2017 Reflections Literary Magazine

Reflections Literary Magazine 2016-2017

Reflections Literary Magazine An annual publication by the Journalism department at Gulliver Preparatory School 6575 North Kendall Drive Miami, FL 33156 305-666-7937 www.gulliverschools.org

poetry 8 “Toast,” Luis Martinez, Grade 11 12 “Light Fades,” Elizabeth Perez, Grade 10 16 “Revenge,” Heather Loader, Grade 11 18 “You,” Lilly Barlow, Grade 12 20 “Treasures Within Me,” Isabella Rzadkowolsky-Raoli, Grade 9 22 “The Greatest Pretender,” Raegan Rafool, Grade 9 24 “To the Child in My Footsteps,,” Talia Pfeffer, Grade 12 26 “A Green Apple in a Battlefield,” Ignacio Fuentes, Grade 10 30 “Broken,” Lilly Barlow, Grade 12 32 “Pop Sonnet Arrangement,” Carolina de Laurenzio,

Olivia Connor, Laura Attarian, Brianna Romero, Grade 9 34 “Enough,” Shannon Kunkel, Grade 12 38 “The Green Fields Are,” Xavier Moncada, Grade 10 44 “We are Still Here,” Peyton Willie, Grade 12 56 “Santa Barbara,” Rylee Podrog, Grade 10 58 “The Colors of the Ocean,” Sean Moore, Grade 10 62 “An Autumn Afternoon,” Rylee Podrog, Grade 10

prose 14 “Deserving of Justice,” Alex Levine, Grade 12 28 “News From Hell,” Shannon Kunkel, Grade 12 40 “Happiness is Universal,” Marianna De Sousa, Grade 12 46 “My Train Ride,” Alaz Sengul, Grade 12 52 “Similarities at a Distance,” Sophia Esquenazi, Grade 12 56 “Pero Yo Naci Aqui; But I was Born Here,” Taimaisu Ferrer-Sin, Grade 12 60 “El Camino with My Abuelo,” Michael Thomas Garcia, Grade 12 64 “All Eyes Are On Me,” Alex Marban, Grade 12

photography 12 50 55

“Blazing Tunnel,” Lily Harris, Grade 10 “Red,” Shannon Kunkel, Grade 12 “Aloha,” Shannon Kunkel, Grade 12

sculpture 14

Jorge CerdÓ Schumann, Grade 11

original artwork Cover “Orange Skies,” Joanne Park, Grade 12 1 “Modern Nature,” Joanne Park, Grade 12 4 “Untitled,” Daniela Perez Retes, Grade 12 6 “El Yunque,” Joanne Park, Grade 12 8 “Drowning,” Amanda Vera, Grade 11 11 “Drowning in Water,” Shani Rupp, Grade 11 16 “Variety,” Natalie Mouawad, Grade 12 18 “Contemplation,” Samantha Keepax, Grade 11 20 “Horizon,” Natalie Mouawad, Grade 12 22 “True-Self,” Juliana Fernandez, Grade 12 24 “Butterfly,” Natalie Mouawad, Grade 12 26 “The Rotten Apple,” Carlos Uribe, Grade 12 28 “Tears,” Carla Guillamon, Grade 12 30 “Evolving Perfektion,” Alexia Zac Zac, Grade 12 32 “Through the Lens,” Catie Schwartzman, Grade 12 34 “Quarantine,” Catie Schwartzman, Grade 12 36 “Forest of Ink,” Joanne Park, Grade 12 38 “Lakeside Dreams,” Joanne Park, Grade 12 40 “Sobre Mi Patria,” Sofia Montanez, Grade 12 44 “If They Only Knew,” Susan Huang, Grade 11 46 “Eyes,” Daniela Perez Retes, Grade 12 49 “Untitled,” Carla Guillamon, Grade 12 52 “Japan,” Carlos Uribe, Grade 12 56 “Jungle Island,” Sofia Montanez, Grade 12 58 “Sunset,” Natalie Mouawad, Grade 12 60 “The Roman Bridge in Cangas de Onis,” Carolina Baigorri, Grade 11 62 “Down the Stream,” Natalie Mouawad, Grade 12 64 “Jigsaw,” Marcela Royo, Grade 12 67 “Jigsaw,” Marcela Royo, Grade 12 68 “No Pictures Please,” Victoria Paredero Quiros, Grade 10

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Editor’s Note, “Looking In,” “Looking Out,” Katherine Cohen, Grade 12

‘

Human existence cannot be expressed in solely points or lines; it is dimensionless and immeasurable. It is a combination of numerous individual moments and shapes creating a part of a universal tapestry. There is a weight in both the infinitesimally small and the incomprehensibly large, and neither can be fully captured within the ink on a page, it cannot be held or named.

However, within different forms of expression, we can comfortably confront these ideas. With a shift in perspective in the form of poetry, prose, and art, we can explore this incredibly reality we usually compartmentalize. Take a moment and within these pages, shift your perspective.

Move around reality, making shapes shift from planes to lines, losing and gaining dimension through your lens. Step back and step forward, making noise into a nearly inaudible whisper or into a blaring cacophony. Close and open your eyes, seeking the shadows and irrationality of light and seeing the luster within the dark.

