2013-2014 P
R
CALLIOPE Faith
E
ARIANAPOLIS
P
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Calliope is an annual visual arts and literary journal presenting creative writing, poetry, two dimensional, and three dimensional works of art created by students over the course of the 2013-2014 academic year. A special thank you to Robin Cassella, Brian Jacobson, Dylan-Ernst Schäfer, Kellie Ryan, Jane Hanrahan, Susan Andersen, and Karen Tata.
Kaitie Panagiotou ’14
CALLIOPE
The Visual Arts and Literary Journal of Marianapolis Preparatory School Thompson, Connecticut 2013-2014
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EDITORS Sarah Cavar Yidi Chen
ASSOCIATE EDITORS Erin Miller Chance Jackson Meghan Lauzé Megan Johnston Sarah Mitchell Lorraine Smith Julianne Holby Michaela Young Daren Wang Bennet Sage Zizheng Wu Caitlin Cryan
Cover Design Zizheng Wu
Faculty Advisor Caitlin Sundby
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Joel Cheney ’16 (right)
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Why I Write Kayla Kibbe ’15
anecdote – I gained very little from the experience, particularly with regard to my literary ambitions.
When I was very young – I
significance of this story is that it is
believe about three, no older than four
perhaps the earliest indication of two
– the dishwasher in my home broke.
traits that would go on to play a crucial
In keeping with the usual paradigm of
role in my identity as a writer:
middle class households, my parents
1. My reactions to the world
then purchased a new one, and I spent
around me are intensely
the entirety of the day of its installation
emotional.
in tears.
2. I possess an acute and
While I did begin writing around
arguably unhealthy
this time, it was in no way a result of the
aversion to change.
expulsion of my childhood dishwasher.
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The sole
My earliest scribbles had nothing to do
In short, my writing is emotionally
with failing kitchen appliances. They
driven. When I write, I seek to both
were – inconsequentially – typically
define
stories I invented involving characters
Perhaps as a consequence of being
I created out of my toys and stuffed
only sixteen years old, or perhaps as a
animals. I did not rush to my pen and
consequence of being an “emotionally
compose an elegy mourning the death
driven” person, I have often been
of the dishwasher, nor do I plan to at
made to feel that my emotions and
any point in my linguistic future. In
experiences are not valid. I find myself
reality – aside from a mildly humorous
driven to my pen in an attempt to prove
and
justify
my
emotions.
both myself as well as the world wrong.
strives to capture an aspect of human
If I can capture an emotion – however
existence in words they do just that:
seemingly frivolous – in words, then
they steal a small part of the world and
I can bring it into tangible existence.
rework it into something they can claim
The world may mock adolescent tears,
as their own.
but if they flow instead onto a page in bold black ink then they exist. They are irrevocable. They are valid.
I am no exception.
As an
emotionally driven being, I have an intense tendency toward sentimentality
The word “capture,” as applied
and nostalgia. Though I have matured
to writing, is one I first encountered in
beyond mourning the loss of home
Dodie Smith’s 1948 novel I Capture the
appliances, my aversion to change
Castle. In this novel, the protagonist
remains intact. I have a strong, pressing
attempts to detail, or “capture” the
desire to hold on to people, places,
world around her in writing. I have
events, and above all, emotions. As
always identified with this employment
a writer, I strive to fight against time.
of the term, particularly the aspect of
When I write, I have the opportunity to
stealth it implies. Writing is, in many
capture in words what are otherwise only
ways, a somewhat stealthy ordeal. It is
fleeting instances of human existence.
unnatural. The majority of people do
With my pen, I defy the laws of time
not feel a pressing need to detail their
and can seize an emotion that would
experiences, their feelings, and their
otherwise not be mine to keep. Words
observations. Writers do. Writers take
create reality. A memory will grow old
an experience, a view, a feeling, and
and in time will fade and then cease to
turn it into words. Each time a writer
exist. But ink staining through a page 5
is irrevocable. It exists. A goodbye is
I have no consideration for the reader.
not a death sentence if I can capture it in
I possess the same selfish desire to be
words and hold the heartbreak between
heard that all writers are accused of. In
the pages of a book.
writing I seek to validate my ideas, not
The development of my identity
as a writer began early in life, declaring itself my passion by the time I reached ten years of age. I am driven to my pen in both a literal as well as figurative sense.
I find that I even delight in
penning words that are not my own. The sides of my school notebooks
the eyes of others. When I put pen to paper I often find myself imagining a future reader, and am driven by the idea that someday someone will see what I am writing and understand how I felt in a way that the world does not otherwise permit me to express.
are crammed with quotes and song
lyrics. The mere movement of pen on
a devastating fear that I cannot write.
paper has become an addiction for me.
That I have no gift for it and will never
Through writing, even words that are
make a success of it. I have no evidence
not my own, I strive to find my place in
that this fear is in any way unfounded.
reality. When I write, I can take what
It may be more valid than any emotion I
feels the most real to me – emotions
have ever put to paper. However, even
– and turn it into something that has a
if I knew this fear to be completely
valid standing in tangible reality.
valid and inevitable, I would still
While I do believe that my
writing is primarily emotionally and personally based, I no longer argue that 6
solely for my own purpose, but also in
Sometimes I am possessed by
write, simply because I would have no other way of legitimizing the ensuing emotion. Yidi Chen ’15 (right)
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Brian Barrette ’14
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Timothy Saucier ’16
Timothy Saucier ’16
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Why I Write Kayla Casavant ’14
her third grade teacher’s face when she did her book report on Little Women.
