mosaic The Publication of the Arts SPRING 2014
Student Editors
Karen Ko ’14
Sophia Kuhn ’14 Chloe Reimann ’14 Katherine Kamel ’15 Christine Marella ’15 Sharmaine Sun ’15 Faculty Advisor
Mr. Simon Hunt
Staff
Katie Allen ’14
Nia Jacobs ’14
Ivy Armijo ’17
Allie Loomis ’14
Maddie Bennett ’15
Tanya Madrigal ’14
Sam Bennett ’17
Karli McIntyre ’14
Loleï Brenot ’17
Ashten Nguyen ’16
Laura Colosky ’15
Grace Russell ’16
Cecily Donovan ’15
Willow Wallace ’15
Isis Enders ’17
Daniella Wilson ’15
Maddy Fisher ’15
Kat Wulstein ’17
Hannah Grogin ’16
Devynn Wulstein ’14
Gracie Hadland ’14 Ilana Hagen ’17 Anna Hunt ’17
Design & Production
Communications Office
Front Cover: Unity, Jee Hee Lee ’15, mixed media Back Cover: Swat, Rhianna La Chance ’14, mixed media, 5.5” x 7.75” All content © 2014 Santa Catalina School students as indicated.
mosaic The Publication of the Arts
Kelp Me!, Karen Ko ’14, graphite, 48” x 36”
SPRING 2014
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Time is the Essence, Daniella Wilson ’15, digital print
Table of Contents Art, Unity............................................................. Jee Hee Lee ’15....................................................Front Cover Art, Kelp Me!....................................................... Karen Ko ’14........................................................................ 1 Photograph, Time is the Essence......................... Daniella Wilson ’15................................................................2 Art, Majority........................................................ Jee Hee Lee ’15....................................................................4 Poem, Fixed........................................................ Sharmaine Sun ’15................................................................5 Fiction, Ruth........................................................ Chloe Reimann ’14................................................................6 Photograph, Golden Boy.................................... Sara Muñoz Ledo ’16............................................................7 Poem, Living....................................................... Devynn Wulstein ’14..............................................................8 Photograph, Glacial Melt.................................... Allie Loomis ’14.....................................................................8 Photograph, Keeping Traditions.......................... Ellie Browne ’15.....................................................................9 Prose, Reality...................................................... Cecily Donovan ’15..............................................................10 Art, Rosalita........................................................ Katie Allen ’14......................................................................11 Prose, Untitled.................................................... Sara Muñoz Ledo ’16..........................................................12 Photograph, View from the Edge....................... Ellie Browne ’15...................................................................12 Poem, Isabella.................................................... Christine Marella ’15............................................................13 Art, Textured Childhood..................................... Ruby Bantariza ’16..............................................................13 Poem, Blood....................................................... Elsa Sandbach ’17..............................................................14 Art, Discovery..................................................... Karen Ko ’14.......................................................................15 Poem, Para el día que no esté........................... Tanya Madrigal ’14...............................................................16 Art, Untitled......................................................... Caroline Wright ’14............................................................. 16 Poem, Old.......................................................... Octavia Dickinson ’17......................................................... 17 Art, Sunset........................................................... Grace Russell ’16............................................................... 17 Poem, The Constellations of Wonder................. Catherine Tobey ’16............................................................ 18 Art, Congested................................................... Jocelyn La Chance ’14....................................................... 19 Dialogue, Untitled................................................ Lilly Hogan ’14.................................................................... 20 Fiction, Untitled................................................... Rio Turrini-Smith’15............................................................ 21 Photograph, Along the Wall................................ Faith Camara ’17................................................................ 21
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Fiction, Charles Jenson Ray................................ Octavia Dickinson ’17..........................................................22 Photograph, Napo’o ’ana o ka l’....................... Isabella Ateshian ’16........................................................... 23 Fiction, Untitled................................................... Madigan Webb ’17............................................................. 24 Art, Éthéré........................................................... Amara Pate ’14................................................................... 24 Poem, Misr.......................................................... Katherine Kamel ’15........................................................... 25 Photograph, Morning Run................................... Gillian Bolt ’14.................................................................... 25 Fiction, Untitled................................................... Christine Marella ’15........................................................... 26 Photograph, Everest............................................ Sharmaine Sun ’15............................................................. 26 Poem, Dishes...................................................... Devynn Wulstein ’14........................................................... 27 Fiction, Untitled................................................... Grace Russell ’16............................................................... 28 Art, Recipe for Veggie Burgers........................... Charlotte Johnston-Carter ’14............................................ 28 Poem, City Bird................................................... Sophia Kuhn ’14................................................................. 29 Photograph, Carmel Beach 1............................. Francesca Flores ’14.......................................................... 29 Photograph, Tiny Dancer.................................... Ana Rode Viesca ’14.......................................................... 30 Poem, Untitled.................................................... Katie Allen ’14..................................................................... 31 Photograph, Carmel Beach 2............................. Francesca Flores ’14.......................................................... 32 Poem, Riddle...................................................... Jessica Oh ’17.................................................................... 32 Fiction, A Matter of Time…................................. Giovanna Mitchell ’15......................................................... 34 Photograph, Spider/Window.............................. Amanda Radner ’16........................................................... 35 Photograph, Untitled........................................... Cecily Donovan ’15............................................................. 36 Fiction, Untitled .................................................. Sharmaine Sun ’15............................................................. 39 Art, Unknown...................................................... Caroline Wright ’14............................................................. 39 Poem, Spondeo Non Sterto............................... Sharmaine Sun ’15............................................................. 40 Art, Untitled......................................................... Jee Hee Lee ’15..................................................................40 Fiction, Market Season....................................... Christine Marella ’15........................................................... 41 Photograph, State of Mind.................................. Daniella Wilson ’15............................................................. 41 Art, Glare............................................................ Jocelyn La Chance ’14....................................................... 