Amused Spring 2021 by Miami Country Day School

amused Miami Country Day School

Issue 1

Spring 2021

Volume 15

Editor’s Note Amused is a student-run art and literary magazine with the purpose of showcasing the highest quality work produced by the Upper School students. Through the compilation of students’ works, we aim to showcase the contrasting viewpoints and experiences that exist within our community in a format that is aesthetically pleasing for the reader while also complementing the talent of the students.

Editorial Policy Current MCDS students may submit art and writing for consideration by the editors during the beginning of the second semester. Editorial staff positions are open to all members of the student body. The magazine is free to all members of the MCDS community. Thanks to Jill Robert, Upper School Director, and Mariandl Hufford, Head of School, for their generous support.

Editors-in-Chief

Michael Athanassiadis '21 Maya Kreger '21

Layout Editors Giulianna Bruce '21 Samuel Storch ‘24

Prose Editors

Daniel Fruman ‘21 Andrew Weaver '21

Poetry Editors

Isabella Greenberg ‘21 Jacqueline Ludicke ‘21

Art Editors

Mia Batista '21 Mary Hanson ‘21

Staff

Helena Cardillo Ramos ‘21 Caitlin Cherenfant ‘23 Zak Djahed ‘23 Harry Florin ‘24 Daniel Fruman ‘21 Isabella Greenberg ‘21 Chaya Hazan ‘23 Ginger Jacob ‘24 Malini Kamlani ‘22 Alexis Kaplan ‘23 Sophia “Bell” Lopez ‘23 Michael Puglise ‘22 Danielle Respler ‘23 Joshua Respler ‘22 Mia Scemla ‘21 Olivia Schaedler ‘22 Indira Schargel ‘24

Faculty Advisors

Scott Brennan Samuel Brown

Table of Contents

Writing 10

Clock Francesco Rumiano

Introduction to Observation... Maya Kreger

The Willow Tree Giulianna Bruce

An Ode to Odessa Daniel Fruman

Something Beautiful... Something Sad

Audrey He The Flow Without End

Sofia Vasileva

The Hands of a Million Stories Alexandra Ataman Eric Weiss July 14, 1914

Zachary Arnold

i saw a glint within the eye of marduk Daniel Fruman Middle of the Road Jude Held

Precipitous Isaac Brown

18 Giulianna Bruce

Absence Olivia Brennan

Identity Moratorium Audrey He

A Case for Power Sophia Lopez

La Mujer Hispana Isabel Bravo-Contreras

Isolation Mack Tracy

Death’s Field Julian Schwartz

Blood on the Door Zachary Arnold

Those Hungry Eyes Pedro Machado Rusconi

Aberration Isaac Brown

The Sleeping Volcano Riccardo Mascialino 5

108

The Shade Beneath My Mango Tree Mia Scemla

The Consequence of Existing Charisse Martin

The Snow Globe Giulianna Bruce

Going to California Jude Held

Summer Streetscape Andrew Weaver

Keep Curiosity in Our Classrooms Maya Kreger

Insecurity Christopher Anderson

110 112

Paper Bag Poem #1 Robert Depradine

112

Paper Bag Poem #2 Nina Lardi

113

Paper Bag Poem #3 Sofia Mateo

What is Model UN? Michael Athanassiadis

Cottontail and Red Fox Indira Schargel

The Zephyr’s Wish Pedro Rusconi

Far More Than Kin, Far Less Than Kind Daniel Fruman

100

A Trip to the Arctic Riccardo Mascialino

102

Night at the Shop Julian Schwartz

106

The Missing Knight in Shining Armor Zoe Terry 6

Art 6

Red Ceramic Vase Olivia Schaedler

Ink: Hand Piece Amina Bilalova

Crumbling Blue Giulianna Bruce

Koi Fish Natalia Socarras

We’ll Just Lie Here Mia Batista

Backs Nina Vara

Ceramic Clock Maya Kreger

Kakegurui Mia Batista

Stadium Shadows

Giulianna Bruce

Ceramic Cubes

Maria Salazar from Untitled photo series

Galatea

Mary Hanson

Sketch #1

Riccardo Carrafelli

47 48

The Flower Vendor Giulianna Bruce

Olivia Borchers

The Priestess Natalia Socarras

Light From Above

Joshua LeHockey

38 43

Staring Nina Vara

Letter

Olivia Schaedler Blank Pages

Mack Tracy

Body

Kira Browning

Feminite

Giulianna Bruce

from Mujeres photo series

Sabrina Morata

Sidewalk Shadows

Mack Tracy 7

100

Skullface Lucas Chemla

Race Car Driver Nina Vara

Sketch #2 Riccardo Carrafelli

Untitled Nina Vara

Papi Sabrina Morata

Skyrim Feel Sofia Vasileva

102

105

Graffiti Girl Sabrina Morata

111

Ink: Hand Piece (fragments) Amina Bilalova

114

Portrait of an Addict Mary Hanson

Ariel Mary Hanson

Front Cover

Floral Scents Mia Batista

Back Cover

Parking Olivia Borchers

Storefront Olivia Borchers

Streaking Through the Sky Filippo Sbroggio

Flower Christopher Capote

Gilded Gabriela Abramowitz 8

Bird Valeria Villanueva

Babies and Electric Shock Mary Hanson Fishing Mary Hanson

Amused

C L O C K I am a constant reminder, The determiner of life, Sitting on the wall forever. Watching as life goes on.

I can’t help but show it, That horrifying figure. Unable to make a second last any longer, To make any affliction end.

People cry at my hands That spin like a pinwheel. You don’t have much left. The end is always near. Francesco Rumiano 10

Amina Bilalova

Introduction to Observation, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Discount The Obvious

Nina Vara

Simply open your eyes and stare, A gaze the size of the moon, Focus on what is in front of you. Force your eyes onto to the expansive gallery, Let them run wild after the colors of the painting, But not get lost in the specifics. Do not allow the details to frighten you. Realize there is more to see if you allow yourself to look. Look right into the sun on a cloudless day, But do not let the brightness stop you. Burn your skin with this heat. Stare straight into the flaming images before you, but choose to look beyond them. Illuminate your mind. Emerge from the eye-catching light in front of you And as the fire dances and surrounds your feet, Choose to embrace the embers. Even though the sight is fixed on the plain white wall, The onlookers squint and turn away. Go. Face the beauty and its brightness. Instead of seeing an intoxicating fire, Those passersby, the ones that turn their heads, see a used match, burnt rubber. Maya Kreger

Natalia Socarras

The Willow Tree Giulianna Bruce

ong ago, in a village not far from here and not far from there, a great willow tree stood at a riverbend. It was older than all the wise elders, stronger than the blacksmith, and taller than the cathedral. It was believed that hundreds of years earlier, before anyone lived in this village, a king had struck his poor wife at that same riverbend. Instead of giving him a male heir, she had given birth to a rosyfaced daughter. He resented his wife—he hated her. From a tooth knocked out of the queen’s mouth by her loveless husband grew the great willow tree. It was within the tree’s bark that her soul would live upon her death in childbirth, years later, when she bore her second child: a son. At dusk, under the willow tree’s shade, the women of the village would weep to the dead queen. They would bring offerings of plums, her favorite fruit, and marigolds, her favorite flower, in return for protection against evil husbands, brothers, fathers, suitors, and the like. The wispy leaves of the willow would dip into the river, enchanting the water. By drinking one cup of this glowing elixir, the women would gain the strength and courage they needed. The men in the village became furious at this. For years they conspired, “That tree is evil! It must die!” They poisoned the soil at the base of the tree, but the willow only grew taller and spread its grand branches out further. They constructed a giant bow saw, so large that it required five men to carry it at either side, and lugged the monstrosity to the riverbend with the intent of cutting down the tree. But with every deep slash cut across the willow’s trunk grew a new layer of bark, ten times

stronger than the layer of flesh underneath. Some men even tried blocking the tree from the river by building a wall of stone between the willow’s overhanging leaves and the riverbanks. A futile attempt—the roots of the willow tree only crept upwards and crumbled the foundation of the wall, which then toppled into the river. One man had the idea to burn down the great tree instead. The men of the village waited a fortnight, until the upheaval of their previous actions settled like a fine layer of dust over the village. Around the same time, a young girl named Daphne was to be married to a man whom she did not love. The priest prepared his holy garb for the next morning, the florist set a procession of roses, and Daphne’s mother combed through her daughter’s hair. “It was my mother’s,” she said, clasping a dainty golden necklace around her daughter’s neck. From the chain hung a gilded laurel leaf. At midnight, when the rest of the village fell deep under the spell of slumber, Daphne escaped her home and ran to the river. She ran hard and fast for her legs were running with tiny wings of fear. Fear for herself, fear for what her life would inevitably become if she was married. Finally, she reached the willow tree at the riverside. “I haven’t any marigolds nor plums,” she said. “I pray this is enough.” She removed the golden necklace from around her neck and gingerly clasped it around a thin, low hanging branch. With a whisper of the wind, the willow tree lifted her up, as if cradling a baby, and the spirit of the dead queen placed Daphne inside her canopy. Rest, the breeze seemed to murmur.

{ She ran hard and fast, for her legs were running with

{

tiny wings of fear.

Because she was fast asleep, Daphne could not hear the rumble in the ground as a horde of the village men approached the tree. She could not see the angry torches they held in their hands and she could not smell the putrid odor of burning leaves. First, they set fire to the willow leaves, then the tree trunk. The willow tree erupted into icy blue flames that swallowed the entire night sky, blank and inky. The wind hissed and screamed and shrilled as the rest of the village people gathered around the sight of the burning tree that shook the world. “Where’s Daphne?” her mother wailed, but it was too late. The tree and Daphne with it had already become ash and smoke that rose above the village and turned into the stars that spot our sky today. All that was left was Daphne’s gold chain, the gilded laurel leaf, ingrained in the petrified soil where the base of the great willow tree had once stood.

We are Odessa. We carry her in our blood. We will be old and we will die— But she will not. For there will be new ones. Young ones that, like us, Search for the answers On the bottoms of whiskey bottles. That lose their souls between old buildings, Sell their humanity for warm bodies, Pleasure, And for the life that the old Talk about living. The young that keep the vicious circle Burning like a ring of fire On the top of the mountain of Purgatory. Over and over again. Oh, Magic City, your streets Embody everything that I ever was— And all I ever will be. I dream of you And every night, I walk your cobbled roads Under which my heart beats— Searching for traces of you Come dawn. For though I am not in Odessa— Forever she is in me. I am Odessa, For she is in my blood. Daniel Fruman

Giulianna Bruce

An Ode

to Odessa

Something Beautiful... Something Sad

20 Giulianna Bruce

Rising at Dawn I rise at dawn. The Caribbean greets me at my window sill, Gentle and quiet. Before the sun has risen, the air is still cool, A momentary escape from the fiery summer star. At noon, the sun shall blaze with orange fire And tourists will wander colonial pathways. Cafes become forest canopies, shielding flocks from scalding heat. Yet some will stray down weathered roads, looking for trinkets. Once vibrant souvenirs Whose colorful souls have bled away under the heat Will be displayed everywhere. Bracelets. Earrings. Grass woven baskets. Stones from the Maya River, fashioned into blades. Postcards and stamps will be sent to faraway homes, Where dragons and eagles soar in the skies rather than a mundane pelican. This Sunday morning, I wake with the dawn And look over clay rooftops and asphalt streets To watch faraway islands and soaring seabirds. I see hardworking fishermen approach the harbor, And hear the distant sound of ringing church bells, Disguised in a chorus of cawing gulls. This Sunday morning, I simply am.

