AGAINST THE CURRENT THE LITERARY MAGAZINE OF PROFESSIONAL CHILDREN’S SCHOOL
VOL. 1 Fall/Winter 2019 Edition
AGAINST THE CURRENT THE LITERARY MAGAZINE OF PROFESSIONAL CHILDREN’S SCHOOL
VOL. 1 Fall/Winter 2019 Edition
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Table of Contents Cover Art by Mia F. Letter From the Editors
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Myself - Audrey Z. Lucy Gayheart, Alternate Ending - Shelby Z. ’19 Untitled - Philip D. My Neighborhood - Mr. Casey To Sea - Audrey Z. Alaska - Ian Z. Aurora and Borealis - Audrey Z. Underage for Ecstasy - Eugenie K.F. Untitled - Emma L. Untitled - Eugenie K.F. Clothespin - Mia Kim B. Saying Goodbye to Kikou - Dashiell D. Personal Narrative - Nicky T. Immigrant Reflections - Ms. Holder Poem #2 - Ava D. ’19 The Birth of Gossip - Mr. Orefice Songs of frogs on Madison’s pond - Ms. Petersen Untitled - Dashiell D. Snow Falling on Jungles - Colby C. In The Meadow - Hannah B. Untitled - Audrey Z. Blades - Colby C.
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Masthead The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
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Letter From the Editors What does it mean to create? The Latin root creare, means to make or bring forth. Against the Current is a chance for us to collaborate and create. We get to both make and bring forth, irrespective of our professions. Fiction, memoir, poetry, photography, sculpture, painting, and sketch…these tell our human stories and connect us to one another. In our classrooms at PCS, we dissect heroes and demigods in works by Shakespeare, Shelley, and Garcia-Marquez. We try to measure the success of American democracy by examining history and current events through the lens of cultural protest and strife. We feel how logic and theory explain humanity through Newtonian law and Leibniz’s theorems. Against the Current, the PCS student-run literary magazine, is a departure from our daily norms. A collective of creative expression, this is a chance for us to link hands and jump together into uncharted waters. We begin to examine ourselves, to measure our souls, to feel our minds at work. This collaborative publication is not a newsletter about triumphs and roles performed. It is not a social media platform that seeks to curate or imitate false perfection in our student body. It is not a newspaper with journalistic opinions or facts about current events. Against the Current lets students take creative risks and share ideas, a notion of themselves with others. Our inclusions lay bare what is inside. We hope that the art and writings that follow will reveal a little bit of what we think, feel, and wonder. Some of the writings and renderings will soar and move readers. Others may show a tiny flash of green light that gives a glimmer to an artist’s hopes or maybe their future genius. We should never stop being willing to take chances. We can shine brightly even when we fail or falter. It takes unusual and disciplined kids to choose to be different, to row hard against the current. It takes exceptional courage to share what is real and unclear in our lives. No epics here, just our ideas, our small creations, just us.
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Welcome to the first issue of our humanist magazine. We celebrate, with each of these pieces, that PCS encourages and supports our taking risks and creating. We are grateful to have readers who are willing to explore and teachers who are willing to guide. We are Against the Current. Sincerely, J. Colby Clark & Tobi Irikura December 20, 2019
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Myself By Audrey Z. I will sit very still and listen. New York City will be very foggy and rainy in the hours to come. When the skies darken and fill with clouds, I know I must leave, but I will miss my bed dearly. Holding onto the lingering warmth with fingers numbed by the winds of autumn, I will find her in the crowds. I will shiver when I finally step outside, I know this, but I must find her today lest I lose her for another year. I will brave the shining lights of this city, and walk into the streets, one soul among many. I will step out into the world and find her, my shadow, my bright grey sunshine, yet I may hesitate upon seeing the one I have lost. I am going to stand in that square, a light drizzle falling on me, my hair, my eyelashes. She will be standing by the tall fountain, eyes a sun-warmed slate, and she will laugh. She will wave as she did when she found her love, and I will look on, frozen. The crowds will dissipate, and only the blurring shadows will move across the pavement, across the river and beyond, rippling a silver blue. When I rise, I will see those eyes in the mirror. They will be sharper, but still the same. She will stand alone because her partner could not keep his promise, could not return home. She will look around at the unfamiliar crowds, looking for my guidance because she asked me to return to her. We will stand together. “So this is where you are”,she will say, and I am going to nod with all the sincerity in the world. “I am okay now.” When I say this, she will understand. Only then will she let go of my hand, and return to the sleeping dreams of nights long past. I will let the severity of this situation swirl on the high ceiling, around the white windows of my home. I will not let the torrents dissuade me. No, they will not sweep me away. When I finally let her go, I will move defiantly. I will find a new mountain to climb. Should the grief try to overwhelm me, I will hang onto that smile, that smile in the mirror, and tell myself that everything will be alright.
