cover art by griffin cady ‘15
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Emerge staff members:
{a publication of the artistic community of North Yarmouth Academy}
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photograph by kristen farnham, development office
Timothy Daigler ‘13, Benjamin Claytor ‘13. Maura Anderson’13, Katherine Roche ‘13, Marina Stam 15, Hannah Hungerford ‘15, Hannah Austin ‘15, Carly Lappas ’15, Madison Cutten ‘13, Mackenzie Sangster ‘16, Morganne Elkins ‘16 Faculty Advisors: Heidi Grant and Erica Kent
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artwork by acacia bright ‘ 16 4
“bauteau-mouche of delight” by grier burgoon miskell ‘18
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he glass tinkled, the light shone off the silver utensils, the river water sloshed against the boat, and the faint “chug-chug” of the engine was audible. The bassist of the live band plucked the bass while the violin played the melody. It was raining, so the light from the town was making the raindrops on the windows glow. It was Paris, France, and my family and I had decided to go on the Bateau Mouche for a river tour of Paris. Charlotte’s family and mine were both on the boat. Charlotte and her family had met us in France, she was my age, we went to the same school, and were in the same class. She was around my height and has short brown and blonde hair. As difficult as it was to be bored on a boat like this, my five-year old mind was. I had finished my pork chops, I had tried my sister’s escargot and found them unlikeable, and was now lounging in my chair looking out the windows at the passing streets next to the Seine. Then the live band struck up a dance tune. “Let’s dance!” Charlotte said excitedly. “Sure!” I said with the same level of enthusiasm. There was an empty space in front of the pedestal where the band played that could be used as a dance floor. It was currently unoccupied; we waltzed into the middle and started to dance. The lights from the ceiling shone on us, and later I realized that all the other passengers must have been looking at us. We had no inhibitions and danced for at least an hour. I loved the clicking noise that my short heels made when they clacked on the wood of the dance floor and the feel of my swirling dress. I felt so grown up and definitely wasn’t bored anymore! We spun and laughed until the boat stopped a few blocks away from the Eiffel Tower. I was sad to leave. It was before our trip ended that a tall, suntanned passenger who was wearing a white suit and black shoes, came over to us. I still remember his white mustache and beard. This gentleman gave Charlotte and me wonderful little statues of the Eiffel Tower with “Paris” written along the side. I was so proud and still keep the statue on display in my dresser. I loved boating experience, and most importantly, I loved the laughter and friendship of the evening. I will also always remember the old man and the kindness he showed to two complete strangers. I think his act must have been based on our eagerness and boldness. He must have loved seeing us have so much fun. Maybe we even reminded him of grandchildren or other family members. I’ve had many wonderful nights like this, but what made the Bateau Mouche so memorable was having a stranger notice my joy and give it back to me in his own way.
“the rumble of the apples tumbling” by mark snyder ‘15
ceramic bowl by emma kate metsker ‘13
The old apple trees burst into snowy blossom, casting their scent adrift on the warming breeze. The limbs of the ancient tree reached up high in the sky, retaining the appearance of twisted hands. The bustling of the glossy green stemmed apples was perplexing. How could these healthy trees shed their gleaming ornaments? The apples tumbling to the ground were being gathered like a stranded hiker collecting a steady rain; the task was done to survive. People looked haggard, showing signs of malnourishment and lack of rest. Acting somewhat uncouth, I fetched an apple and etched my teeth marks deep into its interior. I was filled with satisfaction as I gazed at the trees, now stripped and bare. I questioned the act of the apples tumbling from the tree. My satisfaction was the answer; the tumbling of the apples would fill My stomach for the winter. Suddenly I glanced at the pittance of my apples core; it closely resembled the slenderness of the apple tree which at one time had an abundance of glistening ornaments.