I write to emancipate myself.
She was thoroughly and completely
I am trapped in this dreary and
content with this little life she had
predictable life. I do the same thing
created for herself. It was how she
every day. I am limited. I am limited
escaped trivial little kid problems. She
by my parents, my teachers, my
would make up all these silly little
coaches, and my peers. Most of all, I
scenarios and stories in her head. Then,
am limited by myself. Brick by brick,
she would put them into action. Some
the walls build up. The higher they get,
days, the cream cheese ceiling in her
the more resigned I become. However,
room was the beautifully hand painted
each letter of the written word acts
roof of a cathedral. Other days, the steel
like a mini stick of dynamite. Writing
blue carpet was the African Sahara.
gives me the power to be my own hero.
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books, and can still recall the look on
In the way that everybody does,
There was once a naïve girl.
she grew up. She learned the hard
When she was a very young, she
way that not all children spend their
existed quite happily in her own little
weekends in endless orchards or in her
world. She was sure that every person
favorite fictional escape, Narnia. Other
was good. Pinky promises were binding
children didn’t seem to appreciate her
agreements. She didn’t see anything
goofy and unrealistic stories, and she
wrong with her wild imagination.
was told that she needed to leave them
The trees were her friends. The birds
behind. As her problems grew, her
answered her little girl shrieks in words
dream world shrunk. The trees were
she could understand. She devoured
just trees. The carpet was just carpet.
It was in fifth grade that she first
better. However, those boy and girls
discovered writing. She wrote a pathetic
had robbed her of her ability to speak.
little poem about why she wanted to be
She was too terrified to tell any of these
a bird. However, this moment was key.
new people about herself. She couldn’t
She smiled her first real smile since that
tell them how much she cared for, and
horrible year began. Through writing,
eventually, loved them. She could write
she learned that she could save herself.
it. She could write about the horrible pain
Years of tears and bullies followed.
she suffered. She could pen down what
Writing was a constant. They could
others’ words did to her, so she could
tell her how fat she was, or how odd
figure it out herself. She wrote about
she was. They could strip her of any
being afraid. She wrote about being
confidence she ever had. However, they
horribly sad, and also about the newly
could not take away her pen.
In the
found good in her life. Corny poems
confines of her bedroom she escaped,
about friendship surfaced, as did poems
even if it was for only a little while.
about love she had never experienced.
Once she reached high school,
She wrote to sort out the
there was so much more to escape from,
kaleidoscope of feelings in her head.
but she had almost completely stopped
She wrote to strip herself naked and
writing. Boys talked about how ugly
to really look. This mighty tool rebuilt
she was, and girls stabbed her in the
her. Writing made her strong. Writing
back. Friends came and left, taking
allowed her to be who she was. By
a little piece of her with them. She
the time she reached senior year,
was so completely lost and confused.
almost twenty completed journals were
In a very dark time, she made some
stacked beside her bed. They were
new friends, and things got a little bit
filled with both poetry and prose. They 11
spoke of teenage angst and true love.
field. I believe the field has potential to
While she had long ago left behind
be beautiful and full of life. However
fairies and enchanted woods, she had
for days, weeks, and sometimes months,
discovered a new means of escape.
at a time, dark clouds fill the sky. With
I write because it allows me
to break down the mess I make in my head. Writing allows me to make sense of things that clog my thoughts. Writing has given me confidence. It makes me feel valuable. While I am not particularly talented in my sculpting of the English language, maybe I can make somebody, somewhere feel something. I want to make other people laugh, smile, cry, and know that they are not alone. I want other people to know who I am in my simplest terms. My words do not have a skin color or body shape. My words allow the world to perceive me, as I want it to perceive me. I am whoever I want to be; free from the restrictions others place upon me.
I write for the sunlight. I have
always imagined that my mind is this 12
little to no reprieve, it storms. Doctors and therapists constantly throw around names like depression and anxiety. The names don’t matter all that much to me, because sitting on a stiff couch every Thursday afternoon does not break up the clouds. “Talking about it” doesn’t work either. Writing does.
Fifteen
minutes jotting down frivolous phrases in my poetry journal, or making a quick diary entry is sometimes the only sunlight I receive all day. There are many weeks where these brief moments of joy and passion are the only way I make it to the weekends. If I had not discovered writing, or rather writing had not presented itself to me; the clouds would have completely won a long time ago. Writing has given me the courage to not give up, the will to save myself.
Jiaxin Zhang ’15
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Gabriela Larrea Peralta ’16
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Robert Ahearn ’14
Mist rolls in off the ocean and it looks for all the world like the city is drowning sky scrapers tread water and houses are lost to the swell. I watch from my fourteenth floor window as shadow-men desperately cling to telegraph poles,
City-Sea
seaweed trees swaying
Sara Spiker ’16
amid calmness of city-sea depth. Gone are poets composing odes to nobody they’d ever met. Gone are artists who dismantle our memories, to create something new. Gone the explorers who sacrifice present in search of the future. Gone the preachers who promise that all will be past come tomorrow. Everything’s still in the water, time stops even as we move on, with echoing silence that envelopes chaos and I couldn’t have planned it better. Mist rolls in off the water and it looks for all the world like the city is drowning sky scrapers tread water and houses are lost to the waves. But they won’t be lost forever. Time will render them precious still, the mundane become treasures; sacred spaces washed clean, left waiting for mist to recede.