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I will rise and breathe and listen to the songs of New York City. I will bundle up tightly as I walk out my door, and I will finally let her go. Should I allow my imagination to roam freely, then I shall go to the marketplace, where the fruit will be cold. The sky will be light overhead, and the trees will rustle. There, in the quiet murmur of selection and fate, I will see someone familiar, who used to love dragon fruit. He will turn and politely inquire about my day because it will have been our first meeting in five years. I will tell him what I feel, and I will return him to the girl who stood before the large fountain, the girl with the watery grey eyes and trust that he would not go. He will look at me curiously, try to decipher my intentions as I bring him to a tourist attraction. We will arrive at the large bubbling structure on this drizzling October morning. She will laugh, and she will wave, and he can tell her he would never break his promises. I will leave them, and I will wake, realizing that I had unraveled the past, undone the last five years, given myself what I wanted even though I could not before. The clock will read 8:00 am in a minute, and I will leave then. I am going to ask myself what matters because although my bed is comforting, I have confidence in myself. I must make sure I meet her today. Myself never waits too long, for she has memory archives to roam. I am going to get up soon. I am going to leave. I am going to let Myself know that I am going to be okay, that I am okay now.
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Lucy Gayheart, Alternate Ending By Shelby Z. ’19 She felt as if she were standing on the edge of something, about to take some plunge or departure. (Cather 153) VIII The next morning Lucy moved with the swiftness of a bird migrating home. As she methodically packed her things into her worn leather suitcase, her mind was racing forward. There was no doubt for her; this was the way things were supposed to be. Her sister Pauline and her father Mr. Gayheart were still sound asleep. The sun had not yet risen from the edge of the world and Lucy raced against its arrival. If she were to look into Pauline’s eyes she thought she might not have the courage to return to Chicago. She wished she could hug Mr. Gayheart goodbye, but her path was onward and there was no stopping this newfound momentum. Pauline’s constant words of discouragement were nothing compared to the pain of suffocating in Haverford’s stale air. It was the kind of pain one does not realize is present, until some trigger causes what was once a dull ache to become a burning agony. It was like she was suffering from claustrophobia, the closeness eating away at her. Unknowingly, she had been shriveling up into a shell of her former self, fading into the background of a picture in which she had once been the outstanding focus. But seeing the pitiful old singer at the opera last night was like standing in front of a mirror. Lucy ached for the woman, feeling in her voice the longing for something greater. As the notes of the song soared, so did Lucy’s own hope for herself. Lucy’s numbness was gone, replaced by a burning desire to rediscover her passion. She must return to Chicago right away, before she were to fall permanently from the higher world of music, as that poor woman must have years ago. She had made up her mind then to leave as soon as possible. Packing was easy, as she wanted to leave behind as much of her Haverford self as possible. She took only that which was essential: a small pouch of her savings from teaching, her few dresses that were appropriate for the more sophisticated streets of Chicago, and her sheet music. At the last moment, she remembered the silver frame beside her mirror which displayed her favorite 3
photograph of Sebastian, her first love. She grabbed the frame and wrapped it tenderly in one of her dresses, placing it next to the items that Mrs. Auerbach had collected for her before she left Chicago. Lucy looked at them lying dejected at the bottom of her trunk. His handkerchiefs, his gloves, his music. Once too painful to look at, she now found a knowing comfort in their presence. They were mementos of Sebastian’s existence, although Lucy did not need keepsakes to remember exactly everything about him. She put the dress back in the suitcase carefully and then swiftly zipped it up. She shrugged on her coat and grabbed the handle of her suitcase. As she was about to close the door, she took one last look around her room. It had never seemed so small. Lucy could not believe that she had allowed these four walls to contain her for so long. Feeling the pounding of her heart in her chest, Lucy wondered how the seams of this room had not yet burst. She had experienced elation, fright, anguish, all in this room. How was it that, through these incredibly thin walls, Pauline in the room next door was not deafened every night by the symphony of her emotions? Perhaps these four