OURFIRSTISSUE
dear Dear Reader,
As editors of last year’s school newspaper, we’ve seen all the ins and outs of the editorial process: from selecting topics, to creating layouts, to distributing the final copies. But throughout the year, we noticed that there was an obvious lack of creativity in our school publications. There was no home for the writers, the artists, or the poets. Thus, we pulled some ideas together, recruited some people for our staff, and after months of preparation, we bring you the very first issue of MAHS Culture, a modern revival of McNair’s literary magazine. F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, "That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong." Our hope is that MAHS Culture will expose you to works that you can relate to, works that demonstrate those universal longings. So, meet your school’s writers, artists, and poets. They double as your classmates, your friends, and the unknown faces you see in the halls. Each one of them has a story to tell—perhaps they will inspire you to share yours.
Portrait Jennifer Zuniga ‘14
Tsering Bista ‘14 and Melika Behrooz ’13
Fear Alex Rivera ‘14
I
IT’S A FUNNY SORT OF WORLD AUTUMN JUSTICE ‘14
It’s a funny sort of world, really. It’s the kind of world where people are technically animals but animals are never people. It’s the kind of world where the sun comes up again as soon as it goes down, and goes down as soon as it’s up. It’s the kind of world where people eat Big Macs, large fries, and Super-Size-Me-Please sodas, and where people avoid food like it’s the Armageddon of The Slim Figure. It’s the kind of world where people don’t eat (by choice), and where people don’t eat (very much not by choice). It’s the kind of world where AIDS and cancer take millions and antibiotics save millions. It’s the kind of world where people evolved, (according to Darwin), and were created (according to various Creators). It’s the kind of world where Gods and Entities exist alongside science. It’s the kind of world where people believe in something, where people believe in nothing, and where people muddle along in between. It’s the kind of world where freedom is kept alive and audaciously flaunted and where freedom is doggedly ignored and nervously oppressed. It’s the kind of world where we have everything before us, and where we have nothing. It’s a world that has Capitalism, Communism, Socialism, Fascism, and Buddhism. It’s a world that fights endless, bloody wars with itself and ends them with a handshake and a piece of paper. It’s a world that is run by the Government, and a world where the People are in control. It’s a world of fate and self-reliance, of change and stagnation, of reality and fiction. It’s the kind of world where technology will ultimately destroy
us, and where technology is the beacon of the future. It’s the kind of world where the people are fundamentally homogenous and fundamentally unique. It’s a world that takes what it can get and gives more than it has. It’s a world where everyone knows right from wrong but no one can agree on the exact definitions. It’s a world where cultures clash, cultures meld, and cultures remain distinct. It’s a mad world, a sad world, a hopeful world, and a disheartened world. It’s a world of its people, of the good ones and the bad, of the magnificently extraordinary and the excruciatingly plain, of the celebrated and the forgotten. It’s a world that is content with being imperfect. It’s a world where people live and die, love and hate, come out ahead and come off the worst, and, at the end of it all, go on with their lives.
Doodle Kirti Bansal ‘13
I
I AM FROM PATIENCE OPAOLA ‘15
I am from checkered bed sheets and flowery comforters From books hidden in boxes From playing make believe with different toys And soft green carpets on cool summer days I am from happy parents and many siblings From crayoned walls From evening laughter And a close knit family, always together I am from swing sets and libraries From children laughing From old school textbooks And cheap delis on crowded city blocks I am from blurry memories and tasty “Caprizone” From frequent hot days From dusty brown roads And nameless faces smiling down on me I am from science and reason From Albert Einstein From Michio Kaku From theoretical physics I am from a life worth documenting From lyrical poems From short stories And journals marred with ink
Lorelai Jessica Zuniga ‘13
Walking on Air Lester Sanchez ‘14
W
ON MORTALITY CARINA CLORES ‘13
We assume we are great creatures, the fairest of the land. We build upon the successes that make us feel important, believing that the fit of passion mom and dad fell into that one night was conspired by the gods and goddesses because it was about time the earth received such a gift. We believe that we are designed, not bred, that we are created, not produced and that we are “I”, not “we”. We strive for greatness because it provides satisfaction. Satisfaction is our form of euphoria for our shortlived aspirations. We have aspirations because we like to pretend that nothing is short-lived. We believe in infamy. We believe in existing so much so that when such a notion is no longer, we believe in the afterlife. But we’re mortals – significant or not, we are all painfully mortal. Once the euphoria of greatness dissipates, the realization of utter mortality settles in. Those fortunate enough to realize this early on in their lives are the only ones capable of living it to the fullest. Futility, not infinity, is what they make of the human experience. The idea of an afterlife masks the fear of one day becoming obsolete, of one day becoming significantly irrelevant. It’s not death that we fear, it’s the vulnerability of falling and never getting up. We spend years being nurtured, growing up and shaping ourselves to fit the mold of what is ideal for us. Then we are told to wake up, only to be sent into an eternal slumber. We may achieve greatness at some point in our lives, or even achieve greatness at the highest point in our lives. Nonetheless, we are still susceptible to what makes us so incredibly human: mortality.