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Katie Villa ’16
Robert Ahearn ’14
John Littley ’17 17
known that my sister had a big mouth when she was younger, not literally, but Why I Write
figuratively. As the older sister she felt it
Kaitie Panagiotou ’14
her job to fill any time where I could be talking with her own, more intriguing,
The saying goes, “even a blind
dialogue. She talked my aunt’s ear off
squirrel finds a nut once in a while.”
the entire meal. Maybe she felt she was
It was when I was going through
fulfilling her duty as the older sibling?
adolescence, blinded by the sea of
Who knows. I love my sister and now
opportunity in the world of books, that
in hindsight feel I owe her all the fruits
I discovered my “nut” in the form of an
of my labor. Even when we didn’t
author. Nicholas Sparks threw himself
completely understand each other, we
upon me with the passion he portrayed
taught each other. She taught me to be
in each and every novel. It was through
bold, yet listen well. As an infinitely
this emotional journey that I developed
small piece of the world population, I
a love for all books that fall into the
have to talk in order to be heard. Though
romance category. Cheesy some would
still quiet in person, writing allows me
say, but so became my personal writing
to be loud. Writing gives me a voice to
style. I write things I would enjoy
express my opinions, style, and self.
reading. I write to read and read to write.
What I do with this voice is up to me, so
watch out, “you’re gonna hear me roar.”
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I can remember the time my
Auntie Mel took my sister and me
Namely in morality, I have
out to lunch after a day of shopping.
always found motives to be the most
At the time we were both under the
annoying of concepts. I struggle to
age of fifteen and had yet to develop
accept the fact that I can never truly
the sixth sense of emotional telepathy
know the motives of another person,
that all sisters possess. First, it must be
unless I can find a way into their
cerebral cortex. The only thing that
learn a new pun, it has the most comical
saves me from this frightening fact is
effect. When the man paying at the
an immensely comforting one. Nobody
register offered to put in his two cents
can ever know my motives better than I
to help stifle the problem, the nature
do. That is, until I share them with you.
of the pun was nearly as impressive as
I write to be an artist. If painting
seeing a Jeep turning on a dime without
is an expression of one’s visions, then
flipping over. Plays on words amaze me,
writing is that of one’s thoughts and
for they show the potential for creativity
dreams. A blank page is exactly like
that the English language presents. I
an unpainted canvas, full of immense
could tell a cook that I want lettuce,
opportunity. Never have I ever shown
turnips, and beets in my salad or tell my
signs of being capable of creating the
friend as we are cruising to the radio,
next Mona Lisa or photographing the
“lettuce turnip the beet.” Versatility,
next cover photo of TIME magazine.
when taken advantage of can make
Yet, whenever I write I learn more
even a garden gnome seem interesting.
about my artistic abilities. I learn how
This is why I love puns, metaphors,
to use commas better and get a sense
and similes. They make writing more
for when I should provoke uproar by
fun to read. In life, they bring zest
using a semi-colon. I learn that flowery
and laughter to conversation. These
sentences do not always contribute
literary tools help me find my goofy
well to the growth of a story and that
side as a writer. I am a firm believer in
sometimes, abrupt endings are called for.
the power of laughter and a smile, thus
my admiration for the work of puns.
I write for the pun of it all.
Quite frankly, I love puns. Extravagant
I write to live. To live fully,
metaphors and similes are great too,
people must be completely happy with
but a juicy pun to season the mind will
themselves. In order for this to be true,
always take the cake. The first time you
the person must find pride in something. 19
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I find pride in writing. I find pride in
mouse in the corner. The transformation
the fact that nobody can be better at
became unbelievable. I remember the
portraying my ideas and style than I
times I would sit in the driver’s seat,
can. If nobody else can justly portray
running to grab tools for my personal
my thoughts, I would be a failure to
mechanic, a.k.a. my Dad. Blasting the
myself if I did not. I love reading a
country music made me appreciate
self-published sentence and feeling
the opportunity at hand and dream of
good about it. I love being a nerd and
the day that I would actually drive the
telling my friends about a paragraph
car for the first time. I remember the
that to me, seems to be ingenious. Pride
time that this time came. Words do not
is a funny thing. It goes beyond the
give the emotions justice. The Jeep is
happiness one feels about something to
now a physical reminder of the plot
the euphoria one feels about something
of my summer. Writing such stories
great. Constant exposure to pride makes
down makes them almost as concrete
the emotion harder to find, not because
as the asphalt the Jeep trolls over.
it expires, but because it transforms into
Had I not written this essay,
confidence and a vicious motivation to
I still may not know the true reasons
achieve more things to be proud of.
to why I write. That is the power of
Memories come and go in our
writing. As I speak, laugh, express, feel
mind, but can be made permanent
pride, and reminisce I discover more
if documented through writing. I
and more about myself as a person and
remember seeing the 1987 Jeep for the
a writer. I learn about my likes, dislikes,
first time. It looked unsalvageable and in
and pet peeves. I discover that I love
desperate need of a bath ten times over.
the sound of the word doppelganger,
I remember vacuuming out the interior
but sometimes hate the pronunciation
for the first time and finding the dead
of my last name. Opportunities to
learn are absolutely everywhere; we
a particular millisecond in time. My
just have to find them. When you take
aim here is not to impose my beliefs
advantage of their being, no question on the greater paradox of writing or will be left without a response. to show how I use my ego to enhance Maybe we write for a purpose,
my effectiveness. My goal is to learn.
to prove or teach something uniquely My goal is to learn about you and thought up. But maybe, just maybe, me, to see if your incentives and writing is much simpler than that. We expectations match my own. Thus, I write to write, to express whatever end not with a quote, but a question. is circulating throughout our mind at
Why do you write?