Shift your perspective inward where there lies detailed emotion and then shift it outward where there lies the heavy blur of something greater.

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Daniela Perez Retes

7

A shift in perspective inward, from the loud grey static of the world to the unique noise within ourselves. With a closer view, one can see the spectacular weight of the details. In smaller snippets of life, there is the palpably personal.

Within seconds, there can be both boundless pain and immeasurable happiness. This is the person in the busy crowd, the solitary stoke in the vibrant painting, the note in the song, and the unique beauty of a single breath.

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Joanne Park

looking in

9

Amanda Vera

by Luis Martinez

cordiality tells you to shake my hand.

I urge you to feel my hand. the smooth skin of my hand. not you may, but rather you can

detach yourself now. for now. maybe a little while will pass. we are under an overhanging and over an underpass. not if you care to know,

but rather that you must know, know that for now you are freshly met but in due time you, mauled elk meat, (are due) will hear the imperative ring behind my words and my words when the ring rings and, to the cadence of my words, you will hear the imperative ring commanding you to fall prey to me.

(but to hearts, I do not make requests. from hearts, I carve out

commandments.) mistake not this conviction for dark pulse,

{ingest this as a warning to you that in finding you, I found, find,

and will find nothing more,

nothing more than one

veneer layer for incineration too few, one

doll for dismemberment too unsatisfying, one

lover for toying too relentlessly, unknowingly, unknowing}, ingest this as a warning to you that in finding you at this time of them all,

and at this place of those few, I find nothing more, nothing more than one jar of honey for lathering too denatured. relish how I offer to you my offer to burn up and excise from you the illusion that you will match me in laying claim, may I offer you my offer to sit back and relish my reaping that which you thought would so luxuriously, flowingly, meltingly come into your possession:

honey seeps through the rifts between your fingers, and I have taken the place of the rifts. I lie there, maw open, I am the fissure of your body,

I am the leech waiting on the other side of your palms. it is a warning to you that in your finding my smile, you must find how I will, from you, out from underneath you, tear footing by tearing out earth: in due time, will you mourn and you will mourn the loss of an Eden you believed secure, an Eden paradisaical to you in the way that those whose eyes glow red from a sin paint wave will never bear to look up at a heaven, much less on it achieve footing, or to it find access. you are to mourn the loss of the Eden that you believed secure, and that I, from your conception, knew secure. one paradisaical to me in the way that those whose eyes have since emergence reflected the gilded, meltingly, luxuriously gilded glowing gold in the jar. call my quest an endeavor to nab honey from the worker bees, but you most certainly never have been one. worker bees know blood of royalty once they see the smile on the queen.

I invite you to not think, but rather know me to be the Eden you did not lose, but rather never had, the reason why you must wash your hands of the melted gold of the trophy I now drink. now toast.

Shani Rupp

Lily Harris

by Elizabeth Perez

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Darkness?

I’m new, how do you do?

Darkness?

I’m young and I’m free, you can’t take me.

Darkness?

I see you in the others now, but I’ll never see you in me.

Darkness?

Do you see my smile? Convincing, isn’t it?

Darkness?

No one’s figured it out yet, not even me.

Darkness?

Our little red secret is safe.

Darkness?

Are you still there for me when I cry in the night?

Darkness?

I said you’d never get me.

Darkness?

I’m ready.

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by Alex Levine There is something about my dad’s horrendous Hawaiian shirts that brings me so much joy. I’ve been greeted almost every day by his bright smile and this gaudy self-proclaimed uniform. But one day that otherwise appeared ordinary, my dad came home in a drab dark suit, his sunny personality overshadowed by a coldness and distance unfamiliar to me. I grew increasingly uneasy as he did everything possible to not answer, “Where were you?” and, ultimately, I grew relentless.

The news was indigestible. My dad had just attended the funeral of his Uncle Fredrick, a family member unknown to me, a man diagnosed with schizophrenia and institutionalized for 30 years. I learned that in his formative years Fredrick was a talented student of architecture. I also learned he was isolated from society and family, though we lived only miles away. I understood this to be an egregious act, he was left a lifetime without hope. Only my father, aunt and grandfather would attend his funeral. Had I not persisted, I would not even know of Uncle Fred’s existence; I was overcome.

Opinionated and passionate about human rights, I could not wrap my head around my great- grandmother’s decision to Baker Act Uncle Fred, indefinitely. Nor am I accepting that it had been kept a secret, seemingly buried in shame. I felt shame. My family is close, honorable, and has good values… we should know better, I thought. I began inquiring to uncover my great grandmother’s motive, wanting to know if being institutionalized was a financial consideration, if Fred was a threat to society, if other options were available, and why in the world this had been kept a secret. I confronted my grandmother and parents, challenging the notion that Fred’s care was managed lovingly and decently.

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Information on mental illness and schizophrenia has developed over the decades and as a society we make progress and change. For me, the issue is that in the midst of this change my family just forgot about Fred. He became a distant, disturbing memory rather than a living, breathing human being who deserved more. As evidenced in my own family, it’s clear that society continues to struggle with negative preconceived ideas and mental illness stigma; and, if we let this happen, I feel even more concerned for all forgotten and mistreated people. Throughout my life, I am more determined than ever to impact change.