42 Prose, 从奶奶, To Me.......................................... Sharmaine Sun ’15............................................................. 43 Art, Memory....................................................... Amara Pate ’14....................................................................45 Fiction, Crime of Inaction................................... Cecily Donovan ’15............................................................. 46 Photograph, Escape........................................... Leslie Gobel ’15.................................................................. 47 Photograph, Hunger for Vanity............................ Katie Griffith ’14.................................................................. 49 Poem, Cecilia..................................................... Sophia Kuhn ’14................................................................. 50 Art, on/off........................................................... Jee Hee Lee ’15................................................................. 50 Photograph, El Centro......................................... Paulina Mastretta ‘16.......................................................... 51 Poem, Catacombs............................................. Christine Marella ’15........................................................... 52 Photograph, #88.................................................. Hannah Grogin ’16..............................................................53 Art, Untitled......................................................... Gracie Hadland ’14............................................................. 54 Fiction, Untitled................................................... Sharmaine Sun ’15............................................................. 55 Fiction, Agua...................................................... Christine Marella ’15........................................................... 56 Art, Yellow-Bellied............................................... Karen Ko ’14...................................................................... 56 Poem, Chocolate Almonds................................ Christine Marella ’15........................................................... 58 Poem, Autotorretrato......................................... Jennifer Hernandez ’15....................................................... 59 Art, Caras........................................................... Sara Muñoz Ledo ’16......................................................... 59 Photograph, El Oso............................................. Ana Rode Viesca ’14.......................................................... 60 Photograph, Summer Time.................................. Sophi Li ’14........................................................................ 61 Fiction, Untitled................................................... Willow Wallace ’15.............................................................. 61 Poem, Exotic....................................................... Sharmaine Sun ’15............................................................. 62 Photograph, Reflection....................................... Willow Wallace ’15.............................................................. 63 Fiction, Freedom from Love................................ Ashten Nguyen ’16............................................................. 64 Photograph, Untitled........................................... Sophia Kuhn ’14................................................................. 64 Photograph, The Two-Dimensional Man............. Cecily Donovan ’15..................................... Inside Back Cover Art, Swat............................................................. Rhianna La Chance ’14........................................ Back Cover
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Majority, Jee Hee Lee ’15, mixed media
Acknowledgments Sister Claire Mr. John Aimé Mrs. Michelle Avery Ms. Crystal Boyd ’89 Mrs. Rosemarie Capodicci Mrs. Bo Covington Mr. Marc Howard ’93 LS Dr. Nancy Hunt Dr. Gerry Kapolka Mrs. Jamie LeMaire Ms. Claire Lerner Ms. Ala Milani ’87 Dr. John Murphy Mrs. Anne O’Dowd Mr. Richard Patterson Mrs. Masha Serttunc Mrs. Melissa Sheets Ms. Courtney Shove Mr. Dale Thompson Ms. Catherine Tufariello
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Fixed Sharmaine Sun ’15
I have a habit of fixing things— The heart-shaped wrinkle in the corner of your bed, The misplaced curl in the mess of your head, The plump pillow I placed in your stead. Your breath made a cloud on the mirror— I wiped it off. Your lips kept humming— Though I told you to stop. Your letters had mistakes I just couldn’t ignore— I edited; you never forgot. I cringed when you spoke, Your voice, tinged with smoke, Had morphed into little more than a croak. I turned away when you woke. You didn’t show when you broke. Your rough touch made me pause. All I could feel were your flaws, You asked was I happy? I wondered who was. Then I thought I had fixed the mistake that was you, But I shake off the ache, And now, awake, I see my biggest mistake— I tried to fix you.
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Ruth Chloe Reimann ’14
Ruth is pretending she is on a balance beam as she walks along the familiar lake, her delicate arms in second position as she points her toes. She wears a pearlcolored gauzy dress that floats around her light frame. She decides to sit crosslegged on the sand. She feels rooted in the earth. The water shimmers like rippling velvet at midnight. A crown of wild flowers adorns her equally wild maple hair, and she is simply at peace. Decades later I would come to gaze at the same landscape, but without Ruth. Ruth was merely a distant memory, a fading letter scented with rose petals and postmarked from another time. Even from my father’s memory she seems to be like a passing butterfly. We gaze at pictures, he and I, Ruth’s long, flowing hair braided by her German mother and bound with pink ribbons by her French au pair. We know her through classical music, Chopin and Mozart, cigarette smoke, French novels, and small snippets of a black and white life. Her figure remains forever young. We cradle photographs of her back flips, handstands, and pirouettes. I examine her face, the color of her eyes, the shape of her body, the curve of her hips, searching for some semblance of myself in her. Ruth is stuck between reality and fantasy; we have made up so many stories about her brilliant life. We regard her with admiration, envy, and sadness. She gazes at me through those haunting, caramel eyes and seems to ask me: why? Why did I never meet you? Why did they forget me? In her black and white life she seems to mask a deep melancholy. Her long unruly curls remind me of my own; her quiet manner ties her to my father and then to me. I long to see her gliding in the blue lakes of Switzerland, joining in on her freedom. I long to see her flowing white dress, kiss her soft cheek, and hear her vivid Swiss-German in my ear.
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Golden Boy, Sara Muñoz Ledo ’16, digital print
Living Devynn Wulstein ’14
Sitting in the sun And watching clouds pass over. Like laughing, The real and genuine kind. Food: Savoring every last bite. Listening to that song that Sends chills down your spine. We take for granted our moments, But, in a world of chaos And stress, believing that there is something To live for Makes all the difference.
Glacial Melt, Allie Loomis ’14, digital print
When the turmoil of life takes over And empathy leaves you Drowning in a world of pain. Remember the few beauties Of a pointless existence. Like love, Precious in all its simple forms. The bioluminescent waves On a foreign island at night. The red sunset Breaking over a mountain. A shared moment of understanding With a random stranger. Accomplishing something Which you never thought you could.
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Keeping Traditions, Ellie Browne ’15, digital print
Reality Cecily Donovan ’15
In movies, a young actress will wake up to the cooing of the mourning dove and stretch her arms delicately across the perfectly crinkled white sheets and yawn. She will softly rise, and her hair will drop to one side of her head, causing her to push it past her shoulder as she glides her way across the wooden planks, embracing the day with her natural curls and blushed cheeks. Her partner will also yawn and sit up, a faint smile from the memory of the night before. The imprint of a pillow will be pressed against his cheek, and as he follows the memory line from the night, he will remember the pretty girl standing in his room. As their eyes slowly meet, an understanding passes through them, and, if you are a good enough audience member, you just may catch this. The characters’ visual embrace is supposed to represent the elation that comes with new love and the hope that this lust will last though the wrinkles and children.
