WATCH Words - 2021 by Porter-Gaud School

SPRING 2021- – VOLUME XLI 1

The WatchWords Literary Issue is an imprint of watch magazine Student Publisher - Pleasant Ballenger Faculty Advisors - Mr. Childs Smith & Mr. Jonathan Chang Front Cover Art by Maggie McKay Artwork Above by Lili Stock Back Cover Art by Katherine Geils Featuring Artwork by Leigh Reid, Nathaniel Ford, Ethan Lehrman, Beau Porter, William Bickerstaff, Piper Lange, Jack Ferm, Maggie McKay, Lili Stock, and Katherine Geils 2

With special thanks to Ms. Janet Preslar, Mr. Brian Principe, Ms. Karen Kimberly, and Mr. Brink Norton

TABLE OF CONTENTS Each spring we are proud to feature student works of art and winning entries from the Upper School Literary Contest for Poetry, Short Fiction and Expository Writing.

“Empty Spaces” by Windland Jaimes First Place, Narrative

“Kitchenette” by Anna Lehman First Place, Poetry

“Defying Odds: A Journey to Literacy” by Leslie Holt First Place, Essay

10 “The Cancer Cycle” by Berkleigh Hatch Second Place, Narrative

12 “Dysphoria” Dusk Boyd Second Place, Poetry

“Karl Marx: Issues He Uncovered” by Lily Kate Rowley Second Place, Essay

“Nepotism Isn’t Always About Love” by Carlisle Smith Third Place, Narrative

20 “In the Wind” by George Walton Third Place, Poetry

22 “The Cost of Idealism” by Marianna Singletary Third Place, Essay

24 Porter-Gaud Out Loud: Poetry Recitation Winners and Finalists 26 “Stephen Dedalus Takes Flight” by Piper Brown Guest Contributor

32 “Air Pollution Against Our Global Aviary” by Anna Lehman Guest Contributor

34 Food for Thought—and Digestion: College Application Essay by Jack Ferm Guest Contributor

WINDLAND JAIMES

1st PLACE, NARRATIVE

Empty Spaces

The long car rides along the west coast would go by faster listening to books on tape. Rides like this, endless fields of colorless grasses, somehow brought a sense of nostalgia. Pride and Prejudice played in the background, and the tone of the voice that read the book aloud seemed to match the scenery that would never end until they reached the edge of the world. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, and the dull grasses waltzed to the nonexistent wind. The AC slowly drained their gas mileage. Soon they would have to stop in one of those run down gas stations with smudged mirrors and lime-flavored gum. The girl rubbed at her arms desperate to make the guilty goosebumps disappear. “If you’re so cold, just put something on. My sweater is in the back.” The crumpled pink-gray sweater lay on the floor of the backseat. It was about eight years old and had only really been enjoyed by the silverfish that ate away at the frayed cotton for years while it sat in the back of her mother’s closet. “You are the one who insists on wearing no clothing in this kind of weather.” “Amy! What are you talking about? Look down at my outfit.” She wore grass-stained jeans and a white shirt with a band she had long forgotten. “Don’t call me ‘Amy.’ I’m your mother.” The girl stared back out at Artwork by Leigh Reid the window wishing there were something else to look at. “It’s like you try and find reasons to get mad at me. Why can’t we just listen to the book?” Her mother laughed aloud, the sound of solitary exhaustion. “Bronwyn, you’re too sensitive.” The woman glanced at her daughter; slightly wavy hair was in her face, that always frustrated her. The childlike glee had gone out of her eyes. Though she didn’t know if that had faded a long time ago. There was a moment of silence that might have been awkward but wasn’t for the time being. The remaining hours home were spent in silence. Both preferred it that way.

It was around three in the morning when they arrived home. Bronwyn dropped her bag onto the floor of her room and then collapsed into bed. Her back was propped up against two pillows that she’d had since she was nine. In fact, her whole room was outdated. When she was fifteen, she had hung twenty-four lightweight posters on her walls. Her mother then grounded her for ten days and made her take all of them down. She put them back up the very next day. Mother really didn’t like things. She didn’t like open shelving in kitchens or extra sets of silverware. At age eleven, Bronwyn had begged her father to have her birthday party at a pottery place. Bronwyn painted a bunny with brown eyes and turquoise fur. Then a week later her mother had a garage sale. She told Broynwyn she had sold her bunny to a little girl, but she had found it broken in the trash the next day. Their house was a basic, old, one story, suburban house. Its insides contained pictures of kids who had long since grown up, old paintings that weren’t and would never be hung, and matching maroon leather furniture. Bronwyn sat herself at the raised counter in one of the stools. Her mother’s back faced her; she’d had too much caffeine. She fumbled around with the strings to her robe. “Do you want some eggs?” she asked. Bronwyn smiled. “Sounds good.” They sat down at the dimly lit table in the dining room. The eggs were already cold, but neither were that hungry. Cooking just passed the time. Both sat in the all too familiar silence. Neither Bronwyn nor her mother really knew how to talk to the other anymore. “Why did you throw out my clay bunny?” Her mother looked at her, bewildered, and realized there really wasn’t a good answer she could give. Bronwyn shook her head, amused, and returned to her room. In the kitchen her mother sat there, still lingering on her daughter’s question. It was just the overthinking that made her look so tired. She never used to have dark purplish circles under her eyes or infinite headaches. Maybe the garage sales really had no purpose, but she just didn’t want to look at all the things she knew she’d never accomplish. In 2009 she sold their family piano to a nice young couple. She remembered they were both overly talkative and babbled on about how their soon-tobe little boy would play the piano everyday. The couple paid a fair price for the ancient heirloom and left with it shoved awkwardly in the back of their light blue pick up. She imagined a little blond boy with feet far too small for his body, who chewed at his cuticles a little too often, but he was a magnificent pianist. Bronwyn loved the piano. She never got the chance to excel at it. Instead, she got into outdated rock bands and bought useless T-shirts with their names brightly displayed on the back. Tears came suddenly with surprising violence as she turned her head to the empty space where the piano used to sit. She’d never done anything with the space, so maybe she had just sold it for nothing.

