amused Spring 2016

amused Miami Country Day School National English Honor Society

SPRING 2016

amused SPRING 2016

| volume x

Editor-in-Chiefs

FRANCESS DUNBAR ’16 EMMA RODRIGUEZ ‘16 Layout and Art Editors

ANDREA JENSEN ’16 VIOLETA DE LA GUARDIA ’17 Staff

IAN ZIGEL ‘17 AMELIA GREGORIO ‘17 MADISYN JONES ‘16 GIULIA BRONZI ‘17 OLIVIA BRONZI ‘17 VERONICA ORTIZ ‘17 DWIGHT SPENCER ‘16 ARIANNA ARGUETTY ‘17 ASATTA MESA ‘17 JACOB STROUSE ‘16 LAUREN KLEIDERMACHER ‘17 Faculty Advisors

MR. SCOTT BRENNAN MR. SAMUEL BROWN Front Cover

MADISYN JONES ‘16 Blaque | Collage

Back Cover

MADISYN JONES ‘16 Melanin | Pen and Ink

Published by the students of Miami Country Day School, 601 Northeast 107 Street, Miami, FL 33161. 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.

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Blaque | Madisyn Jones ’16

If you would rule the world quietly, you must keep it amused.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

amused | 3

Sushi Clock | Francess Dunbar ’16

ARTWORK 07 Rough

Film Photography

08 I See You Film Photography 09 Balance

Photography

Photography

Ceramics

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

35 Pink

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

35 Focus

Gal Zahori | ’16

11 Nicole

Andrea Jensen | ’16

12 Sunset

Madeline Sukhdeo | ’19

Kenny Byers | ’18

14 Darkness

Photography

17 Animals of the Night

Photography

Gal Zahori | ’16

19 Self Portrait

20 Greens

Sofia Zamboli | ’17

Photography

Natalia De La Guardia | ’17

Photography

22 Rap

Natalia De La Guardia | ’17

Photography

23 El Palacio de Cristal: Transported

Photography

25 Athena

Orville Mohe | ’16

Photography

26 Euphoria

Photography

27 Ring of Fire

Photography

Milan Patel | ’17

28 Oceania

Photography

29 Blue Crush

Photography

31 Untitled Collage

32 NYC

34 Dazed

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Photography

Photography

Sofia Zamboli | ’17

Natalia De La Guardia | ’18

Photography

Rashad Heagle | ’18

Photography

36 Eye

37 Palms

38 Strings

Photography

Photography

Gal Zahori | ’16

Photography Ceramics

42 BAM!

Ceramics

43 Ava (Amy Winehouse)

Pencil

44 Seeing Through the Light

Photography

46 Untitled

Photography

48 Power

50 Lilies

Painting Painting

52 Building Floor Plan 1

Beth Lilly | ’16 Andrea Jensen | ’16 Gal Zahori | ’16

Ceramics

Amelio Joseph | ’16

Elmira Moskvina | ’16

Gal Zahori | ’16

Ceramics

Lucas Cea | ’16

Elmira Moskvina | ’16

50 Walking Teapot

Natalia De La Guardia | ’18

Kenny Byers | ’18

Photography

50 Warmth

Ana Rusconi | ’18 Lane Dillworth | ’19

Gal Zahori | ’16

Sasha Jenkins | ’17

Sasha Jenkins | ’17

41 Cow’s Skull and Yellow Poppy

Kenny Byers | ’18

Veronica Apice | ’16 Andrea Jensen | ’16

POETRY & PROSE 06 Theme for English B

Poetry

08 The History of Hairbraiding

10 Introduction to Sisterhood

Poetry

12 Amy Winehouse Dead 13 The Fight Within

Poetry

Jules Dorney | ’16

45 sea sick

Tyler Luby | ’17

16 Life of an Elementary...

Celine Abily | ’18

Poetry

15 Safety

Rashad Heagle | ’18

16

Three Sijo

Gaby Nayor | ’18

18

Dancing in Darkness

Skylar Carter | ’18

Fiction

20 Introduction to Your Future...

Poetry

Andrea Jensen | ’16

21 A Different Land

Andrea Jensen | ’16

Poetry

22 introduction to the all...

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

23 16

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

Poetry

24 first lines of all the poems...

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

26 love poem #33 to my...

Veronica Ortiz | ’17

Poetry

Poetry

27 That’s Entertainment...

Poetry

28 Introduction to Puerto Rico

Poetry

32 The Moon

Natalie Mlikota | ’17

Poetry

34 Pacemaker

Poetry

35 One

Gaby Palmisano | ’18

37 New York to Honolulu

Sasha Jenkins | ’17

Poetry Poetry

38 As Seen in the Amber: ...

Francess Dunbar | ’16

39 If Only We Had Been Taller

Francess Dunbar | ’16

Prose

Poetry

50 Pockets

Poetry

51 1938 Self-Portrait with...

Poetry

52 Vivaldi Concerto in A Minor

Poetry

Jaden Feldman | ’19 Janna Sayfie | ’16 Sara Walker | ’16 Madisyn Jones | ’16

Gaby Palmisano | ’18

Essay

Natalie Mlikota | ’17

Poetry

35 Aerial

48 Powerful Women

Sydni Wells | ’16

Emma Rodriguez | ’16 Natalie Mlikota | ’17

46 We Should All Be Feminists

Essay

Sydni Wells | ’16

Ian Zigel | ’17

29 How to Survive a Storm

Poetry

’17

Poetry

en kin s

Poetry

Sydni Wells | ’16

aJ

Poetry

Poetry

sh

Poetry

Sa

44 Constructed

ity |

Mia Elortegui | ’19

Photini Kamviselli | ’17

Poetry

Sydni Wells | ’16

Poetry

an

43 Amy Always Kept....

Brooke Shucts | ’18

Ins

Poetry

Marsha Edwards | ’16

42 Antigone: A Study of...

Essay

nt

Marsha Edwards | ’16

Arianna Arguetty | ’17

Personal Essay

ige

10 My Sister

nt ell

Poetry

40 Darkness

Pip ’s I

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Theme for English B After Langston Hughes MARSHA EDWARDS | ’16 For fifteen years I slaved over textbooks, worked from dusk to dawn on homework, and gave my all to assignments, quizzes, tests, and projects all for the sake of being…

B. B for better, I suppose.

I’ve stayed up more nights than I can count sheep, studying, telling myself I’d eat after answering just one more question, pushing myself to the brink to be...

B. B for the black bags that have built a permanent home under my dark brown eyes and no matter how much magic skin cream I buy they won’t be gone.

B for the banal days my life has bracketed into: school, practice, homework, school, practice, homework, school, game, homework... school.

B for belittling bitches and their boasting over things I do not give a bleep about and oh--their better grades.

B for bewailing the absence of beautiful boys in my life, beseeching them, then being brutally disappointed.

B for the constant bickering my parents engage in because after twenty-two years of marriage that’s all that’s left of them; B for blocking them out of my head, out of my room, out of my life.

B for bottling up my feelings like the baking- soda- and- vinegar filled balloon I created as a science project that one time, bursting...

B for bingeing on Oreo cookie brownies, Breaking Bad, and the Bible.