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The movie may continue with one young lover throwing herself in front of a bullet to save her love, or a letter and two soldiers at the door. But, if you are unlucky enough to catch the two actors’ eyes meeting at the exact moment, you won’t see the characters but the people playing them. These actors are the people that should most resemble their characters, but, as their eyes embrace, their acting is not good enough to disguise the knowledge that is passed between them. The real people in the costumes know that there is no love like what they are playing; there is no love as beautiful as a romance novel, or even as strong as a young girl’s fantasy or an old man’s regret. The only things that are happening on this movie screen are two actors acknowledging their deception for a second, a camera taking film, and light as artificial as their love pouring into the set.
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Rosalita, Katie Allen ’14, mixed media, 20” x 16”
Untitled Sara Muñoz Ledo ’16
I hope that when we die our souls go up to the sky like balloons do when they slip out of children’s hands. And that every good thing we ever did turns into dust. And that the dust goes into every star in the whole wide sky to later rain
View from the Edge, Ellie Browne ’15, digital print
back down on sleeping children.
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Isabella Christine Marella ’15
She looks through the eye of the cavernous beer bottle, and his face swells like a fish. The bar becomes a temple for her laughter and he lights a cigarette. Cigarro, he whispers, and cradles it between his fingers. He blows rings like bubbles, and her own voice reverberates inside her head.
Textured Childhood, Ruby Bantariza ’16, mixed media, 6” x 4”
We had an aquarium when I was young, small, square, three fish and a marble statue of an underwater explorer. We fed them beads of fish food and pressed our noses to the tank, exhaled vapor against the cool glass. She always liked to see her breath. Now, smoking cigarros daily, with a new novio each month, she submerges underwater, her throat full of breath and beer and laughing. Later, she will pull her dress from her body like the tide pulls sand into the sea. If only she knew how laughter sounds like silence underwater.
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Blood Elsa Sandbach ’17
She laughed as she took my heart Beating from my chest Her tender hands Now covered in my blood Pushed hair out of my face Bloodying the golden locks that shade my eyes There was never any other way I thought as bloody hands held mine in hers Slowly spiraling into the darkness The sweet sweet darkness That I begged for all my life But now when it has come I am scared Yet she Holding my hands Blood still gushing from the hole In my now empty chest Took hers out and gave it to me The beating heart Pleading with us both To be put back in To be kept in darkness once more But fate led it not back to its former life As we fell away together Into the darkness Bloody hand in bloody hand 16 mosaic
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Discovery, Karen Ko ’14, graphite, 24” x 18”
Tanya Madrigal ’14
El día que no esté, va a ser un triste día. Confeso que no soy alguien grande ni alguien importante pero Sí, extrañaré mi existencia. El día que no sentiré mi corazón pulsando, mi sangre oscuro y oxigenado corriendo, y la calidez afectuosidad con mi anticipación será el día más decepcionante. Ese día te ruego no me dejes en la compañía de ESOS. ESOS que querían agradecer mis acciones y disfracen sus rencores. ESOS que me querían minimizar a ser una humana pérdida y excéntrica. ESOS que me querían recordar como la niña tímida que jugó su “juego”. No soy ni nunca seré ESA niña. Soy ahora y para siempre, yo. La niña que no aceptará ser su muñeca de porcelana de nadie, La niña que no buscará el Paraíso por deseo a ver y entender la imperfección, La niña que amaba vivir por las vueltas inesperadas y las preguntas sin respuestas. Quizá es mejor que esa niña loquilla y amante de la libertad que nunca podía tener, haya muerto. Así nunca podrá ver la muerte de su espíritu salvaje y revolucionario. Ojalá así, esa niña continúe ser feliz, si solamente ingenuamente.
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Untitled, Caroline Wright ’14, acrylic on wood, 15” x 25”
Para el día que no esté
Sunset, Grace Russell ’16, watercolor, 40” x 25.5”
Old Octavia Dickinson ’17
There are cold, lonely, Forgotten lyrics Scratched into old books. Ancient keyboard notes And dying piano tunes, Written long ago. Olden words, letters, The timeless, worthless poems Penned by sad lovers. Rearrange letters, Formulate words, sentences, Make them something new.
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The Constellations of Wonder Catherine Tobey ’16
The constellations of wonder. Carefully crafted by science herself with her own bare hands. All on her own terms. The wolves, the people and the living things on earth Extract information from a sky’s hard work of art and alignment. The sky holds this art on display for free every night Just look up. Oh you sublime constellations, I’d rather stare and marvel at you Than anything else. No beauty magazine, no Aphrodite, Nothing that lives on this decaying planet of ours could ever compare To the beauty of Andromeda and Cancer, Casting their powerful radiance on my small pathetic self. Reading me stories of love and enchantment. Show me the way, North Star. Teach me your wisdom, So that I too know I can be a star like you. Work with the moon, Constellations small and constellations large, And free me from this hopeless world I live in. Shift your gaze on me and release me from reality. Show me the meaning of imagination at its prime. Let me bathe and cleanse in you To rid myself of earthly impurities. This I ask of you when I reach for you and when I wish upon each of you. Or when I sang about you in my childhood. When I play and dance in you. When all my senses touch you. In return, touch my life with depth and meaning. Ignite us, inspire us and petrify mankind. You were made for this.
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Congested, Jocelyn La Chance ’14, mixed media, 15” x 11”
Untitled Lilly Hogan ’14
(Scene opens on a stage that has lots of white fluff with a blue background. It looks like inside the clouds. There is a girl with curly strawberry blonde hair, a white V-neck, and white skinny jeans: Rose, next to the Grim Reaper.) (They look uncomfortable and kind of scoot apart.)
Grim Reaper: Haha! High school. I remember that. Rose: You went to high school? Grim Reaper: Yeah, I did. I was a person before this. Rose: How did you become the Grim Reaper then?
Rose: I never thought death would be so awkward.
Grim Reaper: I made a deal with The Boss Man.
Grim Reaper: Ahahahahahahahahah (he snorts, which makes him laugh even more), aaaaaaahhh, that’s a good one.
Grim Reaper: No, Lucifer.
Rose: You mean God?