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“observations” by katherine roche
“observations” by katherine roche ‘13
The glass displays echoed in the emptiness. The sabertooth tiger’s thick maw was stretched in a silent, strained scream. A golden smell rose from its fur and mingled with the plastic grass and rocks. Loud spotlights punched the exhibit, illuminating the beast and its plaque. Roger rhythmically beat his hands on the rail in front of the glass. “He shouldn’t be angry. No one’s in there. He’s alone and angry. Don’t make sense,” Roger halfsang, his voice popping against the glass. He waved his hands near his head and paced. The thirteen year old reached for his juice box in his brother’s hand. “Not right, not right.” “Maybe he’s angry that he’s alone,” Neil suggested, handing over the paper pouch. “I’d be angry if they put me behind glass.” “It’s not real. It’s not right. I want them to fix it. I’ll go tell them now.” “How about we stay here for the moment? We can look at the other exhibits. I’m sure they’re all fine.” Roger lowered his head and was staring hard at the railing. He bent his nose to it and took a deep breath. “It smells soft.” “It’s wooden,” “Anyone could get through; there’s no reason to build it.” Neil looked around, but nobody else was in the Prehistory Room. “I want them to fix it!” Roger shouted hopping up and down furiously. “Inside voice,” Neil snapped. “You’ve been very well behaved all week. If you start misbehaving now, we’ll have to go home.” Roger nibbled the end of the juice box straw and continued to tap the railing. The noise scattered through the wide room. Age and agelessness clambered over the air molecules around them. Neil wanted to see the Rocket Room, but this was Roger’s outing. His turn would have to wait. “It’s not real,” Roger mumbled. “Well, how would anyone know? There weren’t any people around to document a sabertooth’s emotions.” Roger considered the sentiment. “I just want it to be right,” “I know. Mistakes can be tiresome, but it’s not you museum, bud. How about we go look at the TRex? They seem to have gotten him right.” Roger nodded and took Neil’s hand. “Can we do this a lot?” Neil squeezed his hand, leading him through the solid air. “Whatever you want, bud.”
“beach scene” by kristen farnham, development office
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“clam basket” by kristen farnham, development office
“light house” by barbara farrell, science teacher
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“to cancer” by mary quinn, spanish teacher To Cancer: I HATE YOU. You stole the week that should have been remembered as the week I got married, and you turned it into the week I was diagnosed with cancer… and got married. You robbed me of the days and months that I should have spent celebrating and nourishing my fledgling marriage, and you filled them with surgeries, doctors, pain killers, and loss. You took my right breast. You forced me to choose between the medication to ward off your return and my planned-for, longed-for second child. You have clouded my present with sadness and fatigue and you have cast a shadow of illness and death on my future. I hate you. You have scarred my body, and you threaten to harden my heart. But I will prevail, Cancer, not you. You have been cut out, eradicated, and my body has healed itself with a resilience and strength I did not know I had. Now I know. You have granted me a new perspective. You have reminded me to treasure what matters most—my loving husband, my precious son—because every day together is a gift. I appreciate anew the people in my life, as I am surrounded and humbled by support from expected and unexpected sources. Now I comprehend this road that has been travelled by so many women before me. I understand their quiet suffering, their unsung strength. Because of you, my heart has opened to new depths of empathy. I am newly amazed at the wondrous powers of the female body. Beyond the power to conceive, to birth, and to nourish new life, I have the power to heal and to restore what you have taken away. You have brought me wisdom that I otherwise may not have found. So I will prevail, Cancer . . . not you. You have scarred my body, but you will not harden my heart.
“birch trees” by laurie hyndman, director of admissions 8
“buttons” by emilie hardel ‘18 A musket fires, sending wraithlike curls of smoke into the air. A piercing scream splits the air as the bullet finds home. I see him fall from his saddle, His powdered wig now a useless scalp, An alien trophy of war. A single gold button rolls across the ground To land on a smear of dried blood. It shines with a dull luster, Bearing the King’s Crest. A thick cloud of smoke blankets the scene. Ever-changing, it reminds us of our fear. Ghosts of the fallen, Come back to haunt our dreams. A scarlet splotch appears in my tear-stained vision. His golden buttons glow like coals. The King’s Crest burns With the setting sun.
