Sam McClain Page 14 A selfishness hotter than a fire torments me: Lauren Johnson Page 15 On the Edge: Sarah Nia Coleman Outfoxed: Maura Perlow Page 16 7 Clouds and Dark Seas: Susan Lee Page 17

City Music Silenced: Charlotte Fuss Page 18 My Mouth and My Piano Skills: A Memoir: Jody Baik Page 19 Balloons: Sibilla Grenon Page 20 My Life Thus Far: Suji Kim Sarah: Suji Kim Page 21 With Skin Soft Like Blisters: Victoria Turnbill Page 22 Return: Erin Cox Page 23 Mute: Christina Griggs Page 24 The – Few – Differences Among Us: Charlotte Heffelmire Inching: Devan Smith-Brown Page 26 Fiction: Kate Woloshin Untitled photograph: Anonymous 2

A Guiding Light - Annie Sherman ’13

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Hurricane Anonymous

Loneliness, a constant state of mind, Fills me up to the brim, and watches As all of my insides pour over.

It fills me up like a hurricane Pouring over a desolate town; Lost of all inhabitants, of everyone

but me.

I sit inside a hollow little shack, With a hole in the roof to let the Water drip. I don’t have a bucket Or anything to stop the water.

It all enters my new home, On this lonely little island.

Sibilla Grenon ’14

Sound Poem Jackie Schipani ’14

click.

The sounds of writer’s block.

Click click The irritation of the schoolgirl trying attempting desperately hoping to finish the obligation of education.

Click click click The pen clicking will not improve the rate I finish my work at nor will it improve the prominence of my completed school efforts.

But yet Despite my efforts against this tragic happening of creativity clog-age all I can hear do and process is Click.

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There are no windows. It’s always Dark here. The walls are rotting And stained with piss. The cracks Are growing. There was just one When I moved in, but now, The house is ready to crumble.

Of my feet, and I am left looking at a Lifeless veil of water and wind that Disfigures my body, and still, Is more beautiful than I. I am standing in the middle of the Ocean, and I feel as if I am Rooted in the sand, desperate, Both, to break free, and To bury myself, deep, down below Where nobody can find me.

I close my eyes and take two steps, Like a toddler who just learned to walk.

The waters reach my ankles, And I move a little closer, experiencing All the cold. And I wonder how it’d feel?

To be buried, then revealed.

Like the wilted wings of a dying bird Who just got beaten down and Crumbled, then fell into the I’m getting wet. I strip down to nothing, Ocean, left to bury out at sea, Lose all my clothes. There’s my reflection And all his babies wondering, “When is Daddy coming home?”

In the water, this pure canvas, never

to be Touched, or cared for, or streaked with I’d be a sinking ship, In these deserted waters, color.

The hurricane is rippling in the ocean, Left to die alone. I wonder And I wonder why it never floods?

How empty is my heart, How heavy I shall sink? And as I Dwindle into nothingness, As the water creeps up, ice beneath I fall into the sea.

My toes, it conceals the surface

5

Adults Have It Easy Devan Smith-Brown ’13

Writing a poem is not always simple.

“Write from your soul.”

But how many people can find their soul?

The younger you are, the harder it is.

Because you have not yet found yourself.

It is easier for adults.

All they have to do is go into their depths, And voilà, a soul full of memories.

Kids do not have those memories yet, So props to those kids who write great poetry, And props to those who do not.

Because I know, that I am a kid who does not.

And I know, I still have years ahead of me to start.

Winding Paths - Chiara Marton ’14 Anonymous

I Remember Jody Baik ’14

I remember…

I remember the lonely nights I cried and cried about how you let go of me and left my side, about how love can change so drastically, so easily, about how I trusted you so wholeheartedly, so foolishly.

But now, even when I think of you it doesn’t hurt.

When I close my eyes and listen to my beating heart, when I take a deep breath, I start to remember when you looked at me with your eyes of amber I remember all the times when you were mine.