The past two summers before I knew of my Uncle Fred, I gained perspective while working with Daniel, an 11-year-old with a comorbidity of autism and schizophrenia. As a volunteer at Shake a Leg, a non-profit that utilizes the Miami marine environment to improve lives of children with various developmental issues, I helped Daniel enjoy water sports and environmental science. Daniel helped me grasp that people are much more than their afflictions and should not be defined by them, that humanity is inherent in us all. Daniel loves to sing Christmas songs, even in the summer. He’s adamant that Tupac is still alive and genuinely believes that world peace is achievable, as do I. Unlike I do Daniel’s, I don’t know the thoughts or contributions that my uncle may have made had he not been stripped of opportunity.

So, yes, even with all the tension and uneasiness that surfaced, I would speak up and challenge my family again to recognize the sad misstep made in supposedly helping my uncle. I believe we are all more open and aware because of it. This very personal experience confirms my longstanding desire to become a human rights lawyer, and reaffirms my belief that every human being is beautiful and deserving of justice. Though I am back to smiling at my dad’s tacky shirts, I am part of the change that matters.

Jorge CerdÓ Schumann

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by Heather Loader Maybe revenge is getting even by hurting someone the way they hurt you.

Maybe it is not being able to forgive what someone has done, And to hold it over their head until they hate themselves.

Maybe I deserve it.

To feel like shit and to justify revenge By the sake of yearning for forgiveness I have gotten used to it.

To feeling like everything is because of me To hoping that one day we will be even again To enduring all of the emotional damage Pretending I’m okay.

I know that revenge is not good But I stay because I feel I deserve it I have lost all of my self worth to it And it has shattered my heart to pieces But I hope of a better tomorrow when we are even And the need for revenge has faded But until then, It has a hold on me.

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Natalie Mouawad

Samantha Keepax

by Lilly Barlow You are the most beautiful thing

I have never seen all those times you were watching

the snow fall or the birds fly I was watching you All the sunsets

and night skies could never compete with their own reflection

in your eyes

A girl with impaired vision Ups her prescription and Plucks a single leaf.

The wet veins, grainy pigments, slimy dew Appreciated.

This is beauty.

To be tranquil yet willing To wipe her mind and extinguish flames Her forgotten art.

Elusive fathers and bellowing mothers An outdated hierarchy Is what makes her strong.

Roaring crowds with ample laughs Daggering pointed jokes Have been preached and not forgotten Her mind does not forget what has been said.

Mastered the art of red Solo cups, Jubilation that dissolves

and slides down her throat Pushed into euphoria by thumping animals A persona mastered.

Childhood: a loaded word.

Violated, plundered by the saints in her life Rescue, salvation from the demons A twisted story with a cackling sense of humor.

Childhood: never forgotten always regretted.

On a bus she will lose her balance, falling.

In dive bars she loses confidence, drowning.

And with people she loses Her words, asphyxiated.

Natalie Mouawad

by Isabella Rzadkowolsky-Raoli

Juliana Fernandez

by Raegan Rafool

It’s not my story to tell, but I know he pushed many girls and they all fell except one; she was from a different world.

The girls took the blame for his mistakes, but one didn’t give him the privilege of hurting her.

She immediately realized that

that big warm heart of his was fake; The other girls were insecure,

but she knew her life for sure.

The glimpse of her smile and the blue of her eyes made him think he could take over her mind.

He would tell her to go so she would, but he would block the door and tell her no.

She sure knows it’s not hard to be alone. she just laughs and drops her bags; she doesn’t want to be on her own.

Everyone was born to die, but she was born to be alive.

She doesn’t let him hurt her, but she lets him think he can try.

She pretends he emotionally skins her like fur.

He was an insecure man all along in disguise, he had these games he liked to play, he was a young man who attacked with lies and he thought she was his prey.

But she was never the one to break down and cry; she had no true emotion in her eyes.

She was always physically there, but her soul was long gone.

All that was left were her blue eyes and skin so fair.

In a snap of his fingers, she was gone, not even the image of her was left to haunt.

by Talia Pfeffer To the child in my footsteps, I have words for you.

You are loved, beautiful, and have more to offer in the world than there are stars in the night sky.

Work hard in your life, and exceed expectations always; because your ideas have value, and no one can deny.

Speak your mind, make those tough decisions, and let your heart be your guide. If all fails: Remember this, darling: You certainly tried.

“Acting” your age is so overrated, and rushing to grow up is just insane.

Being who you are and appreciating what you have now is the life you must maintain.

You are in control of your own destiny now, and all of the little things in between.

Please know it’s okay not to know, and ask for help on what something means.

Live life to the fullest, let love in, and keep your spirits high, So in the end you will never have to ask “Why?” Life on earth is short, and yours is precious and true, This is my note of appreciation because I am here, writing this now, thanks to you.