Audrey He

The Cerulean Bay Where an angel had once shed his wings to create the seafoam. From the sky, mirrored in the endless expanse of blue, He had seen the heartbreaking beauty created by Eternity. And heard the music which damps the endless sorrow of a forgotten island. He had flown with morose birds who, like Icarus, wished to touch the sun. He had dreamed with sleepy boys of soccer and the outside world. Dark mountains in the distance, Forever looms over the holy cross of the town’s cathedral. He had soared over them, Listening to the wordless heartsong of a Creole woman Who had found purity in Eternity. This heartbreaking mundanity. Endless beauty that rivaled that of the Shining City. And the angel, once forever alone, had found his heart. He gave his feathery wings to become a part of that cerulean. To honor the Eternity-blessed beauty mirrored in the waves. Without his wings, he plummeted from the skies. Fallen. How could any wish so beautiful Be sinful?

Audrey He

Natalia Socarras

24Batista Mia

The Flow Without End The emanating sun struck her rays of light upon the glassy water, Into airy warmth filtered through, upon the azure sea where snappers lay; The ebb and flow carry out in the ambience of nature’s disarray. Where algae clothed-rocks sheltered prey from predator, So hovered a barracuda against the gentle current, one not to swiftly defy; The green expanses focused at the corner of the silver-scaled tiger’s eye. In the backdrop of the scene a little far beyond, Pelicans perch on mangroves resting evermore, In a void between endless ocean and trailing shore. From above one would look in wonder, having escaped from all life’s hold, Upon a rock, mangroves covered by morning’s veil, Teeming with life, from the barracuda to an outspread, myriad scale. Sofia Vasileva

The Hands of

of a Million Stories 26

Cut, knead, sew, braid. The hands that have seen a lifetime, Raised me from the ground up and made me stand tall, Fingertips that worked hard for a long time Pumping, the veins that stretch out like roadmaps. Her story of hard labor, love, war, and loss Kept those hands busy, beaten, and stiff, But even through the tragedies, They never denied a sweet caress or a tender touch. Alexandra Ataman

Nina Vara

Maya Kreger

Eric Weiss

Ju l y 1 4 , 1 9 1 4 Today is the first Yahrzeit of my mother, And it is in her memory that this retrospective is written. I am a falsehood, A wave of the hand and trick of the light. Yet I have money, Enough for another Voisin biplane, And fame, Enough for another moving picture. The people Shout and cheer and idolize. Need they now a sham magician? More than they need the realist medium... In a hundred years, The name “Harry Houdini” will be all but lost; The name is the truest reflection of myself— That, too, is fake. I am known for the art of escape, Yet my greatest shall miss my fame. Those great freedoms From the shtetl, From the tenements. Zachary Arnold

saw i a

glint within the eye of

marduk

30 Mia Batista

we sheep of Nothing flocked into the gates of babili— our hapless holy hall molested with his fire— we huddled with each other — for some warmth—though walk we— neath the scalding sun— which seared our sinful heads— and conjured in our hearts— that Nothing that we prayed to countless times— they gathered i’the temple—watching as the high priest— for their lives— didst take a life— and bid them live a life obstructed by a thousand laws— yet that was somehow home— and this—was not —for some elusive reason— this was babili— the wine-dark entrance to the city—is an umbrella to the sheep— yet on it i alone did spy a picture— as if the architect that bid these stones be painted gold — knew that one day a bowing head— would dare look up— —i think it did— “no idols shalt thou have for i am Nothing - thy creator”— in Nothing shalt thou comfort find—yet i have not— for i didst see the eye of marduk— it is a poorly picture—badly painted— the demon has a lion’s mouth— hawk’s body and sheep’s hands— a sword is lodged betwixt its fingers—there is no life in it— except a thought— —eternity—i think— meseemeth that the fool who had this picture drawn— amused himself in knowing that one day a bowing head— —would dare look up—i think it was— —there’s solace there —i think— oh yes there’s solace here—for it stands empty— the gold leaf cracking on the sun-whipped brick— as empty as the sky where Nothing dwells— as empty as the desert where we wandered for the sake of Nothing— as empty as the chain that binds this colony of ants together— as empty as my soul— in which there’s Nothing— and which is— —mockingly— i think— a nothing in return— 31

but more than that— for i didst chance to see a glint within its eye — a ruby stamped into the idol’s faceless face — and in that ruby —God— for in that ruby lay my plaintive purpose— a different purpose— than the one that drove— —i think— the pious to infuse the brick with shining stone— for in that ruby—in that worthless— little picture on the prison gates— i saw more meaning than i ever did— when standing at the altar—knife in hand— taking a life and binding lives with laws— letting the blood that flowed from forth— the helpless creature’s throat— seep through my heart and fill it with the sting — and hollowness brought on— by scheduled death— and cruel monotony of— righteous ritual— or in the temple’s sanctuary— wherein i stood with breastplate thus encrusted—as high priest— and chanted yahweh i’the empty room— no thought in me— —I Know— save mindless slavery— for in that ruby i didst see my thought— —I Thought— —i think— and that is all— i saw a glint within the eye of marduk— Daniel Fruman

Joshua LeHockey

ad Ro he ft

eo dl id eM Th

Giulianna Bruce

I remember sitting on the back porch of the cabin in Northern Georgia with my dad, Joe, and Andrew. We had a fire ablaze even though it was August; we didn’t need the flames but the warmth was nice as we talked for hours under the glittering stars. Soon, we abandoned the fire, escaping into the darkness to catch sight of the night sky. Miami isn’t like this. Light erases the stars and the city draws you in. Out in Georgia, you are alone with the world. There, I lay in the middle of the soft road and gazed up. Alone with my thoughts, I could reflect. In retrospect, I realize that even though we have evolved, building skyscrapers, living lives of industry, our interests remain archaic. I gathered my thoughts and then returned to the fire. Jude Held

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The infamous nutcracker blocks the bedroom door. Inside, a mountain of clothes looms—baggage. Mostly trash, but not to me—my first baseball card, collecting dust, lies in one of those jacket’s pockets. Every shirt in every closet stands out—especially the grey ones. The greyest–soft and breathable—lies at the top of Mt. Fashion, waiting for me to choose it every few months. A Christmas ornament falls from an overflowing shelf and shatters on the floor—but what if a tree falls when no one is listening? Another nutcracker, chipped and dirty, shields a brownish-yellow box out of view. From Pearl Harbor to today, letters upon letters have filled the box to the brim, and ther, mutilated, lords over the garage— after three generations, it will be the first to fall. Isaac Brown

Giulianna Bruce

Olivia Borchers 38

n a nondescript Monday during Libra season, I sat in front of a homemade cake with green frosting and watched my childhood slowly fizzle out. The agonizingly long inhale began earlier in the year until I finally blew out those wavering birthday candles for good. During the year in which we were all asked to grow up, I became an adult. Eighteen is not ceremonious. The long summer shadows of childhood lean lazily on the shoulder of adulthood until the two become indistinguishable. It is a steady decline, not a climactic crash and fall like the movies told me. The already bittersweet nature of the passage of time is amplified by the somber statistics of the evening news. The fluorescent light from the television slices through the night and shakes you and burns your eyes and makes you want to cry but instead, you change channels. To celebrate your own life feels insensitive. Eighteen is not transformative. I stay in my cocoon because I know it is right. I know that many people would thank me for doing something as simple as that. I sit cross-legged and gaze outside my window, inspecting. It all seems oblivious and ordinary, save for the faces communicating with pairs of eyes rather than with movement of mouths—and for some even that is too much of an inconvenience. So I retreat. It doesn’t mean that I don’t miss it, because I do. I do miss buying popcorn for my friends at the movie theater and smiling with my teeth showing and overfilling plastic champagne flutes with sparkling apple cider in the park. These are my follies, the trivial things I desire. Eighteen is not what it used to be. The number itself is irrelevant in relation to its implications. Adulthood is a universal experience of varying degrees. For some, it first occurred under the eyes of the law after the hour hand on the clock reached 7 and minute hand 13. It had everything to do with age. Many people turned eighteen this year, but for them, it had nothing to do with age. The odyssey of time—the most ancient vagabond— was catalyzed. It knocked on the doors of unassuming children many years too early and demanded that they face the realities and responsibilities of what their lives became. They were forced to grapple with the concepts of which even the wisest sage could make no sense. For me, eighteen has become observing and understanding. I take walks around the neighborhood I’ve lived in since I was three years old. I notice things. The hill outside the library was bigger when I was a kid. I realize that to complain about my own circumstance is fruitless and, quite frankly, selfish. I listen to Nico before sunset, when the air feels soft and when boys pop wheelies on their bicycles, flying like Phaethon across steaming asphalt. I realize that my role in the world is not the same as it once was. I remember the bubble I filled in with a pencil in November and that time last week when I peeled a tangerine in one go. And I know now that it’s time. I embark on that perilous journey to “know thyself.”