I remember… and I smile.

Crowd - Helen Yan ’15 6

7

The Leopard Katharine Jiang ’15

A slight quiver in the air, Brings a majestic creature to wake, With spots so round and fair, And eyes as cunning as a snake.

A padding of the paws, Brings the tail a little flicker, With a yawn in its jaws, And its ears a slight snicker.

A scent floats towards its nose, Brings a figure into shape, With its muscles in a pose, And the powerful creature springs in the landscape.

A short chase is given, Brings a quick bite to the throat, With the gazelle in heaven, And the mighty leopard left to gloat.

Bicycle - Kathy Chen ’14

Eyes Like A Child

Runaway - Chiara Marton ’14 8

The busy streets, the passing cars, people rushing by; all reminders they’ve got somewhere to be at.

She walked, not really knowing where to go. Her home was far away; she hadn’t been in there for a few days. All of a sudden everything got blurry. When had she last eaten? She sat down, a black door behind her. The sun was setting down.

Where could she go next?

-I’m lost.

He walked around the city, letting his feet be the guide. Where was he going?

It didn’t matter; he knew exactly where he was. The windows of the tall buildings reflected the last sunrays and he could hear the distant cars honking. A playful smirk sat comfortably across his lips. He kept on walking and crossed the busy street not even bothering to look both ways. He stopped.

-Who is she?

They look at each other, not realizing how different they are. But pay close attention, as they are somewhat alike.

She stands up. He stares her down.

He continues walking and she stares at his back. Right before turning left he looks back at her and signals her to follow him; she does.

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Rebel Rebel Lauren Simione ’14

Voice - Kate Woloshin ’12

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Forever is an ugly word.

I remember you spitting it out heavily into the August sunset, our hair long and in our eyes as we sat on the hood of your car, watching people pass with time, a lukewarm soda clutched in your hand, and a worn sweater clutched in mine. We would laugh bitterly, as if we had lived long enough to be bitter, as if we had a right to be jaded.

I miss that still, even now that I’ve grown away from the entitlement, that naïve assumption that I had somehow conquered naivety. I miss life back when it was a series of laughs, a series of jokes that nobody was in on, when our scraped knees and dark eyes from nights spent talking the politics of youth were the only issues we needed to bother with. I miss not having to worry about consequences, the bony abrasive truth of it all.

I approached your front door, the same door I walked through without a thought every bright summer day. The same door that I walked out of after you told me I had changed for the worse.

You answered the door, the same cynical smile frozen on your face. You were exactly how you always were, slouched gently, soft brown curls falling far too gently against the harsh lines of your face, the stubborn hint of stubble that never seemed to go away.

I attacked swiftly. I gave no opportunity to slam the door in my face, to remind me that almost nine whole months had gone by without any effort to mend things between us. I realized then that no speech would fix things. No matter how many descriptions I threw in, no matter how many metaphors I clouded the truth with; there was only one thing I could say.

“I miss you,” I blurted, filling the silence deftly.

You smiled, genuinely this time, running your hand through your hair and watching me closely.

“Welcome back,” you say. I smile at you as the fresh May sunlight covered the earth, like it always had, and always would. Forever.

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A Realization Anonymous

Her pencil scrapes the floor The soft hands which held a sheet of barely used loose-leaf now tremble Inside her heart stiffens; her pulse enters a full-fledged race from her chest to her toes The bones in her right arm mingle as she brings her knees to her chin In this terrifying moment everything that was is now gone, and everything that should

have been is desolate The pulse, now past the finish line races back through her ankles, around her ribs,

past her heart and suddenly at her throat She is too afraid to indulge in oxygen Her eyes refuse to shut; her poor, thirst-driven corneas beg for a pink wall of relief

but she refuses them Only one thought presents itself in her mind She is an utter slob, and tonight is room inspection Dream - Erin Cox ’13

Skin and Bones Charlotte McIntosh ’14

What if there’s nothing left of us?