(Silence)
Rose: But God controls everything in the universe, right?
Rose: So what’s your favorite song?
Grim Reaper: All in good time.
Grim Reaper: You know, it changes quite a lot, but I’m really into “Sail Away” by Enya right now
Rose: Why are we all alone? Shouldn’t other people who have died be here?
Rose: Yeah, who else do you listen to?
Rose: How would I know? I’m not the Grim Reaper.
Grim Reaper: I like Ingrid Michaelson, Michael Branch, and Fiona Apple is my girl! She actually fell off a bridge one time, and we made a deal so I can keep on hearing her beautiful music. Rose: Interesting; why are we on a cloud? Grim Reaper: Transportation. How old are you? Rose: I’m 16. 22 mosaic
Grim Reaper: Should they?
Grim Reaper: Technically, you are. I’m part of this illusion you’ve created for yourself while your spirit gradually returns to the earth. Everyone’s afterlife is what they create. Rose: Why would my illusion tell me it’s an illusion? Grim Reaper: You asked.
Untitled Rio Turrini-Smith ’15
Along the Wall, Faith Camara ’17, digital print
As the guillotine grinned down from above, his mind wandered back to the beginning: it had been the perfect poison—administered daily, it was fatal only when discontinued; regrettably traceable in food, but imperceptible as the cause of death. Then things changed. As his feelings for her morphed into something like affection, he realized that he could not cut the supply. He would probably be found out, but she would live. And he was caught, as he had known he would be. The tragedy was that she would never know the truth. Was it worth it? That was the question, and KATHUNK.
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Charles Jenson Ray Octavia Dickinson ’17
Charles Jenson Ray March, 27 1993 – December 25, 2012 Beloved Forever James scoffed. Beloved. Sure. That’s why his parents disowned him. James bent down to place the daisies near the granite slab. His hand lingered near the stone, brushing lightly over it, fondly caressing the engraved name. He remembered the cool nights shared with Charles, the way they hesitantly held hands. James remembered lying with Charles: strong arms surrounding him. He remembered Afghanistan, the gunshot that killed Charles. He remembered the pain and the loss and the hurt, so deep down inside he wasn’t sure it would ever leave. It didn’t.
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Untitled Madigan Webb ’17
The candy striper opened the door to room ten, where Mr. Donovan lay in a deep coma. He wore the same hospital gown that he had been wearing for the past year, and his white hair stood high above his head, but Mr. Donovan was not lying down. The girl gasped. It’s not possible, she thought. It was possible. Mr. Donovan sat up in his bed. He smiled. “Sorry,” he said, gesturing to his breathing tube on the floor. “It made me claustrophobic. What year is it?” “2013,” she said hesitantly.
Éthéré, Amara Pate ’14, acrylic, 19.1” x 20.7”
“So,” he said, looking puzzled, “Who won the election?”
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Morning Run, Gillian Bolt ’14, digital print
Misr Katherine Kamel ’15
Dust. Dust is everywhere. Dust is patient, Dust is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. Dust speaks all the languages of the world, yet it is silent. It is in every country everywhere, filling up corners and lungs and people, filling Up our lives, filling in the cracks in the pavement. For Dust is like water—it reaches places we think are sealed so tightly nothing can get in. It settles. “Shake the Dust.” I say keep it. I say hold on to it, embrace it. I say infuse it with your breath, give it the spark of life and watch it frolic, Freed. Dust. Dust is everywhere. It connects us. The smell: it burns my nose but burns my heart evermore! I long for the moment Dust and I will be reunited on that balcony in that place. For me it is a sense of déjà vu. And so I ask, what is it for you?
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Untitled Christine Marella ’15
Everest, Sharmaine Sun ’15, digital print
There are chalk cliffs cut in the hillside dressed in morning mist, smoothed out by the hands of the sailors loosing their ropes. Their song tastes of salt and spray, a low tune: go home boy, go home. The tall grass nods, nods; he walks over the hill to the cliffside. The edge is cut with a rough bread knife, and the boats are out, backed by the tide—restless in their moorings. The fog is like a swath of breath, pouring over the twist-rope beach—and behind the thick fog cloud the sun is a coin in the sky.
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Dishes Devynn Wulstein ’14
Greased frying pans Washed in squirts of blue Mixed with sprinkles Of pure water saturating with Grime left from the too many thoughts. Reminders: gorged stomachs And hearts On sweetest treats Of laughter and baked kisses. Nutrition meant for health and care. Extra scrubbing Cleans caked on moments With rough sided sponges, But, no matter the force applied, The amount of sudsy water Spilt on concrete floors of Heartbreak, a slimy layer Of the smoothest oil remains On the dish of your love life.
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Untitled Grace Russell ’16
Recipe for Veggie Burgers, Charlotte Johnston-Carter ’14, mixed media, 15” x 9”
I would thank you for the socks you gave me last Christmas, but they were striped. That night we held each other and laughed, ignoring the offensive socks. We talked about the Indians and Jesus, pretending to move on. I did my homework and even had a sip of your wine, but it didn’t change a thing because the homework was a bust, the wine was bitter, and I don’t believe in Jesus. I still would have thanked you for the socks you gave me last Christmas, but you were gone.
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City Bird Sophia Kuhn ’14
Again she settles on the street corner. Each day it is the same; dawn to dusk. There’s the usuals & the foreigners. People walk by and pass in the fresh musk Of the cold morning. Last night’s lights are out, And the shop doors break open to the crowds As each person among the pavements routes Their way around the trees and clouds Looking for something exciting to do With friends and family of young and old. All the conversations long overdue— Each block full of chatter, listened and told, All witnessed by her as she sits up high,
Carmel Beach 1, Francesca Flores ’14, digital print
Chirping to the busy world hello and goodbye.
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32 mosaic Tiny Dancer, Ana Rode Viesca ’14, digital print
Untitled Katie Allen ’14
Elle marche seule. Le marbre blanc froid baise ses pieds. Elle marche sur un chemin de ténèbres, De cauchemars, de regrets, D’abandon, d’inutilité. Elle marche avec la pression De la société sur son dos, celle-ci Chargée des jugements, des critiques, Des idées préconçues. Elle marche dans la vulnérabilité Parce que, toute sa vie, On lui a enseigné son insignifiance, son infériorité par rapport à d’autres. Et maintenant, Son esprit une fois soigneusement cousu, Est déficelé Une masse de fin fil noir. Car qui croira en elle Si elle ne croit pas en elle-même?