1st PLACE, POETRY

ANNA LEHMAN

Kitchenette I sometimes wonder what’s the purpose of the small things in life Everyone always talks about appreciating them as if it won’t happen again Winning a participation trophy for riding the bench, for lugging the Powerade A guava lemonade from the farmer’s market with your boyfriend The present you get on the last night of Hanukkah That lullaby you sang to your sleepy baby, who smiled Learning how to ride a scooter for the first time When the bike riding is a milestone? Even then, people say you won’t forget how to But you will forget When your legs don’t work. The smell of fabric softener Your eighth birthday party. (Yes, it was princesses that year.) Taking a business trip and getting a fancy hotel room With a kitchenette, even. Why are the small things the luxuries we seek to find? They are so forgettable. Wash-away-able, like crayola markers we all drew with in elementary art class. We remember the sharpie. Its permanence. We remember the kitchens we have in the world Not the kitchenettes. But, of course, everything’s better when you’ve got both.

Artwork by Maggie McKay

LESLIE HOLT

1st PLACE, Essay

Defying Odds: A Journey to Literacy AP Language students in Ms. Anna Smith’s class were assigned to study Frederick Douglass’ abolitionist message with a focus on the economics of slavery.

Born a slave in Maryland, Frederick Douglass immediately encounters the horrific, transactional economy of slavery, yet through an extraordinary journey to literacy, he creates a historical and literary impact with his transformative text Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass. Beginning his autobiography with poignant appeals to pathos, Douglass credibly recounts the brutality and distress the slaves endure at the hands of their forcefully cruel masters. Douglass conveys his increasing aversion and resentment towards slave-owning southerners as he identifies the corruption in the hearts of both the slaves and owners. Douglass’ ignorance of his identity—he lacks information about his birthplace and about his own father—spawns his desire to discover his purpose even as it exposes him to the dehumanizing lucrativeness of the slave system. Douglass’ acquisition of knowledge allows him to compose an intense excoriation of slavery as he denounces its harsh, demoralizing exploitation and commodification of human beings. Douglass bitterly observes the dehumanization he and his fellow slaves endure; he details the dominant, discriminating force of his masters who treat him like an animal and who exploit him as property. The strategic separation of families demonstrates the first demoralizing effect on the slaves, as at any feasible moment, a child can be ripped from a mother’s grasp and forced to work in the fields for the benefit of the master. Douglass describes his own poignantly limited acquaintance with his mother as an infant: he saw her merely for short periods at night. Douglas asserts that the economy of slavery strategically separates children from their parents, most likely “to destroy the natural affection of the mother for the child” (Douglass 2). Not only is the separation of families disheartening for the child, but the parents’ visceral response weakens their souls as well. Douglass depicts one “infernal characteristic of slavery” as he recounts the life of his grandmother and the sorrowful image as she watches her own family torn apart; at the hands of her master, “She saw her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren, divided, like so many sheep” (Douglass 28). Douglas and fellow slaves undergo a multitude of demoralizing situations that dishearten their spirits, including the valuation, in which groups of slavers assess the dollar worth of the slaves. Douglass describes the pre-auction assessment he experienced and affirms “There were horses and men, cattle and women, pigs and children, all holding the same rank in the scale of being”(Douglass 27). The lineup of the masters exhibits the owners’ transactional ideology: slaves exist as property, and can, at any time, be bought or sold to augment the white men’s wealth. The masters’ lack of concern for their slaves constitutes a complete disregard of emotions. Douglass describes that his feeble, dying, grandmother is left at a hut in the woods to die alone, bereft of any human sentiment. The masters continue to exhibit their immorality by exploiting “their” slaves and dispersing of them when they age out of their utility. 8

By comparing the actions of the slavers to pirates, Douglass exposes the desolate conditions of deprivation and their perpetual demoralization as a profitable enterprise. The slavers weaponize food, starving their slaves and then overindulging them on holidays in order to provide them with a sense of false contentment. In addition to constant hunger pangs, Douglass recalls his resentment of masters who continued to dispossess him of his earnings and who selfishly confiscated his wages as their own. Douglass expresses his indignation at paying one dollar and fifty cents to Master Hugh at the end of each week, comparing these unjust actions of his master to those of a thief, as he asserts, “The right of the grim-visaged pirate on the high seas is exactly the same’’(Douglass 54). These unfair deeds enable him to realize he must escape from the discriminating economy of slavery, and catalyze his quest for freedom in New Bedford, Massachusetts. Douglass only knows life with the presence of slavery so his expectations of the North shatter when he arrives to a shockingly prosperous society. Shackled to the injustices of slavery for this early portion of his life, he now encounters this new sight and rejoices that “the people looked more able, stronger, healthier, and happier than those of Maryland” (Douglass 67). Douglass’s text beseeches others to realize the irrelevance of slavery for the viability of the economy, and the injustices allow him to realize the deep joy of commencing a valuable and worthy life. The final pages of Douglass’ autobiography remain the most influential, as they enhance his overall message and galvanize the reader to abhor slavery and to reject its corruption. In the appendix, Douglass offers his scathing condemnation of the Artwork by Nathaniel Ford hypocrisy of Christian slave owners, yet he then presents an optimistic vision for the future with his hope for emancipation. Douglass asserts his autonomy by boldly and defiantly signing his name at the end of the book, defying all who deemed impossible the concept of a literate slave. Douglass signifies the reality that slavery must end its reign as a burden to the soul—for it demoralizes not just the heart of the slaves but contaminates the hearts of all who subscribe to its evils. 9

BERKLEIGH HATCH

2nd PLACE, NARRATIVE

The Cancer Cycle She was running, each step hitting the hard, cold cement with a thunk. A black dress billowed in the wind behind her, the rain splattering and sticking like honey. Her chest heaved; her lungs were on fire. Tears streamed down her face, a tell-tale sign of a shattered heart. But where was she running? From what? Frantically, she glanced back, the dim street light illuminating a gravestone with her little brother’s name marked on it. In the bed she sat up gasping for breath, her sheets clinging to her body drenched in sweat. Screams echoed around the room. Suddenly, the bedroom door flew open, the blinding light of the hallway illuminating her face. “Oh my god! Olivia, are you ok?” Her mom sprinted in the room, pulling her into a tight embrace. Her sobs slowly came to a stop. Nimbly, her mom’s fingers stroked her hair, Oliva’s thoughts swimming. How many more nights would she have this nightmare? It never stopped since her brother’s diagnosis a year ago. Cancer. Her brother was doing worse, and so was she. Her mom let go of her, her eyes filled to the brim with worry and weariness. In a matter of time, all of their lives had turned around so quickly. “Can we go please?” Oliva softly asked. “Of course,” came the solemn reply. The long corridors were becoming too familiar. No one should know the ups and downs of the hospital like the back of her hand. But if you asked Oliva, she could recite the number of tiles in the operating waiting room or all of the lights in the cafeteria. Finally, they reached room 203. She grasped the cool, sleek handle of the door, gathering her face into a brave smile. There he was, eight years old and so small. So pale, so miserable, so— empty. His eyes were closed in what she hoped was a blissful sleep. Wires and tubes stuck out of him, and his favorite blanket from when he was a baby pressed against his chest. Pre-cancer Noah had been the happiest and most active boy. He really tried now, but he was just too sick. For the whole family’s sake he had Artwork by Katherine Geils