It’s survival of the fittest; but even the fittest falter. There are two axioms of life: it goes on and it’s finite. The paradoxical sentiment is a primal instinct; a common knowledge that allows us to adapt and to evolve. We are replaceable beings. Our existence is an indication that time has gone by; when we are no longer worthy indicators, the clock continues to tick, always ready for a new generation to pick up where we left off, counting the minutes and the hours in all of its eternal glory.
Close-up Jennifer Zuniga ‘14
SPEAK
Every time I listen to a spoken word poem, I want to write something that stands above the paper, floats in the atmosphere, inhales the breath that my audience is holding. Something that needs an ear to cradle it. But my words are silenced by the broken microphone in my throat, and my shaking hand that can only write on a canvas that doesn’t have an easel. People are always telling me that I’m too quiet. They never say I need to speak in an octave that’s a few notes higher. Just because I can’t sing, doesn’t mean that whatever comes out of my mouth isn’t music. I wonder if Van Gogh had butterflies in his stomach
© Nathan Balcos ‘14
E
CL ASS OF ‘15
the first time he let someone look at his paintings. What would have happened if Shakespeare kept his plays hidden in his diary? Why did Beethoven keep playing piano long after he couldn’t hear? I think sometimes the only thing I need is an encouraging tap on the shoulder to remind myself other people need to kindle the spark in them too. Maybe then my voice will be a continuous flow of somersaults entertaining millions of people at the spoken word Olympics. Would I still get a perfect ten even though my syllables started bumping into one another, and my stuttering heartbeat echoed through the microphone like a skipping record? I can’t ask you to lend me your ears. All I can wish for is a room filled with eyes quivering to hold back tears and voices that can only mutter, “I felt that.”
72 BEATS PER MINUTE I wonder why she holds her breath before touching the first key. She doesn’t look at her fingers, the way a dancer doesn’t look at her feet. The only thing that seems to be in her gaze is the sheet music. But she is in a world in between the ledger lines. Her flick of the wrist is gentle
before an arpeggio, unlike her fierce striking during a crescendo. Sometimes I don’t think she plays piano. She is piano, soft. Her soul is the strings inside, and it pains me to watch her hammer them. She strikes herself from within – that’s why she holds her breath, because it might be her last. But I don’t want her song to end. Her heartbeat is a symphony I wish she’d play instead.
T
THIS
That single mellifluous crack in space when the earth halts in mid revolution, when the chaotic songs of the city transform into silent symphonies, is serenity. A single teardrop that crashes on the concrete, causing a pearl necklace to shatter into thunderous pitter patter, is simplicity. That wrinkle in time when the wind whispers melodies into trees’ ears, when the trees blush sunset pink blossoms, is hope. The first bud of many hopes waiting to bloom is not spring. It is a new start. It is the potent aroma of flowers. It is taking a step back and looking at the rosecolored confetti. It is a renaissance. The robotic voice you make in front of the fan is not summer. It is eating the smiles from watermelon slices. It is running after the ice cream truck. It is taking your first dive into the vast blue abyss. It is absorbing more
UV rays than usual. It is friendship. The vibrant red and orange ballerinas dancing in the air are not autumn. It is falling into a pile of lost adolescent treasure. It is wrapping scarves around one another. It is taking a step back and witnessing the billions of hues that the trees create. It is the disbelief that you didn’t look before. It is taking a deep breath and saying, “Wow…” It is the cracked pieces of leaves that create mosaics on the sidewalk. It is bewilderment. The frosty air biting at the nape of your neck is not winter, but the wonderland into which you fall backwards. It is the white clay you mold into a man. It is the shooting stars which kiss your flaming red cheeks. It is the mustache left by the hot chocolate you drink while still wearing gloves. It is the frozen moment you stand in awe and gawk at the chimera before you. It is imagination. An unwavering companion by your side is not a shadow, but your own self confidence cheering you on every hesitant step. The speckled mist is not a fountain, it is a well full of penny wishes yet to come true. A great star cloaked behind pink clouds is not the sunset, but a canvas painted with blinding light and bubble gum cotton candy. This is life. Take a deep breath and come alive. This is it.