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Riddle Jessica Oh ’17
We are so different, but why do we stick? You’re cozy and soft while my teeth poke and prick. I scratch and I scrape, but you get pulled away. And then you come back, but why do you stay? Our fairytale story is one many tell, For I am a beast, and you are my belle. (Turn to p. 64 for the solution.) 34 mosaic
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Carmel Beach 2, Francesca Flores ’14, digital print
A Matter of Time… Giovanna Mitchell ’15
“He’s insisting on seeing you,” my secretary explained to me after I told her that I just didn’t have enough time that afternoon to take on a new client matter. What with all the deadlines I had to meet, preparing the payroll so the staff didn’t walk out on me, and meeting with the contractor for the umpteenth time to fix the leaking roof problem that we had paid for but which still wasn’t fixed (as evidenced by the water marks in both the ceiling and the new rug in my office), I really didn’t have time that afternoon for another meeting. But she said it was important and that he insisted on having me help him with his case. “Ok, I understand that he has a serious child custody problem that he wants to discuss with me. I get it, and I would like to help. Will you please try to schedule him for Monday morning? That way, I can work both Saturday and Sunday again to try to get caught up so I can focus on a new matter.” Trying to stop thinking about the fact that I really didn’t have time for a new matter and remembering the trial that had been set for late next week, I begrudgingly thought that this proposal would resolve the problem for the time being.
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“No, it has to be today, he says,” was Abigail’s firm response. “He says ‘time is of the essence,’ of course. That and he will wait all day and night for you if he has to.” I heaved a deep and exaggerated sigh. “Fine,” I relented. “Please take him into the conference room, and I will be in shortly.” Wondering why I hadn’t pursued a job that was strictly 9-5 only and where someone else had the burden of worrying about code-compliant facilities and happy employees, I brushed everything off of the mile-high pile on my desk and found a fresh notepad and a blue pen. I grabbed a bottle of water to take the place of an uneaten lunch, and I headed for the conference room, hoping that a short meeting would address this man’s immediate concerns and get me back to dealing with the leaky roof situation before the whole thing caved in on me. When I walked into the conference room, the man that I found there completely surprised me. He was not a young or even a middle-aged man as is typical of the males who frequently
Spider/Window, Amanda Radner ’16, digital print
contact me to seek help with custody disputes regarding their minor children. Instead, this was an elderly gentleman, with sad eyes and a hunched-over posture that immediately told me that life had not always been good to him. I studied him carefully before either of us spoke, and it immediately became apparent to me that this man had come to ask me for something very important.
accumulated more than chronological years.
“Hello, Ms. Mitchell,” he said to me in a haggard-sounding voice. “How have you been?”
“Yes,” he said. “I thought you might not remember me. It has been a very long time since we spoke last…” His voice drifted off, and he closed his eyed and bowed his head as if he were entering the deep thoughts of an extremely painful past.
I paused and looked intently at the aged man who was extending a weathered hand in my direction. I looked at him carefully and realized that, although he was my senior by a few decades, his life had been a difficult one and he had
“Hello, Sir,” I responded and shook his fragile hand warmly. “I do apologize, but have we met before?” As I said the words to him, a vision of faded familiarity began to creep into my mind, and I started to think that perhaps I had met this man many years before…
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our youngest daughter. We had several long court trials over the years. Your mother helped me through all of that, and I met you then. Do you remember me now?� Of course I remembered him and his tragic story. How could I not? Mr. Camacho and his daughter, Elisabetta,
Untitled, Cecily Donovan ’15, digital print
a bitter custody dispute concerning my daughter, Elisabetta, many years ago. Do you remember? You were just a young girl then, helping out, I believe, at your mom’s law firm. My case lasted a very long time, and it was very complicated and difficult. My ex-wife and our other children were trying to prevent me from ever seeing Elisabetta,
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had made an indelible impression on my mind when I was just a young teen. A story that I obviously needed to be reminded of so that I would stop lamenting about leaking roofs and pesky payroll service companies and start remembering why I decided to practice family law in the first place: To help people and parents like Vince Camacho to be protected and to ensure that children like Elisabetta were not denied their right to have meaningful relationships with the family members who truly loved them. “Yes, Mr. Camacho, I well remember you and your daughter, Elisabetta. Please forgive me for not recognizing you instantly. It truly has been a long time since I saw you last.” “Yes, yes, I understand. You need not feel badly, Ms. Mitchell. And I appreciate your taking the time to see me this afternoon. I know it seems that my case, which is very old now, can’t be pressing like it was back then.” “Pressing” was hardly a word that I would use to describe the horrible mess that Mr. Camacho’s ex-wife had created for him and also for Elisabetta when I was just a young girl. An impossible nightmare was a much closer description of the situation, but hardly adequate to describe the evil that man
had been forced to face at the hands of his scorned ex-wife. The reality was that the former Mrs. Camacho was wicked and cruel. After Mr. Camacho had sought a divorce from her in the mid-1990’s, she did everything in her power to destroy his relationship with his beloved youngest child, Elisabetta. And I mean everything. She had him arrested, she made false allegations of child abuse against him, she paid off lawyers and psychologists to testify against and convict him, the works. At one point, we thought she even had one of the judges in her back pocket, given the ridiculous orders that were made preventing this father from ever seeing his daughter. It was despicable what she did to him. What was truly heartbreaking, though, was the unavoidable fact that Elisabetta, who was severely disabled and who would never have a functioning capacity beyond that of an 8-year old child, loved her father deeply. And her father loved her just as much and then some. So much so that, in the end, after Elisabetta had become an adult and an ugly conservatorship proceeding had commenced to re-litigate the prior court orders that prevented the father from seeing his daughter, he eventually had to walk away from the whole thing so that she would not be tormented.
