Calliope 2015

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Calliope is an annual student literary arts magazine presenting creative writing, poetry, two-dimensional, and three-dimensional works of art created over the course of the 2014-2015 academic year.

Emma Boisvert ’15, Jiarong “Karen” Cai ’15, Courtney Cryan ’18, Delia Hannon ’17, Gabrielle Houssan ’15, Arber Isufi ’17, Danielle Mahlert ’18, Elizabeth Sisko ’15, Alexis Solomon ’15, Jenna Tetreau ’15, Ke “Narcissus” Zhang ’15


CALLIOPE

The Visual Arts and Literary Journal of Marianapolis Preparatory School Thompson, Connecticut 2014-2015

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Calliope Editors

Across 4. Editor 7. Editor 8. Editor 9. Editor Down 1. Editor 2. Editor-in-Chief 3. Editor 5. Editor 6. Editor

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KEY Across 4. Kayla Kibbe 7. Meghan LauzĂŠ 8. Delia Hannon 9. Chance Jackson

Down 1. Mackenzie Bonner 2. Hannah Listerud 3. Caitlin Cryan 5. Erin Miller 6. Sarah Cavar

Faculty Advisor: Caitlin Sundby


There is nothing more selfish than art. It is easy to see the artist as a dictator: the writer holding one captive with his ideas for pages at a time, the painter demanding one view of the world in his colors. William Faulkner, however, saw the artist in a different light. Faulkner viewed art not only as a gift, but also a duty to mankind, essential to the survival of civilization itself. Of the artist, Faulkner wrote, “It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past.” This year, Marianapolis was challenged with the theme of Service. Together, we have endeavored to extend consideration, empathy, and effort to better both our community as well as ourselves. Meanwhile, the Marianapolis artists have accepted a similar challenge. This year, we have strived to become the artists Faulkner saw in the world. We have put brush to canvas, pen to paper, and taken on the entire world through the lens of a camera, all in the hope that our voices “not merely be the record of man, but one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.” There is no room to be selfish in art. An artist cannot exist without his fellow man. Ink will fade and paint will wear away without mankind to salvage the ideas beneath it. Between these pages, the artists of Marianapolis present our water-colored, ink-stained, photographed ideas in the hope that they will remind you of the vitality that has not only been “the glory of your past,” but will prevail long into our future.

Kayla Kibbe ’15

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Blanket Statements By Erin McDowell ’15 Steam rises off the coffee mug As mist rests on the surface of the newfound day Layering the world in its sheer overcoat Clouding the visions she has of herself. Insecure thoughts vanish instantly As his gaze penetrates her frost-bitten lips Melting what is right or wrong Questioning, quivering, quite opposite of what one expected. Staring into blue-green eyes She finds a part of herself that did not exist Even within the chasms of her naivety And downturned smirks that hide her true self. Confused by the tragedies of her own misfortune, The ill-timed romance that precedes Maturity and awareness of what love truly is, And how someone of sixteen could feel crippled by such devotion. Cold feet, cold hands, cold eyes Reach across a coffee table searching For the slightest graze or admission That it’s not just awkward sidestepping and what-ifs. A part of her knows that what-ifs never Actualize or become more than “In a few years” or “down the road” 4

Blanket statements.


Rachel Eilerman ’15

Phoebe Reagan ’15 5


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Jiaxin “Charlie” Zhang ’15


Madison Snyder ’16

Phoebe Reagan ’15

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I Envy the Poet By Kayla Kibbe ’15 I envy the poet with his infinite ability to weave truth into words and then veil them with rhyme

With his readers who delight in their ignorance -unable to lift the veil -looking at their failure in awe

While the prose writer sits backed into a corner by demands for a period at the end of every sentence

And readers clamor at his door with acidic demands for loose ends tied up, preferably with a satin ribbon of one color and a prince for every princess

I envy the poet who can sew his soul into his work, 8


then hide it behind rhythm and metric fleur-de-lis and still send his reader to a peaceful sleep

While readers of prose lie awake at night tearing through pages, nursing their anger and their insatiable need for answers I don’t have.