“mask” by ilona bukauskas ‘17
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Writers-In-Process Series: Emerge staff Interview with New York Times bestselling author Mike Paterniti, Tuesday, October 23, 2012 Mike Paterniti is the author of Driving Mr. Albert: A Trip Across America with Einstein’s Brain, a New York Times bestseller and Notable Book published in 20 countries and being made into a movie by Paramount Pictures. His work has appeared in publications including The New York Times Magazine, National Geographic, The Guardian, Rolling Stone, Details, Outside, Esquire, and GQ, where he is a correspondent. He is a frequent contributor to the radio show “This American Life.” Nominated eight times for a National Magazine Award, he won the award for his Harper’s article on which his book was based, and he is the recipient of an NEA grant and two MacDowell fellowships. His nonfiction book, The Telling Room: A Tale of Love, Betrayal, Revenge, and the World’s Greatest Piece of Cheese, will be published next summer followed by a collection of nonfiction stories. He is the co-founder of The Telling Room, a nonprofit writing center in Portland, Maine, where he lives with his wife and three children.
Illustration from Mike Paterniti’s “The Man Who Sailed His House” published by GQ in Ocotber 2011. Two days after the Japanese tsunami, after the waves had left their destruction, as rescue workers searched the ruins, news came of an almost surreal survival: Miles out at sea, a man was found, alone, riding on nothing but the roof of his house. Michael Paterniti tells his astonishing tale By Michael Paterniti Illustration by Yuko Shimizu
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Interview Transcript: Paterniti: “It’s nice to meet you guys.” Emerge Staff Member: “We were wondering how you conduct your research? Do you research a lot before an assignment, or do you just move into an experience?” Paterniti: “Good question: Sometimes it is a little bit of both. There are some times when the experience is going to be the article; so, the giant, for instance, didn’t require much research. I didn’t want to know too much. Besides setting up the logistics, I had to find a fixer. I had to find someone who would get me where I needed to be because this was in the middle of nowhere. The giant assignment was really experiential, and I just let the story be there. Also, this story had another layer which was more memoir, and I was able to use the giant as a metaphor for family and some other things. [Rather than straight research,] I probably spent more time thinking and reading poetry. I like to read poetry sometimes when I write so I don’t get a big, important voice in my head that takes over my voice. For example, it is very hard to read an author like Steinbeck when you are trying to write something. I try to push a voice like that to the side because it will really get into my head. “But then there are stories where you go and you have to know what you’re doing. At the end of Bill Clinton’s presidency, I spent about two months just chasing him around. I know that I’d have these encounters/sit down meetings with him, so I was super-prepared. I knew everything that I needed to know. I had questions written down—I was very buttoned up. There are times when I use a tape recorder and times when I don’t; it depends on what I can manage if I’m on a very tight deadline. Sometimes you can’t go back and transcribe your tape; you’re on that tight a deadline. Preparation changes from story to story. . . . You don’t want to totally crush the experience. You can research somebody else’s experience on YouTube, but you don’t want that. You try to block out some of that stuff, I think.” Emerge Staff Member: “Do you get to choose where you get to go?” Paterniti: “At this point, I do get to choose. It wasn’t always like that; and I’m not sure that it’s like that for a lot of people. I know people who work beats or are chasing the president around. That’s what they do. They don’t have a choice. If the president is going to Saudi Arabia, they are, too. If the president is going to Hoboken, they are, too. But in this line of work, you’re constantly looking for work. You’re trying to find ideas and the things that move you, so you can write these things, these much longer, narrative stories. So, yeah, I do a fair amount of deciding. But that’s not to say that I’m not open to someone else coming and saying, ‘Hey, would you go over here?’ Like, National Geographic may ask you to go to Hong Kong. There’s not real story there, and National Geographic is a different type of magazine. There are the National Geographic template stories where there’s not a big voice. You would never find a second person narrative voice, the kind I wrote about the tsunami. It is the same with The New Yorker—it has this house style that’s kind of rigid. Those types of pieces may begin ‘On the night of April 14th, Lisa Muller found herself in traffic. . . ‘ It is very anecdotal. It always begins with an anecdote like that, and it leads to a story eventually, but, in a case like National Geographic, they may come and ask you to do a piece on Angola. You can do a country piece on Angola, and you have five weeks of field time. I say ‘no’ to a lot of stuff. In fact, my wife and I, play this painful game. We add up all the things that we could have done if we could clone ourselves or have another life.”