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A sadder story I had never heard in my entire life. He was able to endure it, and I could never figure out how. “How may I help you, Mr. Camacho?” I asked him gently, wondering what I could possibly do some twenty years after he had settled to stay away. “Cruella [the nick-name we had given to his former ex-wife] has died,” he stated. Don’t ask me how I found out, but it’s true. I want to find Elisabetta and see her one last time before I expire too,” he explained. “I know your mom doesn’t handle these things any more, but you do, but I know that you can help me. You see, Ms. Mitchell, I always knew that it would only be a matter of time before I would be able to see my daughter again. I know that she probably won’t remember me, and that her mother and her siblings have spent the last 40 years depicting me as a monster in her mind…but she is my daughter. She is the one pure thing on this Earth, and I have longed since the day she was born to be able to take care of her and to help her to have a fulfilling life. I am sick now, and I don’t have much longer. I am broke, and I really don’t even have anything to give her. In fact, I can’t even pay you for your time. But before I die, I want to be
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able to just see her, to tell her it’s alright. To let her know that I never abandoned her and that I have been here waiting for her all along. People say she won’t even know me, but I know that isn’t true. Elisabetta has the capacity to remember, and all I want is to say goodbye. Will you please help me?” I closed my eyes before him to keep from weeping in the presence of this man and his request. Although I keep an ample supply of tissues in and around the office for the many tears that are shed in my law firm, I had never once before needed to use any of them for myself. And although I typically prided myself on being strong and able to handle anything that came my way, his words and the sharing of his heartwrenching plea for help was, for a moment, almost more than I could bear. I opened my eyes and pulled myself together as I set my notepad on the conference room table to begin to take notes and to map out a plan to assist my new client. “Of course, I will help you, Mr. Camacho. Now let’s sit down and talk some more so that you may soon see her…”
Blue Mountains in Mourning, Emily Lin ’15, digital print
Untitled Sharmaine Sun ’15
At three they napped together in the little crib while their mothers chatted. By ten they frolicked. During the teenage years, things simmered down; they were growing, and things changed. In their twenties, a magical reconnection sparked, and a whirlwind of fond past memories and hope for a future renewed. Marriage came, and by thirty things had cooled. Emotions were wasted, and dreams drowned. Separation at forty, then divorce. At fifty, they both moved on, but the lingering, bittersweet aftertaste of first love remained. Neither deigned to be first to apologize. Sixty, she was unexpectedly gone. Ninety, he was still alone.
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Spondeo Non Sterto Sharmaine Sun ’15
spondeo non sterto, ululabam, cum magistra me ex somno expergisceret. non posse mihi ut non dormienti haec translationes nimis longae et nimis difficiliae esse, fortasse erras, magistra. fortasse non sicut pigra sum. fortasse ignoro et ignorabo. sed dives est lingua latina, dignaque est mearum insomnium noctium, et rident stolidi verba latina, et quid quid latinae dictum est, altrum sonat,
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Untitled, Jee Hee Lee ’15, mixed media
itaque spondeo non sterto.
Market Season Christine Marella ’15
State of Mind, Daniella Wilson ’15, digital print
The market opened early on Tuesdays and Sundays in September. Our Septembers are hot. My mother walked home under the weight of bursting paper bags of plums— Plums: Dark, deep violet with rosy flushed cheeks, each fitting into the mold of my palm. She boiled them to make preserves and jams and jellies, sliced the thick flesh with a paring knife and laid them at attention in military rows beneath the sun. She baked them into breads, calloused fingers rolling fresh dough, kneading, kneading, and folding in plum bits. There were spongy cakes and buttery pies set to cool on the windowsill, and there was tea, and when my mother made plum pudding she danced around our ice box kitchen as if it were a ballroom. The next market, my mother would wheel a cart of her goods to a table where they were fought and squabbled over like crumbs tossed into a flock of pigeons. And she returned in the evening, her apron pockets full of coins. Father was not home. He moved North last year when work became scarce but never sent his pay back. My mother had her plums to support my sisters and me. She always had her plums. One night in September, he appeared in the doorway like a ghost, and none of us could find words to greet him between the cracks in our throats. He took the money, and my mother’s face and arms bloomed a deep violet that night, like plums were growing beneath her skin.
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44 mosaic Glare, Jocelyn La Chance ’14, mixed media, 6.5” x 8”
从奶奶, To Me Sharmaine Sun ’15 （孙馨玫）
“对你的弟弟妹妹讲中文”，我的奶奶说。 I retort, “English is our first language. We should speak it.” “你敢说英文是你的第一个语言！ 你小时候，第一个字是‘爸爸’。” “Grandma, everyone’s first word is Papa. It sounds the same in every language.” “我不允许让这个家庭失去我们的语言和文化像别的移民家庭！” I sigh and try to explain. “No, I’m not rejecting my background. I’m just more comfortable with English. It doesn’t mean that I’m ashamed to be Chinese.” “那你给我听话，讲中文。” “好吧。”It’s no use arguing with her, especially in a different language. ＊＊＊ One day, when she’s gone and I’ve taken her place as the wheel of life continues to revolve, I’ll be surprised to find that I’m exactly like her, telling my grandchildren in my broken Chinglish, “别忘了中文！Once you forget, you will 放弃你的种族身份. Losing your racial identity is losing your history, your culture, your entire background. You will be as pathetic as the 美国老白, with no knowledge or care of where you came from.”
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They will bicker with me over this until I die, using the same arguments that I use now with my grandmother, protesting, “But 奶奶! Why are Asians so obsessed with their ancestors and background? Why dwell on the past?” I’ll struggle to find the right words to tell them why they must not forget their past, why racial identity plays a deciding role in who one becomes, why this language is part of who we are. I won’t be able to fully communicate the weight of acknowledging and embracing one’s race and the culture that comes with said race. I won’t know how to tell them that we refuse to forget our language because, yes, we do fear that in this country, we will forget where we came from, and, when people forget where they come from, they will have nothing to cling to when the country their predecessors worked so hard to get into rejects them as not really belonging, as just the descendants of immigrants. It will be impossible to make them realize how our language and culture provide a place to fall back on when the only home they’ve ever known refuses to recognize them as true citizens, when all their lives they are taught a history that barely relates to their family at all. There will be no way to relieve them of the pain that comes when they realize they will be discriminated against because of their ability to speak this language and the stories they can tell of things that happened to their ancestors outside of this country, and I will not be capable of forcing them to understand that the heritage and language they are born with cannot be forgotten, no matter how hard they try to become exactly like the others. Without experiencing it for themselves, they will not comprehend my lectures on how accepting their racial identity is the ultimate final way to help others and themselves move past only seeing their ethnicity. And eventually all I will say is “别忘了中文.”