Olivia Borchers

Olivia Borchers 41

Absence I am in purgatory stuck with a hole in my ribs made by the sky and its crying blues and velvety oranges and rich purples and thick black. Every day I have the chore of seeing those colors. * Our absence from the broad summer was plain. We had to see vibrant eyes of green in the shadows, stern and broken. Olivia Brennan

Mary Hanson

Riccardo Carrafelli 44

IDENTITY

MORATORIUM Audrey He

hat defines a person’s identity? Is it their nationality? Their heritage? Can it be a choice or is it defined by the opinions of others? These questions have plagued me for a very long time. I am a child of three worlds. My story is the story of countless Asian youths with ambiguous backgrounds. My parents are Chinese immigrants; I grew up in Belize and moved to Miami when I was thirteen. An outsider everywhere, everyone feels like I owe them a different answer than what I give to the seemingly simple question “where are you from?” “Where are you from?” How can I tell them that I do not know, that I am figuring it out as I go along? That every answer I give feels like a lie? To trace my identity, I will begin in Belize. In Belizean creole, the derogatory term for a Chinese person is chinebwai (male) or chinegyal (female). I grew up hearing those words a lot. As the daughter of Belizean Chinese immigrants, I was born in the United States but still registered as a Belizean citizen as well as American. I have never lived in China and yet my family and I have always been labeled as outsiders by the locals; everything that can be called “racism” has happened to us. We have been harassed by the police, sued by the neighbors (for corrupting a “sophisticated neighborhood”), and even screamed at on the street to “go back home to China.” I never understood why these things happened. My parents moved away from China thirty years ago, they have made Belize their new home and have done so respectively in terms of charity and economic development; they were never ones to take advantage of local people or break the law. There is nothing left for them in China, though they still love their birthplace, and my brother and I are no more foreign than the locals are, both considering Belize to be ours. The truth is, odd as it seems, among all

this harassment, I have found my home in Belize. There, I spoke the language, ate the food, and made friends with locals. Yet the first adjective anyone would use to describe me is “Chinese”; I know this because it has happened too many times. When I was 12, I forced myself to forge a new friendship because the other person was going through a lot and needed a listening ear. She told her mother about me. The next day, she reported to me that her mother was very pleased that she had made a “new Chinese friend.” When I heard that, I got irrationally upset. I was an introvert who wished to be kind, I was trying to find myself, and yet, I could not escape that label, that box which they believed defined me. Funnily enough, in China, because I went to school in Belize all the way until 8th grade, I lost the Chinese side of my heritage; I am illiterate in the language, though I can speak it, and I act nothing like my same-age counterparts in China. Different thought patterns, different hobbies, a different identity. To my relatives there, I am a foreigner, a “Laowai.” I know this because I travel to China every summer. The people I meet there consider me to be very odd, a girl whose skin has darkened under the Caribbean sun, the typical Chinese girl’s shy mannerisms long burnt away in the heat, a girl who curls her hair rather than straightens it, who reads English books and lives in her own world. I do not envy the children there, nor do I look up to the adults, whose lives seem empty to me. I do not envy their innocence, their quiet minds that need not leave the books of a classroom, or the clamor of a workplace, and consider the issues outside. The world is wide and they are sheltered. When I was thirteen, I left my parents behind and moved to Miami to pursue high school here. I was optimistic, believing that I had finally escaped that dreaded label and established my own identity. I was, however, wrong, but for the ironic reason that I, 45

rather than others, labeled myself. In a friendly debate about Chinese politics with my 9th-grade Biology teacher, I used the term “we,” stating that there were some good components to “our” system. He looked at me and laughed, and I remember that he, who bore traces of Irish heritage, told me that I was “no more Chinese than he was Irish.” He was a second-generation immigrant too, yet he identified as American. I pondered his point that night, yet my answer came to me much, much later. “Why is it that I cannot find my way as easily as he did?” Because no one has ever questioned his heritage; he is Caucasian, he looks like he belongs. My heritage, my muddled identity, is plastered all over my face; people look at me questioningly, as if seeking a better answer, when I tell them that I am from Florida. It is not only me that questions myself; others have scorched me with their questions too. However, that day, regardless of how bleak my realization, I was joyful. I had put another piece of the puzzle of my identity together, I had realized something new. Others will always regard me as Chinese, and I will never really belong, but there is no reason why that should be an object of anger. It is better to look from far away, watching their mistakes and learning, than to be a part of those who are making the mistakes. I can learn from three worlds. Being viewed as “other” has led me to become “other.” I think that is a part of the reason why it is so difficult for me to talk to anyone. Our perspectives, our experiences, the very songs of our hearts, are always simply so different. However, this does not hurt me as much as something else I have noticed. I have found that I am often forced to call myself a hypocrite. I cannot bear listening to a misinformed individual speaking about China despite having grown up in the West and fully understanding the flaws in Chinese society. It makes for very 46

interesting arguments; I argue with my parents about the flaws of China (they claim that I am a traitor for they do not wish to hear that which sullies their childhood), I argue with everyone on the flaws of capitalism, and I would lay down my life to protect the aspects of Belizean society which I myself silently hate if someone were to insult them. I am an outsider in all three worlds; I am a protector of all three worlds. I have not found myself yet. I am, as psychologist James E. Marcia says, in my “Identity Moratorium.” I am at “the status in which the adolescent is currently in a crisis, exploring various commitments and is ready to make choices, but has not made a commitment to these choices yet” (Identity Status Theory). However, I believe that, just as thousands of my peers all over the world have, I will arrive at an epiphany, and I am ready for it. These years of being lost in the wilderness have not been kind but I shall arrive at the Promised Land.

Olivia Schaedler

POWER

for

A CASE

Mack Tracy 48 Mia Batista

Open. Here is my sunny disposition. My caring nature. My positivity. The spark of Frustration inside of me Which burns by the wax of the Impassive machine and by The burning broomstick, By the torn stockings, And by the well-worn apron. Open. Here are my batting eyelashes. My womanly wiles. My tricks. The spark of Resentment inside of me Which burns by the wax of the Bloody gown and by The blistered heels, By the skirt And by its hemline, Reaching past my knees. Open. Here are your accusations. Your restrictions. Your fears. Open. Here is your physical superiority. Your great intelligence. Your ego. Open. Here is your ability to choose. Your ability to ignore. Your control. Open. Here is your power. And here is mine. Open. I have the ability to choose What I wear, Regardless Of how attractive you find my choices. 49

I have the ability to choose To shave, or not to shave. I can choose To wear tight jeans, Low necklines, Short skirts, High heels. I can choose To wear comfy cardigans, Ankle-reaching skirts, Sweat pants, Black boots, Flats. I can dream And take action to realise my dreams. I can dress so that I find my choices attractive. I can wear what makeup I like or none at all. I can breathe the air around me without fear Of you. I can love myself. Open. My intellect is not to be contained. My emotion is not to be bottled. I am not to be held down. I am powerful. I am strong. The spark of Life inside of me Burns by the wax of My unregulated joy, My ambition, My agency. My disposition is my own. Sophia Lopez

Kira Browning

Giulianna Bruce 51

Sabrina Morata 52

La Mujer Hispana Isabel Bravo-Contreras

ehind every strong man, we are there. Behind every kitchen counter, every unruly child, every ungrateful husband. We are there. Born into a machista society that has it out for us before we are even exposed to the blinding light of the hospital rooms, our life is one of struggle and perseverance. The role of a Hispanic woman is one predestined to her—and it’s one very hard to escape. Sitting all day in the kitchen, she cuts, peels, boils, and bakes till her once soft and innocent hands have turned rough and calloused. While the sky is still painted a dreamlike black, she wakes to care for the wailing baby because being a Hispanic woman is Responsibility. It is sweeping the floor and diligently organizing the placemats and cutlery while out of the corner of my eye, I longingly watch my cousins playing on their Nintendos. At family gatherings, it means I am the one in charge of all the children—before nature had even given me the ability to have my own—to give the tired mothers a break, even if it is just for a couple of hours. Today, people will come up to me to praise me about how good I am with children, not realizing it’s because I had to be. Being a Hispanic woman means maturing long before your time. Being a Hispanic woman is Silence. The words calladita te ves más bonita were engraved in my brain from a young age before I was even old enough to put my anger or defiance into words. It is having to sit patiently at the side of the table while the men in my family debate politics or economics or any other topic they deem so important that it cannot wait till after the meal to talk about. Too important, of course, to ever include the women in these riveting discussions. Being a Hispanic woman is Fear. Perpetual Fear. Generational Fear. Fear of walking the streets alone at night. Of being alone in a room with a man because of what could happen, or even worse, what

other people might think happened. It is being questioned every time I go out my front door by my mother. Not because of her distrust of me but because of her distrust of the unfair world I am about to step into. Being a Hispanic woman is Community. It is long talks in the very kitchen we had been banished away to—our prison now transformed into a sanctuary. For so long, I looked at our ‘gossip culture’ as a weakness. A harmful stereotype to be ashamed of playing into. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood the metamorphoses that happen in the confines of our wooden cabinets. For the first time, I can hear the cackles of my aunt as she describes what you might classify as a rather uneventful trip to the supermarket. My cousin’s raised voice as she complains about the merciless biology teacher she had her freshman year of college with a passion I have never before witnessed. The smile on my grandmother’s face as she eagerly recounts the recent surgery her friend Ramon had last spring, not caring that nobody else in the room knows who he is. Under the intoxicating smells of chili and onion, we find our voices. More than anything, being a Hispanic woman is Strength. Like Atlas, a Hispanic woman holds the world on her shoulder yet never crumbles. She is both Protector and Caregiver. Cook and Chauffeur. Educator and Wife. She is what she has to be. And she does it all with a smile.

Sabrina Morata

Mack Tracy

Isolation

Mack Tracy

he alarm clock rings out, adding exhilaration to the man’s lovely hibernation, though slight agitation rushes his senses. His aching body stretches over the sound of mattress creaks to hit an imprint on the button. Shadows cast heavily upon the lighthouse which sits lean and proud on the island. Boats bob the water as they gradually seesaw, waving in appreciation. They seem to recognize the lighthouse, but not the man within. 52 years could be cut into 10 for the man of the lighthouse, for it is all the same. It’s a generous offer to the public, though he still questions as to why he does it. The once young and animated man gladly accepted the job, excited to be working such a structure. Now, old and meager, he trots about his house which has confined him. Quarter till seven; dark circular cottage brick walls, walnut wood furniture, open ceilings, a small white carpet on dark wood floors; he’s lost the beauty in it all. He gazes out at his vast property of water. The oversized rocks, seagulls, the seasalt smell; it has all remained the same in his eyes. The man stretches his frail arms and legs. Routinely, he begins by tracing the lines of the dry, leather journal which resembles his worn hands. He jots in his journal. Entry 1: “These circular walls never start and stop of course. Till this day,