to be ok. He had to. This is what their lives had to be like now, especially Oliva’s, cancer dictating everything. Wake up, come to hospital, do schoolwork (help Noah with his), make him laugh, help with chemo, distract him while he got his IV, make sure he gets his pills, come home to sleep, have nightmares. Of course her mom did a ton too, trying to help them both, making sure they were eating, arranging everything with doctors. That’s why Oliva couldn’t tell her any of her worries. It would make it worse for her mom. She just couldn’t escape it. Cancer took over everything, all of her thoughts, her social life, her little brother. There was no way out. “Livy?” Her thoughts were broken by a small voice. Quickly, she wiped her tears away, putting on a forced smile that would stay with her until she got home. “Hey buddy! Ready for chemo?” Noah’s face looked full of concern, sensing she was upset. “Why are you sad, Livy? Don’t be sad, I’m ok.” She choked on a sob. He was so brave. Brushing it aside, she reassured him she was fine. Her long fingers tousled Noah’s hair, the visible look of a broken heart etched on her face. Abruptly, his nurse came bustling in the room. She did the usual, checked his vitals, asked some questions. But she didn’t get him ready for chemo. As she headed for the door, Oliva stopped her. “He’s supposed to have chemo today, ma’am.” As soon as the nurse turned around, Olivia knew something was wrong. Her eyes. They only had sympathy in them. This had happened before. To other kids. “I think he’s a little too tired, sweetie.” No. “But—but he can’t skip a round of chemo. That would set back his treatment!” The nurse glanced back at Noah nervously as he intensely watched them. “He’s too tired.” “But—” “Have your mother come speak to me when she gets here, please.” And with that she burst out of the room. Oliva’s vision swayed. Her head spinned. No No No No NO. This couldn’t be happening. Noah was calling her name. But how could she afford to lose her best friend? Frantically, she grasped onto the chair for stability. He couldn’t die. And before she knew it, she was sobbing. Holding onto Noah, clutching him in a hug, tears poured down her cheeks. Near screams escaped her throat. This was a nightmare. A living nightmare. She couldn’t escape it. And she realized no matter what happened, she never would be able to. The cancer cycle had taken over.

2nd PLACE, POETRY

DUSK BOYD

Dysphoria Some days it’s better. Some days it’s worse. Somedays it’s just there. It’s not something that I can easily describe to other people. It’s not as much of a concept as it is a feeling. A sensation. A crippling image seared into my mind. A reflection in the mirror that doesn’t look right. It’s almost like a looming shadow, that follows me wherever I go. I can’t escape it any more than I can escape my own body. Sometimes I see myself disfigured and warped. Sometimes I’m just shapeless and faceless. Yet, Sometimes, I just see me. Its cynical irregularity taunts me Its radical imagery haunts me But then there is a light in the darkness A beacon of hope A linguistic savior As the looming shadow whispers, he/him I shout they/them Proclaiming to the world that I will not be complacent I will not let the shadow control me I turn to face the mirror My face becomes clearer I maintain a shape Is it desirable? No, it is not But it is bearable I will accept this truth as it is No more shall I hide in the depths of my despair No longer shall I wait and watch for the right time to be myself

12 12

The mirror turns to glass I peer through the window at my former self Engulfed in sadness Surrounded by an endless storm As the clouds move to obscure that past life I can’t help but feel pity. As I turnabout I am greeted by the setting sun I see memories of my past flash in the skyline Truth among lies Lies among truth All intertwined into an endless continuum. I want to wipe them away Like marker on a dry erase board I want to forget about who I was But as the sky darkens, The memories begin fade And I can’t help but feel immense sadness Like I lost a part of myself For it is then that I realize these memories These thoughts These feelings These sights These colors These tastes, sounds, and smells Are quintessential to who I am

I reach out to the skyline And one by one, I retrieve these memories I reach out to grab the final memory And I see the lingering words that are my name Three words All unique to me These three words gave me an identity These three words are attached to me Attached to all the good And to all the bad As I reach out to grab it, I pause And allow the darkness to consume my first name A name now dead to me. As the image of my deadname lingers in my head I look up to the sky A dark black and purple Chasing the red, pink, and yellow of the sunset As the sun slowly disappears And night is upon me I reach an epiphany. A new name forms itself in my brain I will be called Dusk As I return to reality My new name follows And there is something oddly familiar A sensation I haven’t felt in a long time As I step from the night into day I am greeted by the world once again And for the first time I feel in control As I step forward I know who I am now My name is Dusk. And it is nice to meet you again.

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Artwork by Leigh Reid

LILY KATE ROWLEY

2nd Place, ESSAY

Karl Marx: Issues He Uncovered

Students in Ms. Stock’s Public Speaking course were asked to pick a topic based on interest. One sophomore based hers on principle.