Jae Cho ’15
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Beauty Unknown
Sofia Ulibarri Karras ’14
Mr. Ray Cross Serendipity has a way of showing us that there is more to ourselves than we can imagine. Procrastination and avoidance have the potential to keep us from greatness, so exploring our existence and questioning what we perceive to be normalcy is necessity. Concession is a powerful tool used to keep divine design from allowing us to intently mirror our individual blueprint. Psychological warfare waged between me, myself and I screeches to a halt with one accidental occurrence. Though never planned, circumstances and opportunity are always welcome. Timing is everything and this impeccable chronology encourages questioning whether or not error can be used to explain such felicity. Invited indiscretion is such a beautiful surprise.
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Benjamin Adase ’17
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24 Yidi Chen ’15
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Simone Fournier ’17
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News Poem Emily Sheridan ’17 Newtown,
The children all huddled as one,
My town,
To give themselves strength
Your town,
To face the unthinkable
Any town.
On a normal mid-December morning.
Parents waking their young, Quick breakfasts and clothing changes Hasty kisses and waves goodbye, On a normal mid-December morning. Across town a monster has arisen, While his mom has gone to sleep forever
Teachers giving their lives To save their students From the monster Pop, pop, bang, bang. Everyone gave it their all To be brave and together A massacre has occurred On a normal mid-December morning.
His mind is severely damaged His weapons are loaded and ready. Ring, ring, ring, ring The bells have rung
Newtown, My town, Your town, Any town.
The day has begun On a normal mid-December morning. Pop, pop, bang, bang Screams, glass-breaking, doors banging Intercom blaring “Lockdown� People running.
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Timothy Saucier ’16
Alessandra Caparso ’17 28
Paloma Namur Garza ’16
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door, I am overcome by a sense of
The Unrelenting Optimist
warmth. The wood stove is burning to
Rachel Roach ’15
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my left and the comforting smell of the
“I swear if one more person asks
burning wood fills my lungs. I am at
me about college I am going to lose it. I
once greeted by Daisy, the lovable three
know I am not going to get into the one
legged yellow lab. She licks me until I
I want, so why bother getting my hopes
relent, get down on her level, and pet
up?” As I complain angrily, I mount
her for a few minutes. I don’t call out
the stone steps up to my best friend
to Libby; I know where to find her. As I
Libby’s house. I stop for a moment to
make my way through the orange living
pet a little orange kitty on her porch. I
room, I pass two brown leather couches
assume it is from a barn cat’s litter. Ever
with just enough wear to know they
since I can remember, the front porch
are appreciated. The walls are slightly
has been home to numerous outdoor
slanted, a trait typical of a house that
cats and their adorable kittens.
The
has the age and character of this one.
porch is weatherworn, complete with
On one of the walls to my right, a huge
a set of well-loved rocking chairs. As
assortment of suns and moons line the
I stop to pick up the kitty with a little
wall. The floor is brick, but I am always
brown spot on his back, the wind blows
astonished to find it is never cold; it is
and I am overwhelmed with the sound
just as warm and welcoming as carpet.
of numerous sun and moon-styled wind
As I walk through the living room I take
chimes. I almost laugh at the comforting
a small step up to the kitchen. I stop to
sound, but I immediately remember how
get myself a glass of water and stand in
upset I am and quickly enter the house.
the kitchen observing my surroundings.
I don’t knock; I simply walk right
The kitchen is beautiful. It
in. Knocking is asking for permission to
recently has been redone and has honey
enter and I know I’m always welcome.
oak cabinets and new appliances. It was
Immediately upon opening the screen
lovingly remodeled by Rick, Libby’s
door and pushing in the heavy main
dad, for her mother when she was sick
with cancer. Yet the kitchen has always
amazing people I have ever met.
been beautiful, back when its cabinets
She is one of the blessed, filled with
were painted bright yellow and it had
unreasonable amounts of optimism.
an old white farmer’s sink. The kitchen
The kind of people you read about in
has always been my favorite. There is a
books and immediately dismiss as
feeling I get when I am in this room that
being impossible. The strength she
is unmatched. My favorite memories
possesses is greater than any imperial
have happened in this room, sitting
army or the mightiest of kings. It is
at a small wooden table with my best
strength that cannot be measured by
friend drinking cups of hot chocolate
the physical exertion of power; it is
and making plans for whatever scheme
beyond that. Regardless of how many
we had come up with that day. Libby’s
insurmountable obstacles are placed in
mom, Alicia, was always there to
her way, she never forgets to smile. I am
make us warm drinks in unique mugs
one of the lucky ones. I wholeheartedly
that I had given her years earlier. The
believe meeting her is a privilege God
feeling in this room can only eloquently
bestowed on my underserving life.
be described as the way you feel on
Alicia is the epitome of every positive
Christmas. If these walls could talk,
quality I could ever strive to emulate.