Natalie Mouawad

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Carlos Uribe

by Ignacio Fuentes An abject looking American soldier Grabbed a small green apple From the quiet quaint market His bones bulging from his skin The eyes in his face drooped He looked at the stumpy lady With her hand outstretched The soldier quickly reached in his pocket And handed the woman her payment He gazed at the dark maroon evening And breathed in the Afghan air With its specks of sand and blood The soldier bit into the bitter apple

Carla Guillamon

by Shannon Kunkel

Music was playing in the background, my iPad was laying in front of me, and my boyfriend was on FaceTime. A typical Thursday night in my life.

We were talking about our plans for the weekend and the new movie we were going to see as a soft knock came upon my door. My mom slowly walked in and said “I think we need to talk; Come to the living room.”

At this moment, my heart sank in my chest and I quickly hung up the phone. I had not been expecting this news so soon, but I knew exactly what it was. My aunt, Laurie, had been battling cancer since September 2013. She was diagnosed with lung cancer from her husband, Richard’s, smoking. My uncle Richard had passed away of lung and pancreatic cancer about 2 years before my aunt was diagnosed. This loving couple

had two children, Megan who is 9 months younger than me, and Bonnie who is 11 right now. I knew that as soon as my mom told me the news they would be the first ones I would call. As my mom told me that the cancer had taken over her body like darkness to the night and that there was nothing else they could do to help her. I just sat there staring into the darkness that was now my life. “Just yesterday she was okay; how could this happen so soon?” I thought to myself. The tears began to gush down my face like an open faucet.

My aunt was everything to me even though I didn’t get to spend much time with her because she lived in Philadelphia. Since she lived so far I would see her and my cousins on some holidays like Easter or Christmas but ever since the diagnosis she hadn’t been able to fly or visit us. During this time we didn’t visit much or see her, because she didn’t want us to remember her that way.

I didn’t realize then how much I would miss seeing her even if it was just for one or two holidays a year. I didn’t realize how much I would miss the memories of the Easter egg hunts, the careful opening of Christmas presents because my grandma didn’t want to rip the wrapping paper, but most of all I would miss the great advice she would give me about any topic I needed from her. This year we did go and see her, however, this was not a joyous visit.

My father and I boarded the mechanical bird in the sky and took off on our flight to Philadelphia. My cousins and my grandparents, who were taking care of my aunt Laurie until her passing, greeted us at the airport upon our arrival. I could tell by the smiling but broken looks on their faces that this was going to be a difficult trip. I knew that I would have to be strong for my family but I didn’t know if I could be strong for myself. It felt like someone had ripped out my heart and just torn it in half, but my cousins needed me right now so I had to be strong.

The funeral was very a difficult one. Just the sight of my beautiful, independent, and strong aunt lying there in a coffin made me shutter with sadness. Why do such horrific things happen to such amazing people? As I sat in one of the rows of the church, I tried to console and comfort my crying cousins but in reality was just trying to control myself. As the funeral came to a close, my father took my hand and pulled me up to the front of the church. My family stood all together holding hands and one by one kissed the forehead of my deceased aunt to say our final goodbyes. Tears ran down everyone’s face and the hug that followed was filled with sadness but also love for one another.

That special moment made me realize how important family is to me and that I should be spending more time with them.

Alexia Zac Zac

32

by Lilly Barlow You are beautiful but you’ve been shattered from the inside and you’ve been so busy taping yourself back together so no one would ever see the cracks you’ve let your soul rot away you are beautiful but you break at the slightest touch no wonder they leave there’s nothing left of you

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Pop Sonnet Arrangement

by Carolina De Laurenzio, Olivia Connor, Laura Attarian, and Brianna Romero

Thou often deem that I appear too strong.

Apologize tis I who falsed the cards.

I plunge and soar and live to die; thy song That blows away my soul, ignore the bard’s Thou shan’t not regard me as a lover Speaketh the truth to me but not deceive I beg of thou doth not make me hover The truth be told from heart that you believe Alloweth me know if thou words are real Ere I plunge my heart and my soul for one Around the whole wide world before I kneel So many girls I’ve met, to compare, none I am afraid that thou wilt let me down Unconditional love I’ll never frown.

Based on “Dive” by Ed Sheeran

Catie Schwartzman

Lily Harris

Catie Schwartzman

by Shannon Kunkel

I was never that girl…

I was never the girl that could stand in front of a crowd and put on a performance.

I was never the girl that could smile at the boys and have them waiting in line.

I was never the girl that was optimistic or cheerful or happy.

I was never the girl that could openly talk about herself or her feelings.

I was the girl who suffered in silence.

I was the girl that would blend in with the crowd and hide my face.

I was the girl who would put my head down as I walked hoping no one would stop me to talk.

I was the girl who felt I wasn’t enough.

Wasn’t pretty enough, Wasn’t smart enough, Wasn’t cool enough, I was the girl that felt like everything I did and said made me who I was, And that girl just wasn’t good enough.

A shift in perspective outward, from our smaller personal lenses to a scope that encompasses something much greater. With a larger view, one can attempt to comprehend an infinite sense of grandeur. In immense views of life, there is the poignant and unfathomable. Within centuries, there can be common burdens and the wave of unity. These are the cultures that define the nature of human existence, the sense of belonging within a feeling of solidarity, the innumerable and powerful whole of unseen parts, and the unique allure of timeless existence.