Many of you likely have your own impression of communism, and I’m assuming it’s not a good one. I agree; after reading and analyzing Marx’s Communist Manifesto, I can conclude that I don’t support communism, and I definitely don’t agree with the total of Karl Marx’s theories. However, I’m not here to persuade you into believing one thing or another; I’m here to teach about Marx and the social issues he uncovered in his studies. Karl Marx was an infamous philosopher who studied social and economic theories; specifically, those relating to capitalism and communism. Marx believed that the working class should have power over the products they produce, instead of the capitalist overseeing and controlling their market. Keep in mind, Marx presented these theories almost two hundred years ago, so while it may sound crazy to our modern ears, he made some valid points. There were, and still are, massive tensions involving the relationship between the working and capitalist classes, including the exploitation of labor and unequal access to capital. These problems do need solutions, so don’t be so quick to minimize them just because you don’t agree with Marx. As we attend a generally wealthy school, in which most of us will inevitably buy into the capitalist market, it’s important to understand the inequalities rooted in the system. Marx’s “solutions” arguably have been proven to be ineffective, but he did unveil perplexing issues created by capitalism that have been purposefully deferred in order to keep the system running. All economic, social, and political structures have inherent faults, no matter their productivity, and it’s time we address these issues without our preconceived, capitalist notions. The polarization between rich and poor, between the capitalist class and the proletariat class, was described in Mark’s Communist Manifesto some 160 years ago. Around this time, most of the “capital” being procured was surrounding industrialized labor, after the shift from an agrarian-dominated economy to the Industrial Revolution. Then, similar to today, Marx stated that the workers were exploited because they did not keep or control the value created by their own labor. Now, this system of an “overhead” manager does make sense, for not everyone has the intelligence to control production and the funds created in the process. However, what interests me the most is that the salary or wages of these workers can have no direct proportion to the profit of capital, excluding some instances in which employees have bought into their corporation’s stock. In most of these relationships, then, the workers, or the employees, get no real benefit from their labor. The capitalist can continue to exploit the worker’s labor, stacking up cash and advancing their position, while the worker stays in the same cycle, with the same wage, and the same outcome. The worker could create ten, twenty, fifty products in an hour and still receive the same wage. If this is the case, why would the worker want to continue this additional labor if she does not make any of the profit? This not only proves a disadvantage to the worker, but also to general society. If there is no advancing the status of the worker, there is no drive

to be better, and that is really what regresses humanity. There needs to be ambition, drive, and advancement amongst the proletariat class, which can be provided with greater access to capital and entrepreneurship. Though Marx was an adversary to the capitalist structure, he also understood that capitalism was not going to go away, for it is incredibly effective. So, instead of trying to enforce communism, a system that a) will never be instated in the U.S., and b) will generally not work in an advanced society, one possible compromise could involve expanding access to capital amongst the working class. For a government, this could mean restricting monopolies, or big corporations, which sounds quite scary for rich people. But, this also means getting more workers to invest, providing loans for business startups, and supporting more small businesses. Implementing these actions provides a purpose for the working class, and it also means fewer of our tax dollars will go to people unwilling to contribute to the workforce. Of course, people will still be working for big corporations, and these faults aren’t going to go away overnight, but with time, the gap between classes will inevitably lessen, proving beneficial for both the economic and social aspects of society. The roots of these issues go deeper than one measure, like expanding access to capital, could resolve. However, just asking these questions is a huge step towards bettering our current system. It’s not communism or capitalism, so much as a matter of, “How can I change my actions to advance our society?” Karl Marx, especially in the United States, has an infamous reputation for his communist philosophy, but his work reveals underlying issues that were never fully addressed in his time. This is a confusing subject, and it may be easier to ignore it if it doesn’t affect you. But in turn, maybe indirectly, it does affect you— and everyone else too. It is crucial that we continue to address these faults, for we are the modern philosophers of today.

Artwork by Ethan Lehrman 17

CARLISLE SMITH

3rd Place, Narrative

Nepotism Isn’t Always About Love He was angry. He was constantly so angry. Angry at himself for not standing up to his father, letting the media control his life, for the fake smile plastered on his face daily, and for the lying. So much lying. He had headed back up to his room to grab his school bags, but he now found himself staring in the mirror, seething. He snatched the newspaper that had been delivered earlier this morning off the counter, his last name present on the front page in stark black letters. As it had been all year. Every morning, he would glance at the front page of the paper, hoping that maybe one day it just wouldn’t be there. But it always was. He’d kept all of them, the newspapers that is. They were in a pile under his bed organized by month. It started in April; back then the papers read, MEYER FAMILY PATRIARCH STEPS DOWN; SON TAKES OVER and JACK MEYER ‘EXCITED’ TO TAKE OVER FAMILY BUSINESS. April was good, so were May and June, but July and August weren’t. Headlines were often things like, NOT WHAT WE THOUGHT: MEYER SON INHERITS DYING BUSINESS or HIS FATHER’S FAULT? MEYER COMPANY FILES FOR BANKRUPTCY. It went downhill from there. In September things seemed promising; the front page had printed ‘A FRESH START’; MEYER COMPANY FINDS A BUYER. It should’ve been over by December. But the headlines kept coming; so did the journalists outside his front door each morning. There were thousands of headlines, all phrased differently but all the same. Along with the headlines came the regret and the mistakes, which meant more headlines: LETTING LOOSE: MEYER SON SEEN PARTYING AMID BANKRUPTCY CHAOS and GEORGE MEYER SEEN BAILING SON OUT AFTER DUI ARREST. His family was no longer held in high regard. They were a disgrace. He knew this because his father had screamed it at him multiple times. “We are a disgrace, Jack! Do you know why? Yes, you do know why! You had one job! ONE JOB! To keep it afloat. And you failed! We are a disgrace, Jack! Because of you.” He didn’t remember the rest. He couldn’t. Because that’s when the hard steel of his father’s cane had smacked into his skull. He remembered his mother, though. He remembered how she had cried. Begged him to stop, to calm down. He remembered his father’s mistress’ shriek of glee as she watched, her eyes sparkling with anticipation, jumping up and down like a cheerleader on the sidelines. He remembered that. Along with everything else. No matter how much he wished he hadn’t. Couldn’t. He still did. The whole world did. AFRAID: MEYER SON ACCUSES FATHER OF ASSAULT The papers were relentless.