walls had dampened the noise of her heart, but no longer would Lucy allow this to happen. She was doing Sebastian a disservice, allowing herself to forget him out of fear for her own heartache. She must experience her emotions in full, including the dissonance and whining sound of an accompanist in anguish. That part of her which was once lifted up out of pedestrianism by the revelatory sound of Sebastian’s singing still existed inside of her. To muffle it was to drown Sebastian all over. Only in Chicago could that part of herself truly live in freedom and so that was where she must go. IX It had been a month since Lucy Gayheart had returned to Chicago. Of course, Paul Auerbach and his wife had welcomed Lucy into their home with eagerly open arms. Admittedly, Lucy’s old mentor was surprised to see her again, but on the day that Lucy showed up on their doorstep, Mrs. Auerbach just smiled knowingly. Later that night, she told her husband, “I knew she would be back. She is stronger than I thought, returning so soon, but it would have taken more than a broken heart to hold 4
Lucy Gayheart in one place for so long. Like a current, her fate has carried her here and she has too much to share with the world to be stuck in a town like Haverford.” Mr. Auerbach replied, “Does she not seem different to you? I am worried for her. She arrived with so few belongings, no note from her father or explanation of why she’s back. There is a certain sadness in her teaching now. She still seems happy to be working with her pupils, but there is a constant cloud that hangs about her.” “Of course she is different. For people like Lucy, they are defined by their feelings. To lose a love like Sebastian must have destroyed her, but the beauty that exists after such destruction arises out of being put back together. Delicacy is not weakness, impenetrability is not strength. The greatest artists are those who allow themselves to be consumed by their emotions.” Mrs. Auerbach paused and looked wistfully out the window, up into the night sky, before saying, “You knew Sebastian. Did his sorrow never seem curious to you? An immensely successful singer like himself, you would think that happiness would be a given. But people like Lucy and Sebastian, they are not defined by what successes may come to them or what possessions they might have. For them, to be living and to feel is all that matters.” Mr. Auerbach touched his wife’s shoulder. She turned and looked into his eyes with an intense longing. He smiled and took her hand, leading her over to the parlour where the piano was located. Sitting down on the bench together, he began to play. Lucy had left one of her scores on the piano. There was no title, but the music carried across the home of the Auerbachs with the clarity of a dawn after spring showers. Mrs. Auerbach leaned her head on Mr. Auerbach’s shoulder contentedly. “Oh, Miss Gayheart.”
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By Philip D.
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My Neighborhood By Mr. Casey My neighborhood was the playdate. Often all that was required was to step outside to join other children already at play or to beckon to those peeking out their window. “Let’s play”. Although there was not anything particularly unique about my neighborhood, I was fortunate to have grown up in its midst. A tract of homes on Long Island, New York, provided me with both safety and adventure. Inside and around the neighborhood were The Woods (a vacant lot), The Nursery and, The Sandlot. The blacktops for our bikes to pioneer. The Woods made me feel far away even though it was directly across the street from my home. Clandestine to adults, it was both innocent and nefarious. Fragile butterflies were stored in a coffee can while underground forts held uncertain mystery. The Nursery was attached to the back of The Woods. A chain linked fence attempted to deny entry, but it was often breached by the “bad kids”. Rows and rows of trees and bushes and the possibility of being caught provided peril for the “good kids”, who wanted to dip their toes in dereliction. A journey of approximately fifty yards ( if we avoided being apprehended) to the other side of The Nursery was The Sandlot where many hours of baseball and dreams of the big leagues were spent. On the voyage home, alongside The Nursery, was the town sanitation dump and The Pit essentially a huge mud hole too enticing for us to ignore. Throwing anything in was intriguing knowing that, whatever the object was, it was going to die a gruesome death. Attempting to fish out a perceived treasure was chilling. Fall in and you were done for by unforgiving laughter and the wrath of your mom. Time did not exist in and around the neighborhood. Only the buzz of the imminent street lights called us home. If you were late, it was your mom screaming out the door. Somehow you always reluctantly took note no matter your whereabouts. Back through The Nursery, fence, and woods we’d return to the secure hands of the neighborhood.