“They seem to recognize the lighthouse, but not the man within.” 58

they enclose me in. Aren’t walls supposed to hug what contains inside? Not these.” The lighthouse and he share equal boredom for each other, but they remain civil. Climb the stairs, slip on the torn gloves, open the hatch, pour the lubricant, check the bulb, turn on the rotator. He ponders, “remind me, why should I continue? Well, I guess if I stopped that would be dishonorable.” Defeated as always, he hunches over slowly leaning back into the wooden chair, only to follow the spinning light where he spends his time. On his table, the wooden radio box carries out the operator’s voice from the netted speakers. Entry 2: “I get the same radio calls day after day from this gentleman with the voice of an auctioneer.” The calls add to the monotony of everyday and contribute to keeping his sanity intact. The operator mindlessly recites his message, word for word, as he’s done so many times before, “Lighthouse 294, overrr, lighthouse 294 overrr.” Then following up with the daily weather, “Overcast and slight chop but, there seems to be something brewing on the horizon, overrr.” The man blinked hard and pivoted in his chair examining the radio. The word “but” struck him in a fashion. He never heard such a report. He increased the volume knob; his eyes married the radio. The operator copied his report, “Lighthouse 294, overrrr.” The lighthouse keeper was panicked and speechless. The one word, the one he is trained to respond, which impulsively rolls off his tongue daily, was a struggle. “Lighthouse 294, you there? Overrr.” “Okay”, he uttered hoarsely. Entry 3: “I wasn’t sure why I said, or for that matter, what he said. All I know is today has brought a faint unevenness.” The man sat up in his chair, entranced by the beautiful wooden sailboat close to shore as the sailboat responded to the ocean’s friendly movement. Starting from the top of the mast, he worked his way down to the very bottom as a tear of

sweat paired its way down his forehead. It was impossible for him to enjoy the beautiful sailboat as internally, he sensed something was off, very off. The seagulls startled as they briskly flew past the windowpane. Jolting up in an awkward manner, as he hasn’t done in years. His younger self would confidently know not to miss a step, and so, he accelerated backward down the spiral staircase; all one hundred and twenty seven steps. He barely reached the front door, having tested his stamina. Opening the solid vault of a door, he is greeted unceremoniously by the wind. Waving his bristle and skinny arms toward the boats, which only waved the man off in laughter. He cleared his throat twice, attempting to challenge his old voice. The squirrels ran past into the nearby bushes to take cover as they listened. He attempted to once again shout at the boats, although his voice was about as quiet and useless as the shore rocks. Once more surveying the scenery, the man blessed the trees and animals. The door rudely shut behind. He climbed the stairs, turned the radio knob, picked up his journal, sat on his home base: the chair. Entry 4: “Wind progressively strikes the brick walls however, I find it calming. The high flying birds, the boats out at sea, the rocks.” He searched his mind for the next move, though it never emerged. Saggy eyes, limp arms, droopy head; losing grip to the led pencil which departs his fingertips, he slips into deep hibernation. “Lighthouse 294, overrr.. Lighthouse 294, overrr” The man woke up to the voice of the operator, which had always been a part of his monotonous life. He trotted over to the balcony, peering over only to see which was once his beautiful surroundings are now in despair. Guilt and sorrow engulfed him. The operator from the other room dutifully called out, anticipating the man’s reply, “Lighthouse 294, you there? Overrr.” Gazing at the sky, the man longed for his new home up above. 59

Riccardo Carrafelli

TENCHI TENNŌ Aki no ta no Kari ho no iho no Toma wo arami Waga koromode wa Tsuyu ni nure-tsutsu.

Emperor Tenji, also known as Emperor Tenchi: 38th emperor of Japan

DEATH’S FIELD The reaper marches through the fields, His clothes damp from the passing rain. Darkness follows swiftly behind him, an impenetrable wall, not even the sun able to pass through. He seeks those whose time has come, His invisible hue approaches all you can hear is agony Villagers delve for cover, Not knowing how to react. Julian Schwartz

Lucas Chemla

BL OO D

OO R no ld

ED Za ch a

Spotlight on PHYSICIAN in protective gear on the OLD MAN’s side of the theatre. She takes out her phone and puts it in selfie mode, facing the man, and crouches down. A ding plays as she begins a video call. She waves into the camera and then points it at the OLD MAN somberly. A kick drum beat plays at 138 beats per minute. A weak spotlight on OLD MAN, who is lying down on boxes with white sheets and a flat, uncomfortable pillow in contemporary hospital clothing with the monitor next to him displaying his vital signs, and on YOUNG BOY, who sits up on similarly dressed boxes, sick, wearing 1920’s clothing, on the opposite end of the theatre. YOUNG BOY takes a piece of paper out from behind the boxes, as well as a pen. He begins writing. YOUNG BOY Dear Grandmother, the wind brings chill unto my back in the dark embrace of night. It is unbearable to the highest degree. I believe I am getting better. Today, I barely coughed up a couple drops. The physician was supposed to visit me. He died last night. I should seldom tell one that I would fancy death, but pain upon my head and skin is quite unbearable. The papers all say I am going to die. Father doesn’t want me to read the papers, but I must read something lest the boredom kill me before the pestilence. I am too sick to borrow books, and father cannot pay for them. Please send a book with your return letter, and I would appreciate it highly. Are you well? (The OLD MAN coughs violently as the drum increases in tempo and his spot light fades slightly) When one is sick they learn to appreciate others. They see life in a different way. If I make it through this ordeal… (The OLD MAN coughs as violently as possible as the drum very slightly increases in tempo and his spotlight fades slightly) My outlook on life shall be renewed most graciously. I have always dreamt of fighting in the war, of avenging my brother, but seeing the photos of soldiers in the paper and looking in the mirror paints a picture too similar to bear. (The beat speeds up, his spotlight fades slightly, and the rhythm becomes slightly off beat) But maybe I want to live not to fight, but so as not to have to see those I’ve outlived. Those I may have been able to stop from dying somehow. I don’t know how, I’m but a child. But maybe, if I hadn’t gone to the library, if I had known I was sick sooner, if I hadn’t gone to see the physician, I could’ve helped. (The beat speeds up and his spotlight fades slightly as the OLD MAN coughs more) Maybe that’s how brother felt when he died. (The beat becomes incredibly fast and off-putting. The OLD MAN weeping and gasping for air. At this point, he can almost only be seen by the light of the PHYSICIAN’s spotlight.) That’s why I don’t ever want to die, unless it means I will get to see you again. (The beat stops as the OLD MAN dies and his spotlight stops) Love, your Grandson. PHYSICIAN mouths something to the camera with melancholy. Blackout.

Those Hungry Eyes

Nina Vara

Those Hungry Eyes All looking back at me, The man with the mark on his paper. His head now bowed at his feet, Their once level speed, Now almost sprinting Home was just a little further away Yet our spirits were missing. A ship once destined for glory, Now reduced to scraps and rubble. Our six futures, stolen, As our ship crumbled. Forty days and forty nights, We followed the wind Without our captain, George Pollard, Who’s now lost at sea. We wake up to find water To last two more days, Our spirits are all broken, Our minds are all crazed. We give in to our urges As our minds slip and tire Once brothers at sea, Now submissive to our own carnal desires. The hat of decision, The scrap that would dictate our future, A minuscule chance I wish I’d known the outcome sooner. One unlucky man, With the misfortuned draw The one with the mark on his paper Who’d help feed us all. Pedro Machado Rusconi

Sabrina Morata

on’s feet move subconsciously, and his eyes glaze over. A cigar faintly burns in the darkness, and his feet still step, almost without thought, to somewhere. Hands at his side, his head seems tilted at a specific direction -- Hart Drive -- a oneway street. Jon continues until he doesn’t. He tastes iron in the air. His eyes snap open, and his pupils immediately dilate, but instead of clarifying, his vision blurs. Blind. He whips his head to the side, searching in the dark, nothing. Through the blur, he finally makes out a long fence to the side of the street. A park, maybe, and on its sidewalk, a figure, a stranger. A man…walking his dog? In the middle of the night? 66

He shouts, “Hey! Sir! Are you okay?” The man and his dog don’t move, statue-like in the dark. Not statues though, and not dead, for they’re standing upright. Corpses couldn’t do that, and yet after five seconds he smells -- rotting flesh? Without turning, the figure says, “Hey!” The casualness of the man’s voice strikes Jon, and he eases a little. “Hello…?” “What are you up to?” “Oh, I’m coming home from work. You know how it is,” Jon says, his breath returning as he starts to walk toward the man,

Aberration Isaac Brown

the scent of blood and decay intensifying. A pause. “You smell that, right?” “Smell what?” “There’s...blood. Are you or your dog bleeding?” “No, why?” “Do you not smell something?” “...Smell what?” Approaching the man and his dog, Jon notices that neither has moved from their position, nor turned around. The dog’s silhouette, tall as the man’s chest, almost shapeless and interminable, blends into the darkness. The smell of rot seems to come from the dog, which hasn’t made

a sound since the conversation’s start, nor acknowledged him. His thumb starts twitching again as the man’s gaunt frame and wide head remain motionless. “Hey, sir… are you alright?,” Jon asks. “Are you headed somewhere?” “I can smell you,” states the gaunt figure. “What?” “I can smell you. I can smell you. I can smell you.” In the dark, the man’s frame blurs. Jon is surprised he has even spotted the man in the first place. Nothing illuminates the man and the dog; they just stand there, backs turned yet still attentive, while the man’s voice repeats “I can smell you,” as if ventriloquized. The dog collapses, and Jon reacts instinctively, sprinting to help the man’s pet. “H-Hey! Sir, I think your dog’s --” He comes closer. But it isn’t a dog. It’s a trash can. And the man has become a street sign. He reaches out to touch the sign, feeling the rust between his fingertips. Where had that smell, that voice come from? “Hey! Sir! Are you there?!” Jon shouts, trying in vain to see through the darkness, but instead there is only -- without shadow, form, figure -- the endless pitch-black of nothingness. Within his chest, his heart begs him to run. He does.

Older than the trees, with his peak on the clouds, Taranaki, the giant, in a deep slumber for centuries. While now appeased, he waits to return. In my dream, Taranaki rouses from his slumber, opens his eyes, stares at his reflection in the ancient crystalline lake. Now awake, he is astonished, sees the death of nature, a world of steel and machines. In a rush of anger, Taranaki explodes, Releasing his frustration into the world. I shuffle and kick in my bed, Feeling Taranaki’s wrath. I sweat, tear my clothes off, surrounded by a world of fire, As the giant strokes his great white beard, Then returns to his impenetrable sleep. I jolt awake, drenched in sweat, The image of Taranaki surrounded by a world of crimson red lingers in my mind. It stays for a moment before leaving, Gone, as suddenly as it came. A sense of frustration comes over me, in a wrath of my own. Riccardo Mascialino

68 Vasileva Sofia

the

sleeping

volcano

Mary Hanson

The Snow Globe My sister has brought me three snow globes from three cities: Boston, New York, D.C. During the devilish hours between midnight and dawn when the ceiling light in my kitchen becomes a villainous shade of purple, I think of those gifts she gave me. When I stand inside the D.C. snow globe, the cherry blossoms engulf me. In their velvety embrace, they invite me to sleep in their petals until the sun rises over the Jefferson Memorial. The storm clouds, that for three days have hung over my house, hinting at a thunderstorm, finally float down in the form of synthetic snow and tacky glitter; tiny stars falling brighter than Icarus. I become the flowers, the glitter, the sky. And they become me. But just as fast, the price sticker on the lilac pedestal latches onto me, pulling me out. What’s left are my eyes, floating in the snow globe beneath the trees.

Giulianna Bruce

The shade beneath my mango tree offers the sweet taste of tranquility. Stepping out of my haven, the sun burns. Leave me be beneath my mango tree. I belong in the shadows of the sweet to hide from the intensity of the bitter. Lost within the small backyard of my mind. Envious of the sun’s warmth, the branches of my anger, the leaves of my sorrows, the trunk of my transparency. Oh, shade beneath my mango tree, I wondered and watered your branches, your leaves, your trunk. As the days grew, so did you and your shade. Until, finally, the sun, too, hid in the shade beneath my mango tree.

