Tidbit
2014-2015
2014-2015 Tidbit Editorial Board Editors: Cam Brooks-Miller ’15 Megan Machak ’15 Editorial Staff: Molly Campagne ’16 Celia Bowers ’17 Elyse Brudzinski ’17 Grace Farquharson ’16 Emma Gottlieb ’16 Mikaela Henson ’16 Del Musarra ’15 Sukanya Pusey ’16 Megan Redding ’16 Jenaba Sow ’17 Carly Weinstein ’15
Faculty Advisor: Whitney Schultz
Cover photo by Bibi McGill ’15
Letter from the Editors After a brief hiatus, Tidbit is back and burning. As editors, we have been measuring the 2014-2015 school year in submissions. The overwhelming support and enthusiasm for Tidbit has made our job significantly easier and more enjoyable. We thank you for submitting, for listening, for supporting, and above all, for reading. The Tidbit staff has given up so much time and energy to compile what is in the following pages and for that, we love you. Mrs. Schultz is the engine powering these pages. For many, she inspired and for others she supported, but above all she remained persistent to make Tidbit a tangible reality once again. We owe you the world, but it is not ours to give, so instead we dedicate this edition of Tidbit to you.
Thank you for reading, we hope you enjoy. Megan Machak & Cameron Brooks-Miller
Table of Contents The Shanghaiese Speaks of Alleyways..........................................6 Photograph by Charlotte Liu.........................................................7 Pretty.................................................................................................8 When the World Understands......................................................9 Dear Future Daughter.............................................................10-11 Photograph by Camile Keyes......................................................12 Photograph by Molly Campagne................................................13 Distraction................................................................................14-15 The Boy.....................................................................................16-17 Strike, The Oven, Biography Genius..........................................18 I’ve Learned....................................................................................19 Photograph by Lyse Wagner........................................................20 Snow Day.......................................................................................21 Bury Me on a Country Hill.........................................................22 Ranges............................................................................................23 Artwork by Margherita Vricella.................................................24 Artwork by Polly Weber..............................................................25 Early Memories............................................................................ 26 Photography by Celia Bowers......................................................27 Untitled...........................................................................................28 The Night Watchman....................................................................29 Artwork. by Madi Walker.............................................................30 Artwork by Alexis Jarjosa............................................................31 Memory.....................................................................................32-33 Artwork by Alexis Jarjosa............................................................34 Ode to Summer.............................................................................35 Ode.................................................................................................36 Photograph by Bibi McGill..........................................................37 Hampden..................................................................................38-39 Artwork by Bianca Garzozi..........................................................40 Artwork by Callie McLaurin.......................................................41
The Trees.......................................................................................42 Photograph by Bibi McGill..........................................................43 The Spider.......................................................................................44 Imperfect A’s..................................................................................45 Shoes...............................................................................................46 Artwork by Del Musarra..............................................................47 Photograph by Elyse Brudzinski.................................................48 She Was, I Am, She Will Be.........................................................49 Photograph by Lindsey Noble.....................................................50 Artwork by Madi Walker.............................................................51 Our Lives As We Know It............................................................52 The Woman and The Bird............................................................53 Artwork by Alyssa Tobias............................................................54 Artwork by Emily Dobbs.............................................................55 An Ode to My Home....................................................................56 The Lion King...............................................................................57 Ode to The World..........................................................................58 Ali Speaks of Spirituality..............................................................59 Photograph by Mikaela Hensen..................................................60 Handprinted Galaxies...................................................................61 My Home.......................................................................................62 Artwork by Del Musarra..............................................................63 Every Little Thing is Gonna Be Alright...............................64-65 Artwork by Yo Yo Yang................................................................66 Habits..............................................................................................67 Found in The Concept of Law by H.L.A. Hart.................................68 Artwork by Yo Yo Yang....................................................................69 The Last Supper.......................................................................70-71 Science is Poetry............................................................................72 Photograph by Celia Bowers.......................................................73 Common App..........................................................................74-75 A Young Mind Speaks to Expectations......................................76 Photograph by Emma Gottlieb....................................................77
The Shanghaies Speaks of Alleyways Coco Guo ’16 I’ve known alleyways: I’ve known alleyways older than my age and ancient as the Forbidden City.
My mind has grown long and deep like the long, long alleyway.
I smelled the delicious food when the sun rises and falls. I watched dawn and stars and all the changes happening through the long alleyway. I grew up in it with all my wonderful memories buried in it. I heard people talking and arguing about current news, but time brings all of them with her in the last glimmer of sunset into the infinite dark.