they would never stop; they would recount every lovely memory that has played out in this kitchen. I am startled by Alicia as she walks in the kitchen from her room. I am so lost in my daydream that I jump at her greeting. I immediately give her a hug and yet again I am not disappointed. She gives the kind of hugs that make everything a heck of a lot less troublesome. Alicia is one of the most
It is not a feeling I identify when I first walk into the house, but I find the deeper I walk into it the more it is able to captivate me. The house is beautiful, old and well-loved. Inside it is warm and cozy. Yet no dĂŠcor can make a house feel cozy, no amount of paint, furniture, or carpet can make you feel at home. It is the people. The reason the house is wonderful is because it was the scene for many of my favorite memories. 31
Alicia makes the house inviting, every
we would like a cup of tea. We all get
smile and warm welcome add to the
a cup of tea: fruit tea for Libby, green
love of the house. The unrelenting
tea for Alicia, and regular with milk
optimism she has towards life despite
and sugar for me. We sit at the table
every obstacle she has overcome is what
with mugs in hand and laugh about the
makes the house warm. There have
days since we have seen each other.
been times during her treatment when I
The desire to emulate Alicia didn’t
visit, expecting the house to be gloomy.
come all at once, but slowly over many
Yet, every single time I am proven
cups of tea. I have found her to be
wrong and anyone else going through
the strongest, happiest person I know.
what she has would resign. Alicia, she
All at once I remember the issue I
laughs it off, makes a joke and pours
was mulling over when I arrived, the
Libby and I another cup of tea. What
problem I had come straight to Libby’s
a wonderful state of mind she has.
house to discuss. Now bringing it up
As I sit at the small wooden table in the kitchen, Libby comes down from her bedroom and Alicia asks us if
32
seemed trivial and I knew it would work out and if it didn’t what was there to do? I guess the answer is to smile, make a joke, and drink a cup of tea.
Crane earrings by Marina Kawasaki ’16
Sarah Mitchell ’17
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Shealyn Biron ’15 34
Jasmine Brouillard ’14
Lydia Tourtellotte ’16
35
Joel Cheney ’16
36
big heavy book is mentioned of men in The P.E.R.P Anna Maria Graham ’15 “Like the snow, they melt” - Unknown. UTTER RUBBISH! I tell you. The audacity of it all. IGNORAMUS! All of you. Thinking you know of my life, my so-called primitive culture in which I supposedly use herbal necessities to clear the mind. If that’s not enough, have a man; the result of history in his
shackles. I knew not of certain “ ‘isms” before I came here yet still they suggest the indescribable dream of a lifetime. In a world where it is not a big deal to have a Chinese mother and a black father is brought to a place where suddenly it all matters. WHY DOES IT MATTER? WHY
IS
IT
SO
RELEVANT?
ISN’T THE PERSON RELEVANT? THE LISTEN
BACKGROUND TO
NOT!
YOURSELVES,
the
times framed by lines of what he feels collection of stunning reflection of the is knowledge but what I feel is utter light trying to seek the attention of ignorance define my home as simply those who don’t seek attention from sun and sand. Day by day, epitomizes
you. Boy with red Nikes suddenly
stupid irrelevant questions that I still becomes the topic of interest. LOOK AT am unsure how to answer. I BESEECH YOURSELVES really! How dare you YOU ...to seek clarity in a nation other
claim to be my friend because you can’t
than your own, a culture very different find your crew in the hall of cliques and from your own. Standing amongst complexes. The fallacies of your world familiar but not similar faces of different so petty to me, I’ve seen bigger crimes orientation, where I am the center and
committed right in front of me. Silliness
people look to me when a word in a
is GOOD, silliness is GREAT! But the 37
inability to know and speak on matter not Do not undermine yourself because you involving your environs is simply sad. do not look like everyone that walks past SO NOW I SAY TO YOU. Embrace your individuality. Let it speak to you. You are YOU. You are gorgeous, beautiful in every way. You are amazing, truly amazing. Every curve, every extra, every last strand on your head. Remember that. You are pretty, everything, anything you want to be. Anything you wish to be. And
you everyday. You are YOU. For I, I once looked at myself and wondered if I was beautiful but then I realized I AM ME and YOU ARE YOU. So even though my mind cannot capacitate the way of thinking… FIND YOUR HEART AND YOUR COMPANIONSHIP AND BE YOU BECAUSE “Like the snow, they melt.”
as I say to myself, take it as your own.
Ke Xin ’14 38
Simone Fournier ’17
Jasmine Brouillard ’14
39
40
Jiaxin Zhang ’15
Lucas Jones ’14
Zachary Roethel ’14
41
Shannon Madden ’14
42
Nan Zhou ’16
I’ve Been Framed Caitlin Cryan ’15
The bright florescent lights
when I’m looking through my camera.
seem to grow brighter overhead as the
Quickly something snaps me out
sun begins to fade out the window. The
of my fantasy. I open my eyes as three
large open room is quiet except for their
figures walk through the glass door and
mechanical hum. I look around and a
into the white room. A tall man dressed
smile quickly spreads across my face. I
handsomely in a suit approaches me. My
am surrounded by many diverse stories
husband kisses me on the cheek, gives
that all blend into one. The white walls
me a smile and says, “Are you ready for
are strategically decorated with various
this? You’ll do great. I’m so proud of
sized frames that are filled with my
you.” I don’t even have time to answer
hard work. To me this work really isn’t
him before two children come barreling
that hard, it doesn’t even feel like work.
towards me and wrap their entire bodies
I stand in the middle of the room
around my legs. “Mommy! Mommy!
by myself, probably over dressed in my
You made really pretty pictures,” the
red cocktail dress; heels that are way
little girl, wearing the pink dress I had
too high for me, and perfectly matched
laid out for her earlier, screams. I laugh
accessories. In the few minutes I have
and lift her up in my arms. My husband
to myself, I let myself slip into a
bends to pick up the slightly older
daydream. I’m holding my life in my
boy, as he chimes in excitedly, “Ya
hands. I click the button. I hear the
mommy, I really like that one of me!”
rhythmic open and close of the shutter.