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I still return to my childhood neighborhood from time to time. Like life, much has changed and much is the same. A house was built long ago where our cherished woods once lived. We never cared much for that house. The house I grew up in has been bought, sold, and remodeled twice. Only a few families remain or what is left of them. The sewer caps and corners we used as bases in kickball were impervious to change. What is also immune to change is the tender sense the neighborhood shares. I relish showing our two sons the sewers we would go down into to retrieve the one baseball we had that day. I show them where The Woods used to be and we drive around to where The Sandlot still exists. I wish they could make the journey through The Woods and Nursery with me.
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To Sea By Audrey Z.
Dear star of stars, sailing the sapphire blue With your eyes of light and empathy too, Gaze upon the sleeping grass and tell me true What of the rolling and fleeting dreams see you? See you the tumbling red clouds or the golden stroke— Feel you the wings of jade and sand and smoke? Sense you the tears and joys woven in the cloak, Or better yet, the wonderful words he never spoke? Go you to the edge of whatever lies beyond Yet look back on the silver threads—so fond— And search the eyes of the fish in my pond To find the heart of hearts, the scarlet bond
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By Ian Z.
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Aurora and Borealis By Audrey Z.
As the bard and the bear traveled the sky, They climbed the frosty blues and the evergreen hues. When they found the valley where the salmon fly They descended with ease, and took off their shoes. The bear and the bard found their way through the wood Past the night-lilies and the frog croakings to where The water calmed and the crystal monolith stood— There, they sang a song for the watery moon, the kind and fair. The pair and their tune began to drift, And with the ribbons of twilight, they began their dances— Traveling through the whirlpool vines, like swallows, swift, They found the essence of being, of taking chances!
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Underage for Ecstasy By Eugenie K.F.
To all the spirits in yonder wood And to all the nymphs and elves that dwell To all the dryads and nereids Lead me to the ancient well Where I can drink a sip or two And become a bit holier than I wast before Alas, how can I approach you The vines have caught up with me And have torn my mortal flesh away Now I have lost the ability to see And my body is much too weak For divinity. Tis for my senses to seek The beings in the very near atmosphere That I long to keep pursuing To follow their commands and cheer As if there were a strong liquor brewing In the deep wells and never-ending streams Perhaps I am underage for ecstasy The sprites have resolved it all for me.
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By Emma L.
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Untitled By Eugenie K.F. Where did this time go Why did it leave us so Among the nymphs we would dwell Yet now we roar in dismal hell We’d bathe in the streams And now they’re all just dreams.
Clothespin By Mia Kim B.