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Memory, Amara Pate ’14, pen, 6” x 8.4”
Crime of Inaction Cecily Donovan ’15
On this particular evening the old woman told the waiter about her husband’s hair. Every night for the last few months she had been a regular presence at the local Applebee’s. Tonight she was on her fourth Samuel Adams and still going strong. The cooks could vaguely hear her whimpers about the way his curly, golden hair used to gleam in the right light all the way in the kitchen. She sat in her booth choking down the tears of her new widow status with increasing intoxication. Each day the same waiter had to listen to the endless groans coming from this broken woman. Sometimes he would roll his eyes as he heard about how dark brown her husband’s eyes were or how he loved to play golf at the club. Then she would eventually repeat herself until she gradually sobered up enough to leave in a cab. These were always the saddest parts of the night; he watched the rundown woman push up from the table to waddle to her cab, but he was too preoccupied to help. As he hurried to clean up the crumbs left by pizza crust in between the cushions
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of the booths, he saw her engulfed in darkness by the same cab every night and return to her lonely existence. By the time it was closer to dawn than to dusk, he started to wipe the spilled drink from the woman’s table. At closer inspection, he noticed that a few things from her purse had spilled out. As he gathered what he assumed to be a box of mints, a few coins, and a remote, he found himself slipping each item into his pocket. He would give them to her tomorrow, when she would surely return. But upon second thought he was sure that she was probably fine without them, and showing her any kindness would only encourage the decrepit woman to latch on to him more than she already had. He decided that the pieces were useless and would be unmissed, so he threw them in with the scraps and rejects of the night.
***
He started the meter on his dashboard and watched her slowly work her way out of the lonely-looking restaurant and into his backseat. He wondered how drunk she would be tonight. It always
Escape, Leslie Gobel ’15, silver gelatin photograph
annoyed him when she would come into his newly Febrezed car and start crying and asking for tissues out of his own pocket, but it was hilarious when the old geezer would start mumbling about her glory days and this and that. The only reason he had ever put up with the old broad was the huge tips she gave him. The ten-minute drive to her house was worth every sob and tear. When he had to wake her up, he would usually rack up the price several dollars, claiming traffic was bad or construction closed some roads. She never asked questions and always paid him double what he asked for.
As he drove towards her familiar neighborhood, he noticed more cars on the block than normal. Balloons drifted like leaves in the wind in front of some houses. He approached her driveway; she stopped muttering and looked out the window to see many middle-aged couples coming out of neighboring houses. She paid him, and he left her struggling to find her way to her front door. If she called tomorrow, he would pull up in front of the same Applebee’s a little after midnight and wait for the ole gal. But he was busy tonight, like most nights, and couldn’t be bothered to make sure she got to her door.
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***
The excitement of the block party had caused her to have a little more Long Island Iced Tea than needed. She found escorting the trash to the garbage can a little more difficult than it should have been. The block party had been a success, and all she wanted to do was sleep it off. Tomorrow was another day, and the kids had to be driven to a soccer game or whatever fundatory activity was scheduled. As she began the descent to the looming bin in front of her driveway, she saw a shape collapsed on the porch of her next-door neighbor. The drunk lunatic that she had complained about for years to the neighborhood committee was audibly snoring. Though angry that anyone would make their quiet suburban neighborhood look like a slum, she was always curious. She crept across the Sahara of a lawn and towered over the limp body of her inadequate neighbor. Just as she turned to leave, she tripped, causing a pot of dead flowers to tip on its side. The brief noise aroused the ancient woman. The fallen woman said, “Oh, Deary, it seems as though I… lost my footing on these damned stairs! Thank goodness you came over in the nick of time! 50 mosaic
Pneumonia would have been the death of me… Deary, come over and help this old lady.” Upset that she had now awakened the sleeping creature, she trudged her way up the steps and offered her arm to the woman. She stood patiently, without a word passing through her pursed lips, as the old timer searched through her enormous bag for a key. Between utterances of apologies and praises, the women made their crooked way to the bottom of the stairs through a trail of grime. Old dress shirts hung on the bent mantle and dishes were scattered throughout. “This is where I leave you. I’m sure your husband can help you the rest of the way up.” She was annoyed that the old hag’s husband hadn’t even woken up. “Of course, of course… Thank you, Deary… So kind, so kind.” She swiftly walked away to the safety of fresh night air and her freshly vacuumed home that she found more appreciation for. The enjoyable evening had been lost in this dismal event. The condition of her neighbor never failed to disrupt her good mood and the suburban appeal of their neighborhood.
***
Hunger for Vanity, Katie Griffith ’14, digital print
The odor of corpse had traveled throughout the house when they first discovered the body. The rumor was an old retiree had fallen from her stairs and, without a phone or emergency remote, had slowly died. The smell definitely needed fixing, and she would need new paint and wallpaper for it to sell, but the house was undoubtedly marketable and in a great neighborhood and school district. The repairs would be small and some landscaping would need to be done, but it was profitable. As the realtor locked the door behind her, she saw a woman boldly approaching from the house to the right. “Hello! I live right next door and I was wondering how is the decision process going on the house? I just ask because we don’t want another ancient introvert. The kids want someone to play with, and I’d love a nice young couple with elementary school children. I didn’t even want to introduce myself to the last pair of neighbors we had. They were so antisocial that no one knew she was dead until the rancid smell traveled through the neighborhood. No one even knew them! Now tell me that’s healthy for children?”
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(una poesia per una bambina) Sophia Kuhn ’14
Dove sei andata? Il tuo riso echeggia ancora nella mia mente, Le tue lacrime sento ancora umide nella mia mano, E il tuo battito cardiaco ancora tamburella contro il mio petto. Ti ricordo cosi affettuosamente in quei caldi pomeriggi Sotto il sole e sullla sabbia. Tu sempre dolce e calda, Se non un po’ appiccicaticcia dal tuo ghiacciolo pomeridiano. Ora mi siedo e guardo le immagini E sento ancora le tue mani che attorcigliano I miei capelli, Mentre eravamo sedute leggendo la tua favola preferita prima di dormire Il ciuccetto ancora in bocca mentre ti mettevo a letto. Mi ricordi I momenti caldi alla spiaggia. E le camminate per la città. Sei fonte di sostengno per me E già mi manchi.