B for bias in the way teachers treat the students who look like them and not like me, and in the way the world treats them.

B for my bleak future if I don’t bring that B up ...and because I’m black.

B for the bland people in my life who don’t want to talk about books and biology but, rather, beer and boring stuff.

B for blemishes and blackheads on my face as if body development and...other changes weren’t enough.

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Rough | Veronica Ortiz ’17

The History of Hairbraiding MARSHA EDWARDS | ’16

The leather royal throne and the anointed squire awaits the nappy-maned melanin woman, ready to crown her African Queen.

Cotton hair freshly picked and primped prepared to join like black bodies on a boat travelling on a sea of tears induced by the motion.

Strands of hair stacked, laced, crossed, painfully forced in places and parts of the head to be displayed to the world.

Corn fields and corn rows, baskets woven and carried on the head, worn down with tropical fruits, bundles of clothes, oppression.

Weave worn, woven in strands of three. The Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit in the sky.

Gold beads and sea shells hang from the braids like black bodies from a tree.

I See You | Veronica Ortiz ’17

Black body. Black blood. Black hair.

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My Sister MIA ELORTEGUI | ’19 Although many people think we are twins my sister and I are so different.

I always disagree, but never win, and no one ever seems to get the hint.

We are always fighting over something, From stealing clothes to who can bother whom, but after every fight we always sing, forget about what we went through.

I know I can trust her with all my heart, the only real best friend that will never try to tear us apart, always there in the end.

Even though we have our little fights she can make me laugh and smile all night.

Introduction to Sisterhood

JULES DORNEY | ’16

I’d say it all started when she was born with her bright eyes, no hair.

Her cries traveled to every end of the hospital; my eyes watered because hers did.

But really, it started when I was born, with bright eyes, no hair.

All I wanted was attention.

I became the sun: everything always revolved around me.

“She’s only 6,” “She’s only 7,” “She’s only 8.”

Then, “We’re having a baby.”

I remember those words, and how low my heart dropped.

I remember my mother’s figure.

I remember my green-eyed monster begging to make an appearance.

I was no longer the sun.

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Nicole | Andrea Jensen ’16

Amy Winehouse PHOTINI KAMVISSELI | ’17 I still remember the headline “Amy Dead” on the front page of the Sunday Mirror in big, bold letters next to her picture between the story of a young woman named Daniella who claimed to have “found God” and an ad for a 6 £ discount at Morrison’s local grocery store.

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The Fight Within TYLER LUBY | ’17 As I was driving through the lifeless night, I fell under the spell of Kurt Cobain, his voice as calm and warming as daylight, and as familiar as a day of rain.

At first this voice was quite soft and gentle like a mother taking care of her child.

Quickly it became temperamental, like a large gathering of wolves gone wild.

The caring mother seemed to disappear, and a demon forcefully took her place, leaving the child in custody of fear.

So scared that he renounced his birthplace;

Sunset | Madeline Sukhdeo ’19

now it seemed that the demon has prevailed: That remained was his voice unveiled.

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Life of an Elementary School Student CELINE ABILY | ’18

A Gathering | Ana Lis Garcia ’15

No work, no worries. I am sound asleep, sound asleep before I awaken.

My mother will come in and wake me up.

I will wake to the smell of breakfast.

My mother will help me put on my uniform.

She will tie my shoes and walk me to school.

Once she leaves, teacher comes and takes me.

I go to my friends and we play all day.

When I’m tired, I go to my nap-time bed, and just like my mother, teacher wakes me up.

I eat snack, then mother comes and gets me, and on the way home we will laugh and sing.

I eat dinner, get ready for bed at eight.

One day closer to more work, more worries.

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Safety RASHAD HEAGLE | ’18

Darkness |Kenny ’18

As a child I would gather blankets sheets couches to build forts being underneath the sheets made me feel safe being underneath anything makes me feel safe being inside tight, small areas makes me feel safe underneath homemade forts underneath tables inside cupboards inside suitcases these are my safe spots they always were colors of my safe spots were all different, illuminated, a slit of light coming through The sounds were always quiet The place would contain me a sense of solidarity and prosperity Now as I grow older and my childhood is fading I am unable to fit into my safe places and I no longer feel safe

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Three Sijo Gaby Nayor | ’18

Submission

Does the light only serve to mask the darkness?

Love unrequited.

The night -- an all consuming force: darkness subjugates the light.

The shadows ceaselessly unfold from the east, only to reveal the submissive day.

Academics

Seconds upon minutes, minutes upon hours, hours upon days, Section after chapter, chapter after subject, subject after subject -Fifty percent information retained -- twenty percent useful.

Social Media

Gossip is only exaggerated truth, sensationalist media warped by the author biased towards the receiver, The exchange of words past the eyes, ears, mouth, and fingers through the halls and into the phones.

Technology serves as an extension of the tongue: *rings* Did you hear…. *rings* OMG no way….

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Animals of the Night | Gal Zahori ’16

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Golden Skull | Jacqueline Groll ‘15

Dancing in Darkness

us. I slipped out of my shoes and walked barefoot to the steps of the gazebo, catching splinters between my toes.

I sat on the stairs with my arms on my knees and my SKYLAR CARTER | ’18 head in my hands, wondering whether she would show up at all.

I stared down the path hard, memorizing the cracks between the trees’ bark and naming the leaves he music bellowed from the box, to pass the time. I watched the wind traverse the empty rising well above the trees and, hopefully, to path, echoing through the forest until it blew past my her ears. It enveloped the gazebo, reverberating face, sending my braids soaring, yearning to be freed through the woodwork and into my lungs, as if from their tether upon my head. Once every leaf I gave the lyrics became the air, and the instrumental the a name had a life and legacy, I got up, stretching my atmosphere. I knew this was dangerous; stupid, arms and kicking pine cones. Taking a break from playing even. I could already hear the moans rising from “Lord of the Leaves” a huge gust of wind burst suddenly somewhere, but I didn’t care. I just needed her to from the forest, the procession to her arrival. Iris stepped hear this, to follow this. I owed her that much. gingerly from behind the trees, her entrance not nearly Iris had witnessed a massacre, watched as as powerful as her proceedings. the skin of children was ripped from their bod“What are you doing?” she smirked, her arms ies, and hung off the mouths of the Infected. She akimbo and her hazel eyes judgmental. hasn’t spoken much since. But she didn’t need to, “Waiting for you” I retorted. “Like my new place?” we all feared the same cannibalistic nightmares.