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Joanne Park

looking out

39

by Xavier Moncada

Breathing works of art Holy canvases Living amongst us Bridges between man And the gifts of nature Expressed in the perfumes Of luminous sunflowers The same crisp scent Unique to the rain That moistens sunflowers In the heart of green fields

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Joanne Park

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Sofia Montanez

by Marianna De Sousa If we do not understand one another, how can we ever find harmony?

Every day I witness the prolific range of opinions and beliefs in society.

Living in an increasingly polarized country, our differences are evident.

Whether we are debating climate change, trans-gender rights, or religious freedom, these controversial issues exemplify our growing ideological divides. Although advancements in technology have made us more interconnected than ever, we continue to be segregated by physical borders and cultural barriers. There are 6,500 spoken languages, 4,300 religions, 1,000s of ethnicities, and over 200 nationalities in the world. I always believed these distinctions explained our inability to understand one another.

Living in Miami, I am continuously exposed to people of different religions, cultures, ethnicities, and nationalities. These differences sparked my curiosity to understand not only my background, but also the backgrounds of others. Miami’s unique population fascinates me and was the foundation for my love of languages, foods, and people. But, it was not until I actively stepped out of my Miami bubble that I realized my knowledge of the world was limited.

It all started during Ramadan while building an elementary school in the Moroccan village of Ourikt. Although I had been exposed to various religions, I was shocked to see religion having such an essential role in someone’s life. Even though the locals endured long, hard hours of fasting day after day, the men still helped us with construction and the women

prepared tea and tajine for us. Regardless of the impact religion played in my personal life, witnessing such devotion to faith and all of its commitments amazed me. My newfound knowledge of Ramadan as an opportunity for self-reflection and cleansing prompted my own introspection to question my prior way of thinking. This hardworking, pious community gave me a sense of tolerance and appreciation for other faiths, inciting me to reconsider my position towards religion.

The following year, while teaching English in the small village of Momi, I realized the power of connections. Although I was proud to speak four languages, words were not how I communicated with the children. Instead, we laughed, played games, and enjoyed each other’s presence. I learned about their way of life: their dances, songs, and values. These rural kids, who were captivated by us and our visible differences, provoked me to reassess language as a barrier and inspired me to look past communication as only verbal conversation. I experienced first-hand that connections do not always depend on words, as we all laugh in the same language.

Whether I am eating traditional Venezuelan Arepas in Miami, venturing through extraordinary Thai markets, or reading about the Wodaabe people in my Anthropology class, it is through these moments - no matter how big or small - I realize we are not really that different. Regardless of what I previously believed, mankind can coexist beautifully. I admire the diversity of the human population and am curious to meet all of its members. I know happiness is universal; our smiles have no language, ethnicity, race, or religion. The moments I have shared with people so unimaginably different from myself are a tangible reminder of our similarities and inherent nature to relate to others. The collection of these experiences triggered an understanding I could not have acquired without venturing from my comfort zone to acknowledge what I did not know.

We may not speak the same language, share the same religion, or even know each other’s name. But, we are truly alike; we strive for happiness and want to be loved. At this critical time in the world, it is apparent our differences should not divide us, but, instead, bring us together.

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by Peyton Willie Dead and defeated is what they wanted us to be Our culture feared them Our language and beliefs confused them They ripped our families apart and stripped us from our culture But we’re still here My late grandma used to tell me stories “One day, the white men are going to take our land again,” she said.

I didn’t believe her at the time That was in the past never to happen again She is not here anymore More than a hundred years later, it is still the same My grandma was right “It’s going to create jobs,” the men in their fancy suits tells us with enthusiasm They don’t realize we can see through their plastic smiles and facts But we’re not going anywhere

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Susan Huang

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Daniela Perez Retes

48

by Alaz Sengul

The mighty aluminum beast roared in the distance, and we all knew it was time to leave. Those around us hastened to the platform’s edge, my mom and I joining them as I squeezed her hand in anticipation. The rumble crescendoed and the beast burst into the station, screeching to a halt in front of us. Its shabby doors slid open and a cool relief of airconditioning gushed out into the humidity. I found myself following the crowd of strangers with trepidation into the beast itself. Claiming a seat by the window with my mom, I anxiously waited. All at once, the doors shut and the metro train was in motion once again.

As a child, it was my first time using metro transportation, but more importantly, it was my first raw exposure to the diverse community outside my Turkish-Kurdish household. No longer fictional characters in books and movies, commuters of all races, ages, and occupations opened my eyes to the world around me. Before I had a chance to bombard my mom with questions, a rich melody reverberated from the other end of the train car. A college student held a tarnished gold saxophone to her mouth, each breath of air vibrating the instrument that possessed her.

She seemed to be telling a unique story through her music, because with every note she played, I felt her passion. It was a story I could somewhat relate to with my experience playing the violin, and this shared interest in music excited me. In fact, I saw a part of myself in every person on that train, which is why nowadays, metro transportation has become my way of discovering both the world around me and within me.