We’re all just empty shells; Left alone to be forgotten, Living the lives of someone else.

We’re all drifting through these seas, Tearing up our hearts and trust.

What happens when we’ve gone away, Do we all just simply turn to dust?

Are we all just a bunch of coals and Spare parts used up by someone else?

Are we all just ground up dreamers, Living for something else?

What happens in the end, And will anyone remember?

Or do we all just die a simple death, During every cold December?

What if there’s nothing more to me, And nothing ever really stays?

What if we’re all just skin and bones; We just grow up to fade away?

Sam McClain ‘13 12

13

A selfishness hotter than a fire torments me Lauren Johnson ’14

As a child We are warned against sin, Against harmful things Like pride, And fire.

After I burned myself With confidence, I froze myself With self-consciousness And self-loathing.

A ball of flame still burned As a dim orange glow.

In the center of the ice block That was my heart.

And it burnt a hole.

To save itself, My heart broke.

My heart couldn’t handle The fire.

And burned its way Through each of the nine circles of hell.

I fell past Horace, Dido, Ciacco,

Pluto, Furies, Epicurus,

Alexander the Great, Myrrha,

Spiraling further To the layer reserved for Cain And Judas.

The devil hissed a welcome home, All the while, I was turning into steam.

The inferno Ate my soul Until all that was left Was a selfishness Hotter than any fire That tormented Even the blackest, charred Parts of my broken heart.

On the Edge - Sarah Nia Coleman ’13

The protective ice is gone, I am Dante, My heart now burns too bright; It’s blind from emotions.

All I am is water vapor and gas, Strictly a chemical reaction.

I will never be human again.

And I still fall Slowly In a downward spiral Trying to hide From the flames.

Outfoxed - Maura Perlow ’14 14

15

City Music Silenced Charlotte Fuss ’12

It started with Progress.

The flow of footsteps in a chord with

conversations between partners, The humming of motors beating with the

occasional chime of impatient drivers, All coming together to produce Music, Each with blinders of motivation channeled

into self-success.

A breeze passes, circulating the secondhand

smoggy haze Mixed with greasy street vendors’ livelihoods And slick store clerks’ ambitions, Manifesting the essence of The City.

7 Clouds and Dark Sea - Susan Lee ‘12

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A Halt. A Standstill. A Shift.

Without warning or understanding, Life is

forever damaged.

Silence Now found in The City known for never sleeping.

Normalcy and Beliefs are forgotten.

Indestructibility crumbles And transparent friendly reflections in the

passing glass shatters.

Progress is just starting to rebuild once again.

The pulse of daily passengers Coupled with underground rattling cars and

clinking coins Again come together to orchestrate New

Music, as the familiar past has been destroyed.

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My Mouth and My Piano Skills: A Memoir Jody Baik ’14

My fists were clenched and the back of my neck was drenched in sweat as I stood on the clear, slippery floor outside of my music teacher’s classroom thinking that I am probably the stupidest girl in the world.

I glimpsed my friend, Sun-woo, who was standing a few feet away from me, staring at the floor. Even though classes ended half an hour ago, the hallway was filled with twelveyear-olds holding mops and water buckets cleaning the windows and the floor. The girls happily talked about the hottest Korean idol group, Big Bang, while the boys ran around wildly waving the mops around and tried to trip each other. Although I would usually go join the girls, telling them how I was in love with Big Bang’s latest song, I was too preoccupied with my thoughts about how I would talk to my frightening teacher without having her think I was being disrespectful.

Suddenly, the door slammed open. The music teacher screamed at us to come in and start auditioning without even looking away from a poor girl she was scolding and pointed towards the small keyboard in the room. After feeling like I would throw up any second, I blurted out, “I... I’m sorry. I can’t, I really can’t...”