I gestured toward the crumbling gazebo overWe all knew her pain, we all shared in it. But she, looking the forest. She was happily unimpressed. She she needed this -- I knew she needed this. scoffed, and I signed for her to come. She walked to the The song blaring was “Feel Good Inc.” by few stairs of it, and reluctantly placed her foot on the the Gorillaz, my favorite band and what she called first step. The twangs of the upright bass introducing my “obsession.” I couldn’t think of a more obvi“Klapp Klapp” instantly made her eyes widen. ous way to say, “It’s me.” I laid in the middle of the “Is this…?” She sprinted past me and toward the gazebo a while, my braids sprawled across the CD player, turning the volume to almost maximum as a wood as I stared at the CDs I’d salvaged, hoping I crazed grin crept across her face. She started to nod and wouldn’t be listening to them alone. sway to the bass. Lifting an arm, she gestured for me to There was a point at which I turned to lie join her. on my back, my focus now toward the weather“…The spirits blow around like a hurricanewhip. worn roof and its environs. It seemed purposeThe girls don’t mind my high scream drip, less now; tree limbs and dried leaves breached Somebody found us dan-cin’ its cover. But just staring at the intruding limbs You can turn off and feel better…” became surreal. They shook violently at times, sending a flurry of pine needles and leaves from Iris began to bounce around the gazebo, crunchits branches. Despite the wind knocking the flora ing the leaves in time with the lyrics and taunting me with such intensity, I heard nothing. The music to dance as she mouthed the words. As the tempo rose, had replaced its noise with piano keys and guitar she encircled me more quickly, her movements becomstrings. Rather than being tossed, they looked ing more erratic, more expressive. She tripped between like they danced. Jiving to the drum, I was deaf to her feet, spinning herself as she spun around me, a smile their motion. stained across her face. I couldn’t help but begin to bob, The last song on the album faded and I too, her dance infectious. While I had only just begun to came out of my trance. The clouds were a deep feel the beat, the music had already sunk into her soul. fuschia and the sun low in the sky. I’d easily wasted an hour waiting on her. I finally forced myself “…Somebody from my heart said to sit up and eject the CD, though once I stood I I could turn off and never wake up couldn’t force myself to leave. So instead I put in And everything’s clear, the next album, “Nebuma Rubber Band” by Little My breath feels Dragon, and told myself to wait a little longer. I like steam fake knew I needed to go through with this, for both of Feel better…”

T

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She practically pranced across the wood flooring, gliding upon a stage I couldn’t see.

She did it with a sort of erratic grace as she skipped each foot replacing the other in the air, and after each fell, they kissed the floor before rising again. Her arms orbited her head during her motion, traveling to her waist to cue her spin. She stopped herself with a single tapping heel to jive in place, whipping her head back and forth with the electronic melody, catching my eye as she glanced from over her shoulder.

Delicacy and intensity waltzed within her step, connecting the contrary within a bound. The tawny cloud, which seemed to eternally hover behind her, struggled to keep her pace. She was a comet then, and her locks its starry tail.

sighed. “But who said suicide had to be sad?”

Something else stepped upon the gazebo floor.

“That’s the thing,” I mused. “If we had more ‘happy’ moments, they wouldn’t matter anymore.”

Self Portrait | Sofia Zamboli ’17

“…Do you want it? Do you want it? Do you want it?

Do you want it? Do you? Do you? Do you? Do you?”

The song hit a lull, and she turned around and grabbed my hands, mouthing for me to copy her. Instantly, all the instruments silenced except a series of electronic pulses, her delicate hands connected in the air with the blips as she crouched and hopped in circles. I did the same, and soon we were encircling each other, laughing as we clapped and spun, a new movement, a new direction for every arising sound. I felt like my smile was sinking into my face. I couldn’t stop, and neither could she.

“Fallin’ apart, apart, apart, apart, apart.”

We both fell to floor on the final bass note, and sang the last “apart” in unison, content in austere exhaustion. Iris threw her head back against the latticework of the gazebo railing and laughed. I rested my arms on my knees and giggled, too. Though, she grew solemn quickly, as though her foreign smile were something to be afraid of. She got up suddenly, turned off the CD player, and then jumped onto the railing, balancing herself as she looked at the now dim sky. I joined her, staring at the hordes of the Infected surrounding us, just as attracted to the deafening melody as we were, waiting to dance with our taste upon their lips.

“I need more moments like this,” she amused | 21

Introduction to Your Future ANDREA JENSEN | ’16 They are at their desks like sitting ducks, waiting for yet another passive lecture.

“Close your eyes,” I tell the students, “and turn your mind into a blank canvas”: A young girl strolled among the tall reeds, amid the woodland creatures, in an open pasture surrounded by a forest with sky-high trees.

The grass was her home so she lay on the bed of green for she was cold.

She lay there frozen in time for she returned to her Earth, her effervescence.

The earth was a fireplace and turned the snow to green grass and corn flowers, a blossom of berry blue shades to compliment the young girl’s eyes.

But her hands were the claws of the owl which swooped down in the night and destroyed all too much.

So the grass grew weak, withered and died.

The laughing flowers loved her no more.

She was abandoned, eternally lost within her own demise.

She was greedy, far too careless and blind, but twas all too late.

The students’ blank canvases are no longer white.

The canvases are red with the blood they had shed and the green they had destroyed.

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A Different Land

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Icy Landscape | Veronica Ortiz ’17

His famed memorabilia are here.

The whimsical wonderland of wandering abounds without a single word of judgement.

The secret gardens and the rabbit holes are only tokens of his long journey.

A ride in the illustrious lake boat among the willow trees and rays of sunlight, as he writes the divine amaranthine.

I roam through his green world in awe and gaze upon the universe he chose, he chose.

One sees in his seldom-viewed eyes the tale that people wish always to inhabit.

This indebted, blue-back man lives on.

Greens | Natalia De La Guardia ’17

ANDREA JENSEN | ’16

introduction to the all-american teenaged boy VERONICA ORTIZ| ’17 he rolls out of bed twenty minutes late drives himself to school in his ‘69 Camaro even his ex-friends and ex-lovers still care for him i. you will know him when you see him mid-laugh, head thrown back, with a brightness that touches the whole cafeteria you will know him by the giant fanged butterflies in your stomach that you would call bats if they weren’t so goddamn beautiful and the crazed joker smile on your face that you’re sure is the only reason he notices you ii. when you talk to him he will be on your side and you won’t even care that he’s on everyone else’s side too because he’s nice to you and he laughs at all your math puns even when they’re not funny

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Rap | Natalia De La Guardia ’17

Round Face | Kurt Carlson ‘18

iii. his friends try to live to the beat of his music wearing leather jackets like his leather jacket trying to write silly sweet songs like his silly sweet love songs but there’s something inimitable about him and his guitar when he’s singing those songs he wrote for this year’s prom queen (you could never be her) iv. but we expect him to be perfect and be my best friend and be your best friend and be her best friend and that will always take over his life he will be driven mad striving to fulfill our expectations and you can never be sure if the boy standing in front of you is the boy you loved or are in love with.

16 VERONICA ORTIZ | ’17

El Palacio de Cristal: Transported | Sofia Zamboli ’17

and when i heard his mother’s words, i died for a moment. all of my worst fears had been realized-well, all but one: he didn’t die, and thank god for that. a three-story fall, sixteen broken bones, a broken jaw so he couldn’t tell his story, but he was alive-swollen and glassy-eyed, but alive and conscious and stable. it had never occurred to me what a miracle it is to be alive. it had never occurred to me that it would take miracles for him to survive. i count the blessings everyday:

1 he is alive.

2 his feet will soon be able to carry him again.

3 he is alive.

4 he is alive. something inside me can’t seem to register that. maybe because i haven’t seen him in the six months since the fall. maybe because he just now got the ten screws holding his back together removed. maybe because he dies every time i close my eyes. but he survived. and he is surviving. and slowly but surely he is relearning how to be sixteen with sixteen broken bones.