On one of my morning commutes, I remember an old woman sat beside me, clutching an ornate journal and silver-plated fountain pen. Her eyes darted all around the inside of the train, from the graffiti to the handrails.

She then proceeded to quickly jot down phrases in her journal, and a glance at her writing revealed that she was a poet, constantly observing the beauty of the world around her. There was this other time I bumped into a lawyer dressed in a traditional grey suit. He was holding stacks of manila envelopes while simultaneously typing away e-mails on his smartphone. That one lawyer represents dozens of lives, a responsibility that never fails to earn my respect and admiration. On another metro ride, I saw a man and woman in faded lab coats sitting across from me, the tremble of the metro train scattering piles of paper between them.

They were each holding tablets displaying polychromatic images of what appeared to be microscopic cell data, research that has the potential to save thousands of lives.

In all these people, I see my passions for music, poetry, health law, and research, and knowing that there are others who share these interests is inspiring. However, it also serves as a subtle reminder that my exploration is far from over. Constantly being exposed to more people on the metro train, my curiosity refuses to focus on one area when there exists a world of possibilities around me. It amazes me how some of my peers have already decided on a career to pursue, as I have yet been able to devote myself to a sole passion. Some may think that this is a curse, but they are wrong. My varied interests make me who I am, and along with my insatiable curiosity, they form my own unique story, much like the saxophonist on that first metro ride. I often forget this when overwhelmed by the ambiguity of my future career. So next time the aluminum beast pulls into the station, I will enter with confidence into a world of possibilities, because I know that whatever path I end up taking, I will never cease to be curious.

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Carla Guillamon

by Rylee Podrog

52

I was walking across the beach The well-worn sand crunching under my feet The cliffs and mountains rising in the distance The setting sun beating weak rays onto my back The waves crashing in and fading out There was a soft song playing in my ears “All I could find was your ghost�

The wind swirled around me in steady blasts The cold was welcome on my jacket-clad arms I walked until my breathing was shallow And I could hear my heart beating over the music And in that moment I felt undeniably alive

Shannon Kunkel

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Carlos Uribe

by Sophia Esquenazi

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I hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do when I walked into her home.

As I meticulously examined Nana taking off her shoes gracefully, I was unsure whether I should do the same. I made the decision to quickly emulate my host student by taking off my Converse sneakers at the door and sliding on the much too small black slippers she had given me. I was uncertain of whether I was acting appropriately with regards to Japanese culture, but I was driven to know more about Nana’s way of life.

The opportunity to embark on this unique journey to Japan was offered by my school through the Kakehashi Project, a fully funded exchange program between Japan and the United States. After a selective application process, I was accepted. The program perfectly aligned with my interests, as I am an individual who is passionate about embracing diversity.

Coming from a multicultural family with a Jewish, Venezuelan mother and a Mexican father, my thirst for learning about new cultures has become central to my identity. Throughout my childhood, as a first generation American, I was enthralled by my grandmother’s Dutch background and my grandfather’s Moroccan upbringing. Understanding these variations challenged me to think in different ways and made me feel that I had a responsibility to broaden my horizons, which is exactly what I did in Nana’s home.

After putting on the slippers at the front door, Nana brought me into her kitchen where I took in all of the foreign smells. I was unable to put my finger on what it was --possibly fish, maybe chicken? I had never been in this situation before, feeling so oblivious to what was happening around me and of what to do, yet so comfortable because of the immeasurable kindness with which I was being treated.

Like most people, I went into the home-stay visit with a set of preconceptions, although I quickly realized that preconceptions often lead to misconceptions. On my plane ride to Yamaguchi, the prefecture where my host family lived, my mind filled with images of large, modern buildings and beautiful, wide-eyed Japanese individuals who love Hello Kitty and Pokémon. Much to my surprise, my ideas were completely flawed. I found myself surrounded by traditional, Japanese style homes and picturesque, green mountains. I was right about one thing, however; Nana’s room was wall-to-wall Hello Kitty.

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It turns out, Nana was just as interested in my culture as I was in hers.

“Do you take your shoes off when you enter your home?” She asked me with bewilderment, followed by “What do you eat for dinner?” and “What TV shows do you enjoy watching?”

I was fascinated by our diverse worlds, but most importantly by our resemblance despite our geographical remoteness.

While visiting Nana’s school the next day, I observed how the students stood up in unison and bowed their heads to their teacher before and after every class. I witnessed them eating the traditional Japanese meal of sushi, a meal I wound up loving.

Witnessing these aspects of Japanese life made me realize how two individuals from distinct backgrounds can share similar values—respect, family unity, and preservation of traditions. The differences that Nana and I did have allowed me to understand that there isn’t a universal way of approaching life. We have distinct ways of greeting elders and different foods that we enjoy, but it is learning about differences, such as these, that fosters my understanding towards others. Because of this experience, I am now propelled forward by situations that have the potential to open my eyes to different lifestyles.

As I stood at the door at the end of my home-stay visit, taking off my slippers, ready to replace them with my Converse sneakers once again, I understood how the experience reinforced my interest of acquiring knowledge of unfamiliar cultures and how much it broadened my world view.