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Emerge Staff Member: “What’s been your favorite experience working? What one really sticks out in your mind?” Paterniti: “There are so many. There was one that really affected me. I did a story about this plane crash, Flight 111. This was heavy. It was a Swiss Air flight from New York to Geneva. It crashed in Nova Scotia at Peggy’s Cove. It was this diplomatic shuttle, so not only did it have all these famous people, but it had a Picassa on board, and all this incredible stuff in the cargo hold. When it occurred, it fell into the news cycle. So what happened? It went nose first and collapsed like an accordion. There were no survivors. Rescuers found money and shoes and bodies were found. The news cycle there was the who, what, where, when, and why. Then there was the family grief and emotion. Then there was the idea of recovery. Reporters crammed this into five days; there were people who just lost a loved one and they were going to live their whole lives with this. A lot of time passed and I went back up there, and what came out was incredible; what people did and how they handled it. I spent time with the pathologist and what he did. He went through all the bones to try to identify the bodies because he was trying to give these remains back to the families. So he lived in this trance for a year and a half, where every single bone that came to him, he tried to identify. He was almost driven crazy by it. And there was this father who had a daughter on the plane. He was truly one of the most remarkable guys I’ve ever met. He lived in Geneva. When he found out that his daughter was on that flight, he thought about committing suicide. He was wrestling with himself and his demons. At some point he moved back to Peggy’s Cove to this spot on the ocean where you could see where the plane crashed and he started this little restaurant. This guy was very wealthy; he sold beautiful $100,000 watches. Yet, he turned his back on it and made a restaurant, flipping hamburgers for fishermen. There is something about that story that, probably because we were beginning to have little kids, telescoped out. I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. All of life just sort of got telescoped through this story. There were so many people who had given so much, who were dealing with so much on so many different levels, it just got tattooed. On the other hand, there are others that are completely joyful and happy. Like, ‘Hey, why does everybody hate Santa Claus so much? Why is everybody firing Santa from department stores? Hey, I’m going to dress up as Santa and travel across the country and see how people treat some guy in a Santa suit.’ It’s incredible how people treat Santa Claus. There’s another half that is more whimsical and fun. They all go in the scrapbook of your mind and they have different power.“ Emerge Staff Member: “Speaking of Santa, we listened to that piece in English class, and I thought it was really interesting. Do you come up with these ideas, or are they assigned?” Paterniti: “Mostly in the early going it was just me and a bunch of ideas. . .and it is still pretty much like that. What’s changed is that I’m willing to take other ideas if I think they are good ones. But Santa or the Einstein’s brain story, those are stories that I had to really hold on to. Not every editor is like, ‘Oh, yeah, go dress up as Santa and go across America. The next time you come back, you’ll want to go as Yogi Bear dressed in a big plushy outfit.’ So you have to have a reason. You have to have some sort of framework for it. But I’m more open to people coming with ideas. What happens, too, is that people see how you write and then they think about you for certain types of stories. People find stories that might be like fables and imagine how they may be something different in your hands.” Emerge Staff Member: “Do you ever get to travel with your family? Or, does that happen all the time?” Paterniti: “We work very hard to rack up the frequent flyer miles. So we have three children, but our son, by the time he was five, had been to like fourteen countries. He remembers none of it, of course. A year and a half ago, my wife had to be in Africa, and we had enough miles, so everybody went. It is very hard to work in that situation, but it is pretty amazing just to show and to share that stuff with them. For me and my wife, it is an important part of understanding the world that you live in and the world beyond. So, if they are on the beach in Indonesia and they are watching fishermen with their catch, they realize that we are talking to these people who are strangers just like anyone else. That’s what they’ll carry with them into their world, anywhere they are. That’s one lesson that they can keep with them, we hope.” Emerge Staff Member: “Did you know that you always wanted to be a writer—this type of writing?” Paterniti: “That’s so funny. No, I did a little [writing] in high school, but my school newspaper wasn’t great in Darien, CT. That isn’t true of all schools, but there it was obligatory, they just had to offer it. So, it wasn’t like it captured my imagination. It wasn’t at college that I knew I wanted to be a writer. I actually went to graduate school at the University of Michigan and studied fiction, and that changed everything for me. I began to think of nonfiction as a story. There was a beginning, middle end, climax, denouement, imagery metaphor, meter; there’s a meter of the