ROAD TO RECOVERY: MEYER SON CHECKS INTO REHAB AMID DOMESTIC VIOLENCE CASE MEYER FATHER FOUND GUILTY AFTER SON ACCUSES HIM OF ABUSE It was all his father’s fault, to be honest. Passing the blame was no problem for him. He’d done it to the media every time he was photographed at parties or with other girls. Back then he’d had control; now control to him felt like an estranged family member with whom he’d lost touch ages ago. His father had returned home over the summer. He had returned from court, sentenced to house arrest. It could’ve been much worse. But they had money, too much of it. Grimacing at the newspaper in his hand, he then threw it in the wastebasket and walked over to his nightstand. He downed the glass of water stationed there and looked up at the family portrait above his bed. It was your standard wealthy family portrait: the patriarch sitting comfortably in his fancy chair; the mother behind the chair looking regal and stoic; and the perfect son, beside the chair, ready to inherit all the glory. It wasn’t glory anymore. All his family had now was shame. He hadn’t realized how hard he was clenching the glass until it shattered in his hand. He gasped as it pierced flesh, sharp and stinging, blood and water trickling down his fingertips. Most of the shards fell to the floor, now stained a deep burgundy. He hated that painting. Against his better judgement, he knelt down and picked up the biggest shard of glass. He clenched it in his hands like a knife, the blood still flowing steadily from his palm, and thrust it through the middle of the frame. The pane of glass shattered and crumbled, cascading onto his sheets like raindrops. But he didn’t care, because he kept going. He slashed that painting. First straight down the middle, then diagonally, and horizontally, vertically, and every which way till he felt it could not be destroyed anymore. He stared at the thick canvas, now hanging off its Artwork by Ethan Lehrman ornate frame. He sighed and looked around the room. The floor was now littered with blood and scraps of canvas. His bed was full of glass. His hand hurt. He didn’t bother to clean any of it up. Pain had never felt so much like pleasure.

3rd PLACE, POETRY

GEORGE WALTON

In the Wind a prose poem

A plastic bag floats across the road and is content; it’s all it’s ever known, floating. But when a leaf falls, something is different. It used to be anchored but not any more. Stained a dark brown by the world, it drifts to the ground. A wind gust sweeps the street, picking the leaf from its descent. The leaf finds a new place in the world; it flows past the houses. The houses full of lights with thick green house plants on the interior. Still, the small brown leaf floats; the plastic bag has made a home here; surely, it can find one too. Slowly, though, the wind gets tired of its newest toy; like a child growing up, it sets the leaf down on the pavement. The leaf flows down the streets with the rain; it finds a resting spot in between the grates of the sewer until it sinks even lower.

2020

Artwork by Beau Porter

2121

MARIANNA SINGLETARY

3rd PLACE, ESSAY

The Cost of Idealism In Ms. Anna Smith’s AP Language class, students were asked to compare Thoreau’s famous treatise on Civil Disobedience to MLK’s Letter from Birmingham Jail. Transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau, an advocate for civil disobedience, shares noticeable similarities with the celebrated Martin Luther King in their respectful disobedience of unjust laws and their use of conscience as a tool to discern morality; both possess idealistic visions and espouse nonviolent protest. As a proactive leader and a conscientious citizen, MLK abhored segregation because of its inherent immorality and its gradual dehumanization, and throughout his text, he aspires to create a sense of urgency in the need for reform. Similarly, Thoreau balks at the poll tax, a mandate that he considers unfair because it funds a government that perpetuates slavery. Thoreau defiantly proclaims his noncompliance: “I have paid no poll-tax for six years” (100). In either case, both men feel compelled to create a widespread awakening of the individual conscience and a realization of the imperative for a moral code. Though MLK supports just governmentmandated laws and suggests that others follow them as well, he, like Thoreau, takes exception concerning unjust laws—laws that perpetuate segregation: “One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly, and with a willingness to accept the penalty” (507). MLK asserts the moral obligation of the citizen as does Thoreau in his text. Despite their similarities, the two diverge in tone and in their approach to reform; the condescending and haughty Thoreau juxtaposes the proactive and patient King in terms of their civic engagement, as Thoreau remains aloof while MLK appeals to the Christian collective. Throughout his text, MLK employs reasonable appeals to faith and optimism while Thoreau promotes secularism and individuality. MLK’s inherent optimism—“I say this as a minister of the gospel, who loves the church, who was nurtured in its bosom” (511)—contrasts Thoreau’s cynical yet aimless idealism: Thoreau does, however, display his aspirations for the future, but they lack organization, sophistication, and specificity: “The progress from an absolute to a limited monarchy, from a limited monarchy to a democracy is a progress toward a true respect for the individual”(106). This passage represents Thoreau’s idealistic premise on which he bases the entirety of his work in the writing of Civil Disobedience. Lastly, while MLK demonstrates investment in reformation for equality and he possesses optimistic leadership qualities, Thoreau and his transcendentalist tendencies, with his lack of a disciplined strategy, would potentially lead to anarchy. Thoreau’s disdainful, dismissive, and disparaging tone is highlighted in this passage: “There are orators, politicians, and eloquent men, by the thousands; but the speaker has not yet opened his mouth to speak who is capable of settling the much-vexed questions of the day”(105). While Thoreau imagines his idealistic transcendentalist utopia, although novel and captivating, it is quite infeasible. MLK supports government laws while advocating for the use of a moral compass in terms of unjust laws, while on the other hand, Thoreau has no logical path of reasoning or foundation on which to base his idealism, leaving his suggestions as an erratic stream-of-consciousness with a constant threat of chaos.

Artwork by William Bickerstaff 23

Porter-Gaud Out Loud

Poetry Recitation Contest Spring 2021 Winners and Finalists Departing from tradition, this year, interested Upper School students were invited to memorize a poem, recite it on Zoom and send in their recordings to their English teachers. The best two performers from each grade moved onto the school-wide competition which was then aired for Student Advisories. First, second, and thirdplace winners were decided proportionally by a panel comprised of faculty and staff as well as by student vote.

1st Place: Anna Lehman

“The Colonel” by Carolyn Forche

2nd Place: Piper Brown

“At the Airport-Security Checkpoint”

by Claudia Rankine

3rd Place: Becca White

“After the War” by Rachel Galvin

Finalists

(clockwise from bottom left):

Tyla Johnson “I Am, Too, Human” by Janaya Cooper Anna Kelley Zielke “See It Through” by Edgar Guest Rhett Andrews “Learning to Swim” by Bob Hicok Brady Lyden “Great Art” by Tim Dlugos Sophie Levenson “Solitude” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