Shea Biron ’15

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Yidi Chen ’15

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The Perfect Pose By Cassandra Gallant ’18 She is beautiful

the mirror and scale

as graceful as a swan

killed her soul.

a dancer for life nothing else could compare

But no change is ever good enough

to the joy she feels.

and sometimes she must eat so she runs to the bathroom

But her story has a twist

-her only retreat.

sometimes shown on her wrist she’s told she’s not good enough

And she attempts to be good

her stomach too big

by ridding herself of food

her thighs aren’t apart

but it’s never enough

and she’s not stick thin.

never enough...

So she tries to prove them wrong

Her demons haunt her

she will be the best

but nobody cares

skip lunch here

because she is a ballerina

skip dinner there

and she is supposed to be perfect

no one will notice

supposed to be

no one will care.

supposed to be she will be

And day by day and night by night 12

She is.


Cassandra Gallant ’18

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Lydia Tourtellotte ’16 (left and right)

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Flightless Bird By Meghan Lauzé ’15

You kept me grounded I would thank you, but darling, I needed to fly.

Camile Harvanek ’16 (left)

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Time Doesn’t Dispose of Memories By Maria Plasse ’16 i still talk about you like you haven’t left yet. even though they say time heals wounds, the memories are like scars that will never be forgotten. i sit here struggling with which parts of my personality are my own, and which ones you softly planted in me; for, i find it difficult to move on when i still try to find you in everyone, especially when i realize i find you in me.

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Katie Fontaine ’16

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The seven-letter word By Athena Abdien ’15

An abstract account of adversity and accomplishment She took his hand, as if to expect nothing less He moved his eyes in all directions But not hers

His hands gripped with no strength As she watched each flower petal of “congratulations” fall slowly onto the floor He walked away Leaving her to stand with such opaque eyes

Years later She never came to understand why Her least expected misfortune was a loss of love Realizing now, he was not her love

The mail address with one last name Turned into a simple four digit number No longer a four-lettered word And now we say, “Goodbye.”

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Madison Snyder ’16 (right)


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The Marlin By Chance Jackson ’15 The birds are far too delicate for the cruel sea, But I persist.

One must learn to endure, if they are to inhabit la mar. She is an unforgiving mistress, But she is mine and mine alone And so I love her.

The turtle’s heart may bleed, But I heal.

I am not without my enemies. They are threatened, threatened by the strength of our shared love. They seek to destroy the fabric of my being, And in so doing inherit my kingdom and my love for their own. For the moon above descends upon my mistress’s delicate face, Caressing her cheek with a touch Far gentler than I ever could. But I do not weep.

A man can be destroyed, and he can be defeated,

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But I submit to none.

Long after I am gone, the moon shall continue to court la mar, A slow, mesmerizing waltz, tranquil in its beauty. A dance, set to a mournful tune; La mar is calm. She remembers me so, and so is still. I have nothing to fear from the moon.

Alexander Iamartino ’17 23


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Alexis Solomon ’15


Shea Biron ’15

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August 9th: The Day I Lost You

By Athena Abdien ’15

It’s a Tuesday night and I’m

thinking of you, once again. I’m sitting in my room with the lights dimmed, looking at the baseball cap you were wearing that afternoon. I know nothing can change but all I can say is that I’m sorry. All you were trying to do was protect me from making a fool of

by eighteen, you may still be a child adapting to the strict realities of the world, but you need to face such realities at some age, and according to the law, that age is eighteen.

This debate migrated from the

coffee shop, to the sidewalks of campus, to your car. As usual, I walked towards the driver’s seat and you responded with,

myself as a young journalist by voic-

ing my opinion instead of stating the

failed your license test once. And I

facts in my articles, but my ignorance

know you’re going to say, ‘c’mon Dad,

completely blinded me.

our family makes mistakes all of the

That day, we were discussing

recent politics, on how I believed that the voting age should not change. You, being the adult said that the voting age

“Hattie, not this time. You

time, and the instructor was not fair to me, I did not run that stop sign’, but I won’t allow it, you’re not going to fail us a second time.”

was chosen with good reason, but at

eighteen years old, one is at the turning

and I, irritated, sat beside you with my

point that faces adulthood. At eighteen,

arms folded and brow creased.

one does not have the full ability to rationalize and know who the president of our country should be. I argued that Hera Phan ’15 (left)

So you sat in the driver’s seat,

“You know, Dad, just because

you’re fifty-one doesn’t mean you 27


know everything. They say that chil-

dren are the foundation of our future.

we are still working on her. As for him,

I’M A CHILD SO-“

his heartbeat is slowing down by the

“Hattie, you got two facts

right, and that is that I’m fifty-one and you’re a child. I think I know a bit more than your stubborn prep-school conscious.”