We all chuckle at that remark, “and the
The sound is so natural to me, but still
bird one. It has really pretty colors.”
manages to excite me every time. I take
My perfect little family walks around
my eye off the viewfinder, and look
exploring the spacious room, looking
to see a perfectly focused landscape
at my alluring prints adoring the walls.
illuminate on the little screen. The world
has always been more intriguing to me
It is opening time, and I turn around
Just then the door hinges squeak.
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to see people begin to file in. “Here
are so well received by the public.
we go,” I nervously mutter under my
breath. The vast room quickly fills with
on the wall, too?” My little boy
people, more people than I had ever
questions
dreamed of. They all had come to see
up at me with his big brown eyes.
me, to see what I had created. I smile to
myself at this thought. I begin to notice
almost hard to answer, “No, sweetie.
little red dots seeming to materialize
Those red dots mean that Mommy’s
out of nowhere. I walk through a
pictures were sold.” I can’t help but
crowd of people, passing a multitude of
beam at him, “A lot of people bought my
simple black frames, all with little red
artwork, and it’s going to be hung across
stickers next to them. Within an hour,
the city.” I think to myself for a moment,
nearly every frame was joined by a red
“maybe even across the country.”
dot. I am filled with emotion, and am simply over joyed that my photographs
Ben Mandile ’15
44
“Mommy can I put stickers excitedly,
as
he
looks
His pleading face makes it
Xiaohua Li ’16
45
26 Letters
I hang onto Sundays because my mind wanders
Isn’t it odd that
Into his.
“I love you” and
I wonder what he feels
“Goodbye”
And if he wants to be there,
Are made up of
And if I’m the only one who thinks
The same alphabet?
About his smile.
Writers Are
But, then
Writers are
On Easter Sunday,
Colors
His smile is no longer sad
that don’t have names yet
And he says “thank you” like he means it
And feet
When I utter, “Peace be with you.”
that are too big for a 8 1/2
The next time I sit in our pew,
but too small for a 9.
I don’t stare at blonde hair.
They are that weird feeling
I stare at a pine box
you get at night between
As his mother struggles to breathe
sadness and hope
And his father lays his head in his arms.
that you can’t quite place.
When I leave,
They live in the milliseconds you
I put my hand to the casket
close your eyes
And whisper, “Peace be with you.”
when you blink.
And maybe for the first time,
And they dare to believe in
I actually mean it.
Santa Claus.
After
Peace Be With You
And I love the way the world looks
There is a boy
When it has just rained
Who sits in front of me at church
The sun hesitantly peaks out
With blonde hair.
And the wet pavement glistens
When he turns around to shake my hand,
Just like your lips
I can see his sad smile.
And while the screaming is still ringing in my ears
Each week I stare at the back of his head.
And the tears are barely dry
Each week his smile grows sadder.
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I think that is when I love you the most Kayla Casavant ’14
Jiaxin Zhang ’15
47
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Caitlin Cryan ’15
49
Yidi Chen ’15
50
Megan Johnston ’14
Why I Write
My
deadline
for
self
found
the greatest elation in crayons and
Meghan Lauzé ’15 The
younger
construction paper. I quickly discovered this
that I was not the next Picasso, so I
composition looms two midnights from
resorted to scribbling the next best
now. I’ve toiled over this question
option I could conceive of at the time:
for more hours than I care to admit;
words. My script veered sloppily
every answer I ponder seems strange
across the page, but I hardly minded the
in my mind and only looks worse on
mess. I found it beautiful. For me, it
paper. Staring blankly at my third
was love at first sentence. My interest
failed draft, it finally dawns on me that
soon stemmed into an obsession.
I must stop trying to give the correct
wrote during every second that I could
answer. High school has ruined me as a
spare; I must have murdered hundreds
writer. I have become a slave to the A+;
of trees between the ages of four and
I have shoved aside the unadulterated
fourteen. As a toddler, I scrawled
creativity of my childhood in favor of
tidbits about the fairies that lived in my
the impersonality that English I and II
mother’s garden; as a pigtailed fifth-
demand. I’ve lost my voice in the past
grader, I penned crude love notes to boys
few years, and as I pore over bland
whose names I’ve all but forgotten. My
essays from months past, I realize that
parents swelled with joy that their little
I’ve lost my purpose as well. Why do
girl wrote in her spare time. Of course
I write, besides just for the grades? I
they encouraged my work, and of
have no idea. I simply must.