PIPER BROWN

Guest Contributor

Stephen Dedalus Takes Flight Senior Piper Brown confronts the complex maturation at the heart of James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man Transcending the limits of chronological order and linear plotlines found in preModernist novels, James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man at times baffles casual readers and critics alike as they struggle to unravel the motifs that knit together Stephen Dedalus’s identity. Despite the extensive differences in interpretations of the novel, critics can all agree upon the centering role of motifs in understanding Stephen’s transition from boyhood into adolescence and beyond, and critics have traditionally relied on the repeated images of hands, fire, color, and birds to bolster their respective opinions on Stephen’s development. The bird motif first appears before Stephen even recognizes the complex, divisive religious and nationalistic dynamics unfolding in his backyard, and it lingers with him as he attends Clongowes Wood College, then Belvedere College and university in hopes of finding himself, just as his audience aspires to decipher his internal psyche themselves. Along Stephen’s educational journey, he also navigates his religious connections, transitioning among the roles of cautious young boy, rebellious teenager and sinner, and devout priest-in-training before finally settling into the forbidden gray area of ambiguity, particularly religious ambiguity. In essence, then, the bird motif follows Stephen through the various phases of his young life and in fact defines them, as Stephen gradually outgrows his fear of birds and finally sees the potential they deliver, a stage that marks the tentative awakening of his artistic consciousness. In Stephen’s early years, before he even attends Clongowes, any wrong thought or action inevitably leads to punishment and with it, clawed and feathered disciplinarians— the birds; the adults in Stephen’s life frequently force him to choose between two sides of the binary, although he rarely receives actual possibilities. During one of the first scenes of the novel, Stephen mentions his dreams of eventually marrying Eileen, his Protestant neighbor and friend. However, he immediately faces his first lesson in sinful behavior as Dante states that “Stephen will apologise” for simply fantasizing about this marriage because of Eileen’s religion, signifying that Stephen must adhere to the Catholic Church’s stricture (Joyce 4). Dante then initiates Stephen’s tense relationship with birds and his fear of them by threatening, “if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes” (Joyce 4). In “The Portrait in Perspective” from Dublin’s Joyce, Hugh Kenner connects the eagles to the eagles of Rome—“emissaries of the God with the hairy face: the punisher,” evoking “gnawing guilt,” asserting that from this scene forward, birds and punishment appear almost synonymous (Kenner 5). Birds also shed light on Stephen’s burgeoning consciousness; at this stage of his life, to save his eyes from pecking, Stephen only sees rigidity and boundaries, meaning that he cannot physically become an artist. Artists need freedom, not boundaries drawn by threatening eagles, and unfortunately for Stephen, these eagles latch onto him and follow him through his childhood. The eagles continue to punish Stephen at Clongowes, forcing him into the “correct” side of the religious binary and preventing him from seeking salvation in creation. Shy and anxious

to please, Stephen strives to meet all of his teachers’ demands, but when his glasses break, he becomes temporarily unable to complete his studies. This minor setback—through no fault of his own—naturally summons the birds to return in the more terrifying human form of Father Dolan and his “whitegrey not young face” and “his baldy whitegrey head with fluff at the sides of it” (Joyce 44). Father Dolan personifies the eagles that plague Stephen, and when he begins to pandy Stephen, driving tears into the boy’s eyes, Father Dolan solidifies the idea of birds as the living embodiment of sin’s repercussions. Until Stephen can reject this alliance, he remains bound to live as the birds govern, unable to escape the Church and the “Stephen” aspect of his identity. Perhaps Stephen’s only solace in this memory comes from, as Steven R. Centola writes, his “growing dissatisfaction with the Catholic Church,” as seen by the “unfavorable associations that the Jesuits have in Stephen’s mind” (Centola 98). The sooner Stephen can harness these negative associations and launch his personal revolution against Catholicism, instead of just allowing the birds to belittle him, the sooner he can become an artist. Stephen’s final interaction with birds before he transitions from “Stephen,” the anxious adherent, to “Stephen Dedalus,” the cautious creator, comes at Belvedere, after his early experimentation with sin and sexuality. Of course Stephen’s memories with a prostitute seem nurturing at first, satiated with comfort and stability, but as soon as his teachers and religious influencers start speaking with him, Stephen ultimately becomes agitated about the morality of his behavior, a cue for the birds to sweep in and feed on his fears. As Stephen analyzes an equation in his scribbler, it begins “to spread out a widening tail, eyed and starred like a peacock”; Stephen might not be staring at an eagle this time, but he still encounters birds ready to pluck out his eyes every time he ventures off of his Jesuit path, preventing him from embracing the flexibility of artisanship (Joyce 90). Naturally, this peacock also bears an explicit relationship with sin, as the equation next to it unfolds “itself sin by sin,” which Stephen associates with his soul’s unraveling (Joyce 91). Again, while this memory also anchors Stephen to the rules of his religion, ensuring he remains fearful of the consequences of his behavior, both from animals and humans, it too foreshadows Stephen’s break from the Church; in this scene, Eugene M. Waith reiterates that “sin is presented as an unfolding, a development” since the equation and the peacock’s tail both unfold, which allows Stephen to gradually dip his toes into the pool of sin in preparation for his upcoming artistic baptism (Waith 258). This monumental event ultimately frees Stephen Dedalus from the harshness of the Catholic Church and similarly from the turmoil birds previously caused him; they transform into symbols of possibility, rather than punishment. After finally initiating his escape from the harsh rigidity of his devout life, Stephen wanders down to the sea to find a girl in the “likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird” standing before him (Joyce 150). Previously, facing a bird would serve as an augur, foreshadowing criticisms to come and causing Stephen to cower in fear. However, in this instance, Stephen Dedalus’s eyes trace her image, exploring “her long slender bare legs” which “were delicate as a crane” (Joyce 150). He even goes so far as to observe that “her bosom was as a bird’s...soft as some dark-plumaged dove,” demonstrating that Stephen remains entranced by the bird girl; furthermore, her depiction as a “dove,” a universal symbol of peace, strikes a harsh contrast with the “eagles’” aggression Stephen faced previously, marking a pointed shift in Stephen Dedalus’s mindset (Joyce 150). Additionally, the erotic nature of this interaction provides Stephen with a freedom reminiscent of the exhilaration and independence he felt after meeting the prostitute earlier. He never would have expected that birds would provide such inspiration for his personal exploration, but suddenly, as Lee T. Lemon theorizes, birds become 27