Mia Scemla

Mia Batista

The Shade beneath My Mango Tree 73

Olivia Borchers

Going To California Jude Held

The 65’ Mustang never lost its roar. Even through it all, it still has the legs to carry me to redemption. I sped up on Route 66, and I felt the engine rumble. I was halfway through New Mexico and had only made one stop since I left Joplin. The mountains were the only things near me, even at 7am. The cigarette smoke filled the car and created a mood different from the one at home. One would assume I was leaving for a dismal reason. Maybe from the death of a loved one, a hostile situation between parents, or a strained relationship. It was none of that. My parents have been wed for more than 30 years now. My aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents were all alive and well. If you asked anyone back home why I left, they would have never be able to tell you why. I left for a life I thought I wanted, completely alone, able to do whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I was born in 1958 to a man and a woman wanting a fresh start. I was the first of three to come in the next five years. We lived a modest life, with very little ambiguity. I loved playing basketball with my little brothers, as the idea of wholeness was something I always cherished. As a man who lived in Missouri, I’ll always be able to smell that air. However, this was different. When you live in one place for so long, you will always be able to differentiate it from the place you know now, even though they may be similar. This is what it was like comparing Arizona to Missouri. That’s why once I got into Arizona, I diverted from my path and pulled into Monument Valley. The sandstone buttes created a magical aura that I had never really felt before. It created a perfect environment for reflection. It was me and a family of four at the lookout. I had always loved my family, specifically my brothers. Did I really want this big city life, and if I did, what are the chances I would make it? Even without that in mind, I want a wholesome life, not a flashy one. I loved my small town, and I didn’t really need anything else. I was at the valley for around 30 minutes, and I did nothing but look. After looking for so long, I got back in the Mustang,put the keys in the ignition, and froze. I was at a “crossroads” as one would say. All I had with me were the clothes on my back and 1,500 dollars. What would I do? What could I do? I started the car and headed back towards Route 66. At this moment I knew, I couldn’t handle it. I thought I knew what was right. I thought I knew what I was capable of. I thought I was ready. I got on 66 going eastbound. On the way towards California, I didn’t have the radio on, so I could hear the engine rumble and shake in the front of the car. I regained my sense of reality that day.

Summer

Olivia Borchers

Streetscape Peering from my window on a rainy afternoon, which I did a lot that summer, I took notice of that mundane suburban street. Even with beads of water Blurring my vision, so that the trees became Green blotches and the houses Seemed nothing more than pitch roofed carry-ons, I could tell the street held no appeal– No purpose but to move the world in one of two Preordained, godless directions. No matter how much I rubbed my eyes or Turned my head, I couldn’t shake The feeling that the street was coaxing me, Casting promises of wild night-time Rides and genial sunday afternoon cruises on That clean, unrelenting straight-away. As days wore on, and July rain turned into August heat, I kept shuffling forward to that Front window, beguiled by the comfort of the road’s Time-tested promises: “Come,” It seemed to say, “Let me show you where we can go.” Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, An old man drove by in his black, combustible machine With an absent, wistful countenance Focusing steadily forward; all the while he gazed unseeing At what he glided by in haste. For, so long as I stood by that window, with my nose Up against the panelled glass, I saw naught but the passage of people and place, And the grinding, everlasting Asphalt of necessity, driving me on to my fate. Andrew Weaver

KEEP

curiosity IN OUR

CLASSROOMS Maya Kreger

e are no longer a nation of dreamers. Rather, our students learn that only money equals success and therefore happiness. American K-12 education prioritizes some subjects at the expense of others with the idea that only a few areas lead to prosperity. The biggest leaders in our country encourage our students to “stop dreaming and start thinking practically” in a last-ditch effort to keep America competitive (Zakaria 179). While other nations are becoming more competitive in their education systems, America is lagging behind. The diverse studies included within the liberal arts have been supplanted by the encroachment of STEM centered learning in order to prepare the nation’s youth for our technology based economy. STEM will never be enough to solve our educational woes and for this reason should be deemphasized. Instead, a return to the liberal arts will ensure America’s future as the leader of innovation and productivity. STEM education has been a hallmark of the American high school curriculum since the beginning of this century. It places emphasis on its integral parts (science, technology, engineering, and mathematics) while pushing students to be innovative. This so-called innovation that STEM education engenders instead translates into vocation in the minds of students. Students studying business or engineering likely choose these broad subjects because, in our digital age, their success in the job market is nearly guaranteed. Who needs an anthropologist when you can have a software engineer? In reality, we need both. Yes, a software engineer can create an app, but an anthropologist can tell us the very human problems that may have required the app in the first place. Most real world problems discussed in school cannot be solved through simply programming a solution. Human problems need human answers. Students should be encouraged to

participate in liberal arts educations to be able to apply diverse thinking to all the issues that plague our country. In many cases, STEM does not even live up to its name and only provides a sub-par introduction to vital topics like programming. Intended to maintain the US’s top position on the world stage, STEM instead breeds a generation of engineers who can’t tell the difference between denotation and connotation(Zakaria 181). What our country needs is not scientists who don’t read, but well-rounded students prepared to face all the challenges proposed within our technological society. In theory, STEM fosters a mindset of growth and innovation but in reality, in many K-12 programs, it lacks the diverse range of subjects that its name implies. As Virginia Heffernan writes in her WIRED magazine piece about the “pedagogical vapor of STEM,” this combination of four disciplines “might reasonably be expected to cover: fluid mechanics, C++, the periodic table, PEMDAS...” and an entire paragraph more of equally important topics. For this reason, STEM, in many ways, is an illusion and should be deemphasized. It presents an infinite amount of broad topics, but in truth K-12 students are only taught basic computer programming and how to build earthquake-proof towers of popsicle sticks. STEM is the window dressing of the American education system; it pretends to address our nation’s problems while just creating ‘thinkers’ who have lost their human touch. A more thorough education that would benefit America would be one of liberal arts, supplemented with technology and the traditional ‘hard’ sciences. In line with the American dream, students should be able to explore “a richer, deeper set of courses in subjects they found fascinating” (Zakaria 180). America’s education system needs to stop emphasizing certain subjects, but instead foster learning of all areas. The very notion that some aspects of the 79

{ [...] it pretends to address our nation’s problems while just creating “thinkers” who have lost their

{

human touch.

humanities are ‘soft’ sciences encourages bright students to pick subjects of disinterest to them. This emphasis on STEM early on in education discourages the natural curiosity of students, leading them to pick what seems ‘hard’ and discard what is ‘soft’ as irrelevant. When we build walls around subjects, we rid “our sense of reality as a coherent whole, which it actually is” (McCulley). Famed Transcendentalist thinker Ralph Waldo Emerson said that “the secret of Education lies in respecting the pupil,” meaning that students should have the opportunity to discover what their academic passion is, not be forced into an interest (208). Emerson also states that the moment school “is organized, difficulties begin” meaning that nature is the best teacher (Emerson 210). While school obviously must be organized to some degree, we need to rid our system of categorizing broad and substantive topics into one name and begin anew with an interdisciplinary approach. Like nature, all aspects of knowledge involve each other and this needs to be reflected in the classroom. The deficiency of American education may not merely come from the stress placed on the sciences and technology. Rather, it can be found in the weakness of the humanities. Before educators knock STEM teaching down to the level of humanities, they should attempt to bolster classes like literature and history to level these subjects’ importance with the sciences. To truly embrace an interdisciplinary approach to K-12 education, the humanities, along with other historically ‘soft’ subjects, must be enhanced. To remain as a leader in the global workforce and in education, America needs to allow students to see each subject as equally important and interconnected. This will produce creative thinkers who are better equipped to apply diverse knowledge to real world problems. In a world where early specialization is seen

as a quick fix to stay competitive, America will be able to reopen problems previously seen as closed. Modern students rarely read for fun, which is understandable “given the dreariness with which literature is taught in many American classrooms” (Prose 224). Francine Prose, a reporter and writer, “collected eighty or so reading lists from high schools throughout the country” with shocking results: they were all strikingly similar and relatively mediocre (Prose 226). In lieu of discussing A Separate Peace in virtually every school, humanities teachers should pick unique books, ones that will broaden the perspective of their students. If high schoolers believe that the scope of literature starts with Shakespeare and ends with Steinbeck, they will truly never know the variety present within the humanities. How can a service-based economy, being primarily digital, function without STEM? It cannot. Obviously, our country should not rid itself of the subjects within STEM; that would not be beneficial. However, we do need to stop pretending it is the panacea for poor educational systems and an America moving away from its peak. The liberal arts are essential to all industries, including business and technology. If students in the US’s K-12 system had the ability to explore all academic subjects and later pick their primary interests regardless of the economic feasibility of jobs, true innovation would be incited. Set aside specialization for college and keep curiosity in our classrooms. Only when students are encouraged to think differently can America remain competitive.

WORKS CITED 82

Works Cited: Emerson, Ralph Waldo. Education. The Language of Composition:

Reading, Writing, Rhetoric . Shea, et al., Boston, Mass., 2018,

Bedford, Freeman & Worth, pp. 208-210.

Heffernan, Virginia.“How We Learned to Love the Pedagogical

Vapor of STEM”. WIRED, Conde Nast, https://www.wired.

com/story/how-we-learned-to-love-pedagogical-vapor-

stem/,17 December 2019.

McCulley, George. “Academic Disciplines: Synthesis or Demise?”.

New England Board of Higher Education, https://nebhe.org/

journal/academic-disciplines-synthesis-or-demise/,

3 April 2018.

Prose, Francine. “I Know Why the Caged Bird Cannot Read”. The

Language of Composition: Reading, Writing, Rhetoric . Shea,

et al., Boston, Mass., 2018, Bedford, Freeman & Worth,

pp.224-235. Zakaria, Fareed. “In Defense of a Liberal Education”. The Language

of Composition: Reading, Writing, Rhetoric . Shea, et al., Bos

ton, Mass., 2018, Bedford, Freeman & Worth, pp. 179-188.