line. You don’t think about meter when you are writing your 9000 word story, except that’s all I’m thinking about sometimes in some stories. Can I get a rhythm? There’s something primal that I think will keep a reader interested. So when studying fiction, that’s when I knew . I left Michigan at 25 or 26. I knew that’s what I wanted to do. But still, there were some years of editing; I edited for a journal, Outdoor Magazine, an adventure magazine. So it wasn’t just like, ‘Wham, thank you, I want to go to Vietnam.’” That’s another thing that I want to say; you guys are at sort of a magical time where you are receiving so much information and it is just being open into something. It is not being committed to one thing over another, saying, ‘I must be a writer,’ It is funny, things open as you go along, and you retrospectively realize how things come together. Like, ‘Oh yeah, I wrote that poem’ or, ‘When I wrote on that literary magazine over there, that was the beginning of this thing.’ Also just read. . . read like crazy. There was always some part of me that was interested in words. I was also really interested in people—observing people.”
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Emerge Staff Member: “How long does it take you to write an article?” Paterniti: “It depends. Turnaround could be very fast if the deadline is tight. If you guys read the tsunami story, I was in Hong Kong for National Geographic, and I flew up to Japan and I was with Hiromitsu Shinkawa on a Tuesday. He didn’t want to talk, and we met , I don’t know where, like his apartment that he had moved to outside of Tokyo. He said that I could have an hour and a half and I knew that I wasn’t going to have a story. But I went, and as it often happens, people really do want to tell you their story, but the cultural prohibition is that to single yourself out in Japanese society in any way is not respected. He was working against that. He really did want to tell his story He did agree to meet with me again and we did have 4-5 days together. Much of what he said, the most important stuff, came at the end on the train ride in the last hour. He said so many things because he knew we were about to part. I had turned off my recorder and he felt comfortable. When you turn your tape recorder off, people say everything you really want them to say because they trust you and they let down. Then I got home and had some other stuff, but the writing of it from draft to in the magazine was probably five weeks. As I’m writing it, I have to deal with other stuff along the way. That [turnaround] is pretty quick. Sometimes a piece of writing can take months and months and months. especially if they are investigative. These can take a long time. My wife worked on a piece on “Women in the Military” for the New York Times Magazine, and it became very big—there was a lot of material. It took her a year. She was doing other stuff, but it took her a year. You just have to give yourself up to it.” Emerge Staff Member: “What was the first story you covered in your professional career, one that interested you? Paterniti: It was for a newspaper; I loved it. It was a big story about smoke jumpers who put out fires and who jump out of planes. It was the summer that sixteen people had died in Glenwood Springs in Colorado. So I went up and I was in Idaho with some smoke jumpers and ran around with them. I was in awe. Any time you are up against something much bigger than you are—war, fire, etc..—it is pretty astounding, and I think that really grabbed my attention. I was like, ‘This is pretty cool.’ What happens they are up against that really big force? What happens to people, is really interesting. That’s where maybe the addiction started. Emerge Staff Member: “Are there any places where you go, and for some reason, you can’t finish your story?” Paterniti: “I had one story that I didn’t finish. It wasn’t because it was too hard or unsafe. I was doing reporting in this place, from Baton Rouge to New Orleans is this strip of the Mississippi that is called Cancer Alley. There were all these old plantations and they were bought up by petro-chemical companies because there was a lot of land and because if something goes wrong, you are not going to kill anybody and have a lawsuit on your hands. What happened is that they polluted the Mississippi n this part of the river, and African Americans were showing cancer rates that were 50 times higher than the normal. So if you did move down the river roads, you’d find a lot of really sick people. So that one [story] was one I was really passionate about, and I was on assignment with a photographer who took really amazing photos. It wasn’t that I didn’t finish it because I couldn’t do it, it was because there was a change in my career. I ended up working for the New York Times and I left Outside, but I regret that to this day. I think, if you start something, you finish it. And if you don’t, you are one of those people who just never finished it, and then you don’t get to do it again. The other part of it is making sure that people are saying ‘yes’ to you. So that the editor will read it and say, ‘Yes, you’re making my job easy.’ If you can do it, you go with as much of your power and you do it because the next time the editor is looking to send somebody somewhere, he’s going to say, ‘Hey, that guy makes my life easier or that woman is fantastic.’ Then you just become a person who is on the top of the list, rather than just another name.”