course I happily complied. My vivid
I
imagination compelled me to write 51
more, to delve further into my naïve
weary mind. Pouring my heart out to
paradise of preadolescence and to lose
a blank sheet of paper has become an
myself in a story that I promised would
instinct. I cannot deny the honesty of the
have a happy ending. I wrote for the
words that claw at my throat. I would
same reasons that I romped through
speak them, but noise overwhelms; I
playgrounds and played hide-and-seek
prefer to allow the silent prowess of
with my friends. It was innocent, it
words to roar for me. And roar they
was fun, and it exhilarated my juvenile
must. I’ve learned the hard way that
spirit. Childhood equated to freedom,
if my words do not resonate on paper,
something I absolutely took for granted
then they will continue to torment my
at the time. Never would I have guessed
mind instead. Writing purges me of
that the coming years would sap the joy
emotions; I cannot stop until my paper
and the carefree abandon out of my
is saturated with passion that once
writing. Alas, I have swapped crayon
occupied my heart. My bleeding is the
scribbles for Times New Roman font,
rawest form of myself that I can give
and a heavy heart accompanies my
to my work, and if I did not give my
yearning for the past.
entirety to my writing, then there would
I suppose I no longer write. I
52
be no sense for me to pick up a pen.
bleed. The sorrows of the world tear
This essay is now due tomorrow
me apart, and words seep from my
at 10:25 AM sharp, and I still have no
wounds. They gush and they trickle,
idea why I write. I don’t aim to please
yet they seldom coagulate until they
others or even myself. I have no wise
have stained crisp white papers with
words or experiences to share with the
onyx and sapped the vigor from my
world. Even the essays I’ve written
for English classes past have lacked
The cursor on my screen ticks
much more purpose than to obtain an
impatiently, beckoning for me to hustle
A. Despite this, I am still in love with
and scribe a masterpiece. My head
writing. Words are just as much a part
throbs. Of course I struggled with
of me as my skin or teeth or heart, and
this essay, for I initially believed that
paper is the listening ear I can find in
without the “right” answer, my work
no other friend. Maybe there is no
would go to waste. But my words took
definite reason why I write. Perhaps
the reins once again, and now I see a
I only do so because breaking my
Word document laden with the truth,
own heart and watching the pieces
my blood, and everything I have to
transfigure into prose has become just
offer. Tranquility is slowly beginning
as much of a necessity as eating and
to seep into my mind, and that means
breathing have; I believe I would wither
I am one step closer to submitting this
to nothing if I ceased to write. Writing
piece and sharing the contents of my
is a journey, and the final destination
heart. Of course my words will never
is still light-years away from where I
be perfect, but imperfections can harbor
stand now. Maybe somewhere along
some of the greatest beauty. Tonight I
my travels, I will realize the reason
have been honest, and I have reached
why I write or if such a notion even
into the depths of my heart to dig for my
exists. But there are many other
answer. Perhaps this is not the “right”
discoveries to be made beforehand,
answer, but it is the right answer for
and besides, half the fun of traveling
me. Why do I write? I have no idea. I
transpires from the unexpected detours
simply must.
and adventures along the way. 53
Camile Harvanek ’16 54
Danielle Tata ’14
Zizheng Wu ’14
55
Colette Guarnieri ’15
Don’t look for me now I am always there for you When you need me most Joshua Eilerman ’16
Scarf by Hannah Listerud ’16
56
Bennet Sage ’16
57
Elizabeth Lippke ’15
Zizheng Wu ’14 58
Wear Yourself Well
that much gusto feel depressed?
Julia Ford ’15
1.) The outside says so much about the inside. It says something about where
I am going to share something
you have been but more importantly
with you today that I believe, I believe it
where you want to go! It gives an
with my whole heart and soul; I believe
average Joe a snapshot of who you
it to the very core of my being. As a
are but always leaves them wanting
dear friend of mine, Sophie Kinsella
more. Does this sound to you like a
once said these poignant words,
“I
depressed person? The kind of person
love new clothes. If everyone could just
that can be heavy-hearted and blue?
wear new clothes everyday, I reckon
2.) Your outfit is your first impression.
depression wouldn’t exist anymore.”
It is like the wrapping paper on the gift
Think about it- you wake up,
that is you. Is it newspaper that was
hop out of the shower, you slip into a
crumpled up and thrown away? Or is
Lilly Pulitzer floral shift dress, a pair
it shiny gift-wrapping that is topped
of Tory Burch signature ballet flats, a
with an elegant bow? Before a person
Kate Spade clutch purse, and a Tiffany
can see what is inside they inspect the
heart toggle necklace or you put on a
exterior as a forecast of what’s to come.
crisp cotton white Ralph Lauren shirt
3.) You brand yourself with your attire.
and a pair of beige gabardine trousers
How do you want to be perceived? Would
and top it off with a wool tweed Brooks
you like to be perceived as a slouchy,
Brothers blazer. You open that front
unkempt slacker? Or a buttoned-
door and take that first step out and
up, chic, sophisticated trendsetter.
you are ready to take on the world.
4.) Self-esteem is directly proportional
Every person who sees you would like
to the caliber of the outfit. Why is it
to meet you or be you. They want to
that when we have on our Sunday best
know what you are thinking or where
and we open that front door do we feel
you are going. How can anyone with
ready to take on the world? It is because
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we stand taller and we are acting as a
when you are wearing an outfit
mannequin for the clothing we wear.
that represents who you are inside?