Filippo Sbroggio

Michael Athanassiadis

re there any points or motions on the floor? With a few hard clanks of a gavel, my first Model UN committee session had begun. This was Princeton’s premier conference, a fierce competition for the Northeastern elite–the big leagues. Representing Iceland, I had prepared for all the wrong situations. Looking around the ballroom packed with eager delegates, I noticed they were all writing, whispering, piecing together persuasive rhetoric. I had no idea what was happening. Soon enough, a sea of placards rose, and I became even more confused. Hearing The Delegation of Russia motions for a ten-minute moderated caucus was akin to Chinese. And it remained that way until I gradually learned the language. Model UN isn’t a babysitter or a nurturer. You’re thrown right into the fire from the get-go. There is no mercy for newcomers in the kingdom that is the conference ballroom, with the monarch being the gavel-wielding chair and the kiss-up delegates sitting in the front row of their court. These non-stop talkers, speaking over everyone else in unmoderated deliberation, seek one thing–an award. Especially the coveted Best Delegate award, or “Best Del” in Model UN lingo (the verb being “to get the gavel” since you’re awarded a gavel resembling the chair’s). These megalomaniacs will do anything to get it, relying on betrayal to win at all costs. In contrast, at the very back, are the stragglers from the larger body–sets of “delegates” with absolutely no preparation. They may as well be opened cups of Jell-O dumped onto the seats, totally oblivious of the happenings of the committee, merely jiggling when flicked. The burnouts of the Model UN world, they are solely there to check off an extra activity on their Common App. By the time my first committee session had ended, I had begun to understand the seating arrangement’s importance to Model UN’s dynamic. But the flow of 85

competition had yet to be learned. Lengthy, meandering periods of structured debate dominate most of the following committee sessions. They’re a chance for the kiss-ups to show off their rhetorical prowess and knowledge of geopolitics. So, of course, they constantly raise their placards to reiterate the same ideas over and over. Sprinkled between the kiss-ups, or “power dels,” are the stutterers and those trying to lighten the mood with a nerdy joke. These aspects are all well and good, but the most important feature of a moderated caucus is sabotage. Infused in delegates’ speeches are ideas, some of which may be original, while the majority are stolen from the well-researched. Beware of telling anyone else your ideas. Your background work is rendered useless if your knowledge’s lockbox can be easily picked. Sure, Model UN can be ruthless. But it is also a tight-knit community of forward thinkers. Drafting resolutions to historical or current crises, delegates collaborate with their peers, pushing for compromise to speed up the process. Thank God there’s no filibuster! Be weary of the waters for the “sharks” that are power dels, and you might just meet sincere people. I know I have. After all, the down-to-earth delegates who speak powerfully and command groups with leadership skills tend to get the gavel in the end. No matter who you are surrounded by, Model UN is a breeding ground for the next generation of leaders, losers, and everyone in between. The committee floor is not only a magnifying glass into the personalities of soon-to-be politicians, but a microcosm of society at large.

Cottontail T

Indira Schargel

he trees swayed in the wind, their long branches dancing to the song of the rustling leaves. Through the symphony of the sounds of the forest, four little are paws bounding through the detritus and the rough, patchy grass. A cottontail rabbit pokes its head out from under a wildflower and leaps toward a patch of clovers. Its brown nose twitched and sniffed the three-leaf plant, and once satisfied and sure that it was a clover, bit down its tart leaves. The hot afternoon sun caressed the tan fur of the rabbit and slightly stung the thin skin on its ears as the sun went down. Night came ever so fast and the forest took on a new persona. The overhanging limbs across the forest ground seemed to never end, and the padding of paws and the snap of a branch near the patch of clovers frightened the rabbit. The cottontail dashed to safety, a small hole under a log covered in earthy fungus, dewy leaves covering the entrance to the pit. Heart slamming against the rabbit’s fragile ribcage it kept silent, shifting its ears to attempt to hear the creature trying to hunt it. A slender, tawny orange and white fox crept along the faint path the rabbit had made with its footpads. It gracefully crept upon the rotting leaves and the rich earth but it eventually lost its tracks. It walked off in defeat as the cottontail scurried to its den, moon shining through a lattice of leaves.

Red Fox I

Indira Schargel

basked in the early autumn sun, the weather still being hot from the remnants of summer. Rolling in the detritus and the patchy grass of the part of the forest I roam, I felt a hunger start to slowly creep up on me. I picked myself up from my sunbathing and went in search of a source of food. I skipped through the undergrowth, jumping for parts that I couldn’t crawl through or under. I lifted my snout to the sun and took in its lovely rays when there were patches in the ferns I was traveling through. As night just began to fall, I searched for something, anything. A bird, frog, mouse—ah! A rabbit. Ahead of me, surrounded like a high priestess by clovers, a perfect cottontail lay. I quieted my approach, crouching low… sneaking up on it… getting ready to leap… but to no avail. A small broken twig lay under my paw, mute after crying the shattering snap of being stepped on. The rabbit dashed. I looked up just in time from the twig to see the general direction of where it went. I cursed myself and my rotten luck but did not preoccupy myself with the mistake. I needed to find this rabbit. I plodded over to the place where it was laying, the dainty impression of its body still noticeable in the clovers. I searched around that area, looking for its little pawprints in the earth. My feet sliding on the little mushrooms and stamping their worthless fungal life into mush in anger. I gave up. I walked off, dewy leaves sliding against my fur and hopping over a rotting log.

Pedro Rusconi

he falcon glanced at the small fowl from he bottom corner of his eye.

In a moment’s notice, the hunt had begun. From atop the frozen tundra’s cliff, the gyrfalcon lept off, soaring through hundreds of feet of the biting arctic air. The air stung the falcon’s soft feathers, more than what he was acquainted with. It was finally getting to that time, huh? The chase exhilarated the young falcon, and amidst all of the commotion, it seemed as if he heard small whisperings from the wind, guiding his every move. Turn that way the wind whispered, Duck under that tree, the gale howled, Go left, now right! The gusts cajoled. Heeding the wind’s advice, the falcon received the fowl on a silver platter. The soft goose flesh surrounding its neck was pierced by the falcon’s talons, bestowing it with a quick death. As days went on, the gyrfalcon noticed less and less wildlife, marking it the time to embark on his dreaded journey to the south. He scarfed down what was left of the previous night’s hunt, leapt off his cliff, and started his strenuous journey. Just like coming home from work or from school and seeing the same neighborhood you’ve seen all your life, the falcon acknowledged to himself that the tundra scenery was admirable, yet it was nothing that could astonish him. The tundra was shallow and drab, yet it was all that the falcon ever had. The light shades of verdant moss and dried winter grass hugged most of the tundra’s ground and the falcon flew above it, blending all the colors into one. There weren’t many trees to speak of, but those that were there had no leaves and barely any bark. The air in the tundra was harsh, it spoke with no filter. It’s voice was cold, reflecting its climate. It didn’t favor any specific side, it didn’t aid those in need,

through it all, it remained impartial. The wind gives advice to all, no matter the circumstance nor the situation. As the falcon flew, the wind gave its first warning. He noticed he was getting heavier and heavier the more he flew. Were his feathers damp? The wind was howling now, like a siren in the open arctic tundra. Cover, now! The wind screamed in the falcons head, bombarding him with sound. The falcon decided to heed the wind’s warning and duck underneath a nearby cliff. Within minutes, the bird witnessed a thunderstorm of likes he had never seen. The poor falcon had never once experienced anything like this. As the falcon began to breathe faster and faster, he felt as if his lungs were on fire, his vision blurry, everything fading, fading to black. You’ve got to calm down! Things like this happen. Rolling drums accompanied the surges of rays radiant with color and light. It was still very much day, but the clouds had surrounded the sun and made it pitch black. All the company the poor falcon had was himself and the wind. The falcon attempted to balance his breathing as the wind whispered comforting affirmations in his ear. As his breathing steadied, the falcon began to flutter all the moisture off his soft feathers, preparing to bury himself in his wing, to shield the cold night. The falcon awakened to the aches of his exhausted wings; however, he had time to sit there and mope, he had no other choice but to soar on. If he did not fly, he would not live. And so it was decided, the bird would have to continue flying South. As the falcon plunged down the cliff he gathered speed great enough to seamlessly carry him through the wind. The falcon’s once sturdy body was almost crumbling from exhaustion and hunger, yet he had to keep going. The farther South he went, the more he noticed the air getting warmer, the booming wildlife, the trusty rivers. 91

However, this was novel to him. All the new scenery, the new smells, it was nothing like anything he had ever known. The booming wildlife, the bright, vibrant colors that emitted from the flowers, the lush green leaves holding on for dear life onto the branches that were swaying by the wind. “It’s all too much”, the falcon thought, “why can’t I just go back to what is mine?” Trust me, the air is warm and there is prey aplenty, said the wind. I hope you’ll trust me, the zephyr wished. As much as the falcon feared the unknown, he knew that if he wanted to survive, there wasn’t much of a choice. With that said, the young falcon proceeded to perch atop a tall pine tree as a small fowl grazed the bottom corner of his eye and in a moment, the hunt had begun.

Christopher Capote 93

Gabriela Abramowitz

Far More Than Kin, Far Less Than Kind selections from a book of plays by Daniel Fruman

As Terrible as God THE CZAR: Behold this skull. This rotting, mournful bone. Behold its shape, its crevices, its filthy teeth, The aged cracks and scars it bears, whose very Image conjures up a thousand grisly tales. Behold this skull, how can ye see a thing That’s so precisely fashioned, that doth invoke Such horror i’the bosom, and not think It as the greatest, most exquisite work of God? This is the skull of Metropolitan Phillíp, A man who was most dear to me. The only Man that saw the very chasms of my mind With piercing clarity, who was my comforter In times of woe, and was the soul to all My councils. In deed, in thought, in visage – The picture of a Saint. A man I slayed, While he was in the midst of prayer for My Holy soul. I must confess, I am The causer of this skull’s misshaping. He was A man whom I didst think to be a servant Of the Lord, but who turned out to be a Squire to the Devil. With his advice I pardoned murd’rous traitors by the score – All in the name of charity and mercy. He was the fool that ran into a bear Pit with an icon of the Holy Mary, In an attempt to save a spy of Sigismund’s. In short, he was unfit to pray for me, So I deprived him of the means to do so. I watched him pray, his chanting baritone Filling the wooden church. Then I didst heft My staff and swung…the chanting stopped. This skull Still bears the gash. There was no cry of pain, No noise, just a pure, somber silence. A perfect Silence. I ponder this, because when I beheld his skull, And felt its ashen, wormy cold upon My hands, and smelled its serpentine perfume, I knelt and prayed. And whilst I prayed, A horror came o’er me. A question that Didst burrow in my mind and left me sleepless… 95

Is this God’s image? For He didst fashion Us from dust to be His likeness, so is His visage thus? For this is hidden deep Beneath our hides of skin. This is our core. And is not God the core of everything? When Adam saw his nakedness, he felt ashamed. Would ye not be ashamed, abash’d and mortified, If ye look’d thus? When God gave Adam clothes Of flesh, He pitied him and made him beautiful. For, Adam could not handle cosmic, untamed Beauty. Within his fragile mind, he saw Unbridled terror, so God didst pity Him and made him lesser – made him perfect Beauty. For, are we not beautiful, compared To this? If this is how we’re like to God, Is God not monstrous and we not monstrous At our very core? Behold this skull and Tell me tis not monstrous! Behold this skull And try to tell me it is not the face Of God! Behold this skull, and in beholding, See my God! And then behold my face and See your God! Behold this skull, the terror It instills in you, I must instill as Well, if I’m to be your Czar. Now you are privy to the content of My prayers. Let’s to work. Belsky, Godunov, what have ye here for me?