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“finding my way back to myself” by bailey velasco clock ‘13 Capturing physical and emotional feelings through pictures can sometimes be difficult. In her short graphic piece, Bailey manages to portray her physical and mental anguish a concussion caused her. The contrasting light and dark colors set the mood nicely for each panel. Additionally, she uses both larger and smaller panels to emphasize her sense of being trapped. Lines converge around her to hold her in an injured cage. Towards the end of her story, Bailey explains how her life took a detour from its intended path and leaves the reader with a visual sense that she has at last found her way back to herself. Her footprints litter the road she takes. -Katherine Roche, Emerge Student Editor
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“illusion� by lea webster 18
Mist in the woods, weaves among the trees, forgotten images come before your eyes, revealed, then hidden from view, memories preserved, friendship, innocence, childhood, people that were there for you, friends that stayed friends no matter what, everyone you lost as you moved on, moved through the fog, pushed the pictures aside, letting them drift, fall apart, until the mist fades, dissipates, disappears, and there are no swirling clouds, no gentle vapor, no illusion, only truth, cold, hard, shards of sharp glass, bare reality, unavoidable, there for you to see and accept, nothing is hidden any longer, and you step into the crisp, gleaming edges, with no other choice.
pen and ink drawing by kyle bennett ‘18 18
“the foxes’ backyard” by colby myer, art teacher
“puppies” by clayton manchester ‘15
Puppies The comforting sneer of my master Welcomes me As I sit back down in the dusty Mustang. When we drive off, the cries fade into the distance. This silky sin that has just been committed Is a thrill ride rollercoaster of horror. But then, a thought comes to me. A single frame enters the honeycomb of my mind: The tiny balls of fur curled up in the Rubbermaid container. The rollercoaster gives a lurch And suddenly the thrill becomes fear and panic. I understand there evil and the reason why The Good Guys are always victorious in the movies. It’s because they’re better. The Good Guys will just come and save the puppies And ruin our plans again. It’s not worth it anymore. “I want to be a Good Guy,” I calmly whisper As I grab the steering wheel From my master’s iron grip And swerve off the cliff.
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“clarity” by morganne elkins ‘16 clarity he sings (nobody hears) his grimy fingers dart to the sleeves of his jacket, hems dragging in waves of dust across the pavement his voice wavers the echoes reverberating from steel walls of skyscrapers carving pleas into the clouds like desperation his bare feel dance with scratches, glass imbedded in their soles (nobody sees) as he trembles his arms protruding awkward from the bulk of his too-big coat the styrofoam of an empty mcdonalds cup frail as it shakes, a leaf offered from a forgotten tree a dime clinks denting the walls of its lonely cage shuddering in the crusted stains of once ago coffee his voice deepens as he sings invisible stains tracking down his face smearing paths of clarity through the dirt his eyes painted with grimaces and thorns song turns to dreams stinging through the only open window twelve, fifteen stories up as the woman with her hair pulled tight against her scalp lingers on the precipice of something she isn’t waiting to find her toes curl around the windowsill’s edge (she hears) (she jumps) (dreams fly) 20
“entrance” on graphite paper by matt benoit ‘13
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