It would be a lie if I said I did not know how to play the piano. I have been playing the piano since I was about four years old. But even though I had started at an early age, most Korean nine-year-old children who played the piano were probably more skilled than me. This is because I hated playing the piano when I was little. Even though my teacher would always give me pretty stickers whenever I practiced, that was never enough 18

of a bribe for me to actually practice. The piano felt like a torturing device to my fiveyear-old eyes; I had such trouble especially since learning to coordinate both hands. I constantly begged my mom to let me quit.

Reluctantly when I turned seven, she said I could ‘rest’ from playing the piano for a while. From then, the pattern of relearning and quitting was repeated again and again until I was twelve years old.

The bigger problem began when I was eleven. I slowly found out that all of my friends had an instrument or two that they had played from when they were young.

During a conversation with my classmates, I found out many had won sparkling medals and awards in numerous contests for playing their cellos, flutes, violins, and other instruments. When one of my classmates I considered my ‘rival’ asked me in what I thought was a mocking voice, “Do you even play anything?,” I did not hesitate to tell her that I had been playing the piano since I was barely four years old. I yawned, pretending that I thought it was nothing. It was good when I was the center of attention, but since I also knew that sooner or later my clumsy skills would be found out, I was determined to stay away from any piano-friendly places with any of my friends after that.

My boastful ways came back to bite me when I entered middle school. The scariest teacher in the school, the music teacher, who was rumored to have slapped a student in the face, was looking for a pianist in each class. The chosen student was to perform a song in front of the whole school.

Even though I was daydreaming about Big Bang, I did not miss hearing one of my friends telling the teacher that I played the piano really well. I felt my body become a stone. The music teacher turned to me and lifted an eyebrow as she asked, “What Czerny are you playing now?”

I felt myself twinge as I quietly told her, “I’m n...not really good.”

Then my not-so-helpful friend had to yell, “She’s played from when she was barely four years old!” I started to wish that an alien invasion would happen at the school. I sank down in my chair.

Smiling from her throne-like chair, the music teacher declared, “Then I’ll give the music sheets to Jaeyeon and Sun-Woo and two days from now, you both will come here after school to play the song in front of me.”

I felt like I was sentenced to death as the bells started to toll, and as my friends came running to my desk to congratulate me.

Then, Sun-Woo walked over to me and waved her small hands, motioning me to come to her. I slowly walked to her, determined to tell her that she should play no matter what, though I was already thinking of a thousand excuses to back out.

As soon as I got to her, with a bright smile she said, “I am so glad you got picked as well, Jaeyeon! I have been so busy lately that I was too worried that I would not have time to play the song. I’m sure you would be great playing the song!” My stomach was in knots.

How was I going to tell her that I would actually ruin the whole song? Even though I did not want to admit it, I knew I had no choice.

“Umm... Sun-Woo, actually, I am really bad so you should play,” I said as I saw a frown replacing the smile on Sun-Woo’s face.

“I’m sure you could play well if you practice,” Sun-Woo snorted as she went to grab a book from the bookcase in the class.

After two days, I uneasily confronted my music teacher with my lack of confidence.

The music teacher simply told me to leave, and then proclaimed that Sun-Woo would perform instead of me. I saw Sun-Woo crying on the way home.

Actually, things turned out quite well.

Sun-Woo played the song on stage with only a few minor mistakes and even though she refused to talk to me the next day, we made up in no time and resumed being the best of friends. Through this, I learned that boasting is not a good idea if you are not exactly as great as you say. Sun-Woo is in Canada right now with her family running a Korean-Japanese restaurant, and we still contact each other once in a while. I can say that the piano incident helped us become closer friends than we used to be and taught me a valuable lesson that I should watch out before bragging about something.