The Binding of Loki LOKI: And so the end begins. So have I, with My words, roused such a wind, fate’s spindle spun Again, thus setting all our destinies in motion. When skalds will sing their songs in the new age, Or scribes will write their codexes, they’ll say I’ve slain more men than death itself. They’ll say I was a traitor, a bringer of destruction, evil’s harbinger. And yet, I loved the Gods… Although I hate them. I was their friend while they in secret massacred my people. I’ve been their fool, though I’m above them all. What I have done for them, in any other land, Would merit thanks…would merit love… And did They love me? For if they did, why by the Thousands did they kill my kin? If they did Not, then why am I alive? But I loved them! By Ymir, they were everything… And when my daggers sliced their hearts, I was The one who bled. Why did I bleed, when they Should have? They wish me dead for I didst kill their Balder?! A hundred-headed, vile, marauding Jotun, Or any lowest fiend within my land, I loved as if they were a thousand Shining Balders! No… I am resolute. O let my heart burn Only with my hate. And let this dagger signify my newest oath! [he opens his right palm, which is nearly bisected by a long scar. With his left hand he takes out a dagger and slices the scar open, letting the wound bleed afresh.] And let the blood that seepeth from this wound Proclaim my hate. For ev’ry drop that loved The Aesir Gods will soak into the ground. For I will love no more. And I will think No more on anything besides revenge. Besides the Jotun’s justice. [he clenches his palm closed, then stands up, rips a piece of bedding and with it bandages the wound.]

The Gods are on my tail. I feel their footsteps on These Midgard hills. I’ve made my dwelling here Within this mortal realm, next to my son, Odin’s damnation – Fenrir. Who, by the Gods, was bound with mystic rope that turn’d him Into stone, thus turning a goliath To a mountain. His mouth agape, he drools The Franang lake. Within this lake I’ll hide In salmon shape. Yet they must catch me…for There is one more prophecy I must fulfill. And I do fear that if they find me now, I’ll meet my end. Therefore, I’ll tie a net And burn it in my fire, as a clue. Then I will wait for them. And when they grab me… Twilight thus begins. So, come ye hither, Aesir Gods, and I’ll revenge your sins.

The Conqueror’s Son WILLIAM: I have been told so many times that royal Life is full of richness and immeasurable pleasure. And since my younger days, I always saw It as a life devoid of care. My father Was a distant figure. A statue in The misty morning air. A statue that I headed towards, yet I could never find. I snuck into the sunlit council rooms And smelled the heavy odor of men’s sweat Commingling with the richness of spiced wine. I looked up at my father and he smiled At me. Then I was bid away, away Into another room, away from strength And to the cradling arms of smiling weakness. Thus was I always led away, until I was led in and saw my father on His deathbed. And I didst feel the cushion Of my life become a seat of spiteful agony. The people who once cared for me all turned Away and kept low their sad eyes. The men Whose odors I didst come to know became My enemies, whose minds I learned to probe. 98

Thus everybody turned away, when war set In and yet when solemn peace doth grace our land, And all the people turn to me with open arms, I turn away. I turn away from love, From friendship, brotherhood or faith, for I’ve found solace in the backs of people’s Heads. For men that turn away can never See me sin, or love. A life that’s filled with Hidden, distant love, and overt, horrid cares. I am the monarch of the richest kingdom Ever seen in Christendom, I’ve bent the Scots and Celts under my will. And under Me there’s not a day goes by that England Doesn’t prosper. It blossoms when I fade. I sense that something’s coming, I smell it In the air. Things have become too peaceful Recently, too quiet. And I have made a Habit out of filtering the noise. Yet I have no idea what it will be when It doth come. What treason, death or weight will Fall upon me next. And I’m not ready. Yet here I am, the greatest king that England Ever had, its foremost sinner and a Damned soul, preparing for my broken Psyche’s fears. The memory of my departed Father’s voice and eyes evaporating into nothingness. I’ve lost connection with myself and with My purpose. Yet, what will come, will come and I will face it, as I always have. And I will sin, or make some foolish error, as I always have. And then I’ll watch as the Whole castle topples: prosperity, My happiness, my love, my life… For in My mind, of late, grim death has walked with icy steps. I’ve lost myself and he is there to harvest Me. It seems the further that I try to Go from sinning, the more people yell the rumour In the streets. Methinks that there’s some match that Has been lit and I will helpless watch the Forest set aflame and then consume me.

Valeria Villanueva

A Trip to the Arctic

Riccardo Mascialino

ver since I was a little kid living in Chile, I remember my dad going to Alaska on week-long fishing trips. Before he would go, he would always tell me that he was going to a fishing lodge inside of the Arctic Circle, a beautiful but dangerous place to be, and no place for a child. However, he would always promise me that when I grew up, we would go to Alaska together. During the week that he was gone, there was no communication, as the region he was in was so remote that no satellites even bothered covering that area. When he would finally come home, he would bring hundreds of videos and photos from his trips. I can still recall the first photo he ever showed me: a huge grizzly bear standing above a stream in all its glory. The thick Alaskan woods surrounded the bear on all sides, but a ray of sunlight managed to sneak past the huge trees, making the stream shine and glow. The light revealed every little shiny rock and all the salmon casually swimming forward. The bear stood with one paw on a huge rock and the other right above the stream, ready to pounce

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upon an unsuspecting salmon. As he was about to jump, the bear and my father locked eyes, acknowledging each other’s presence, unsure how to react. This moment was immortalized as my father took the picture, a moment where man was in direct conflict with nature. Each time he came home, I would be amazed by these pictures of the enormous salmon, vivid pink and silver reflected beautifully upon the Alaskan sunlight, colors that I had never seen before. The giant grizzly bears, always contesting the fishermen for who would be fishing in that river that day. And the deadly moose, standing at eight feet tall with their enormous antlers, who would dominate the untamed wilderness, making humans and bears run for their lives if spotted. However, what impressed me the most was not the wildlife but the untamed Alaskan wilderness, untouched by humanity in its purest form. As the years went by, I had lost all hope that I would go to Alaska, and I had even forgotten the initial excitement that I had as a little kid at the mere thought of going there. Six years later, now living in

Miami, the trip was substantially shorter. My dad finally decided, to my surprise, that it was time to take me to this wild promised land. When I heard the proposition, I could not believe it. In that instant, my excitement was brought into the light, having been buried under the veil of time. With a few weeks to prepare, I managed to channel my excitement by focusing on preparing for the journey. After buying waders, boots, fishing rods, jackets, fishing glasses, and everything that we needed, it was finally time to say goodbye to my mom the same way that my dad had done to us when I was a little kid. With tears in her eyes, we said our goodbyes, but they were not tears of sadness. They were tears of joy as she knew the bonding time that would come on this trip was time for which I had been waiting so long. And off we went, to an untamed land that I couldn’t even begin to imagine. The journey to the lodge was a long one. It started with a 7-hour flight to Dallas, where we would spend the evening eating at a pizzeria while we waited for our next flight. It was followed by a 4-hour flight to Anchorage, where we would spend the rest of the day and early morning until we could catch another flight to Unalakleet, where the fishing would take place. During our time in Anchorage, not only did we find several amazing Italian restaurants to eat at, but we also encountered a plethora of interesting people from all over the world who were surprisingly entertaining. To be specific, it was mainly the taxi drivers who went from dancing and singing Korean men to an old white lady with huge sunglasses who could not stop laughing during the entire trip. The next morning, we caught a small airplane over to Unalakleet village, a 1-mile road with simple houses on each side where the native population lives by hunting and fishing the local wildlife. As we walked towards the docks, I was amazed

by that little village. The houses were made from cheap wood, and the roofs were made from reused metal, which I doubted would provide much protection during the long winters that far north. However horrible their conditions were, every single person we walked past smiled and greeted us with such joy as if their life was as perfect as it could be. Once we reached the docks, we met the other eight fishermen and the guides who would be spending the week with us on the lodge. Then, we all got on the fishing boats and headed upriver for about an hour until we got to our fishing lodge. The fishing lodge was the only human interaction with nature for miles and miles as nature would stretch as far as the eye could see. My hopes for that lodge which I had imagined so many times were blatantly exceeded. I was astonished by the peace and tranquillity of that place, a place untouched by the problems of the modern world, a place where there were no burdens or technology, a place of true peace. My dad and I would go on to have one of the best weeks of our lives. Endless fun fishing in the river with millions of salmon passing by. Eating lunch, dinner, and breakfast often with multiple courses of exquisite food prepared by the five-star chef Nathan. Staying up late playing card games and telling the other fishermen our stories and catches of the day. Seeing wild moose and bears for the first time. And the beautiful red sun, which seemed so much bigger and brighter when we were that up north, giving us a warmth that kept us safe from the unrelenting freeze of the arctic. From that moment on, fishing with my dad in Alaska has become a yearly tradition, one we do every year, but the experience is so wild and unique in its nature that every time we go, it is as if it is, again, the first time.

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Night at the Shop Julian Schwartz

102

Nina Vara

s the sun gingerly crept down, the day turned into night. The glistening light slowly faded over the horizon. Engines roaring, foot on the gas, flying past they went, quicker than anyone’s eyes could have tracked. others joining the cruise down the seemingly never-ending dark highway, occasionally lined with flickering yellow lights at its sides. The soft, felt bucket seats hugged me, not to let go no matter the circumstances. The thoughts of speed, adrenaline and fear brought a smile to my face. As others grouped on the highway, nothing but a sense of security filled my mind, amongst other car lovers such as I. The long drive incited my mind to wander off, constantly staring at the passersby to my left and right. The trio of blares from a car’s horn filled the enclosed cabin; instinctively my body felt the grip of the seat and the constraint of the harness, a quick glance proved the speedometer picking up speed quickly. A quick glance revealed my contestant, fierce yet with a smile of triumph, thinking he had won from the start. Neck to neck, one pulling ahead of the other just to be overtaken like a never ending cycle. Shifting into the final gear, speedometer hitting triple digits, my opponent falling back, the lead growing ever more spacious between us; Releasing my foot off the gas, the engine finally able to take a break from its vicious sprint. Being lost in the moment of the journey, unaware of the harbour approaching. When we we reached the meet, I felt as if I was at an art gallery, able to enjoy and acknowledge all the personalized masterpieces of each car owner and find different characteristics in each of them. As the destination approached, the howls grew louder, the bright street lights illuminated the way and crowds parted but were still lively. Each driver pulled into their spot and locked their doors, securing their belongings. Venturing out, walking down the aisles, the aroma of a grill slowly cooking filled the air all around. My eyes