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Saying Goodbye to Kikuo Dashiell D. I have known Kikuo Saito for 11 years of my life. Kikuo was a Japanese artist who came to New York in 1966. For as long as I can remember, I have been visiting his home, and painting studio. No matter what he was working on when I came over, he would always give me a sketch pad so I could keep him company. Usually, some opera or classical music would be playing in the fluorescent-lit, paint-splattered basement studio. His studio was always in chaos with canvases, brushes, and every color of oil paint in small bowls covering the floor. Kikuo’s desk was hidden under a bunch of newspapers and magazine clippings, sketches, postcards from Europe and an old cat food can filled with his cigarette butts. So, I would usually draw with a pad on my lap sitting on a leather rocking chair. I loved the clutter and energy of that studio. It was my favorite place to draw. I would watch Kikuo squatting on the floor and painting over his canvases. He was so quick, buzzing around his studio, looking for the right colors and materials for whatever he was working on. Kikuo would occasionally take a break from his work to see my progress. He would say that he liked some small detail or suggest that I use more color. Kikuo would not praise my work simply to be nice, instead, he would encourage me when he saw something worthy in my work. Although he was 60 years older than me, he never treated me like a kid. He spoke to me as a friend because Kikuo was a child at heart. I saw how happy Kikuo was to do what he loved to do: be able to create every day and to be a professional artist. Watching Kikuo make his artwork, inspired me to do what I love doing. I liked being in Kikuo’s studio and looking at his abstract paintings in progress with their fascinating streaks of color mixed with mysterious words. My happy visits to Kikuo’s studio were disrupted when he got ill and had to go to the hospital. Visiting Kikuo in the hospital was very different than visiting him in his home. The clean and quiet room was the most un-Kikuo-like place. Seeing him so small and shriveled in his hospital bed made me sad and scared. Three visits later, he was gone. The last time I saw Kikuo was in his open coffin. He was dressed in his painting clothes with paint brushes in his hand as if he were a Pharaoh with his supplies for the journey to the afterlife. I can never visit him in his studio again but I will never forget how happy he once made me. 16
Personal Narrative By Nicky T. Sitting in my first-floor apartment on 46th street, I can imagine a time that I would not refer to myself as a city kid. As E.B. White might tell me, I'm the third kind of New Yorker. There was a day that I would have identified as the short kid with bangs who sat on the corner of Eagles Meer with a sling backpack in one hand, and a scooter in the other. The same boy whose house had the big white fence on the way to the community center, the house his mom taught piano lessons in. Rather, the kid who was satisfied with everything except keeping his mouth shut. Although the beginning of my youth will always be a part of me, I now identify as more than where I come from. I've been lucky enough to perform on Broadway, act in major motion pictures, produce Grammy Award winning artists, submit to the Literary Magazine at PCS, and most importantly, to become a New Yorker. My first apartment in New York was on 23rd street while I was performing at Madison Square Garden; I was 10 at the time. After moving back to my home in Pennsylvania, I moved back to the city 6 months later. This trend of performances made my mom and I live like nomads for the next few years. After another stay in New York in hotels, touring, then back again to PA once more, we settled long term at an apartment on 42nd street when I was 12. This was when I started my time at PCS. However, we moved again to Columbus Circle for another show, and then again to where I'm currently living on 46th street. My parents won't have this apartment paid off for another 30 years, so it looks like I won't be moving soon. I can say that I've had a fair range of living spaces in New York City. Experiencing this city full-on has taken a lot of adjustment. I grew up where I had to ask my parents to drive me everywhere I wanted to go. The idea of taking the subway or walking to places by myself took courage to live up to. It's only been until this summer where I've felt fully comfortable venturing around the 5 boroughs. My journeys here have granted me great writing material. I favor any type of creative writing, predominantly writing songs. Not only does this allow me to fuse my musical interests with my creativity, but it's apart of my job. I work with my mentor, Bert Price, writing and recording songs for clients. The anxiety blossomed from a change in scenery sparked my imagination. From a 17
late subway train to being chased by a homeless man in Spanish Harlem, it's all been inspiring. While on the road with whatever professional obligations, I try to write as much as possible. Homework assignments that allow my imagination to run free, could wind up taking all my hours in the day as I get carried away with the continuous strand of ideas. If an informative essay is assigned, I try to find where I can add in my own taste and imagery. Otherwise, the process becomes uneventful. Storytelling is a pleasure of mine and when my boundaries are limited, I tend to shy away from it. However, I relish in the freedom when granted. I'm proud to visit home returning with the phrase, "Yes, I'm a New Yorker now". This city has taught me how to be mature amongst many other things. I know it will continue to grow my character and bring more interesting stories into my past, which one day might inspire my best work yet.
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Immigrant Reflections
By Ms. Holder
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Poem #2 By Ava D. ’19 the gentle pull of the tide that erodes the magnificently blinding chaos of the darkness. but the madness coursing through us, the expansion of the anxiety ridden peace, forces itself agonizingly through the speakers deafening. make the moon fall at our feet in tears. kick it aside and say, ’this is who i am now’ pick out the stars from the heavens one by one and tear it to shreds in anger. to all the lost youth the broken, the abandoned, the soul of our people. albeit poisoned or pained. there is a light of which we can follow. i reach out to you. run towards my voice. off the rooftop into the river. for my heart aches for the attention it should be given but only the wave knows that i shall never speak again. and nothing will ever hold me back.