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first lines of all the poems i never finished writing you VERONICA ORTIZ | ’17 and will you be the one to hold me? because i don’t have the words to fall apart anymore and it kills me to think about our last embrace and realize it was our last embrace. do you remember that night? how we held on to each other and each of us wished the other was somebody else? now you’re across the table from me and i sip the coffee you bought me only as an excuse to break eye contact you’ve just told me that we don’t see each other often enough so you don’t want to see me anymore and i say that that’s okay although i can feel myself falling apart and i tell you that i love you although i know it was never true.

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amused | 25 Athena | Orville Mohe ’16

love poem #33 to my explorer of the universe VERONICA ORTIZ | ’17

Euphoria | Milan Patel ’17

my darling astronaut, would you believe me if i told you i have the whole universe in my chest? because you make me feel the constellations inside my bones as i stare at the stars on your skin and hope you don’t notice me. i think i’m starting to get over my fear of the unknown. maybe it’s because your name is all-encompassing, and you give me something to aspire to, a hope for the future. you make me want to dip my fingers into the stars and paint you in them or maybe paint my galaxy in you. all i really know is that i haven’t seen my future, but i hope it looks like you.

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That’s Entertainment After Raging Bull IAN ZIGEL | ‘17

Success is everywhere, And it’s mine to grab, Love unbound And then I know.

I can charge on this stage I can exude passion I can be victorious I will win I am a bull And my rage Delivers me.

Earth Watching| Arianna Arguetty ‘17

Ring of Fire | Gal Zahori ’16

Where this bull here can rage.

I can’t fight.

I can’t recite, But I feel.

And I know in my heart That there is hope And that when in doubt I can look inside Outside Around From realm to realm.

Ring of Fire | Gal Zahori ’16

I take every fall, every hook, every jab I am a bull I sit in my cage Ready to rage But I can’t No I can’t simply Burst out and rage No that’s not right.

Because unlike the world To which I escape Where a bull can rage And leave his cage Not everything is Black and White.

So I sit in my cage and I watch Events transpire I retire.

I’m stabbed in the back.

I have a heart attack.

But in my cage I sit And I quit And it’s shit But that’s it.

I love and I feel.

My emotions feel real, But I sit in the corner And plug in And everything’s all right When I put on a film And I dance on the reel.

I absorb instead so I feel more alive, Although I should feel dead.

I’m a creep and a weirdo, But somehow I don’t get to align with them Because they conspire against me, The creeps make a creep out of me, And I pound my fists Inside my glass box And I rage in my cage, And the most liberating thing Would be to burst out and shout And take what’s rightfully MINE BECAUSE I DESERVE IT But I’m told That the thing Ain’t the ring It’s the play So gimme a stage

amused | 27 amused | 33

Introduction to Puerto Rico EMMA RODRIGUEZ| ’16

Medalla cans reflect the sun lying on Playa Vega Baja, and alcohol flows as free as the ocean, the rims of margaritas saltier than the sea air.

Faux gold chains glint on the tanned skin of a woman whose name is so common no one remembers it.

Day fades to night; she is held over with a rum and Coke, alone on the bustling corner of Calle San Agustín, until the taxi comes.

La mujer arreglada -protected by her maquillaje armor from the leering eyes of men who whistle sharply from the depths of the alleys, clutching Presidentes with white knuckles -stumbles through the whirlwind cobbled streets.

The night drips out of the neck of the bottle of Patrón like a recipe for remembering, until she can’t remember how many she’s had.

The bar learns her secrets, pero no hay preocupaciones en Puerto Rico.

Oceania | Gal Zahori ’16

How To Survive a Storm NATALIE MLIKOTA | ’17

I

Blue Crush | Sasha Jenkins ’17

remember the calm before the storm. Just as everything was quiet before the screaming began, my sister and I already knew the drill.

How to survive a storm: Step one: learn to measure violence between the silence and the first words.

Step two: The second the screaming starts to escalate, run to your sister, who is aware and knows the steps to come.

Step three: Blast that rock music you’re both so fond of and start to sing and dance along. Jump at every curse word and twirl at every insult. Sing so loud you forget about the crumbling marriage in the background. Be so into the melody you can’t feel your mother’s heart breaking at every word.

Distract yourself so well you forget there’s a storm to survive.

Marriages fail, people move on, but what was so terrible and amazing about my parents’ love is that they still fought for something that was beyond saving. I can already imagine it, way back when hearts weren’t broken and what kept each other enthralled was still alive. Both young college students finding and walking beside each other. But now they’re old and bitter -- makes me wonder what made everything go wrong.

I remember being young and admiring the love that was expressed through their gaze. What used to be passion is now cold stares; what used be to love now seems like an obligation; what used to be a marriage is now a broken home.

No one knows when it all started to fall apart, and honestly I don’t think we want to.

We all prefer to laugh and not acknowledge the problem right in front of us, a Mlikota talent I would say.

Step four: Never interrupt the fight, they’ll just feel embarrassed and ashamed and blame each other for my interruption.

Step five: Sit at the dinner table, and pretend not to see the empty stares, the cold touch and the facade they’re playing for our health. They don’t know that we have learned how to survive their storm.

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30 | amused

Untitled | Beth

Lilly ’16

amused | 31

The Moon NATALIE MLIKOTA | ’17 Maybe there is half a moon, and the other side is an empty, shallow crater we never expected.

Maybe we just want the moon to be full because we put all our faith in the undiscovered half, hoping it will finally turn and reassure that what we’ve been praying for was worth the wait, worth the suffering, worth the sacrifice.

Maybe we all have our own moon set up to light our skies in the darkest moments.

Maybe we all have our own moon to speak to, to trust, to love.

Maybe I’m the only one with that moon, the moon which without my faith would turn into an empty shallow crater.

24 32 || amused amused

But maybe there is no other side, your faith was not enough, and the moon turned against itself.

The moon had no internal light, so it shut off completely, and the skies are not bright anymore, and the eternal darkness was enough to kill off the side of the moon.

So maybe there is half a moon, and the other side is this empty shallow crater we never expected. Maybe there is no moon at all.

Light Figure | Alyson Milberg ’15

NYC | Andrea Jensen ’16

amused || 33 25 amused

Pacemaker NATALIE MLIKOTA| ’17 Arrhythmia There’s a place by the shore I recognize from before a little crack in the back where you had your first heart attack Our hearts would beat to the rhythm of your pacemaker they would rise with relief with every step we saw you take It’s a hard way to live to the rhythm of your pacemaker it’s hard to breathe knowing that soon you might cease There’s a place by the shore that I don’t visit anymore a little crack in the back that tears my heart in half

There’s the dust that remains left by an old pacemaker our hearts don’t rise you don’t walk anymore It’s a hard way to live lacking your pacemaker it’s hard to breathe knowing you don’t any longer

36 | 34 amused | amused

Dazed | Gal Zahori ’16

There’s a place by the shore that exists no more a little crack in the back I can’t stand to see that

Aerial GABY PALMISANO| ’18

Focus | Rashad Heagle ’18

My flower named Aerial I found you up above me attached to a towering tree swaying with the wind Aerial full of life and intricacy It is perplexing how you form each individual purple bud sprouting with beautyThe purple flower a swimming purple octopus extending dark violet tentacles outward toward the rest of the sea My orchid Bring me the freedom to grow Bring me the beauty and tranquility you possess I want to sway with the wind day by day

One

One is the number on my jersey The number that is the very first on the to-do list.