I’ve known alleyways: Long, ancient alleyways.
My mind has grown long and deep like the long, long alleyway.
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Charlotte Liu ’16
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Pretty Meera Balasubramanian ’15 The wings of the Monarch butterfly are vibrant, a colorful cascade of orange and black, which entice predators to feast on them. Before metamorphosis, the caterpillars feed on poisonous plants and generate their own toxins, which remain within their bodies long after they have spread their gossamer wings for the first time, dormant until consumed. “You would be so pretty if you just lost some weight.” The words raced through my mind, like a marathon runner, inches away from the finish line. I tried to reply, but my tongue tripped, flipped, and fumbled over itself, letting my silence fill the air thick like smoke. He smiled at me, as if my silence was a thank you note in disguise, and walked away thinking he had accomplished his good deed for the day. Phrases like the one that choked me in a junior high hallway are Monarch butterflies, poison cloaked in vibrant colors. They buzz through minds over and over again until they etch themselves into your very marrow. Their poison taints the faint voice inside your head, so that whenever it speaks it leaves an acidic taste in your mouth. The next time you receive a Monarch butterfly made of words, do not let the silence fill the air thick like smoke and wait for the suffocation. Do not go home that night and skip dinner because you don’t deserve it. Do not ever believe your self worth relies on the comments of others. The next time you receive an insult about your body explain to him that your body isn’t there to please him or anyone but yourself. Don’t accept his candy-coated sizism because you didn’t do anything to deserve it except exist. The next time a boy hands you a Monarch, look him straight in the face and tell him, “You would be so pretty if you lost your ignorance.”
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When the World Understands Marissa Davies ’16 Bury me in a land where we are not murdered because of our sex or our gender. Bury me in a world where we are not seen as objects, but as the people we are. Bury me in a world where we have basic human rights where little girls can walk down a street safely and their biggest worry is getting home before it gets dark instead of getting home before getting hurt. Do not bury me in a land where keys must be held between our fingers every night to protect ourselves. Do not bury me in a land where we are blamed for being attacked. Do not bury me in a world where we are not seen as people. I will never sleep the eternal sleep if I am buried in a world where we are abused and belittled. I will sleep the eternal sleep when the world understands we are people we have voices we are equal. Then, and only then, will I peacefully rest.
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Dear Future Daughter Natalia Locati ’15
Things I will tell my daughter as she grows up: 1. Recess is not everything. It’s okay to not be the best at the monkey bars, to be the girl that runs the fastest, or the ones that all the boys chase and try to kiss. There will be plenty of time for kissing later, running fast isn’t important, and monkey bars give you blisters, so don’t worry about that too much. 2. When little hairs start growing in weird places, don’t make it let you feel ugly. It’s completely normal, and we can fix it later if you want. 3. Scars are so incredibly beautiful. You will fall and scab your knees, your thighs might grow, and stretch marks will appear and the pimples you pick might leave little dark spots. These are all okay, honey. Signs of living and surviving are beautiful. 4. Always make time for people who make time for you. These are the people that will make the most loyal and trustworthy friends. Keep them in your life. 5. Love is something that will sneak up on you. It may be that gorgeous football player, or a quiet girl in your biology class. Don’t ever question it, what you feel is okay, no matter what anyone says.
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5. (part two) Love is not the back seat of a car late at night. It is not pain between your legs, or hot showers that can’t wash away the dirty feeling. Love is their dimple when they laugh a certain way. It’s “hey this reminded me of you” texts, and late nights spent eating gross take out and watching Netflix. Wait for that honey, do not settle for anything less. 6. No one has to be your hero. You can be your own hero, and when you’re old enough, I will tell you the story of how I learned to be my own hero. 7. You’re going to want to try things like drugs and alcohol. Remember that while it might be fun in the moment, the best memories in life are the ones that make you feel drunk when you’re completely sober. 8. If you love yourself, you will never crave the love of others. Put on lotion every night, take hot baths, buy yourself flowers, tape compliments on your mirror. Love yourself because you are the only thing you will ever truly have. 9. Hug your grandma every chance you have. She is your mommy’s mommy and is one of the most important people you will ever know. 10. Please know that one day, when you’re alive and reading this, that I wrote this as an eighteen year old, thinking about what I wish I had known and wanting to give the world to the next thing closest to me. Thank you for helping me, and I can’t wait to meet you one day.