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on/off, Jee Hee Lee ’15, mixed media, 17” x 11”
Cecilia
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El Centro, Paulina Mastretta ’16, digital photograph
Catacombs Christine Marella ’15
I wanted nothing more than what these walls had to offer: bricks, painted over with thick sludge gray and two types of sealant, one to prevent water decay, the other for my fingernails to peel, peel away. I do not know this hollowed cave inside of me, carved out with a curved blade, scraped like the innards of a gourd, gutted like a fish on a slab of carving board. We are all the same turned inside out. Dark, dismembered pieces of bone and blood. The scarlet pulsing through my veins is inside you, outside on the pavement mingling with the rain. Spill me out upon the floor. I will disperse like alcohol through your system; I will stain the ground here, and you will mark with stone on stone-Here stood the great, the empty, the alone. There is nothing here but a vile wind, whistling through the caverns of my chest and dressed with the smoke from a tavern’s cigarette breath. My body is a series of catacomb spaces, and in the deepest places, I find no rest. 54 mosaic
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56 mosaic Untitled, Gracie Hadland ’14, collage, 11” x 8.5”
Untitled Sharmaine Sun ’15
Her round hazel eyes stare up at me, laughing. While we play, she stops and caresses my face with her small, chubby hand, murmuring as toddlers do, “Mummy, I wuv you.” Then she resumes our endless game of Hide the Teddy. I smile as I watch her twirl and dance around when she at last finds her teddy, but, suddenly, horrifically, her image morphs. My little girl turns and traipses away, faster and faster, and, no matter how quickly I chase after her, she recedes into the distance, gone forever until tomorrow night, for she is only what could have been.
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Agua Christine Marella ’15
When she got drunk and kissed your brother, you bloomed like a flower of smoke from a volcano. And of course, you, hazel eyed with gold flecks near the pupils, saw right through the slurs and mumbled excuses. Go to bed, you said. You left in a tormented fury, and she cried because you were a storm and she had been caught in it. In the morning you were different, but she was still the same. Maybe the difference is that you stopped humming when you eat or that you started locking the bathroom door and leaving the kitchen drawers open.
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Yellow-Bellied, Karen Ko ’14, acrylic, each 12” x 18”
Chocolate Almonds Christine Marella ’15
Your mother gave you the keys to the earth And my mother gave you chocolate almonds Their sweetness you refused to taste As you pulled your skin around your waist-And your tapestry is unwound again and falls about your feet, my dear the smoke that rounds your subtle lips will grow the space around your hips-A burning flask, a sunken ship, ribs bare and breasting out, a mangled thing pulled on a string by Tide and Star all strewn about He will not love you, not as you wish, now grasp the gold and names and glass, and wine and words turn plagues that pass-- a twirling skirt, a trilling song, a top upon the highest wrong that spins and spins until it wins-what child is this who laid to rest on Mary’s lap is seizing dishes fragile, china white like lips that brush your mouth tonight: a silent thing, a sweeter thing, an unplugged phone that rings and rings.
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Caras, Sara Muñoz Ledo ’16, ink, 11” x 8.5”
Autorretrato Jennifer Hernandez ’15
(al modo de Pablo Neruda) Por mi parte soy o creo ser mexicana de sangre, Grande de nariz, enorme de ojos, Morena de piel, tierna de corazon, Suave de voz, difícil de enojar, Escasa de influir, admirador de inspiracion, Humilde de logros, aceptadora de errores, Desconocida del futuro, aundante de esperanza, Indecisa de decisiones, induficiente de ideas, Joven de edad pero madura de alma.
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62 mosaic El Oso, Ana Rode Viesca ’14, digital print
Summer Time, Sophi Li ’14, digital print
Untitled Willow Wallace ’15
“Mommy! Why can’t I fly?” The desperate words of a three-year-old floated into the kitchen as I pulled the casserole out of the oven. Headlights flashed into the kitchen window, gravel crunched, and the smell of burning rubber sent my heart racing. He’s here. The casserole fell onto the ground, glass dish breaking into shards. He’s here. Footsteps from heavy work boots sounded on the porch. I grabbed a towel and threw it over the mess on the floor. Keys scraping in the lock. He’s here! Now I wonder, why can’t I fly?
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Exotic Sharmaine Sun ’15
They say there are two types of Asians— Yellow prides And banana rejects. Why must I choose between being The withdrawn nerd who can curse better in a different language or The flamboyant banana, Yellow on the outside but white on the inside, Bemoaning the color of her skin to her equally whitewashed companions? Others say we’ve got it lucky, The “model minority,” Cruising along with our good grades and master’s degrees. An Asian child fails a test and feels proud for breaking the mold; Another’s admirable achievements get brushed off With the ever-appearing “It’s because you’re Asian, you know.” Some like to tell us, “You’re beautiful... …for an Asian.” They think it a compliment to tell us when We’re taller, Have bigger eyes, A nose not quite as flat As the Asians they seem to think they know. They remark on the beauty of that one Asian actress they’ve seen, In that one film, the one that had to fill the diversity quota, A beauty which is – if she looks like them – Described as “Wow, almost white!” I am not your experiment Or your way of trying something new, just as You are not my way of thinking out of the box. This is not a convenient, tentative dipping into the pool Of something foreign and exciting, Something you just label “exotic,” Because what you regard as exotic and strange Is what I’ve known my entire life. 64 mosaic
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Reflection, Willow Wallace ’15, digital print
Freedom From Love Ashten Nguyen ’16
Untitled, Sophia Kuhn ’14, silver gelatin photograph
She opened the glass doors of the hospital and felt the brisk autumn breeze blow across her face. On her way home, she recollected the memories she had shared with him. The diner at the corner was their first date. The bench at the park was where they shared their first kiss. She stopped at the traffic light and realized this was where it had happened—the beginning of her independence. The accident had created the start of a life of freedom and liberty. She was no longer bound or confined. She was now free, as he lay dead in the ground.
(Answer to riddle on page 32: velcro.)
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The Two-Dimensional Man, Cecily Donovan ’15, digital print
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