I grew so furious that I pushed

your right arm. I promise you, I was

second. We have put Hattie’s bed next to his so her presence is known to him, and I think you should say your goodbyes.”

The doctors thought that I had

no clue what was going on but when it comes to my father, I always know.

not intentionally trying to push your

arm so hard that your hands slipped

hand was reached out towards me. I

off of the wheel, but it was entirely my

whispered the words of an apology and

fault. You tried so hard to gain a grip

he nodded. The sounds from his heart

and as your hands moved a huge truck

monitor were slowing down, until all

came onto your side and our car drove

we heard was his heartbeat stop. He

diagonally into the truck. Neither of us

was gone.

could call for help except for the truck driver. The doctors in the emergency room named you as unresponsive and me as unconscious but alive. Hours passed and the doctor walked out to

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“Her eyes have just opened, but

His eyes were closed, but his

I started crying, just like I do

every time I pull his baseball cap out from my box of memories. Drew ran into my bedroom.

the waiting room where Mother, Drew

“Hat, you’ve got to stop, it’s

and Bradon sat anxiously.

been two years, he wouldn’t want you


like this, it’s not the Hattie we know

not in the right place, but I could’ve

and love. Come on, let’s go watch a

held in my anger until we exited the

game, I’ll order some sushi. That al-

car. Of course, I couldn’t find any

ways cheers you up.”

patience left in me, and because of that,

The guilt never goes away. In

now my father is gone.

fact, it grows more as the days go on. I know I was heated and my head was

Grace Rett ’18

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Reanna Kuzdzal ’17

Ximena Guadalupe Limas Benitez ’18 Bennet Sage ’16 (left)

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New School By Benjamin Fitzpatrick ’15

Yellow leaves, red face Through those gates, my fate awaits. I see my breath, breathing heavy, In my mind, I am not ready. In I walk, with open eyes, Watching them, walk on by. Feeling sad but never showing, Might as well pretend I’m glowing.

I hear girls yell with exaggeration, And all I feel is exasperation. I have come, I cannot go. What I want, I do not know. All I know is that I’m here, And the rest of my life Is still not clear.

Camile Harvanek ’16 (left)

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Caitlin Cryan ’15

Caitlin Cryan ’15 34


Playing with Your Heart By Emily Loftus ’15 Slowly, smoothly, starting on the ground, eagerly waitingFor the exhilaration of the bounce and sharp turns. You fly, sky high, up and away “swoosh” just before descending “boom boom” down the rickety tracks with hands in the air screaming “ahhh” for the thrill of letting go, and embrace the wind dance through your hair just as you open your eyes to see a change in movement ahead, which tells you the ride is almost over but you’re overjoyed and are fearless, as your heart races with the speed of light. 35


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Sabrina Godin ’18 (left) Jiarong “Karen” Cai ’15 (right)


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Xiaohua “Edward” Li ’16

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Künstlerroman By Meghan Lauzé ’15

At 6:53 each morning, I paint.

“Open your eyes all the way. Your eyes are little! What’s wrong with you?” Nothing was wrong with me, as far as I was concerned. Was something wrong with me? I lumber into the bathroom, yawning. The fluorescent bulbs sting my bleary eyes. I brush my teeth and shrug into a sweater. “Look, I’m you!” cried my classmate as he pinched the skin around his eyes. The teacher stifled a giggle. It takes less than a minute to coat my forehead and cheeks with tan foundation. It doesn’t quite match my skin tone—I’ve yet to find makeup that can—but it’ll do. This is the primer, not the main attraction. My fourth-grade crush tapped me on the shoulder after math class one day. “Your eyes are weird.” He paused. “No offense.” The time is now 6:57. I overslept again; I can either leave home now and make it to school on time or start painting and risk being late. I choose the latter. “She’d be pretty if she had bigger eyes.” I’d already cried over two boys. Now, I was crying over my third.