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Camile Keyes ’15 12
Molly Campagne ’16
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Distraction Elyse Bruzdzinski ’17 Gentle slopes and curves outline the effortlessness of the female form. Funny how something so primal and geometric can cause such havoc. We are taught early on that these curves and slopes have no formula and in the real world you cannot calculate what you will get. But dress up these figures, and suddenly you have an expression, a puzzle to solve for each and every girl. Find X. The combination sex sells and sex cells work in cohesion for the high school girl. The problems get harder, as the people around you multiply and your friends subtract. The division between woman and girl dissipates, and you become whole, rounding up and out. Your body becomes your problem. Picking the right outfit; the addition of the sweater because the bareness of something as simple as your shoulders… hint. They hint at sexuality. Oh so close to the bareness of a breast, which is something you learn cannot and will not be tolerated. It was the 7th grade I found that I didn’t really like math.
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It was also in the 7th grade that I became a distraction. I became a threat to the education of my fellow students, a danger to the eyes of adult faculty… An object of a person with a purpose to watch what I do, how I do it… And most importantly, What I wear in the midst of it all. Except, I’m writing with a pen, and if I make a mistake there is no erasing because scratches remain on my paper, much like that of mistakes in a reputation. It’s an unsolvable problem. Being the variable in an expression of unwarranted distraction, too tempted to multiply with the fear of subtraction, knowing the only weapon you have is a simple statistic or fraction. I do not want to be a distraction.
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The Boy Carly Weinstein ’15 I was going through security in the airport – I exited the metal detector that looked like a space machine and was ready to continue through the mind numbing process of traveling. A charming member of our beloved TSA instantly stopped me. “Sir, do you have anything in your pockets?” “No.” I was met with an annoyed stare. “Please stand with your arms raised horizontal.” I was given a pat down. “Sir, does your shirt have any metal pieces on it?” “No.” “What is this?” “My bra.” “You sure?” No… I can’t believe that when I went to get dressed this morning I accidently mistook my knife collection for my bra, how stupid of me! “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that it’s my bra.” I love TSA, they held up the line wondering why a boy was wearing a bra. — I was at the skating rink when two young girls pass by me… giggling. I overhear the tail end of their conversation; apparently I’m “so cute” but “too short”. There was a lot of giggling. — At the grocery store check out line: “Thank you for shopping with us sir, have a good day.” My personal favorite was when a friend and I were eating dinner and were mistaken for a couple.
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It’s not as humorous when it’s personal. “Well I expect more from you than this.” “Carly, you look like a boy in that.” “Why are you so afraid of your body?” “Your hair looks like a guy’s when you wear it like that.” “I don’t understand why you insist on dressing like that.” “Fine! I don’t care anymore, you can dress however you like.” “Carly, stop wearing that hat and put on a shirt that fits properly.” — My body is not my own. My body is the property of those around me—they judge it as they see fit, and through their judgments of my body they also come to judge my person. My body does not belong to me; I do not feel comfortable in my body—it belongs to someone else. I feel alien. My body does not reflect my person. I hate my body.
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Strike a collection of poems by Celia Bowers ’17 Desks overturned and set ablaze Students run screaming in the halls Textbooks shredded and classrooms razed The mighty Schultzilla strikes again.
The Oven Whenever you slip something into the oven, Whether you’re baking pie or heating stew, The hard-working oven, who does all the baking Enjoys a small portion too. He tests the food a bit, feeling hungry, And we don’t know how he does it, But he takes a little while your back’s turned, Swallows it up and loves it. So next time you’re baking, You’ll be aware That your hard-working oven Is taking his share.
Biography Genius Our homework is to write a biography, The pressure’s on to get nothing wrong Looks like I’m writing a biography On someone who didn’t live very long.
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I’ve Learned Vivian Wang ’16 I’ve learned Calculus AB. I’ve learned about differentiability and to prove the function fails to exist in the graphs. My thoughts have confessed deep like the maze. I tried to solve the problems in the midnight. I memorized four situations when the function does not exist, such as corner, cusp, vertical, tangent, and discontinuity and it made me fall asleep. I looked upon Mr. Anguita and he told me life is tough. I’ve learned math; Struggle, difficult math. My grade grew low like stocks are red.