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Shannon Kunkel

Sofia Montanez

by Taimaisu Ferrer Sin I went to a place this summer that knew me better than I knew it. It was where I was born, where my family has always lived, and yet where, this time, I ironically struggled to feel like a native.

I walked through the streets of Havana under the scorching July sun feeling inauthentic. At seventeen, I did not remember the face of my baby cousin or the faรงade of Guantanamo 15, the house my parents had built from the ground up. I did not know the latest reggaetรณn artists, the difference between the Cuban Peso and the Cuban Convertible Peso, or the schedules for the buses to get across the city. Had I been gone so long that I could now be considered una gringa?

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I stressed over this classification like never before. “Pero, yo nací aquí but I was born here,” I assured everyone, including myself, when I couldn’t get the punchline of a joke or remember how to say something in Spanish.

My attempts to redeem myself and truly validate my heritage didn’t help at all. “But you left when you were just a baby,” they would say, laughing.

In the effort to seem unbothered, I would playfully roll my eyes and shrug. The discreditation hurt, though. How could I let those who only remembered the three and nine-year-old versions of myself decide how Cuban I actually am?

The feeling of inauthenticity sat on my shoulders each day like a chip I couldn’t just brush off. I was so distraught by this worry that I regularly overlooked the daily struggles of my people, writing them off as “Third World Problems.” To me, the issues with running water only being available once every four days were human rights violations, the absence of unlimited access to the internet represented oppression, and the daily apagones, power outages, were just one of the many consequences of La Revolución.

It took twenty-eight days of me living like I had never left the island for me to feel again like I belonged. I realize that the Cuban people are not defined by the depictions and quotes of el Ché, the foreign hero to the Cuban Communists, plastered on billboards everywhere, nor are we defined by the lack of the essential. Rather, it is our everlasting optimistic spirit and the way we deal with challenges that set us apart.

I witnessed it, the Cuban spirit, in the routine of my family members, who stored water in buckets, bottles, and anything they could get their hands on so that they could still shower, clean, and do laundry.

I witnessed it in the worry and kindness of the lady in La Vibora, a busy Havana neighborhood, who, without thinking twice, offered me the small comforts of a rocking chair next to a fan and a glass of water after she saw me fall sick by a column in the middle of the street.

I witnessed it in the way my cousins, medical and engineering students, pursued their degrees at the top of their class with highest honors and accolades but without the everyday ease and access of the internet that I’ve always taken for granted.

It is the way in which Cubans do not lose any sense of humanity or confidence in the constant battles for freedom – both physical and intellectual – and this truly distinguishes Cubans as a people and as a culture. I was reminded this summer of how Cubans, how we, confront challenges: not with excuses, but with optimism and bravery. Somos guerrilleros. We are warriors. And although I may feel like a total foreigner each time I come back, Cuba is my Cuba, too. It is Cuba that I call home; it is Cuba where I feel internally connected to those around me; and it is Cuba where I find the inspiration and motivation to keep pushing forward.

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Natalie Mouawad

n

by Sea

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Moore

The skies are a periwinkle and pink rose color as the sun sets.

The trees sparkle in the sunlight a vibrant green.

The waves crash creating white caps.

The ocean sways from side to side showing light and dark blues.

Hawks soar in the sky, Disappearing into the golden rose sun.

In the distance grey shadows breach, The dolphins chase large and tight balls of fish.

The lush green of the seaweed, Sways, from Side to side.

This is the world we live in.

This is our ocean.

These are the colors of the ocean.

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Carolina Baigorri

by Michael Thomas Garcia Despite the eight hours of tossing back and forth while trying to sleep, I was invigorated once we landed in Madrid, Spain. Exiting the jet bridge, my eyes slowly adjusted to the midday sunlight, and I caught a glimpse of the sign hanging from the ceiling, “Bienvenidos a Madrid, España”.

Immediately after scanning the sign, my brother reads it out loud, slicing the air with a Spanish accent and announcing our arrival in Spain by emphasizing the “ñ”. Following the crowd at Madrid-Barajas Airport, my family and I found our way to the train station where we would begin our journey to Sarria, a city in the northern Spanish province of Galicia.

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Upon arrival in Sarria, I understood the goal of the trip, but why walking was going to be our means of transportation was unclear. Sarria was the starting point of our 110 kilometer hike to Santiago de Compostela.

We would follow a path created hundreds of years ago and traveled by millions of pilgrims called El Camino de Santiago. Every journey to Santiago de Compostela is meant to be unique. For some it is a catharsis to clear their minds from the stress of daily life or the loss of a loved one.

Others may do El Camino for religious reasons or simply for the adventure and physical activity. However, for me, El Camino de Santiago was a way for me to get to know my grandfather and his life story.  We were surrounded by the rolling hills in the countryside, when my Abuelo began telling me about our family’s immigration story. His historiography began with the journey my great-grandfather took from Spain to Cuba to escape economic hardship. It was in Jovellanos, Cuba that my Abuelo was subsequently born. As he grew up, he had hopes of becoming a physician, but his career was halted by the communist revolution that led to the closure of the University of Havana. In order to leave Cuba and continue his studies, he had to work for two years in a labor camp harvesting sugar cane. Upon leaving Cuba, he was finally able to complete his medical education in Madrid, Spain. It was during his time in Madrid, when my father was born. Then my family begun the difficult process of getting a visa to enter the United States. It is these stories of hardship that are often forgotten by second generation immigrants.