D
THIS IS MY BODY TIMISHA JOHNSON ‘13
Do you see this? This is my body! It belongs to me. These breasts are mine. What’s behind may be fine, But it belongs to me. No, you may not Touch it, Squeeze it, Grab it, Fondle it, Or Hold it, In any way. It belongs to me! What lies between my legs is A gift that God gave me To share with my husband, And honey That is something that you are not trying to be, And I am not trying to be your late night creep. So, we will never be equally yoked So, get thee behind me Satan, And I do not mean the way you wish to. Why do every guy I meet, At least recently, Just want to “hit it”? Well, I just want to hit them because, This is my body; A living sacrifice. It is not meant to
Please you, But God. This is my body! I do not care If every curve on it calls your name, You cannot answer it! You cannot come near it! If you want to come closer, Hold my hand. Why must you hold my waist? Kiss my forehead sometimes Then, it’s more special to see how my lips taste. My body is precious! I’m glad that you admire it. It’s ok that you desire it. But, I would like you more if you respect it. This is my body, I don’t want to have to tell you again.
Body Sketches Kirti Bansal ‘13
I
SONDER TANVEER SINGH ‘14
I put on my headphones and walk out the door. A short climb up the hill separating Journal Square from my home and I reach the Jackie Robinson statue--the man who broke the color barrier now trapped in bronze, forever trying to catch an invisible baseball. I walk down the escalator and reach a chasm made to allow the trains to weave their way into New York City. Thousands of people take these trains back and forth every day. Often the steel compartments are filled to the brim, ready to spill. The train pulls in; the people slowly start to diffuse into the cart. The piano of Kanye West's "Runaway" starts playing into my ears. I look around but my eyes never connect with anyone else's. Each person is consumed by a world of their own. A man on his iPhone reads over e-mails from stressinducing clients. A woman reads a paperback copy of 50 Shades of Grey. A toddler is overwhelmed by sleep while her younger brother's cries pierce the ears of those nearby. The mother tries to cradles the child and the cries start to subside. The disturbed go back to their novels and handhelds, creating enclaves. There is solace in being alone. As John Coltrane's saxophone wails through my headphones, I feel overcome by a sorrow known as sonder--the awareness that each individual is living a life completely detached from my own yet equally dynamic, intricate, and unique. Each has an exclusive past; each has those that care about, love, or hate him or her. Each has idiosyncratic fears and ambitions, failures and successes. "Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at
all," croons Jeff Magnum, lyricist of Neutral Milk Hotel, in a raspy voice. Seven billion people struggle with an existence of lone experiences, who may feel as strange as I do about the notions of living. We are entangled in our own being and when we are out of our element, we become more perceptible to what is around us. Seeing the innumerable faces, distinct from one another, shifting as the train glides through the dark, makes clear one of the few rare truths in life: never has it been all about you. Perhaps the Catholic Church condemned Galileo for exposing the same truth when he was found guilty of heresy. Galileo's observations proved that the Earth was moving around something greater--the Sun--contradicting the Bible. But the controversy surrounded the question, "How could the center of the universe not be us?" With the advent of modern isolation, the question morphs into: "How could my world contain substantial and fully independent beings outside of myself?" I glance around again. The man in Adidas gear with his back against the door--what kind of a life has he lived? The woman wearing rouge lipstick and oversized Prada sunglasses--what struggles has she had to face? I start to recall how many people I have seen but never paid attention to. Lives that I had passed by and disregarded. My thoughts start to echo and overpower the music from my iPod. The train stops at 33rd Street. I leave with the passengers en masse. Sonder makes me feel all too human. *sonder – created by John Koenig as part of The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows.