The amount of pens I have left. One is the number of relationships I have had How many siblings I have The number of times I have been to Europe The number of lives we are given

Pink | Natalia De La Guardia ’17

GABY PALMISANO | ’18

amused | 37

38 | amused 36

Eye | Kenneth Byers ’18

50 Years | Ana Lis Garcia ‘15

New York to Honolulu SASHA JENKINS | ’17 Skimming the sun-glazed cotton skies children are now insects on playgrounds, their mothers and skyscrapers now white stakes set in the fading landscape.

The rivers running along the earth’s bespeckled face grow into grey puddles of ink.

As rain falls from sad clouds, mothers open umbrellas and children stand under them.

I will land in paradise.

Light will illuminate the breaking waves violet, turquoise, and emerald, my feet on the white beaches, and I will swim, angelfish through my fingers, through my air bubbles, rising transparent balloons as I sink into darkness, shades of grey convening.

Untitled | Sasha Jenkins ’17

Palms | Sasha Jenkins ’17

amused | 39

As Seen in the Amber: A Nebraska City Hall Diorama FRANCESS DUNBAR | ’16

“Town protocol states that the store closes at three,” I said testily, clicking my tongue as I checked the receipts in front of me with the money in the cash register. Rachel had been cast in this as a thief. I could tell by her shifty, red rimmed eyes and her stained uniform that she was unaware of how privileged her position was here. How unstable other jobs could be.

I pointed at the row of painted yellow plaques on the wall, most of which were emblazoned in miniscule Helvetica with my name. “Do you know how I won employee of the month?”

“No, sir,” she murmured, and I could hear the snap of her gum. Not literally; no Burger Bin employee had ever chewed gum while I was filling in as temporary assistant manager. But the implication of impertinence was there.

I narrowed my eyes and curled my lip in a menacing display of strength. “I paid my dues and did my work with a Burger Bin Beam.”

She smiled tightly, and I grinned back, despite the implied eyeroll. I had learnt during my time here the importance of always appearing cheerful. It had been my very first lesson, in fact, on my first day of work some twenty-odd years ago. A smile made the day pass faster.

Time seemed to tick like molasses. The day had been long, though, and though Rachel’s “College Fund Tip Jar :)” sat on the counter full the yellowing paper of the label had begun to sag.

Rachel had left that out for ten years now, and after catching sight of it her head began to droop, too, like some bastardized sunflower dance.

I wasn’t without pity. I sent her home after she started to cry, her eyes dry but her face caught in some odd, frozen expression of grief. She left loudly, as we all do; the plastic-on-plastic sounds of her moving feet were comforting to hear.

Mrs. Bueller and her two oldest children came in just before closing, taking their red trays with no comment. I don’t even bother to pretend to turn on the grill, these days. She has another kid and a husband on Oak Avenue, and every morning she makes the trek through the gridded streets to see them. She used to stay to keep me company, but the rest of her family disappeared last Christmas when the park became a skating rink. They came back eventually, but she was awfully heartbroken.

Losen Energy | Gal Zahori ’16

They took their place at the picnic table outside and I assumed mine here, as always, my cheery plastic hands frozen just outside the drive thru window in a permanent hello. The lights came on, and we were stuck in amber once again.

If Only We Had Been Taller

Strings | Gal Zahori ’16

FRANCESS DUNBAR | ’16 Daring to stare upward into the void.

Humanity’s best reflected up and up, past the moon we had only just thought to reach, far past the stars we had yet to discover, and down to the Ugliest, the Most Despicable, the parts of us that fear, that connive, that destroy, that kill that still struggle in the darkness of man. the animal always reaching almost inevitably toward the night sky.

Space Age sage still asking the big question: what if we had been taller? Yes, if only!

If only the stars showed a bit brighter; we, in their reflection, may demand more.

amused | 39

Darkness

ARIANNA ARGUETTY | ’17

D

scary. It didn’t pain me to listen.

arkness amplifies. Pain and pleasure, fear and loneli-

“The wine’ll be thick.”

ness--they allow you to internalize the silence. It drowns you in the

Both voices were innocent excitement, childlike dis-

absence of feeling.

appointment.

At first, it was the drowsiness that consumed me, a dis-

It didn’t pain me to listen.

tinct lack of fear and confusion in exchange for heavy limbs and

“True, true. And bread is meant to be dry.”

a clouded mind. I blinked away the cobwebs and wondered at the

It was hard to breathe through the cloth, even hard-

absence of light. My cheeks itched, irritated by the foreign material

er now that my nose was clogged. I was suffocating, really,

that seemed to push my eyeballs into my head, dig into my dark

yet in that moment I was too tired to care. Instead, I focused

hair and scrape against the skin. I wondered at the biting pain that

on the few ragged sounds that did escape my lungs. When

wrapped around my wrists and ankles, the blisters popping in the

it came time to inhale, I focused on the effort of sucking

corners of my mouth, and then I panicked at the scents of stale

in oxygen, the rasping noise as it fought its way down my

urine and sweat. My throat worked to swallow nothing. It burned.

throat. My vision began to blur, and my headache grew dis-

tant, thudding louder. For a moment I held my breath, con-

Muffled cries mixed with tears in the empty air. All was

dark, and all I could hear was my own horribly inadequate strug-

sidered my options. Blow or swallow the ooze that corked

gles to sit up. The blood pounding in my ears was front and center.

my breathing? I blew.

It was loud, but I didn’t notice the sound. The pain it brought was

ten thousand times the pain in my wrists. Soon, I was blinded to

off the wall in a flurry, suddenly desperate, driven by an

the blood that resulted from my struggles. A sobbing, gasping cry

animal-like desire to survive. I shivered despite the heat and

wretched itself out of my throat, loud and ugly as I hurled myself

ripped at my hands, ripping nothing but skin. I struggled to

wildly, slamming into a thin metal wall. The floor beneath me

sit again and managed this time. I stood and shook and tore

bounced, tilted and righted along with the metal wall, remind-

at my restraints. Absolutely nothing.

ing me of a trampoline and a summer day as I sagged against the

flimsy surface, letting the exhaustion take me.

heart and the shaky legs that barely supported me. Now

that I was standing I realized the cage was moving steadily

Oliver and Alan had been with me, hadn’t they? They’d

Running out of air before I could succeed, I pushed

Nothing but my dying breaths and my stomping

been at lacrosse practice; I’d been at after school extra help. I

forward like a slow roller coaster. My forehead felt cold and

remember the black letters and white paper of my book, the dark

wet; I was sweating profusely. How long had I been in here?

hair of my best friend as he walked away, the wide shoulders of

Would I die of dehydration, or would the suffocation get me

my older brother as he led me into the parking lot. Was my brother

first? I blew. I wheezed as much air into my lungs as I could,

here, then? Was Alan with me? I almost wished it were true.

ignoring the drowning and gagging my cloth caused, and I

My eyes flew open, as if it would make a difference without the

blew.

barest hint of lighting. No, he wasn’t here, wasn’t with me. I’d left

him, left him to return a pen to Oliver.

the short distance from nostril to lip as I waited in silence. I

Only, I never made it.

wasn’t alone?