Balloons - Sibilla Grenon ’14 19

With Skin Soft Like Blisters

by Victoria Turnbill ’13

With skin soft like blisters She looks at me And eyes like foggy sea glass

And what she has known What she must have forgotten What she never said

Her bruised arm reaches toward me With fingers outstretched, Flawless nails

I draw in a shaky breath And pull away

It wraps around me Constricts me, unashamed Older than shame

My Life Thus Far - Suji Kim ’14

And she holds me in her arms Chin on my shoulder Cheek brushing my ear Arms soft against my back I listen to her breathe Even and slow And I think about college About life – well, mine And how much I have left to live And about what she has experienced How much she has loved And lost How great have been her mistakes And how many

Her arms releasing me Lingering as they do Her breath inaudibly catching And her eyes searching out mine Breaking past my defenses Staring me down with her love A faint smile touches her red lips – Mere ghost of its mothers – Growing into something even more brilliant And she holds me there for a time, As short as a moment yet ageless as a memory, Suspended by strong fingers Soft arms perfect nails grey hair quietly

turning maroon Red-lipped smile skin-like-blisters and eyes

bright as glass from the sea “I love you. Know that.”

How many her feelings Her memories

I swallow and fake a smile.

“I love you too, Grandma.”

Sarah - Suji Kim ’14 20

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Mute

Christina Griggs ’12 This is the kind of silence that makes people talk. The kind of lapse in conversation that makes people desperate.

an improvement. But he is not going to say it.

The chairs slide across the carpet, the door slams. The people who are still here put on stoic faces. They will not Two swift, metallic clicks, a soft thud, cry. But it’s a show, a farce. They are the rustling of pant legs, and then a kind of silence different than before. It happy with what happened because now everything is over. The men is as if an unseen person spoke and in speaking made the silence grow. Now won’t be back. They can continue with their lives. There will be a turnover the silence is sitting here at the table of leadership, but the company will be too, and staring us down. fine.

A loud bang, a loud thud, a new Now, the man on the floor… he looks silence. Those sitting across from me would argue that this new silence was distinctly less fine. They will probably have to get a new carpet. You can an improvement on before. That now almost hear the cogs turning in their the lapse has been resolved. That the loud bang fed the silence and now it is minds. The rationalization has already just quiet, not silent. Those sitting with begun. They’ll tell themselves there was nothing they could do, that it all me would not admit that the silence happened so fast. They’ll find a lie has been resolved. That the wake of they’ll believe. But they will know that the bang is a peaceful quiet. But they it was the silence that gagged them feel it too. Only the man on the floor from action. would definitively say that this is not

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Return - Erin Cox ’13

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The - Few - Differences Among Us Charlotte Heffelmire ’15

Once, not so long ago, I was asked to watch a film and then write a paper for a sociology class on “why race matters.”

Below is what I wrote and submitted...

“Hi, my name is Charlotte, and I am a mongrel.” In past decades, referring to someone as a mongrel would be an insult that implies negative traits, most especially being of un-pure racial heritage. To me, it holds no negative connotation and I say it at times, and I write it here, as nothing more than a casual joke. Being a mongrel or a “mutt” is mostly unimportant to me beyond my genetic superiority.

Superiority, you ask? Yes, I am superior to many, in that my genetic diversity makes me less prone to many recessive genetic disorders. Beyond that, my race, or rather mixed race, is of absolutely no importance to me.

My culture, on the other hand, is important to me and I have lived my life attempting to get the best out of my diverse cultural heritage, just as I have worked to reject things I find negative or unimportant from my cultures. Overall, as a predicate for this paper, I find that entirely too much emphasis is placed upon race in our modern society and I have long grown tired of being asked to mark my “race” upon some form or another. I am the archetypical “other” on these forms and it would take many more boxes than are 24

usually offered for me to fully divulge my varied racial backgrounds.

Before watching the assigned film, I would have defined race as superficial and unimportant. After watching this film, I define race as superficial and unimportant.

Little in the documentary surprised me and I believe I learned way back in elementary school that our genetic racial differences are few and insignificant and more simply put, that race is only “skin-deep.” I was raised to believe that my race was trivial and that it would not affect me one way or another unless I chose to dwell upon it or use it as an excuse not to achieve all that I could. I see a persistent problem in American society, and that problem is an undue emphasis on our racial differences instead of focusing on the lack of differences and on our shared nationality.