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Lyse Wagner ’17
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Snow Day Gabby Bernier ’16 The roads are flooded The newscast says if you go out in this you must be troubled Hurricane Sandy in full force. Because it’s dangerous of course All of the schools around us are closing But all the girls at OS are supposing Oldfields is never closing It’s zero degrees outside No cars are passing by If you walk out, your hair will freeze You might fall on your knees But everyone is thinking Oldfields is never closing I look outside the window And put my head under my pillow A foot of snow is on the ground Today I think, surely everyone will be home bound I turn on the news to see which schools are closed But deep down everyone knows Oldfields will be open Even though everything is frozen
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Bury Me on a Country Hill Kimberly Kupres ’16 Bury me where the land is great in height, Above all the simple plains on a beautiful sight. Where the sunset is very prominent, And the horses are dominant. Where I can hear the beating hooves against the ground, And at that moment, no other noises around. In the morning the birds are awake bright and early And the farmer’s son is mowing the sight, who is very burly. Over the hill, on top of another hill, There are rows of sunflowers that give me a thrill. On top of my hill, there are deer. They prance around the hill without fear. During the summer the crickets are chirping loudly In the spring the flowers are growing proudly. During the fall the leaves are consistently swaying slightly, In the winter the snow is always laying lightly. No need for a marking of the grave, Just leave me with things I crave. No need for a symbol, everything on the hill Is all I need. So please, bury me on a country hill.
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Ranges Molly Campagne ’16 I’ve known mountains: I’ve known mountains weathered down over thousands of years by relentless elements. My spirit runs wild in the mountains. I ran free with the graceful bounding of the deer. I ran free with the fiercest of wolves. I was sung to sleep by the quiet whisper of the wind. I stood alive as ever, high above all civilization. Digging my human roots deeper into the earth. I’ve known mountains Wild, wild mountains. My spirit belongs to the mountains.
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Margherita Vricella ’15 24
Polly Weber ’16 25
Early Memories Tess Selby ’17 My earliest memory is walking off the steps of an old fashioned New Orleans train car. The laughing, white-blond head, the stormy blue eyes. As I sat on the tree swing, I began to understand we all forget, we all fall, we all die. Someday, no one would remember me I sat on the swing trying to comprehend. We walked miles and miles and miles I held my brother’s hand, for I was scared I would fall. We were hiking over the mountain to watch the sun set over the sea. I was young. I swayed there for some time trying hard as I could but I did not know how to make it go away. What I had just discovered deep down within me I could not forget no matter how hard I tried. We were running through trees, so many trees Wide eyes, flying hair, and a sound of joy, laughter. He was chasing me, we played a game, just us, my brother chased me over fallen leaves.
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I sat on the tree swing realizing then I must grow up, I can never go back. We are children, we grow, we leave, we become obsolete. I retreated into myself from then on, I left the ever-joyous child. For all we know, nothing is forever.
Celia Bowers ’17
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Untitled Anna Lisa Dreisbach ’15 His fingers must have slipped gracefully off of the balcony first, then his feet. We had arrived in Hawaii earlier that day to begin what we thought was our vacation in paradise. It wasn’t. It began in hell. We pulled up in front of our hotel searching for the parking garage. I happened to look up into the distance and there he was, on the 31st floor. A grey haired man dressed in red floral swim trunks and a blue button down. Hanging by a thread on the edge of his balcony, wondering if the right thing to do was to make that goodbye permanent. He let go. My parents and I decided it was time to drive off, put this experience behind us. That is still impossible to this day. We quickly swung around the corner of our high-rise hotel in our rented jeep. Trying to escape those torturous twenty minutes in every way possible. We reached the fourth floor parking garage, pulled in, and parked. I flung the back door open of the car and jumped out. I was ready to begin the real vacation in paradise we had planned. We exited the parking garage and embarked on our journey. After turning the corner, I happened to look out into the distance, and there he was. The gray haired man dressed in red floral swim trunks and a blue button down, this time drowning in a pool of blood. Legs twisted similarly to uncooked noodles bundled up in a pot. They covered him with a white sheet, to complete his permanent goodbye. Tears gently grazed my cheeks, reacting to what I had just witnessed. I was nine.
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The Night Watchman Mary Constantini ’15 Also with us rode a night watchman, Tall and rawboned, was he, Who draped his lank with ill-fitting cloaks Of plain and dark colors that set hard against his pale, sunken face His eyes did tell they did no know well sleep Softly, he spoke, As early winter snow, And he’d strut with a gait, tricky as a doe He leapt often like a cat in fright And nothing worried him, as did the night I think it fair to guess, That I would not wish him to protect my fortress. More content was he To listen rather than to speak, For speaking distracted his vigilance When he did speak it was kind and with heed, His nature was murky But what is to be expected from the watchman?