fastened to each car as I passed. Flashing lights, flames exiting the exhausts, and rubber tires leaving marks on the asphalt as people steered in. The LED signs mounted at the store fronts resembled Tokyo during the dead of night, the sound of “Tokyo Drift” fittingly placed in the surrounding nightlife atmosphere. The Nissans stunt their large wings, crazy engines, and loud exhausts. Toyotas with their crimson paint that reflected off the damp pavement, classic looks, and their flashing underglow that lit up the surrounding area. The peaceful event slowly turned to a battle amongst drivers, the anticipated races finally started to appear. Bets were placed prior to the quarter mile race staged on the strip of pavement behind the stores. I pulled to a standstill, evenly assorted amongst my opponent. we were ready. Smirks on both of our faces, the flag-girl pointed her bright orange pipes to the sky and slowly counted from three. A moment of deja-vu, reminding me of the race on the highway, the same feeling of a tug and the grab of the seat. The dashboard went up and the car launched off. My opponent slowly pulled ahead as we reached the halfway mark, taking the place I had relative to the race prior. The battle advanced, yet there was no hope for me. The last option was to use“the bottle” I was told not to unless necessary. In a flick of a switch, the car jumped from 5th gear into 6th and quickly caught up to my adversary. The end in sight, the top of the 10 seconds I knew it would take to speed past the finish line. Nine seconds, forty-three milliseconds, my fastest time on the quarter mile strip. Cheering louder than a jet engine and a wave of people surrounding the car, proved the fact that I had won the stressful race. The parade calmed after a while, back to their peaceful state, back to a community rather than a crowd separated by disliking towards one racer or the other. Shaking my opponent’s hand was 103

a gesture of peace and civility. A light drizzle spanned the day’s life, like a village hidden in the rain. The moon swept under a sheet of heavy clouds, the rain poured harder and harder each second. Heading towards the workshop, filled with all the tools a person could have ever asked for, spanning the length of the wall. Lined up in the shop, cars ready to be pushed to their limits one by one on the ‘Dyno’. The clock struck eleven, it was time to go. The shop’s large, roll-up garage door slammed on the ground and secured itself with a lock. The slippery roads brought danger, yet excitement quickly followed by an adrenaline rush kept me laser-focused. The adrenaline tempted me to push it to the metal and blast off like a rocket ship but I was brought back to reality by the pounding rain against the windshield, even outpacing the windshield wipers at full power. My day was almost over, as I hopped onto I-95 South and drove down that same seemingly never-ending highway. The lights of the Hard Rock Cafe illuminated the sky as I stared in awe of its immense size and the deep allure of its spectacular pink lights extending to never-ending space. The city lights painted a picture of a distant civilization and liveliness getting closer and closer. The last exit off of 95 brought us to a quiet, calm, and sleeping neighborhood. The lights of my house right around the block proved to be the brightest on the midnight street, making it clear that someone was waiting for me. I opened the gate, pulling into the driveway, I went through the front door, slowly making my way up the old, polished, wooden floorboards boards and into my room. As I got into bed, serotonin and dopamine rushed into my head, not letting me sleep till the crack of morning. As the sun reached its highest point, I began to finally wake after falling asleep only a few hours prior.

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Sabrina Morata

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missing k n i g h t in shining armor I the

missed daddy-daughter dances. I missed a genuine father-daughter relationship. I was content with life. I overcame my debilitating stroke without him. I learned how to ride a bike without him. I learned how to swim without him. I learned how to drive without him. Looking back, contemplating my 13 years of life, I learned a lot without him. I became used to the lingering shadow of my father’s absence. I became independent, self-sufficient you could say. I mean, what could I say? It had been 13 years. I came to terms with the fact that he couldn’t be the dad I needed him to be. That was perfectly fine with me. I didn’t need him.

Zoe Terry

was uneasy. When my mom walked in, her smug smile wasn’t there. Her eyes watered like raindrops dripping down from a roof. I could tell something was happening. I couldn’t put my finger on it. My heart was thumping in my chest. My brain tried scrambling all the things it could be. Did I leave the door unlocked? Did my grades drop? All these thoughts were racing through my head. She muttered the words, “Your dad wants to talk to you.” My dad? I didn’t think I was ready. For the last 13 years, I came to terms with not having a father figure. I didn’t need a knight in shining armor. I had my strong, extraordinary mother and godmother who have taken care of me ever since I could remember. It was mind-boggling that after 13 years, he came back. I dreamed of this moment for years. I prayed and cried for this moment. An uneasy feeling weighed over me. Was this it? Was this the moment I hoped for? Was I finally going to get a relationship with my father? There was no direct answer to any of these questions. I sat there staring at my mom, while I aggressively bit my nails, glancing at the uneventful world outside of my window. Honestly, I was distracting myself from my new reality. He wasn’t just going to vanish in the shadows again. He wants his presence to be known. He is Zoe’s father.

I was on the phone with my best friend. We were talking for hours, laughing, smiling, and just having a good time. Her voice was filled with joy that could light up a room around her, but I heard the whispers of my mom as she paced by my door. I gazed up catching a glimpse of her standing in the gap of my doorway with stares as hard as stone. She took deep labored breaths; contemplating opening the door to something she didn’t know if I was ready for. My godmother was next to her, egging my mom on to enter my room. She walked in and took a deep breath. Mom has always been a short, outspoken black woman. Effortlessly one of the strongest people I know. I saw that she “Zoe? Zoe? ZOE!” she called. was hesitant to speak. Gaga, my godmother, has always been one of the most serene My mind was distant from the situation. I and reasonable people I know. I saw she didn’t know what to do. I burst into laughter 106

fighting back my tears from streaming down my flustered cheeks. “Oh, ok. How did he find me?” I asked eagerly. “Why come back now? What do I even say to him?” My mom’s response was simple: “Whatever you wanna say.” I was always a very talkative person. I blossomed in discussions. However, when it came to this, words escaped my mouth. There were things I wanted to say but was too scared to vocalize. My godmother chimed in. “Ask him where he has been, Zoe.” That was something I was scared to ask. The petrifying question. My reality was a beautiful nightmare for me. I finally worked up the courage to talk to him. I asked my mom if I could get water first to swallow my anxiety. As I walked to get water I imagined how the conversation would flow. I would say “Hello.” He would say, “Hi, how are you?” Hopefully the conversation would be quick. I drank the water then walked back to the room. My mom hands me her bulky phone and I sit propped up on my bed. The anticipation of the unrelieved dialing sound seemed like a lifetime. As the phone was ringing, I sat there—butterflies in stomach—waiting for an answer, trying to gather words. I heard a deep voice say, “Hello, Ariel.”

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INSECURITY Christopher Anderson

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hen people talk about insecurity, what do they truly mean? When people ridicule others in an attempt to look better, do they know how the victims feel? Do people actually know how insecurity seeps inside thoughts and just makes a disgusting tar of black negative emotions? Listen to my story. Listen to my innermost turmoils. Listen to how I turn against myself constantly. Insecurity is not just a lack of confidence. Yes, in some situations I wish I had more confidence to assert myself. The true depth of insecurity shackles my core and makes me frightened and anxious about anything. Insecurity is running away from people in fear of their judgements. Having to walk into a room, and feel vicious gazes of heartless people, when the truth lies in the fact that many people simply do not care about what I do. Insecurity is looking at yourself and noticing all the flaws, and blaming your genetics for making such a beast. Imagine enjoying your day, and simply crying once you look at a mirror. All of the wonderful moments of the day wither away compared to seeing how disgusting you are as a person. There is no logical reasoning for this, yet your emotions sink to the bottom of your stomach and at that moment you just grow to detest yourself. You wish to yourself, the gods–anything to let you be something different. You start to avoid mirrors. You start to avoid anything that makes you confront yourself. Insecurity does not have a physical problem to easily pinpoint and eliminate. Insecurity sticks and clings into your core, dancing around your brain and making you believe such foolish lies. Insecurity is a plaque in your body that needs careful consideration to be removed. Although, that is easier said than done. The most disrespectful part to being insecure is when people tell you to just stop thinking that way. The amount of revulsion that arises

from hearing those words inflames my feelings towards people who feebly try to “help”. You know they have good intentions, yet your brain and heart clash against what is the right way to think. The confusion makes you detest your lack of clarity even more; nothing seems to be working. Yes, there are people who want to help. Yes, you can talk to your friends. Yes, you can make an appointment with a therapist. However, in a weird twist of fate, your pride forbids you. How does someone insecure even begin to have a speck of pride, for their insecurity works with an “invisible hand,” puppeteering around with their self-esteem. You would rather keep your emotions bottled up and forever sealed off from the harsh scorn of others. Imagine allowing yourself to open up and telling your friend what is wrong. That seems like the mark of insanity. Imagine worrying about them divulging your secrets, making all of your weaknesses a public mockery to the rest of your social circle. Can you even fathom the endless feeling of paranoia from being betrayed by those who gained your trust? I do want confidence. I do want to be my own person. I do want to look at myself and smile. My goal of explaining my insecurity is not based on mere despair just for the sake of it, but is the culmination of all of the worries and fears that come from my years of walking on this Earth. I want to open up the conversation for people to feel comfortable to expose themselves. Living in a muck of nasty ideas is a hell that I want nothing to do with. I’m just lost and I want nothing more than to be told that I matter. Please help me see the light.

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Lighten up. Catch a smile. You look unapproachable. Shoulders back. Chin up. Spine straight. Your weakness is glaring. Have some confidence, walk with pride, put some damn bass in your voice. Make eye contact. Pose for pictures. Fix your hair. Take off the jacket, it makes you look insecure. What is wrong with you? Do you even care for your looks? Is it that hard to put some jewelry on? Spritz some smell good after your shower. What is wrong with you? Have some fun. You’re such a pessimist. Maybe if you stopped caring about how you look, you could focus on the positive. Oh, but no. Go change. What are you wearing? Put some effort. Be attractive. Seek extroversion. Go out there. Live your life, just... not like that Charisse Martin

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The Consequence of Existing

Amina Bilalova

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PAPER BAG

Robert Depradine

Nina Lardi

POETRY

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Sofia Mateo

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Mary Hanson

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Colophon This issue of Amused was designed on an Apple iMac using Adobe InDesign CC and Adobe Photoshop CC. Amused is set in three fonts. The main text is set in Baskerville. Titles and bylines are set in Butler Stencil and Baskerville. The magazine’s nameplate on the cover is set in Old Man Eloquent and Butler Stencil.

About Amused Published by the students of Miami Country Day School, 601 Northeast 107th Street, Miami, FL 33161. School enrollment for Upper School is 462, with a faculty and staff of 75. The poetry, prose, and artwork found herein are the original and creative works of the students. Copyright on all works is retained by the authors and artists. Email: amused@miamicountryday.info

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Miami Country Day School

Amused Spring 2021

Articles inside

Insecurity

The Consequence of Existing

The Missing Knight in Shining Armor

Keep Curiosity in Our Classrooms

Isolation

Cottontail and Red Fox

Far More Than Kin, Far Less Than Kind

The Flow Without End

Eric Weiss July 14, 1914

La Mujer Hispana

An Ode to Odessa