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The Birth of Gossip Mr. Orefice Even as a baby, she’d crawl to us under stealth of table While other children played off somewhere -- not about. She eased her way within earshot, as if to enable Her to feel the whisper and ignore the shout. They did not mother her intrigue they swore. We just began her in the art of conversation. But their sounds transported her to a foreign shore And she took joy in them without cessation. A baby couldn’t possibly comprehend, they said. And so they spoke freely in light of her station. Not noticing her consume the sounds, they fed And licensing her lifelong occupation.
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Songs of frogs on Madison’s pond Ms. Petersen the ghosts of slaves circle the house where the white intellectuals spin their tales white faces listen devoid of darker hue they glisten horses out to pasture past their moneymaking prime gather they wander up press their noses against mine like old slaves they amble through the grass interested disinterested til they breathe their last
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By Dashiell D.
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Snow Falling on Jungles By Colby C. Snow flurry fantasy I watch you all Together… Snowflakes seem similar Yet each distinct Alone Falling on caps Covering tall tree tops Frozen… Wordly yet without Worry you come and Go
Like us, you come Wingless yet in Flight… Tell us your story! Generations, why must one Melt! I watch, wondering Your silent voice a Secret… Hopeful to last Dreaming changing Snowflake
Glorious snowflakes mock Mimic man’s time Floating… Waters magic mood You are rare Beautiful Silent yet powerful Nature transforms and is Free… For just an instant! Pulsing falling forever Down
You let us smile Wait, don’t vanish! Blink Away… Without notice Perfect pure moment Lost Hatsue, Ishmael Pride honor virtue Forgiveness A silent hero Once, know I was your Witness
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In The Meadow By Hannah B. Middle School Submission Timothy ran through the meadow with his cat, Mr. Whiskers. He could feel the warm breeze on his face. Mr. Whiskers gave him a scowl, As if he were offended that Timothy didn’t feed him that morning. Mr. Whiskers meant everything to Timothy. He had the cutest little bulbous nose and a fluffy little face. Timothy loved spending his free time with him. He heard his mom call him into the house, shouting “Timothy it’s time for lunch, come inside!” His mom had cobb salad and roast beef prepared for him at the table, with a red and white checkered tablecloth. As Timothy was eating, he noticed that Mr. Whiskers looked quite lanky. Timothy was concerned. He didn’t know if Mr. Whiskers was okay. Timothy had to scream over his mom laughing hysterically as she watched TV in the next room over. “What’s wrong with Mr. Whiskers?” Timothy asked. There was so much commotion in the house Timothy could barely think straight. “What’s wrong with him?” his mom replied. “I don’t know, he seems really weak and tired,” Timothy said with a scared tone in his voice. “We will bring him over to the vet later today,” his mom said. Later that afternoon Timothy was sitting on his bed doing homework. Out of nowhere, he heard a loud whimpering and coughing. He had an ominous feeling that it was Mr. Whiskers. Timothy ran downstairs to the awful sight of Mr. Whiskers on the floor vomiting and having the hardest time breathing. Timothy was scared. “MOM IT’S MR. WHISKERS, HELP!!!” He screamed. She came sprinting over to the both of them. “ We have to take him to the vet right now!” she said. They scrambled out the door with Mr. Whiskers in Timothy’s arms. Could this be it? Could he be dead? Will he be okay? All of these thoughts rushed into Timothy’s head. Timothy’s Mom rushed into the vet pushing everyone out of the way. The woman at the front desk didn’t even have to ask what was wrong, she immediately ran over to the one veterinarian and insisted on help. “Hi, I am Dr. Smith, and I see that you have a problem with your cat,” she said. “We don’t know what’s wrong with him. We saw him vomiting, and we don’t know why!” Timothy said. 25
They rushed into the room and leaned over the Doctor while she examined Mr. Whiskers. “So?” Timothy’s mom asked. “I’m sorry to let you know that your cat may not live,” Dr. Smith said. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with him?” Timothy interrupted. “Your cat has a tumor in his abdomen,” she said. “Right now I have him hooked up to a monitor to see his heart rate,” the doctor said. Timothy slumped down into the chair in despair. He was sobbing. He had never thought that something so horrible could happen to such a little cat. Timothy heard a long beep. Mr. Whiskers was gone. The doctor ran in, and Timothy’s vision went blurry. His best friend was gone.