I open the drawer closest to the door and reach for its sole content. The eyeliner pen fits snugly in my grip, as familiar to me as the pens I use at school. I stare at the reflection of my blank canvas. I must focus before I write. I must focus before I paint. I flick the top off the pen and exhale. “Mascara won’t do a thing for you,” barked the Sephora saleswoman. I glowered; I was too used to this. As I turned to leave the store, she tapped my shoulder. “Try this,” she murmured apologetically, handing me my first Stila eyeliner pen. The extent of my artistic talent is stick figures, so I’m grateful for the pen’s felt tip. I have an unsteady hand and not nearly enough time to fiddle with a brush and pot every morning. With practice, however, I have slowly whittled away at the number of cotton swabs required to fix my mistakes. “Your eyes look… different. You look less Asian.” Not what I was going for. I start by drawing a thin, straight line from the corner of my eye. Then, I freestyle. I smear black on my eyelids, allowing each stroke of the pen to run its own course. It is not a conventional form of artistry, but it is my own. “You know, it would be easier to draw Sharpie on your eyes.” I resist the urge to grimace. Is it a sin to take pride in one’s own art? Is it a sin to take pride in myself? Now comes my favorite part: I smooth the jagged lines of my mis39


takes, flaring ink at each corner. It is a move that has taken me years to master; I still struggle when I’m particularly tired. I step back from the mirror and take a second to admire my work. We sat on his couch, watching a movie. “You’re prettier without makeup on.” “But I like it.” “But you don’t need it.” I do need it. I need it to feel strong.

Throughout the day at school, I will receive compliments on my makeup. One girl has even started to use the same product as I do. Praise makes me swell with pride, as praise tends to do. It cannot, however, heal my scars. “Are you sick?” “Jeez, how much sleep did you get last night?” “You look twelve.” “You have more eyes.” I have gone barefaced around my classmates twice since I began painting my face. Those two days were two days too many. Maybe I’ll stop painting when I get to college. Maybe I’ll stop when I am married. Maybe I’ll only stop when my hands, bent and gnarled with age, can no longer paint delicate lines on my wrinkled canvas. No matter my age, I will only be able to stop when those around me can appreciate the beauty beneath my eyeliner: my heritage.

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Shannon McMaugh ’15 (right)



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Ambitions By Elizabeth Sisko ’15

For two weeks now, all I’ve wanted to do is drink orange juice. It’s not that bad really At least I have something to look forward to.

Yidi Chen ’15

Christopher Lundt ’16 (left)

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Jiaxin “Charlie” Zhang ’15

Yihan “Wendy” Wu ’15 (left)

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Do Not Be Afraid

By Katie Villa ’16

Do not be afraid. Poetry is not as intimidating as it looks. Though you may want to tear it apart Out of frustration, let it be. Good things come to those who wait: By taking it slow and steady, The meaning will eventually be revealed. Be courageous. The reader of the poem may come at it like a Knight ready to slay a dragon. They are ready for the worst to unfold, When it is really tame like a lamb. With the courage to understand a poem, The reader can open a door of possibilities. Have faith. Understanding a poem may seem difficult, But it was written for a reason. If a reader is unable to reach into the poet’s mind for the answer, Then it is time for them to decipher it their own way. There is no right or wrong way to read poetry, Only the reader’s way.

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Bennet Sage ’16

Sophie Achilles ’17 47


Madison Snyder ’16

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Lam “Cathy” Chan ’17 Isabella Velasquez ’15 (right)


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Look again By Shea Biron ’15 An overflowing wastebasket, a desolate heart Empty sheets, cold stale coffee Sealed letters, ripped pictures A tear, a gun, a note A second thought, a second glance A smile, a whisper, a text Opened letters, new pictures Entangled sheets, warm steaming coffee An overflowing heart, a desolate wastebasket

Yidi Chen ’15 (left)

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The In-Between

anything like that. As a matter of fact, I

By Erin McDowell ’15

was the most average person one could

When I first considered what it would

ever meet. Was? Am? Who knows? It

feel like to die, to disappear into the

all changed on the first day of college,

past with a single breath, I had no idea

namely, some tiny community college

that I would never actually experi-

in Ducksville, Indiana. High school

ence this. Don’t get me wrong. I died,

was a nightmare; oh how cliché can I

alright. We’re talking blood, guts, the

be? It sucked, but whose high school

whole nine yards. Something about

experience didn’t? Anyway, let’s just

that day, however, saved me. The truth

say my studies were not in the fore-

is, I can’t die - no matter how hard I

front of my mind. The truth was, I was

try. Duplicates of my lifeless body are

too busy making out with the only boy

littered throughout the world. One lies

who would settle for me. I barely no-

at the bottom of the Thames River (I

ticed that I wasn’t anywhere near smart

think the police were too busy taking

enough to get into college.