Inching - Devan Smith-Brown

For me, the meaning of race is ultimately an absence of meaning. Race has only the meaning which we impart upon it and I choose to impart little or no meaning to it.

Biologically, race has been used to categorize the human species broadly into certain categories. Categories such as Caucasian, Negroid, etc. were used as racial categories that aided scientists studying the evolution of the human species. As the film well pointed out, race has become far more important culturally than it is biologically important and has been misused in order to repress or segregate unfairly people of certain races.

This is a worldwide phenomenon and is certainly not unique to our American society. Unfortunately people tend to place too much emphasis on what they see with their eyes than what they can learn about an individual through conversation. Most people can get past superficial racial issues and develop relationships and friendships that transcend inconsequential things such as race and skin color.

My ideas of race come from growing up a bi-racial person, in a mixed race household in America. My parents taught me that race was not an important issue in my life and therefore I have not allowed it to become an important issue in my life. I am not easily recognizable as belonging to

any particular race and therefore I am not prone to being stereotyped based upon my appearance. Most people are unable to guess my racial heritage and I seldom engage in any conversation concerning my race. I have, however, found it quite amusing to see the shocked look on many Korean people’s faces when they observe me speaking Korean fluently. Koreans tend to be a fairly race-conscious people and the shock I see on their faces is usually followed by a series of questions designed to solve the riddle of how I could possibly speak Korean as a native and yet not have any Korean racial features. My ideas of race being unimportant have been influenced by the undue importance that many Koreans place upon their race.

The film I was assigned to watch did not present anything that changed the way that I think about race, but did reinforce my concerns that young Americans tend to place considerably too much importance upon their racial heritage. By pointing out that race is less biologically driven than many believe, the film has value and should be widely viewed. The idea that race is a biological myth is succinct and valuable.

The biological fact that there is more racial diversity within discrete racial groups than between them is a point that should be taught and emphasized with children as they are developing their understanding of biology, culture, and race.

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Little in the film surprised me but some things did concern me. There seems to be a large group of Americans that still tend to look to the past racial issues as still being important in our daily lives.

For me past racial inequalities, although tragic, are less consequential than many tend to believe. By racially categorizing people in the past, it was possible to dehumanize certain races and therefore make it acceptable to repress and even to enslave a race. Worldwide, on literally every continent, slavery was practiced and practiced savagely. Great efforts were made to categorize certain races as inferior and therefore to make it morally justifiable to mistreat and enslave a particular race. For the most part, the world no longer tolerates

the enslavement of people based upon race. Our human prejudices still impact our lives and genocidal wars are still tragically played out on the world stage.

Our world bodies such as the UN have too often moved too slowly to combat these genocidal wars and we all carry the shame of the world’s inaction at times.

I choose to move through life as an individual, not as a person of color or as a person of any particular race. I strongly believe that when we stop placing so much emphasis upon race, then race will cease being as important. Diversity, and the strength that can be derived from it, can lose its benefit if it becomes too much of a focal point rather than simply a point of reference.

The 2012 Gate Magazine was created

with the help and support of...

Editors Nicole Williamson Sibilla Grenon Audrey Michels

Design Consultants Crystal Wright Kate Woloshin

Gate Staff Members Katarina Adstedt Alison Branitsky Congxiao Dai Rebeca Elizondo Katherine Gardner Briaun Isreal Katharine Jiang Lauren Johnson San Ha Kang Yoon Kim Annie Liu Chiara Marton Josephine Osei Supna Prasad Diana Winter Kate Woloshin

Special Thanks To Our Faculty Advisors Dr. Arizmendi Dr. Ward Ms. Mattox Mrs. Candia Mrs. Northrup

Fiction - Kate Woloshin ’12

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