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By Audrey Z.
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Blades By Colby C. Classical ballet is an art of illusion and transformation. Dancers devote years to lessons and training. We seek to make the complex look simple, the unnatural seem effortless. Last June, I danced the lead role in the 2nd movement of George Balanchine's BourrĂŠe Fantasque. Set to a score by Emmanuel Chabrier, the complex choreography demands a constant dialogue of mind, body, and spirit. Partnering, or pas de deux, allows for exciting intersections and possibilities, yet it requires collaboration and trust. Timing is everything. Our final rehearsal Friday night had not gone well. I retreated with my partner Mia and the eight other corps dancers to rehearse again in the studio. Memory etches differently for ballet dancers. Music activates vivid remembrance. Even now, when I hear the romantic score, it feels like just yesterday... The clock in Studio 1 hangs above the massive mirror, marking time. Ironically, this clock is often slow. I check my reflection in the mirror as I lift the corps dancers, one by one. They come and go like the twinkling arms of a star. Make this look effortless. The veteran teacher, Ms. Pilarre, claps and signals for the pianist to stop. "No, ladies. Make your jetĂŠs bigger so you can reach Colby. Let's try again. You need to soar." I search for Mia, running through a sea of tutus, until I reach her downstage. I balance her weight with my right hand and support her shoulder before she falls out of her arabesque. My arms ache, but I keep going. I am grateful. We are doing what we are trained to do. My body and my brain are wiped out. Never drop your ballerina. All eyes will be on her at this moment tomorrow. Hearing the music, I reach for Mia, but she is six inches off her mark. I still commit and press her into the lift. I am scratched and blinded by the stiff tulle of the tutu as I carry her across the long diagonal. I stay on course by following the ceiling lights. Before I set Mia down, our teacher is out of her chair. "What happened there, Colby? Did she do something wrong?" I shake my head. "Definitely not," I reply. "I rushed my pliĂŠ and mistimed the upward push for the lift." I nod and breathe, waiting for what I know is next. 28
"Shall we do it again?" Going home, I resume my pedestrian gait. As I pass the stage door of Lincoln Center, the years collapse in my mind. I loved dancing the tripartite role of the Nutcracker Prince. I learned subtle gestures and bold movements in order to distinguish the thoughtful nephew, the fearless soldier, and the compassionate prince. I remember what Mr. Martins told me in advance of the PBS Live telecast: "Do what feels natural. Follow the music." The time is now. Saturday morning arrives. I return to my daily ritual: plies at the barre. Hours later, in costume backstage, we stand ready in the wings. No mirror, no corrections, just the wide-open stage. The music beckons. I feel Chabrier's final chords. We dance under the shining lights. The pianist nudges me by leaning into the keys, playing with extra clarity and strength. Mia and I execute our side-by-side tour jetĂŠs. Our legs cut the air like twin blades, our limbs inches apart. The audience roars. I am fearless, yet my heart still races when I imagine where I will go next. I am excited to be an agent for change on new stages: collaborating in a lab, evolving an idea, or solving problems on the world stage. My future will almost certainly hold new corrections and many more efforts, but I will meet these with some of the lessons I have learned in ballet: Do it again. Do it better. Do it always with honor and whenever possible, with grace.
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Masthead Fall/Winter 2019 Editorial Team Editor-In-Chief - J. Colby Clark Faculty Advisor - Jeffrey Laguzza Contributors Upper School Mia Kim Bernard Dashiell del Barco J. Colby Clark Hannah Dagen Philip Duclos Mia Fernandes Eugenie Kourti Ferrante Emma Lee Joanne Lin Ian Zelbo Audrey Zhang Middle School Hannah Brandt Faculty Kevin Casey Caroline Holder Thomas Orefice Erika Petersen Alumnus Ava Desidero ’19 Shelby Tzun ’19 30
Editor - Tobi Irikura
“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter–– tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning–––– So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, Final Lines of The Great Gatsby
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