pictures with manic tourists to notice

So there I was, Odette James, college

the young girl plummeting off the side

girl, leaving my house approximately

of Tower Bridge, half-eaten cronut in

two minutes before I had to be in class.

hand). I think you could find one in

Jumping into my car, I jammed my

San Francisco (murder), one at the Taj

key into the ignition and put my 1972

Mahal (mugging gone wrong), and

Volkswagen Bug (yes, I’m that girl)

one, surprisingly, in Switzerland. I

into drive. What the hell? I remember

think I ate some bad fish.

thinking to myself. Back then I was

So yeah, it’s true. I am immortalized.

able to worry. When you can’t die,

I’m not a vampire, or a sorcerer, or

anxiety becomes pretty much nonexis-


tent. A large manila envelope blocked

now, for obvious reasons. The biggest

my line of vision in the already tiny

one being that I cheat death - frequent-

windshield. Goddamn marketing ploys.

ly. If perishing were a game of cards,

Living in a pretty “urban” area of

I’d be thrown out of every casino. As

Ducksville, my car was subject to all

nice as it is to have no worries, one

kinds of fliers, ads, and various other

must wonder what allows me to live

forms of vehicular harassment. Roll-

constantly and continuously, with no

ing down the window, I reached out to

end in sight. That’s what I’m trying to

grab the offending packet and threw it

figure out.

in the backseat. I was on the move at

Something between the first mo-

last. Creaking and growling out of the

ment of my first day of school and the

parking lot, I turned into the normally

manila envelope on my windshield

quiet intersection. Just when I had

has set off some sort of voodoo magic

turned onto my side of the road - glass

that allows me to never die. If I could

everywhere, crunching metal, screams,

trace my way back to my wrecked car,

and a thud. That’s right, I was dead.

I’m sure I could figure it out. That is,

Lying in the woods after being thrown

if it hasn’t been scrapped to make Diet

from my tin can, I said my last good-

Coke cans. That would be real conve-

byes to my mediocre life, and accepted

nient.

defeat. At least, I think I did. The truth

Stumbling along my old neighbor-

is, my neck was already broken and

hood road, I avoid anyone who might

even simple thoughts were pretty im-

recognize me. I am dead, after all.

possible. I like to think I made peace

There. That freaking tree, cross and all.

with my situation.

I didn’t even hit the tree, some bastard

That peace is completely disrupted

in a Ford truck did. Details, details, I 53


suppose. Approaching the white cross,

to reach you. It must reach you, and it

engraved with my initials, I am suspi-

must be read. You are in great danger,

cious of what happened that unassum-

and so I have come up with a plan to

ing fall day. Why me? I look behind

protect you indefinitely. You must never

the tree, no clues as to the where-

reveal the true nature of your condition

abouts of that sinister yellow package.

- people will take advantage of you, do

In the grass where I landed? Nothing.

whatever they wish with you without

Looking back at the cross, I wonder...

fear of the consequences. Bad men

lifting up its white craft-store-quality

cannot go to jail for murdering an im-

oak, I look underneath. Nothing but

mortal girl. This, you must understand.

bark. Oonf. The cross falls to the

I am sorry this is how it has to be; you

crunchy ground, trodden on by many a

will understand when we meet.

mourner, it seems. Wait...on the back-

With love,

side of the cross, all manila paper!

Your mother.

It couldn’t possibly be. Ripping off the paper, I realize the envelope has been

My mother. My DECEASED mother. Of course. Who else would it be?

cut up and pasted to the back off this dinky memorial. What is this, Nancy Drew? Piecing the envelope back together, I assemble its contents, a letter, to read: Dearest Odette, I am so afraid to be writing this. I never know whose hands this might fall into, or the lengths it must travel 54

This is my life. Or my deaths, depending on which way you look at it. Who is my mother protecting me from? Beats me. Maybe I will never know. Or maybe, we’ll meet - in one death or two deaths time - we’ll meet. Two dead girls, having coffee, dreaming of new ways to off themselves, with no fear of heaven or hell, or what lies between. Pin- Jung “Elisa” Chen ’17 (right)



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Jiaxin “Charlie” Zhang ‘15 Jiaxin “Charlie” Zhang ’15 57


A New One By Alexis Puhlick ’15 A new one Will begin When the moon And stars project light Illuminating the darkness covering the earth

The sun is sleeping Everyone is sleeping Blissfully unaware of their surroundings

I find myself awake Even when trying to sleep So I wait and watch Awake and alone Staring out my window Seeing the moonlight dance on the water

Wishing I was as important as the glowing orb Giving light to the earth when it is so dark Wishing I could be as beautiful As the sparkles shimmering on the water Wishing I could be as wise As the path of light stretching into eternity 58


If I miss the moon like those who are asleep I will land on the stars Falling from the sky For someone else to make a wish on me So, at least, their dreams can come true.