icons of beauty, rather than harsh plucking eagles—they become an outlet for the Dedalus within Stephen, the creator within him, to investigate art and sexuality and the other side of the binary, or even the in-between, without being chastised (Lemon 47). Most critics view this encounter as a watershed moment in Stephen’s life, one that “advances him toward the artistic goal he envisages,” and it remains crucial to note that “the association of the girl with a bird” induces Stephen’s final distancing of himself from the clergy; the birds, which for so long halted Stephen’s journey to achieve his purpose in life, now become propellers of his mission (Waith 259). In other words, “they are transformed” (Lemon 47). From this point onward, Stephen possesses power over the birds in his life, a concept most clearly illustrated by his contrasting relationships with Heron at Belvedere and Cranly at university, the two bird-peers in his life. “Vincent Heron had a bird’s face as well as a bird’s name,” so despite Stephen and Heron being rivals—theoretically equals—Heron commands their relationship because at this point in the novel, timidness and structure still define Stephen’s life (Joyce 66). How could Stephen ever stand up to Heron, regardless of their seemingly equal footing, if Heron personifies plucking and wings? In contrast, Stephen’s relationship with Cranly follows his awakening and reclaiming of power over his own destiny, lending their friendship the opposite dynamic. When Cranly takes “up the Dante-Heron apologize motif,” which describes the concept of bird figures, such as Dante’s eagles or Heron himself, forcing Stephen to apologize for straying from his dictated path, “Cranly, not Stephen is embarrassed” at the end of the conversation (Lemon 49). Stephen Dedalus easily parries Cranly’s comments about judgement day with wit worthy of only those secure in their own fates. In general, “through his significant change in Stephen’s perception and use of recurrent images, Joyce depicts Stephen’s emergence as an independent and artistically creative individual” (Centola 102). Cranly as a bird fails to extract the same fear from Stephen that Heron does, allowing Stephen to demonstrate his germinating independence throughout their friendship. Naturally, despite Stephen’s upper hand over Cranly, his artistic baptism fails to completely obliterate his fear of birds because that feat can only be accomplished when Stephen fully recognizes the depth of his creative talent and rejects the guidelines the birds draw. While his relationship with birds might not be perfect, Stephen demonstrates his intent to ameliorate it as “he stood on the steps of the library to look at” a flock of birds and admire their flight (Joyce 198). Before, Stephen would have stood paralyzed, unable to watch the birds, much less count “their darting, quivering bodies,” but here, he remains entranced by them (Joyce 199). The only lingerings of his past qualms reveal themselves as a sense of fear passes over him—fear “of the hawklike man whose name he bore,” fear of the Dedalus within him (Joyce 199). Only by grappling with this fear, turning it every which way within his head, can Stephen Dedalus finally achieve harmony with artisanship and eventually with Thoth, the birdlike god of writing. Thankfully, Stephen’s internal contemplation does bring him closer to union with Thoth as he conjures memories of W. B. Yeats’s play The Countess Cathleen and in doing so identifies “himself with the swallow” by “changing the pronoun in the fourth line from Yeats’s ‘she’ to ‘he’” (Waith 258). Furthermore, Stephen uses this instance to define himself as a cautious bird, ready to take flight, yet still hoping his flock will not lead him astray. Stephen’s final encounter with birds cements his identity, not as a changed man, but as a changing man—one ready to embark upon a circuitous creative journey; it comes as he drafts his

Artwork by Ethan Lehrman

Artwork by Ethan Lehrman 30

diary, recounting his experience of being drawn away from his past life. He writes of “the spell of arms and voices” begging him to escape with them, holding out their hands to him (Joyce 225). While initially this scene seems more reminiscent of Stephen’s boyhood “fantasy of the exile returned for vengeance” since it begins by providing Stephen an outlet to finally abandon his past life, April 16 in Stephen Dedalus’s diary quickly devolves into a more complex tale (Kenner 8). Those calling out to Stephen shake “the wings of their exultant and terrible youth,” revealing their feathery foundations and demonstrating that at long last, the birds yearn to convert Stephen into one of them—a being capable of determining his own destiny (Joyce 225). Now, instead of Stephen personifying himself as a swallow and looking to his fellow avian Thoth from outside the winged community, he possesses his own place within the colony of creation. Though most critics agree that from the moment he meets the bird-girl to the end of the novel, Stephen Dedalus acts as an entirely different person from the aging “baby Tuckoo” introduced at the beginning of the novel, some critics reject the vast significance of Stephen’s artistic baptism (Joyce 3). While many of these critics, including Michael Levenson, do so subtly, referencing Stephen’s fear of “an old man from the west of Ireland...in his ‘mountain cabin’ (his aerie?), with his ‘short pipe’ (beak?)” to explain that Stephen has not fully conquered his fear of birds, Hugh Kenner represents one of the most explicit proponents of the idea that Stephen remains unchanged (Levenson 130). In fact, Kenner goes so far as to claim that Stephen’s “shape, as Joyce said, can no longer change,” and that Stephen’s “final balance” will be the peak of his adaptations (Kenner 15-16). However, this opinion fails to recognize that Stephen has already changed—he no longer adheres to the Church’s stricture, yet he also refuses to fully denounce some of its tenets. In essence, Stephen Dedalus now represents the single dot of nonbinary in a binary world. His artistic baptism does not signify a moment in which he transforms into an entirely different person, as Kenner seems to believe other critics claim; the term “artistic baptism” merely commemorates the moment in which Stephen initiates his path towards progress, a minor change on the surface but representing the fruits of a deep internal struggle. Works Cited Centola, Steven R. “‘The White Peace of the Altar’: White Imagery in James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.” South Atlantic Review, vol. 50, no. 4, 1985, pp. 93–106. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/3199385. Accessed 25 Feb. 2021. Joyce, James, and Kevin JH Dettmar. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Barnes & Noble Classics, 2004. Kenner, Hugh. “The Portrait in Perspective.” Dublin’s Joyce. Chatto & Windus, 1956. Lemon, Lee T. “A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man: Motif as Motivation and Structure.” Modern Fiction Studies, vol. 12, no. 4, 1966, pp. 439–450. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/26278481. Accessed 25 Feb. 2021. Levenson, Michael. “Stephen’s Diary in Joyce’s Portrait—The Shape of Life.” ELH, vol. 52, no. 4, 1985, pp. 1030. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/3039476. Accessed 25 Feb. 2021. Waith, Eugene M. “The Calling of Stephen Dedalus.” College English, vol. 18, no. 5, 1957, pp. 256–261. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/372469. Accessed 25 Feb. 2021.

ANNA LEHMAN

Guest Contributor

Air Pollution Against Our Global Aviary:

An Unacknowledged Attack on Birds Everywhere Sophomore Anna Lehman’s essay recently placed as a runner-up in the 2nd Annual STEM Writing Contest sponsored by The New York Times.