Crossing the parking lot into the alleyway behind the

“Mmmmmm…”

school, I’d passed behind a van. Doors burst open, air rushed out of

Did he know he wasn’t alone? I grunted, flailing as

that van. Hands flew out of that van. And then I disappeared into it.

though the frantic motions would make me more noticeable

in the darkness. The cage jumped, grating over metal rails.

Distant and clear as day, I heard, “The trip better be worth

“Mmmmm…” I heard, and I froze, the snot running

it.” The voice bounced around my prison, reaching me as a faraway,

My footing nearly failed me, and I allowed the movements to

almost soothing proof of life. It wasn’t gravelly or hoarse. It wasn’t

cease.

40 | amused

We were silent, and a drop of drool hit the floor. It

it could think was “go”.

was my fellow prisoner’s saliva on the floor, I knew, mixing

Go!

with my own dried spit. My drool was only halfway down my

chin. The mucus had reached my upper lip, though, and the

arms or legs, could barely breathe. What was I supposed to

gooey remnants of tears had me torn between reveling in

do?

the watery heaven or retching at the texture of my own des-

Go!

peration. A thought lightened my mentality. I wasn’t alone.

But what did that do for me? The rising hope was already

To think! It needed override its useless mantra and give me

collapsing.

something useful. Where would I go? How would I go?

Go!

I had not the slightest clue what he was trying to

Where was I? I still couldn’t see, couldn’t control my

Stop it! Why wouldn’t it stop? It needed to stop!

say. Nor had he the slightest clue what my answer would

be. All that could be done was done. With no sight, hearing,

penetrate the curtain of screeching that existed both in my

or touch. We had nothing at all. We could be anywhere. He

mind and in my physical reality. “Fl-ay her. Fl-ay her. Fl-ay

could be anyone.

her,” they chanted. “Fl-ay her. Fl-ay her. Fl-ay her.”

He. Was it even a man?

Go!

The cage jostled, throwing me off my feet and into

Go where? Go how? I couldn’t go! I couldn’t!

the wall--the wall which caved--and suddenly I was falling

“Then, he’ll be our wine.” The gravelly whisper broke

into noise, rolling on an earthy, dusty substance I suspected

through bone, obliterating my skull and finally, finally, killing

was pulverized concrete or just plain dirt.

that word.

Wine?

ing and cheering and yelling in delight. It was loud, but I

couldn’t tell if it was ten or ten thousand voices. I stayed

to broiling to darkness.

completely still, aching all over. My headache had progressed from thudding to thrashing violently against my skull.

The chilled air seemed to heat up, screams tore at

my ears, and I couldn’t recognize my own voice from another’s. Adding onto the cheering crowd, it was distinct: the sole screech of terror, a stark contrast to the crowd’s bubbling excitement. Was it me screaming? I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t tell my own thoughts from those voices--those incessant,

The bang of a mallet. The blistering heat to boiling

Cow’s Skull and Yellow Poppy | Ana Rusconi ’18

It was horribly loud after the silence--people jeer-

A methodical chant built in intensity, enough to

buzzing voices and the beehive of panic and drugs that hadn’t yet escaped my brain. No solid thoughts would form.

All I had to go on was go. Go, my brain screamed, but my feet wouldn’t respond. Go, go, go. It was a single section of my brain that insisted. That rest of my brain was sleepy. Go! Go! Go!

Why wouldn’t it shut up? If it didn’t shut up I

wouldn’t be able to think. It was the only part of my head working, and it wouldn’t accomplish anything as long as all

amused | 45

Antigone : A Study of Dysfunction in an Ancient Greek Family BROOKE SHUCHTS | ’18

G

ity is when Antigone buries her brother Polyneices because of her reek dramas lay the foundation for themes that have

morals and values. An example of civil disobedience is the fact that

occurred in literature for thousands of years. Antigone is a tragedy by

she buried Polyneices against Creon’s will. An example of natural

Sophocles written in 441 BC. In Scene Two specifically, Sophocles charac-

law is the power that the king has on the people, being perceived

terizes Creon and Sentry, expose their unequal relationship. The develop-

as greater than everyone else. On page 11, Sentry says, “Here’s the

ment of the conflict between Antigone and Creon, as well as Antigone and

one who did it, we caught her in the very act of burying him.” Sentry

Ismene are demonstrated as well.

came to Creon and delivers the news that someone came to bury

Polyneices. Creon and Antigone are at odds, but Antigone stands up

Throughout the play new relationships continue to bloom. Each

character represents their morals and values, showing their conviction and

to the King. Creon believes no one shall bury Polyneices because

bravery. On page 12, Antigone says, “Ah, Creon think me a fool[...], but it

he fought against his native Thebes. Antigone goes up against him

may be a fool that convicts me of folly,” which represents the way Antigone

because it is her brother. On page 15, Ismene says, “What do I care

feels about Creon, as a fool. In this quote, Antigone describes how death, in

for life when you are dead?” Antigone responds with “Ask Creon.

which she might be sentenced to, is a consequence she is willing to receive

You’re always hanging on his opinions.” This conversation explains

for her brother. This represents their relationship, the way she stands up

the relationship the two sisters share, a rivalry, being at odds

for herself and her family. On page 12, the priest says, “Like her father,

throughout the whole play. Antigone is the courageous sister, who

Oedipus, both death strong and deaf to reason.” This explains people’s view

plays the tragic hero and defies the law, accepting any consequences

on Antigone and her father’s personality and the way people view them, the

that might come her way. Ismene is timid and docile, she wants to

dynamic the running in the family. On page 13, Antigone explains that the

obey the king and his orders.

people would praise her if they weren’t scared of Creon. Creon responds

saying, “No, you are alone here in that opinion.” Antigone is calling him out

Each character represents an idea or an argument, each individual

for not being honorable and he thinks very poorly of her, saying that no one

sticking up for what he or she believes. There are many relation-

would commend her.

ships building and conflicts developing at the same time, creating a

There are many conflicts developing at the same time in Antigone,

Antigone is a complex play compressed with much detail.

powerful play.

each event having its consequences leading to many conflicts. Religion, family, fidelity, natural law, and civil disobedience all occur as themes of

Work Cited:

conflict throughout the play. Antigone shows her religious side by saying,

Sophocles. The Oedipus Cycle: An English Version, Tr. Dudley Fitts

“Since apparently the laws of the god mean nothing to you”. An example of

and Robert Fitzgerald. New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1977.

conflict in the family is Antigone vs. her sister, Ismene. An instance of fidel-

-

BAM! | Lane Dillworth ’19

42 | amused

The Bible doesn’t talk about what God does with the angels He has forsaken, those struggling to fly with broken wings.

Bloodied. Battered. Forgotten. Left alone.