The time I spent with my Abuelo on El Camino made me realize all the sacrifices he had made to give his family the opportunities that it now has.

After days of hiking through northern Spain, I finished the Camino de Santiago along side my Abuelo, father, and brother. A journey that seemed difficult to my father, brother and I, was but a small endeavor for my Abuelo. During our journey, we hiked through the rolling hills of Spain in the freezing rain, but my grandfather never seemed discouraged. To him, this was a short distance of 110 kilometers compared to a lifetime of much more difficult tribulations. His journey had begun in Cuba during the Castro regime and had ended in the American city of Miami. This trip to Spain made me realize the difficulties that my Abuelo went through for his children and grandchildren to be where they are now. It is not the arriving in Santiago de Compostella that I will remember, but instead the journey I took with my Abuelo.

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by Rylee Podrog

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Bundled up and covered with a warm blanket, Hands resting on the rough pastel fabric of the small couch, The young woman gazed out the window, Taking in the hazy grayness of the autumn sky.

She was mesmerized by the delicacy of the droplets as they fell in streaks across the cool glass.

The silvery light illuminated The pale and bare walls of the room.

With the soft melody coming in From the cracks in the hardwood door, She dozed off into an easy slumber, A book left untouched on her lap.

As she slept, The silvery world grew bright, Slowly growing in confidence Until an orange and pink sun hung low in the sky.

Natalie Mouawad

Catie Schwartzman

Marcela Royo

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by Alex Marban

All eyes are on me. “What do you want to study?”; “Where do you want to go to college?”; “Are you going to follow your family’s footsteps?” These are just some of the many tedious questions family members have asked my entire life. As the only child in my immediate family, my whole family generated expectations for me that they have anticipated for me to accomplish. This is especially true due to my Cuban heritage, where having high demands on children is commonplace given the closeness of the family.

My family cares deeply about my future because of the struggle they endured when immigrating to the United States. It was extremely difficult for my grandparents, but it would have been worse had it not been for their careers. Despite being well-established physicians in Cuba, when they emigrated they were forced to revamp their education to be able to practice medicine in the United States. As a result of these struggles, my grandparents accredited their medical practice as the main attribute for their success. My father recognized how important medicine became in his family and decided he would also pursue medicine, creating a legacy of medicine in my family.

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Of course, I am now expected to continue the Marban legacy. My parents have developed these expectations for me from birth; from the baby pictures in scrubs to taking biomedical classes in high school.

Despite this, my passions lie within the social sciences and in more discussion based fields. I feel more comfortable with issues that are up to interpretation and discussion instead of something that is as black and white as math and science. I enjoy the ability of coming up with an answer after my rigorous input and thought into it which is something I feel I can’t adequately do with numbers and a formula. My belief is that exchanges with my teachers and peers that culminate in discussions where I question my own thinking are the most productive methods to enhance my understanding of the material. I don’t think that these exchanges are exclusive to the social sciences, but occur most frequently in those forums which is why I excel in those areas. This is why I have chosen to dedicate much of my time to an activity like debate since I have to do my own research to become knowledgeable in subject areas. I use debate as a forum to express my ideas given the amount of time it takes for me to think of arguments and discussions to have in those debates.

In spite of my affinity towards the social sciences, I think I will still follow my family’s legacy, but in my own way. In my opinion it isn’t the knowledge of medicine that allowed my family to thrive in the United States, it was their hard work and will power. It’s still difficult for me to comprehend how my grandparents were able to abandon everything they earned in Cuba to start over with a new life in America, but I know they succeeded because of these qualities. These traits were born with me and they flow in my Cuban blood. Even though I’m slightly different with my family’s path to knowledge, the method of getting there is the same. Through determination and rigor, I know I will be able to succeed in the next chapter of my life thanks to these inherited Cuban attributes.

Despite my decision not to follow in my family’s path and pursue medicine, I know I will progress my family’s legacy because I will use the same determination that led them to their success.

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Marcela Royo

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Shannon Kunkel

Katherine Cohen

Bridgitte Isom Kiara Kamlani Ignacio Izquierdo Diaz Monica Rodriguez

Victoria Paredero Quiros

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The 2017 edition of Reflections Literary Magazine was printed by Executive Printers of Florida in Miami, FL, with a press run of 800 copies. The magazine was created using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CS6 on iMac computers.

Fonts included Angel Tears and Roboto Light. As the official literary and art magazine of Gulliver Preparatory School, Reflections provides a forum showcasing the wide creative scope of the student body. Works are solicited through art and literature classes, but all students are welcome to submit entries. Submissions are carefully reviewed by the student Editorial Board. The magazine is part of the curriculum of the journalism program, and is completed during the second semester of the school year. Special thanks to Gulliver Preparatory School’s Art and English Departments for their contributions and support. Reflections is an award-winning publication, earning All Florida honors from the Florida Scholastic Press Association in 2013 - 2016 and First Class from National Scholastic Press Association in 2016.