Now how can you be depressed
Gabrielle Houssan ’15
60
Alyssa Jalbert ’15
Shealyn Biron ’15
Julianne Holby ’16 61
To Myself Angel Xu ’16 Fortune may miss you Others may dislike you Life may ignore But calm your heart But smooth your brows But you own yourself And happiness will find you
Sarah Cavar ’16
62
Taylor Lovrien ’14
Shoe sculpture by Alexis Solomon ’15
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Why I Write Elaina Cosentino ’14
I write because I cannot draw,
I cannot paint, and I cannot dance. I write because I am not musically talented. I write because my true passion only comes around one season of every year while writing is always an option. Writing is my escape and I am an escapist. I want to travel the world and experience a wide variety of things. I want to hear everything that can be heard, see everything that can be seen, and learn everything that can be taught. I crave what I do not have, what I cannot see, and what I cannot hear. I am truly an escapist at heart and writing allows me to escape from the real world situations into a fantasy land where I have everything that I crave. It allows me to imagine things that if I said aloud people would deem crazy. It allows me to express, through words, the many pictures that I paint 64
in my head. I write to express myself.
I write to overcome. I had
trouble making it through middle school English. Sitting in a classroom listening to my least favorite teacher read Lord of the Rings was just not my thing. I did not have nor now have anything against J.R.R Tolkien, but at age 14 you no longer want to be read to for hours on end. As this was one of the only books my classed focused on throughout my 6th, 7th, and 8th grade years, I was very ill-equipped going into freshman year. I remember the first day of high school English, surrounded by unfamiliar faces at a big circular table. I remember feeling lost as I sat in astonishment realizing that everyone knew much more than I did. My first essay grade hit me like a slap in the face. I was used to receiving an A on all essays no matter how poorly they were written. C+ was written in big red writing. Ouch. The year to come was a challenging one
as all the years following have been
voices inside my head were pressuring
as well. I still struggle to overcome
me to write about Christmas and Santa
the lack of teaching I had throughout
Claus. Why? To this day, I cannot tell
middle school. But I have recently
you. I listened to my brain and wrote
found that this has helped me develop
an absurd, laughable short story titled
into who I am as a writer today and has
“When Santa was late for Christmas.”
also made me enjoy writing more than
In this story, Santa’s sleigh broke
I ever thought possible. I write now
down and the toys were not delivered
because I did not write then. I did not
on time. I was proud of it at the time.
care if the words flowed together or if
I can no longer say that this is true. I
they even made sense. I wrote to get it
was embarrassed for a long time and
over with. Now I write to overcome,
swore to never write something so
to improve, and to make up for the
embarrassing ever again. Although I
years of lost time. That is why I write.
now look at this as a learning experience
I write for redemption. Every
writer has their high points and their low points. They must use their low points to fuel their desire to be better. That is what I did. Sadly, my low point is indeed a very low point in my writing
and I am no longer embarrassed, this story caused me to push harder, and strive for greater writing. It taught me to keep working and helped me to understand there is always room for improvement. That is why I write.
“career.” Luckily I was young at the
I write to remember. Regardless
time. Here’s the story. I decided I was
of
a creative writer when I was about 10
everyone has experiences and everyone
years old around summer time. The
has stories to tell. I am one of those
gender,
race,
and
nationality,
65
people
obscure
not want the attention. I simply do not
aspects of different situations. Or I can
like it. One thing that I hate more than
remember a conversation I had with
the attention is crying in public. This
my Pepere in the car 10 years ago but
is why I write. It is impossible to keep
I cannot remember one thing I did for
all my feelings bottled up because this
a whole summer. Through writing I
would lead to an eruption of emotion all
am able to remember the whole picture
at once. I write to let out my feelings.
instead of just small insignificant
No one will ever be able to see or count
fragments. I write to remember, to
the tears that fell onto the page while
recall the feelings I had at a certain
I was writing and no one ever really
time, and to bring back memories.
needs to know. I am able to let out all
Whether it is a good day, a bad day, or
emotions without bringing someone
a family trip, I find that there is always
down with me. I write before my inner
at least one thing worth remembering
feelings eat away at my happiness.
about every day. That is why I write.
No one has to sit and pretend to listen
who
remembers
I write to express. On the
outside I am a very happy and outgoing person. I like to talk about everything except personal issues. I don’t believe
66
and care about what I have to say. I can express all that I have to say with just a paper and a pen, nothing more and nothing less. That is why I write.
that everyone needs to know everything
I write because my brain works
that is going on in my life. I don’t need
thirty times faster than my mouth
to tell everyone every bad thing that
does. My ideas form so quickly but
happens to me because they are not
my speech does not. While writing
my counselor. I do not need and do
there won’t ever be someone standing
over my shoulder criticizing me for my
to me. Similarly your words as well
over use of “like” and “um” because
as others might be powerful to you.
they simply don’t show up in writing
Embrace your words and how you
as they do in speech.
The constant
write. Writing like this makes it
pressure while talking only makes
meaningful to me. That is why I write.
those words form on your tongue more often than usual. However, writing lets you relax, take your time, and relieves pressure. That is why I write.
It does not bother me that others will not hear what I have to say. I am quite content with them staying on the page that they were written on and
I write because words are
in the hands that they were written
powerful and meaningful. Words make
by. I write for myself and for no one
you feel certain things. Everyone is a
else. I write to express my ideas that
writer in their own way. Every writer
would never be able to be expressed
has their own style. And everyone
otherwise. I believe that the pen and
has a different take on which style
paper on which my thoughts are written
is most appealing to them. I write
on absorb all that I am saying as if they
because words mean something. They
themselves were people. I am happy
form sentences that form paragraphs,
with my ideas staying between the three
which form papers, which form books.
of us. Just my pen, my paper, and me.
Not everyone will like every type of writing. My words are powerful
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