Amy Always Kept Wine In Her House SYDNI WELLS | ‘16

Exiled from heaven, she tumbled to Earth, The Bible doesn’t talk about what God a victim, a slave to her fate, broken, does with the angels He has forsaken, plagued with an addiction that ate at her those struggling to fly with broken wings. like poison. She tried to purge herself pure, Bloodied. Battered. Forgotten. Left alone. but the devil gave her a life she wanted, Exiled from heaven, she tumbled to Earth, and in exchange he took all that she had; a victim, a slave to her fate, broken, he left her with drugs, booze, and heartbreak. plagued with an addiction that ate at her Some demons just cannot be escaped. like poison. She tried to purge herself pure, She was beautiful even with dirt under but the Devil gave her a life she wanted, her fingernails, alcohol on her breath. and in exchange he took all that she had; he left her with drugs, booze, and heartbreak.

Some demons just cannot be escaped.

Ava (Amy Winehouse) |Natalia De La Guardia ’17

She was beautiful even with dirt under her fingernails, alcohol on her breath.

amused | 47 amused | 43

Constructed SYDNI WELLS | ’16

eyes are the window to the soul, but mirrors —i have discovered— are prisons of the mind. they are multi-dimensional jagged-edge cages of beauty, of security, of self, of every person we’ve tried to be, wanted to become, waited to turn into. the mirror is a contained weapon whose greatest offense is its presence; the mounting pressure of knowing— knowing it is there, it is calling calling knowing every sense of self you shed like carefully constructed snake skins: versions of yourself that have grown old, cracked, dried out and died on that bathroom floor.

48 | amused

sea sick

SYDNI WELLS | ’16

there are nights when I feel like my bed is an ocean I can’t navigate without you—a hundred knots too empty; nights when I wish I had your Christopher Columbus hands to read the treasure map you hid in the soft terrains of my thighs, and show me how you managed to find gold in the land mines hidden in the dips of my collarbones for years. show me the safe zones of my lullaby sheets, how you made up a song for each freckle, bump, and curve I let you explore, singing back to me with the sound of teeth grazing my neck and hard grips on my wrists. ride the dangerous currents that dip down my sides, and don’t be alarmed when the waves reach for you, because the waters skidding my ribs have always been rough. no matter how many times your weathered hands man the helm, my lips still tremble every time I watch you set sail from the docks in the webs between my fingers. it never occurred to me that the sea was a menacing place until somehow you got lost in the Bermuda Triangle tucked away roaring and choppy in my chest, so I never let anyone anchor here again, because I still swallow fistfuls of salt like a muzzle, waiting for you to come back.

Seeing Through teh Light | Lucas Cea ’16

amused | 49 amused | 45

We Should All Be Feminists SYDNI WELLS | ’16

“I

n her speech “We Should All Be Feminists,” Chimamanda Adichie opens with a childhood friend who had a

lasting impact on her, Luis. As a particularly old friend of hers, he stands out in her memory as being someone in her life not because of how he acted, but the way he treated her. She doesn’t mention their hobbies or nicknames, because he was not remarkable for those reasons, but because he treated her as his equal. Adichie notes that though he was the first to call her a feminist, he was also the only person she could laugh, argue, and talk with. They challenged each other on the premise that they were both intelligent, passionate human beings, not that she was a girl and he a boy. This small anecdote in itself is a telling guide to what Chimamanda Adichie talks of: “… a different world. A fairer world.” It starts with the girls that challenge the boys, and the boys that can laugh with them. The first step towards this “better, fairer” world is ceasing to sugarcoat misogyny. Misogyny is bred into people from conception through years of sexist molding, then packaged, wrapped, and bow-tied for distribution. An example of this is the “Save The Boobies” campaign being marketed as a fight against breast cancer. Though in theory this should be an honorable feat, it is in fact extremely problematic. The issue with fighting a deadly disease with praise for the affected body part is that it capitalizes on the idea that women are no more than their body parts. What if the campaign was “Save the women!” instead of simply “Save the tatas!” When a woman with

breast cancer is thought of as merely the possibility of losing her breasts, a secondary sex organ that is both coveted and condemned by society, it creates a toxic environment where her sex appeal and “use” to men becomes synonymous to her personal worth as a human being. This should never be the case. The road to a happier, better world has time and time again proved to be an arduous one, but the biggest hurdle is not the blatant sexism, but what is being woven subtly throughout.

Closely following that, as Chimamanda Adichie said, raising our girls differently is also important. However, with a new generation of feminists being born and reclaiming their identities, it is becoming increasingly clear that no matter how many smart, enlightened women there are, things will not be able to progress without educating boys as well. Girls are growing more and more bold every day—always daring to be bigger and better than the strong women before them, and learning to challenge the systems that try to stifle them. The problem lies in the fact that our boys are not growing at the same rate, and as women try to push forward, they are being met with a resistance that stems from ignorance. From this point going forward, boys need to be raised without the fear of “emasculation.” They need to be taught to not only embrace their strengths but learn not to ignore their weaknesses. Young boys have to be taught that it is okay to feel, okay to be, okay to hurt. There is no shame in weakness, no shame in a chip in their armor. When men are not ashamed to embrace their feminine attributes, they will be able to access their emotions. When men grow up without a checklist of what it means to be “a man” they also grow up without the pressure of failing to do so. This safe space expands way beyond boys to offer a more friendly, tolerant, and growth-productive environment for children of all genders. As for the girls, empowerment is a 46 | amused

steroid that parents must line their sense of self with, give them the tools of confidence, independence, and the freedom to embrace each of these. From birth girls are suffocated by the idea of catering to men; wives must cook, clean, and stay at home, mothers must devote their lives endlessly, teenage girls are expected to be at their prime constantly waiting to be rated and acknowledged, and older women are expected to sacrifice their life for domesticity. The notion of a woman not getting married or having kids is a novel one, that has only just emerged as even an option. The idea is so counterintuitive to women’s stereotypes and societal expectations that it never occurred as a possibility, and now with more and more women choosing to focus on their careers instead of having kids, enjoying their freedom rather than settling down, and having a priority list unlike any century before, the notion of living a life for herself is finally coming around. If every girl was raised knowing she has her life to live for her and her alone, to the standard to which she wants to measure it, with the worth she deems herself, then there would be a bunch of Emma Watson, Malala babies running around. A fairer, happier world is one where a woman is not, in fact, born as though puberty is a sin she is guilty of. A fairer, happier world is one where a woman does not have to demand respect, but is deserving of it simply because of the fact that she is—above all—a human being.

As Adichie says, men and women do not experience

the world the same. This is a fact; undisputed and proven— gender and biological sex are 3D glasses in an IMAX world, where every new lens is a color one’s neighbor has never seen before. Reaching this sexism-free utopia does not mean erasing people’s sex, or making everyone’s experience the same. Instead, it is in the embrace of not one collective experience, but the diverse and uniquely varied experiences of every person, boy or girl. It is the recognition that a young boy’s childhood is different from another’s adolescence, than from a girl’s, than from a transgender child’s.