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The Dude by Madi Walker ’16 30
Alexis Jarjosa ’16 31
Memory Megan Redding ’17 The transfiguration of pain into art helps settle the tides within me, You were the only beautiful thing left in this hideous place, I craft coffins from a fine felt tipped pen, I’m left stumbling in a chaotic spiral of broken crayons and dried oil paints, Sometimes silence is the most powerful indication that something is terribly wrong, Stuck coloring in bright pastels as some excuse to not bring out the darker shades of truth, I was the seeker but somehow you found me first, With a cheap box of colored pencils Fate scribbled out your final breath, The news that carelessly tossed me into some sort of suffocating ecstasy, Maybe if I sue a louder pencil sharpener my shrieks could be downer out, I was taught to fly but my wings were clipped by Sorrow’s dullest scissors, Your veins were like broken down power lines disguised well enough to slip by as non-hazardous material, I’ve been trying to sketch a smile of charcoal upon my face only to see how easily it smudges, I could try to dive back into our fondest of memories but my oxygen tank only holds so much, Let me bring out my portfolio of fragmented smiles and overused black lines, Her words were like art, not supposed to look nice but to mean something, The depth defying shading of vocabulary pouring from her tongue, I drew you a pair of beautiful glass wings so go on and reflect every color that you know, Be the scribe that jots down your smile
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into the very back of my memory, So much time spent admiring ink bleeding over the lines in which the boundary is created, Maybe that’s why these memories were meant to be filled in with a box of 24 crayons, I fish within a vast still pool of reasons to be sad just so I can think of you, I draw a frown upon my face careful not to use charcoal Maybe it will last a bit longer this time, Elmer’s glue too weak to keep the edges of my mind sealed shut, Left open and exposed to the bittersweet poisons of a black ballpoint pen, Haunting scenery splattered and seeping deep within my thoughts.
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Alexis Jarjosa ’16
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Ode to Summer Sarah Gast ’16 I want summer, With warm waves, laughter and sun fueled smiles, Gauging my days by the changing of the tides, Tanned skin and relaxation, Dreading winter where I’ll hide, Till the next approaching summer, Where a new life shines.
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Ode Jenaba Sow ’17 The cool breeze slips through the gaping windows into the stifling taxi My legs stick to the burning leather seats as the driver attempts to coerce his automobile through the traffic With every inch we get closer and closer to Nirvana Behind clothed eyelids we can see the childlike monkeys transform the trees into clever artifices The magical little beings dipping, hiding, swinging, and popping up again Feel sea salt spray out cheeks as she becomes my frivolous adversary racing the mountain bikes along the seas taste her culinary masterpiece the sugar sweet juices of star fruit dripping down our chins Hear the awe inspiring rumbling of the rains playing with the palm trees, The distant palms of thunder beating her great drum of the island
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Bibi McGill ’15
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Hampden Grace Farquharson ’16 I’ve known home, A mass of warmth and never-ending comfort A place that has not one single location, Always changing, always evolving Like the morals and expectations that are the ingredients of a functioning home. What is a functional home? It’s a place that I love, that I can trust, And be safe in. I have known that home is where your hat is, But can home be two places at once? Is this planet my home? Do I trust it to keep me safe? But I guess I don’t have a choice We are born trusting That this will be home, for where else could it be? I have known with no confustion that home is a place to be. It’s not a river nor a sea, It’s where our birds fly and our cattle feed. It’s where I lay under our trees and think of what will be. I have known home is where our grass is tall, our ponds are cool They reflect all in our reach, amongst their deepest blue.
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My feet get wet as I search for answers in our fields Hoping for some better yields. I have known home is mapped out by bumpy roads with unexpected ugly toads where the rain has come, with a faint hum, in the distance I can hear a soulful drum, While I watch workers drinking rum. And when the rain stops, I’m left gazing at the setting sun. I have known home when the nights are coming and I see the light, there are stars shining bright as we get in our care to chase the abundant fire I see the most incredible shooting star I make a wish that I won’t ever go far. I will always know that home is a place I love to be. It’s not a river nor a sea. It’s where protection coincides with a danger that only tests our limits, this is my home and will always be and because of home, I am me.