According to Tracey Holloway, a professor in UW–Madison’s Nelson Institute for Environmental Studies, we don’t seem to know much about how air pollution affects birds. We often write off their deaths casually: a probable victim to an airplane propellor, a plastic bag, or a slowwitted slam into a glass window; but, in taking a step back, understanding bird health in a population is integral in determining the wellbeing of an ecosystem and could potentially save human lives. Birds breathe differently than people, which consequently makes for dangerous effects on bird respiratory health when high levels of gases (such as ozone and nitrous oxides) are present in their environments. Because of avian anatomy, birds inhale oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide in one breath, which allows them to respire quickly while flying but can also handicap their health; the constant intake of air leads to the expeditious contraction of various pollutants and subsequent conditions like: inflammation, lung damage, and ruptured blood vessels. Particulate matter (PM) easily enters the bird’s lung passages and lodges itself in tissue, eventually leading to build-up toxic enough to strangle a bird mid-breath. Most significantly, polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons (PAHs) released from car exhaust have been found to be highly embryotoxic and can stunt growth, development, and promote genetic irregularities in birds. Although there is not much data on the effects of air pollution on birds—seeing that birds are impressively mobile creatures—the continuing trends of avian death in major urban areas plagued by toxic fumes points to a rather unavoidable aspect of our world’s environmental situation. Although there aren’t many current studies on the effects air pollution has on birds, the trends are clear: birds have been indicative of extensive pollution for centuries. For one, being a “canary in a coal mine,” isn’t just a silly, alliterative phrase. In the early 20th century, canaries were brought into mines to indicate toxic levels of carbon monoxide to the humans, and would save actual human lives by dying; when the miners saw that the canary was dead, they would immediately rush out of the exit tunnels. Before any science on the matter was published, we already knew that bird trends can indicate larger issues in the environment. Again, in Mexico City in 1986, birds fell out of residents’ trees, which lead to the discovery of revoltingly high—and even deadly—levels of copper, lead, and mercury in the air. Yet, these two examples are certainly not the only; many other instances of mass bird casualties have occurred, and will likely continue. Frankly, I can’t imagine a world in which little girls see their dream birds for the first time dead. To me, I’ve grown up fascinated by birds. Seeing a painted bunting for the first time and birding with my grandma on a Sunday afternoon aren’t experiences I’m willing to lose. If we continue down the polluted path we’re on using dangerous fossil fuels, whole environments will be disrupted and dreams will be crushed. We must work to be more mindful of our effects on birds. Sources: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/10/science/birds-air-pollution.html https://pubs.er.usgs.gov/publication/5224791 https://hubbardbrook.org/articles/three-billion-birds-vanished-north-america-50-years-what-about-hubbard-brook https://news.wisc.edu/canary-in-a-coal-mine-survey-captures-global-picture-of-air-pollutions-effects-on-birds/ https://www.audubon.org/news/what-can-birds-tell-us-about-air-pollution https://ca.audubon.org/news/birds-suffer-air-pollution-just-we-do

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JACK FERM

Guest Contributor

In his college application essay, Senior Jack Ferm offers food for thought —and digestion.

I take my horse milk shaken, not stirred. As of the last two years, I’ve imbibed this signature Kazakhstani export, along with many other exotic mammalian beverages. From goat to sheep, even camel milk, I would even go as far as to classify myself as a connoisseur. And, I’ve come to the conclusion... they are all terrible. Do not drink any of the aforementioned milks; they are objectively impalatable and taste exactly how you’d expect. Awful. If you come across someone who willingly consumes these so-called refreshments, they should be grouped with the masochists who order burgers “well-done.” I, for one, drink these milks for medical purposes. I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to engage in a not-so-widely-accepted treatment for food allergies in Southern California. The process slowly desensitizes my immune system to Dairy, Tree Nuts, and Sesame by incorporating foods with similar proteins into my diet, the results, of which, have been highly promising. Before this program, my only option was to avoid these foods, and the consequences for accidentally ingesting an allergen were potentially fatal. When I was four, I mistook “soy milk” for a similarly packaged chocolate milk. After one sip, I instantly began throwing up. I was administered myriad medications but became listless, lips turning blue, falling unconscious in my father’s arms, waiting for an ambulance. Yet, despite numerous similar unnerving encounters, my experiences with food allergies heightened my sense of individuality and cemented my skills as a communicator and self-advocate, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. Effectively relaying the seriousness of my allergies keeps me safe. So, on the rare occasion that my family goes out to eat—because my dad is an amazing cook—it necessitates vis-a-vis collaboration with the restaurant staff. My most recent interaction at my favorite sushi restaurant, “LoLa,” was as follows: “I’m severely allergic to dairy, tree nuts, and sesame; looking at the menu, I’m leaning towards the honshu, and the unagi nigiri with quail egg.” (I like to think I have a sophisticated palate...) The waitress replied, “I know there is sesame in the Honshu, but you should be completely okay on the nigiri— I’ll check with the chef and be right back with you.” Mentally, I am checking boxes. Did she record my allergies on her flippy-note-pad-thingy? Yes. Either that or she was filling out a mad-lib. She’s checking with the chef... another good sign. As neurotic as it sounds, I have to place my faith in others at every meal. As a kid, I vividly remember visiting Disney World, eating at that silly breakfast Meet and Greet where characters like Goofy and Pluto would pose for pictures. I asked the chef, “What can I have?” He responded, “What would you like?” He accommodated my allergies, and I chose from the menu! I was so happy I could eat like everyone else. I felt a reprieve, if only in a small way, from the ostracization I had encountered every school-day through seventh grade: the feeling of being the single black lunch box inundated by a sea of yellow cafeteria trays. Alone. But I owned it. Sometimes, I liked being separate from everyone else—especially since I had leftovers from whatever heavenly concoction my father prepared the night before. Through this inveterate individualism and communicative capacity, I’ve been gifted with the opportunity to serve the food-allergy community at large. In my junior year, I spoke in Washington, DC, with South Carolina house representative Joe Cunningham, along with the legislative aides of senators’ Tim Scott and Lindsey Graham, about co-sponsoring the FASTER act (H.R.2117, S.3451). The bill requires food manufacturers to add sesame to their ingredient labels and could prevent thousands of life-threatening allergic reactions. Although I expect to be free from my allergies soon, I like to think I played a small role in making other kids’ lives safer—and perhaps free from horse milk.

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Watch Literary Issue Porter-Gaud School 300 Albemarle Road Charleston, SC, 29407 36