Sarah Spiker ’16

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0


Chance Jackson ’15

Xiaohua “Edward” Li ’16 Joel Chapin Cheney ’16 (left)

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cence, monotony has entered your life. The Interminable Present: An Address to the Class of 2015 By Kayla Kibbe ’15

Though you spent the last four years within the walls of an institution that you inevitably compared to a prison

Class of 2015. You have been

on numerous occasions, during those

told multiple times by teary-eyed aunts

years you actually had more freedom

and pretentiously beaming educators

than you will ever again know. During

alike that today does not mark an end,

those years you had more potential than

but rather a beginning. This insight –

you ever will again; Not because you

while trite – is not entirely false.

were any more capable of anything, but

This day does mark a begin-

ning, but not the kind the majority of you have been told to expect. Today marks the beginning of your introduction to the world of monotony. You likely are not yet aware of this fact, but within the last four years of your life, you have already been the happiest you are ever going to be.

That is not to say, however, that

many of you won’t be able to stave off the monotony for a while longer yet. You do of course still have college. But with this closing of your adolesKatie Fontaine ’16 (left)

simply because in that time you had the freedom to believe in the infinite powers of an elusive concept known as the future. As you enter this new stage in your life, you will find that the promise of the future no longer exists, and has rather been replaced by the reality of an ongoing present.

As you settle into this mo-

notony, you will realize that your high school years truly are the ones you look back on fondly. Not because the daily horrors of teenage angst have been removed, but rather because that was the 63


last time something so trivial as emo-

a slave to the reality of finances. You

tion was allowed to play such a signifi-

will get married even though you swore

cant role in your life. Of course, the

you never would, because you’ll realize

problems you will now face will likely

that love will fade, so you might as well

be no less trivial. In the long run, strug-

watch it fade with a diamond ring on

gles with mortgages or raising a family

your finger. Time will pass more and

are really no less petty or stupid than

more quickly with each year, but you’ll

the time you thought your best friend

find you care less and less because

favorited a subtweet about you. The

nothing really ever changes in the inter-

difference is, in the past you cried over

minable present.

Twitter because you feared the way the subtweet would affect your future, while your mortgage payment can only cause more problems within the interminable present of your existence.

As the years go on you will get

a job. It will likely be some kind of white collar desk job, but it will really be just another form of the same kind of glorified prostitution you endured as a minimum wage cashier in high school. However, if you are lucky it will pay the bills and that will really be all that

This is the “real world” you have

all spent the last four years longing for. You will spend a certain amount of time living in this daily monotony. You will grow old or maybe you won’t, and you will die.

Ladies and gentlemen of the

class of 2015, whether you know it or not, these last four years were the happiest ones you will ever know. I certainly hope you have made the most of them.

matters because you have now become 64

Delia Hannon ’17 (right)



Yujing “Betty” Zhang ’15

A special thank you to Kellie Ryan, Dylan-Ernst Schäfer, Michelle Murphy, Robin Cassella, Susan Andersen, Rachel Rogers, Brian Jacobson, Benjamin McVety, and Kendra Sumner. 66


Scholastic Art Awards Shannon McMaugh “Land of the ‘Free’”- Silver Key (photography) page 41 Caitlin Cryan “The Tree that Came to Dinner” - Gold Key American Visions Nominee CAEA Best in Show (photography) “The Dream Land” - Gold Key (photography) page 34 Jiaxin “Charlie” Zhang “The Meeting House”- Silver Key (drawing) page 45 “Bizzare in Venice”- Gold Key (painting) page 57 Kayla Kibbe “The Interminable Present: An Address to the Class of 2015” Honorable Mention (writing-humor) page 63-64 “I Envy the Poet”- Silver Key (writing-poetry) page 8-9

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