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Bianca Garzozi ’15
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Callie McLaurin ’15
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The Trees Madi Cuesta ’17 It was the cloudy afternoon when the snow started. That was the first snowfall in about two years. I was in the backseat of my mother’s car. I remember looking at the crystal fields. Then I looked at the trees. I saw the same trees everyday, yet they had never looked so beautiful. It’s amazing how I remember this so clearly, as if the world had stopped for a second. Each glassy flake lied on top of the other, creating a blanket over the branches. Peering down at the window, I could see each snowflake on each fragile twig. I looked at the whole of the tree. It was a diamond sculpture, completely priceless. As I marveled at the world outside, a beautiful truth dawned on me. Those trees were the same ones I had looked at since I was a child. when the snow melts away, my beautiful discovery would fade into a dark brown and back into its worn down body. I guess that day I taught myself a lesson. When you see the worst in someone, picture them at their best. And when they shine at their best, marvel in it, but never in the back of your mind, never forget their worst.
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Bibi McGill ’15
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The Spider Henley Fletcher ’16 Creepy crawly little pest I see you hiding behind the chest You spin your web all day long Why don’t you realize that is wrong? Your eight hairy legs give me a fright Sometimes I can’t sleep at night You’re big, you’re gross, and I am not your host I would rather be haunted by a ghost. Why don’t you leave to live outside? And don’t say you have no pride You creepy, crawly little pest SMACK!!!! I told you not to hide behind my chest.
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Imperfect A’s Megan Machak ’15 Creativity lusted upon and lost: over poetry patterns, and torrent seas. Sonnect structures, and broken trees. Imagination delighted in and defiled: after excessive edits, and thin skies. Rejected rhymes, and wingless flies.
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Shoes Carly Weinstein ’15 Shoes connect bodies to the ground. They travel alongside their wearers and move them around the world to experience new things and become acquainted with new people. Shoes protect feet from harsh elements and shield them from rough times. Purple and black, the soles are slowly distancing themselves from their body. The insides frayed and worn, some would call them done for. Others would sneer disdainfully, out of style, beyond use, garbage. These shoes have made it all the way around the way around the world and have been with me for years. Taiwan, Georgia, Tennessee, Maryland, Thailand, Malaysia, Australia and New Zealand, these shoes carry my past, and carry my present. My shoes have carried me far. They hiked with me through uneven rainforests with warm sandy beaches and rocky caves, with the air sweet and moist. They trekked with me through unknown city streets, and the foreign becomes familiar and comforting, despite being littered with discarded pieces of chewing gun, cigarette buts and wrappers. They dove off of sun kissed rocks into the icy water below of the Ocoee River, without knowing which way the indecisive currents would take them. These shoes have survived typhoons, mud, mountains, airports, and foreign land, and thunderstorms that shook the sky and threatened buildings with towering trees wavering under the storm’s power. These shoes carry my past; these shoes carry my present. They have smelled the salty sea air, polluted city streets, fresh mountain atmospheres and the bland, perfumic stink of airports, and sulfur has penetrated their worn exteriors. They have been doused with gallons of febreeze and laundry detergent in attempts to revive them. Purple and black, fraying fabric soles peeling off and perfectly worn in. Perfect is not a word commonly associated with an item in such disrepair. And yet despite this discrepancy with common associations, this is the word that best fits them. These shoes are a part of my life, and they will be a part of my future. They are an extension of my body, and will carry me around the world again before I will put them away.
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Del Musarra ’15
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Elyse Brudzinski ’17
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She Was, I Am, She Will Be Emma Gottlieb ’16 She was the past She was the one who experienced the pain and the horror She was the one who felt the sting of the number on her arm She was the one who was dehumanized She was the one who felt the crisp, freezing ice on her toes She was one of the few who survived. She was the past I am the present I am the one who hears the stories I am the one who can’t even fathom what it was like I am the one who can’t help but stare at the number on her arm I am the one who has the responsibility to pass it on I am the present She will be the future She will be the one who passes it on She will be the one who won’t see the number on her arm She will be the one who will wish she heard it from those who were there She will be the future.
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Lindsey Noble ’17
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Madi Walker ’16
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Our Lives As We Know It Sam Frazier ’16 With trees, there are many things that can compare to you and me. They come into the world as tiny seedlings waiting to make a mark on the world. When they start to sprout, there is always the question of what they want to be: either tall, round, short or tiny, either way there are judged by the way they look. As they survive, it becomes a glorious day. They stand up proud and they truly make a statement. After a while, their arms spread with joy, for seeing another and soon they become united as one. Every night and day, they never leave each other’s side. They watch and gaze and with the sound of the wind, move in harmony. Until, one day they grow old. But yet, they still find love in each other’s eyes.