Mess | Amelio Joseph ’16

Men and women have to reclaim their strengths for themselves, and when both men and women can recognize their individual powers and appreciate each other for what they are, the world would be a better, happier place. amused | 47

Powerful Women JADEN FELDMAN | ’19

T

he women in Julius Caesar play a very effective role throughout. They show great support to their powerful husbands. Calpurnia, the wife of Julius Caesar, holds critical information to Caesar’s well being, but he ignorantly does not listen. Brutus’s place in the conspiracy effects his wife, Portia, a great deal. Although made unaware of her husband’s situation, she has the ability to see something unsettling in Brutus. The two women try to aid their men through a rough patch in their lives and political careers. Even so, the women behind Julius Caesar and Brutus held such great power, but had such little potential to use it.

Calpurnia, the wife of Julius Caesar, had a dream of her noble husband being murdered. Calpurnia warned, “What are you doing, Caesar?

Are you planning to go out? You’re not leaving the house today” (Shakespeare 79). Although Calphurnia tried to warn Caesar of her dream becoming reality, Caesar responded with great ignorance and hubris by saying, “I will go out. The things that threaten me have only seen my back. When they see the face of Caesar, they will vanish” (79).

Alas, Caesar decides to go with Decius to the senate house. By making this decision, he walked into his own assassination. In the example, Calpurnia plays such an important role in the play as she holds the knowledge of how her husband can avoid being murdered. Calpurnia’s role helps illu48 | amused

minate Julius Caesar’s lack of caution resulting from his hubris. If Caesar would have listened to his stronghearted wife, he could have avoided his death. Although Calpurnia speaks few lines in the play, her lines are powerful.

She stands behind one of the strongest men at the time, attempts to help him navigate his social and political challenges.

Portia, the wife of Brutus, demonstrates great compassion for her husband. Though she has few lines in the play, she shows examples of character, loyalty, and integrity. Brutus grows uneasy about murdering Julius Caesar.

Although Portia remains clueless about the conspiracy, she recognizes that Brutus’s mind stands in a fragile state.

This is clear when she says, “You rudely snuck out of bed. And last night at dinner, you got up abruptly and paced back and forth with your arms crossed, brooding and sighing, and when I ask you what was the matter, you gave me a dirty look” (69). Brutus responds, “ I’m not feeling well- that’s all” (71). Although Portia tries her best to help guide her husband through his problems, Brutus instantly disregards her, but Portia has persistence, tries to aid her depressed husband. She feels untrusted, and in order to prove her trust, Portia says, “I admit I’m only a woman, but nevertheless I’m the woman lord Brutus took for his wife. I admit I’m only a woman, but I’m still a woman from a noble family- I’m Cato’s daughter. Do you really think I’m not stronger than the rest of my sex, with such a father and such a

in his death. If Caesar had listened, he would have had his prosperous empire and caring wife. In exchange, he was left with his empire torn and his wife widowed. Portia attempts to get Brutus to open up to her hoping to help relieve some of his stress. In return, Brutus remains guarded and pushes Portia’s help away. Although Brutus was hostile, Portia’s love and attention aided him mentally. But unfortunately, Brutus’s hostility did not do well by Portia. While Brutus was away fighting Mark Antony, Portia sadly swallowed hot coals, committing suicide. The relationships between the women and the men both played a huge part in each other’s feelings.

Through ignorance and hostility both women and men experienced great loss with very little gain.

Power | Kenny Byers ’18

husband? Tell me your secrets. I won’t betray them. I’ve proved my trustworthiness by giving myself a voluntary wound here in my thigh. If I can bear that pain, then I can bear my husband’s secrets” (73). Portia’s loyalty for her husband justifies her character.

She plays an important role in supporting Brutus. Although she can not get Brutus to share his feelings, she assures Brutus that his surroundings are loving and he lives with someone who will support him no matter what the circumstance.

Throughout the few lines of Calpurnia and Portia, they are able to help their husbands through their rough mental states. Calphurnia tries her best to prevent her husband from his murder, but Caesar looks past her powerful dream. Julius Caesar’s ignorance towards his wife resulted

amused | 51

Pockets JANNA SAYFIE | ’16 The first time I took orders instead of giving my own, the place was packed. My solid black leggings contained no pockets, no place for the pad and pen, the experienced whipping by me. Standing alone I felt the owner’s eyes transfixed on me as I shoved the pad and pen in my leggings, sticking out like I did in that crowd.

He reprimanded me and handed me an apron with pockets. I shuffled and scurried from six to seven, all the way to eleven. Dreary and disgruntled, I plopped in the chair, resting my head on the cold metal table, one I had been serving hot pizza on all Friday night long. Frustration pinned my mind, the owner walked over smiling. Wads of twenties in his hand--tip money, split evenly among us all. The feeling of having earned money for the first time-I knew what this felt like. So I ripped off my apron and walked away, proclaimed, “See you next week.”

56 | amused 50 | amused

1938 Self-Portrait with Monkey on Socks In the aisles of Walmart she stands out.

Her brooding gaze, from beneath her unibrow, serves side-eye to unsuspecting shoppers.

Far from Mexico, she takes her new throne.

There sits Frida Kahlo, Queen of Kitsch, the unintentional icon. Reduced to refrigerator magnets, tote-bags, and t-shirts, it’s no wonder she exudes angst, her iconic brow daring onlookers – who have never known pain as she has known it – to look closer, telling them to “bite me.”

Here, in the fluorescent-lit megastore, she bears her flower crown grudgingly, her life censored for the customers’ sake.

Walking Teapot | Veronica Apice ‘16

Lilies | Elmira Moskvina ‘16

Warmth | Elmira Moskvina ‘16

SARA WALKER | ’16

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Vivaldi Concerto in A Minor MADISYN JONES | ’16

Peaking through the blinds, the noon sun reveals the notes unmolested. A five-lined staff with a thousand melodies in between.

Harmonies dotted with leaps, triads, and trills.

Vivaldi sits before the music stand, inhaling rhythm with every slur, exhaling at every accent. The sun dims as the piece lures with its vitality, leaving the air desolate, and the walls drab. The staff lines bend the light, welding the notes into the spectrum. The black and the white envelopes all shades of his emotion. A composer of seasons

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Sea Silver | Elmira Moskvina ’16

Building Floor Plan 1| Andrea Jensen ’16

and sensation. An epitaph of notes.

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59 | amused Ceramics Class Display | ‘16

Acknowledgments DR. JOHN DAVIES Head of School

MR. GLEN TURF Upper School Director

MR. DAN BRONISH Upper School Academic Dean

MRS. AMY GALLUP Humanities Department Chair

MRS. JONINA PITCHMAN Fine Arts Department Chair

MR. ZACHARY ORDONEZ Fine Arts

MS. JUDY MISTOR Fine Arts

MS. BETH LONG Technology/Media

About Amused Published by the members of the National English Honor Society of Miami Country Day School, 601 Northeast 107 Street, Miami, FL 33161. 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.

Editorial Policy Current MCDS students may submit art and writing for consideration by the editors during the first semester. Editorial staff positions are open to NEHS members. The magazine is free to all members of the MCDS community and is distributed during the second semester.

Email: amused@miamicountryday.info

Elephant | Elisaveta Bondareva ‘18

Colophon This magazine is set in three fonts. The main text is set in PT Sans Regular. Titles and bylines are set in Myriad Pro. The magazine’s nameplate on the cover, inside cover, and masthead are set in Cooper STD.

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