Art is not what you see, but what you make others see. Edgar Degas
Grandma’s Hat Jessica Zuniga ‘13
I
UNTITLED MELIKA BEHROOZ ‘13
I am Iranian. I am not what is portrayed by the images on the screen. I don’t know how to build a nuclear weapon. I have never, and will never support a terrorist effort. I do not scream, “Death to America!” in the streets nor do I burn the American flag. I support gay marriage. I have Jewish friends, and I am not a Holocaust denier. I am Iranian. I am from the birthplace of Hafiz and Ferdosi, famed classical poets. I have parents that can recite Rumi’s poems from memory. I celebrate Persian New Year, Eid. I set out the haft sin, seven symbols of wealth, health, and prosperity, every Eid, just as I put up my Christmas tree. Last night, I had gormet sabzi, steaming snow-white rice with a thick stew of red beans and greens. I read articles in Farsi and follow Farsi blogs on Facebook. I listen to Persian pop, sometimes Persian rap (and yes, that exists). I am in an arranged marriage. Iranian tradition suggests the burial of a child’s umbilical cord provides an unbreakable bond, one that the child will have and hold-till death do them part. My bond was made months after I was born. While I was still in Tehran, my father was making deliveries in New York. The last stop on his route was Columbia Univer-
sity. His final package had been carried all the way from Iran. In the soil of the school’s garden he dug a small hole, just big enough for a baby’s fist. In it he placed his daughter’s umbilical cord, symbolically betrothing me to higher education. I am destined to love learning. When I grew my first tooth, an Iranian teething ceremony was held in my honor. I was placed on a sofreh, a setting of symbols elaborately decorated by my mother. The jewelry, a symbol for beauty, was pure gold. The coins were mesmerizing, pulling me towards them with their promise of future wealth. Then on the edge, the subtle treasure: a book. It had no sparkle, just a green hard cover and hundreds of pages lacking the usual elaborate illustrations. I reached for it first, which predicted a future of devoted evenings spent lost in my studies. I am Iranian. I will not apologize for my heritage. My traditions have shaped me--molded me out of clay, adorned me with a mosaic of talents and traits. To the Western eye, the Blue Mosque in Tabriz has lost its history. With a neglected façade of deteriorating stone, it seems outdated, something that could only be appreciated as a relic of the past. But peeking inside, you will find a breathtaking display of Iranian culture, with a mirrored ceiling and sapphire mosaics adorning every wall, pure azure beauty beaming from every corner. For centuries it has been a monument of Iranian culture and will remain that way for centuries to come. No matter what
goes on in the world around it, it is Iranian.
A I am Iranian.
A NATION KASSANDRA BOOS ‘16
A nation Sprawling, sprouting, swallowing Its ideals Welcoming foreign masses, Like a hearth blazing In the midst of a frigid, hidden corner of the earth, Where Demeter's touch has not reached. Planes Carrying the cargo of cautious foreigners Land on the palms of Lady Liberty. She, being a lady of deception Persuades the naĂŻve travelers To consume the succulent fruit, a welcoming gift Of approval, the promise of fitting in. With one bite they ingest Unknowingly, unsuspectingly, The poison of Americanization Lurking beneath the guise of sweetness. The poison seeps slowly into their brains, Erasing the memories of notions of their homeland Like words on a chalkboard, wiped away. Their culture, dialect, way of life,
Gone. Replaced with the permanent ink of the American writer Rewriting the pages of your being. If you are to step into her kingdom, Refuse the fruit of Eden. Refuse conformity. Before all that you were, All traces of your true roots Drift away... Erased...
M
Art is the only way to run away without leaving home. Twyla Tharp
HANDS
TSERING BISTA ‘14
my favorite parts of your body are your hands you can tell a lot about a person by the way their fingers feel rough and calloused smooth and polished wrinkled and bony the way they intertwine with other souls other spirits up lift and fortune tellers read our palms to take a glimpse into the future but in your hands, i see the past i see a story in the crevices of your life lines i see an individual in the intricacy of your fingerprints i see you and your ability to hold embrace accept and create
ARE YOU INTERESTED IN SHARING YOUR STORY? Poets, artists, writers: Submit your work to mahsculture@yahoo.com or place it in the folder outside Room 305. You could be featured in our second issue! To view the magazine online, visit www.issuu.com/mahsculture
© 2013 MAHS Culture All Rights Reserved Layout by David Chen ‘14 Cover art by Jennifer Zuniga ‘14 and David Chen ’14