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The Woman and The Bird Casey Johnson ’15 Sit here my friend Let the vibes of the universe bring us together; human and animal You were made for me and I was bound to you The innocence that I find in you makes me sane from this inhuman world So I apologize to you first and foremost That you do not look upon me with shame that I am just another human destroying your world. For like you, nature means so much more to me than you will ever know Free yourself from your entire troubles human Enjoy this piece of nature with me The world is yours enjoy it while you are here
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Alyssa Tobias ’15
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Emily Dobbs ’15
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An Ode to My Home Megan Rivera ’17 a peninsula between hudson and hackensack she reps “east coast”, the oldest town in new jersey, neighbor of new york city, protector of lovely lady liberty, bustling with friendly residents, harboring buildings of upmost elegance, home to liberty state park and ellis island, transporting us everywhere by bus, train, or ferry, the “six borough” of new york city, home to the jets, giants, and the yankees, a town filled with so many things to do, open to all, old or new my home, jersey city.
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The Lion King Miley Xia ’17 New York, Lights never dim. In Minskoff Theater, Applause never faint. The king, The lion king Is in the light. Benign, delight He roars, he cries His tawny mane erect. “You said you will be with me, forever.” “Where are you, Dad?” The proud king, The helpless son. Where are you, Dad? On the sofa watching TV? In the kitchen cooking food? How are you, Dad? I miss you. I need you. The proud girl, The helpless daughter. New York, Lights never dim.
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Ode to the World Maddi Cuesta ’17 I have a long, lasting hatred for staying in place. Why would I ever want to? If I stay in one place too long, I could become absorbed into myself. That’s the problem with people who stay in place too long. They forget the regret and complain but remain where they are. That’s not all that this world has to offer. I’ll share my secret to you. If you don’t stay in place, you can find the reason for praise. You will find the people who move about. Those are the people will show you the world. You will discover places where the animals speak louder than most humans. Where the air wants you to breathe and the sea wants you to swim. Where the people you believe to be naïve and undeveloped are wiser that you could ever dream to be. The people. They are what make this world the one that I praise to. They’ve successfully made themselves live off themselves without always letting themselves live. The beauty is that there are other people who laugh at them. Who understand my ode.
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Ali Speaks of Spirituality Ali Hickman ’16 I’ve known grace; I’ve known grace powerful enough to change my reprobate ways. Grace compelling enough to cure any drug addiction or disorder. The same grace Mama and Papa schooled my brothers and me about before bed. I’ve known miracles; I’ve known miracles that bewilder people all around the world. Miracles that save lives every day, the same miracle that allowed my nieces and nephew to see another day. I’ve known miracles that have solidified my beliefs of a higher power. I’ve known joy; I’ve known joy, a sheer happiness that is not justified by no thing or person. Joy that renders me speechless. Joy that brings tears to my eyes. I’ve known joy that shines brightly even in the darkest of times. I’ve known grace, miracles, and joy; together they create something one cannot take away from me: pure spirituality.
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Mikaela Hensen ’16
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Handprinted Galaxies Megan Machak ’15 Your freckles are constellations, against milky white night. Traced by temptations, reveling in devil’s delight. Siting upon a cloud, cross-legged among stars. Ruddy lips so bright, they burn beside Mars.
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My Home Miley Xia ’17 Blurred, but I want you to see my dimpled cheeks in the middle of the city in the fog. Weak, but I want you to hear my hoarse voice in the middle of the city in the yells of cars. Remote, but I want you to touch my thin lips in the middle of the city in the empty balcony. Afraid, but I want you to feel my crying heart in the middle of the city in the cold rain. I know it took too long, but I am back.
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Del Musarra ’15
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Every Little Thing is Gonna Be Alright Stefanie Peart ’16 I’ve known Jamaica Ever since my first days of coming home from the hospital, I have been in touch with my island roots. Being raised listening to the soft sounds of Barris Hammond, and the unruly Buju Banton gives me my island vibes. I’ve known Jamaica I remember when my parents first told me about the beautiful Island from which they hail. My dad’s stories of the Ackee trees hanging from above, and the countless ground lizards that roam the streets I’ve known Culture I have values that come with the lifestyle of a Jamaican that only a Jamaican will understand. I learned at a very young age of the Jamaican proverb that I should Talk and taste my tongue. I have taste buds that ignite a flame within me from the fiery taste of a Scotch Bonnet pepper. I know the real Jamaica It’s easy to be swept away by the beauty of a Sandal’s commercial, or the beaches that make for the Instagram photo that will get you the most likes possible.
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But it takes a real Jamaican to understand the ghettos of Gull Bay, Waking up at 5 a.m. to go to the market, and the reality of not knowing where your next meal would come from. I have the Pride of a Jamaican Out of many one people is the motto that makes Jamaica the land I love.
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Yoyo Yang ’15
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Habits Megan Redding ’17 I love you more than my favorite self-destructive patterns, Dip my tears between our rib cages to witness our differing realities, Take my childhood on a walk through a silent city on the verge of rebellion, Teach me how to count the crows instead of the casualties. I love you more than all the little graves I dug for my insecurities, Help set my eyes upon the ever-churning whirlpool of apostasies, Shuffle my feet until I stand within the gates of worlds that came and went, Guide me to the realm where dreams are wasted and broken memories are sent.
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Found in The Concept of Law by H.L.A. Hart Cam Brooks-Miller ’15 The public should not forget Holland is more secure than Venice They have neither house, nor land, nor employment The power of the kinds increased “I am the emperor” He told her The Nile was explored. The elephants were hunted. And the shores of the sea, Discovered The testament shows that We must remedy the evils our Grandfathers have done. But Laws replace all virtues You could say that it is like the system of the universe. The churches acquired considerable goods. The princes were murderous, unjust And cruel because The whole nation was The Romans were wiser. The state of things is a spectacle Worthy of pity.
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Yoyo Yang ’15
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Last Supper Anna Royal You hung above our kitchen table a wooden blessing of chipped browns and bleeding reds. I ran jam-stained fingers on the splintered grooves of sorrow, on saint’s lips trembling hollow prayers with hallowed hands. In school I learned the landscape was really a fallen sun god and a still life held betrayal in folds of white linen, And I asked if Mary knelt while washing floors after the men had disappeared, If Martha wept as she wiped spilt wine swept broken bread.
Did you ever hear my prayers that roaring afternoon? Because now that you’ve forsaken us who’s left to clean this mess we’ve made? To wipe away the sorrow falling as I clear away your things?
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Only a flash of blue a wedge in the center, a black and silver nest, dusty sleep and morning eyes, blurry slippers, reminds me-a fleeting relic— a memory unsaved.
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Science is Poetry Whitney Schultz Science is poetry says my doctor. He wants me to see chaos as enjambment, abrupt and startling, but lovely in the way the line comes to a dead stop in the middle of the tumbling energy. A variation, these cells, not a mutation, but an experiment. Not greedy or damaging, but a riff on a classic—a twist!—on the ordinary, the expected. Science is poetry he says, gliding pen over film, showing deviations in cells, a departure from form, a leap away from traditional verse. This brewing cloud, a new Line, new stanza, that must Stretch forward. Think epic, not haiku.
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Celia Bowers ’17
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Common App Carly Weinstein ’15 We want to know who you are, You are an individual. Please inform us of your individuality by Appropriately utilizing the following boxes, A, B, C, D, or E- none of the above. I am E, none of the above I am not a box, not a preformed selection I am out there, angry, humorous, wacky, studious, energetic, and occasionally lazy You can’t fit this into a box. Express yourself in the common app I am not common, you are not common, we are not common. You, admissions panel, are judging my identity based on a form You, admissions panel, are determining if I am worthy of attending your esteemed institution of higher learning Then you say, and I quote, “This is not a judgment of your character.” But you wanted to know who I was You wanted to know about my character But you are judging my character, and doing so by using preset checkboxes Checkboxes cannot hold his. I do not fit in the box You do not fit in the box We are bigger than the box
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The common app can’t contain our character Our interests Our quirks Our insecurities
You can’t judge us based on the common app We are not common I am not common, I am Carly.
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A Young Mind Speaks to Expectations Mikaela Hensen ’16 I’ve known expectations, I’ve known expectations that entrap a young mind and push that mind to debilitation and fatigue. Yet, my consciousness need not feel overwhelmed. I stayed up nights, thinking an all-nighter would improve a test score. I trained alone, hours after a dissipated practice, all to move a little faster, prepare a little more for that next performance. I slowly sank in my chair as two pairs of parental eyes scrutinized a report card, waiting far too anxiously for that disappointing double curve indicating a “B.” I walked into a room, letting the eyes of hypercritical young adults pick apart my appearance, piece by piece, So tell me, do I look the part?
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Emma Gottlieb ’16
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Special Thanks to Schmitz Press
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Oldfields School 2014-2015
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