PRISMS Spring 2018 Vo l u m e 2 8
Saint Joseph Notre Dame High School 1011 Chestnut St. Alameda, California 94501
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S T AFF Cristelle Hugo ‘18
Editor-in-Chief
Sophie Freitas ‘18
Literary Editor
Joshua Bernaldo ‘18
Co-Layout Designer
Mia Karulsrud ‘18
Co-Layout Designer
Emilia Kaldis ‘19
Art Editor
Alma Becerra ‘18
Emma Courville ‘19
Jenna Duran ‘19
Theresa Killian ‘18
Annemarie McGreehan ‘18 Sanjana Ravi ‘18
Beatrice Levy ‘18 Vivi McKee ‘19
Moderators
Front Cover Art
Colette Gunn-Graffy
Alma Becerra ‘18
Andy McKee
Inside Cover Art Lana Dao ‘21
S p e c i a l T h a n k s To Paula Cekola Betsy Norris Mark Ritter Robin Lynn Rodriguez 2 | Prisms
TABLE OF CONTENTS 1 2 3-6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15-21 22-3 24 25 26 27 28 29
Title Page Staff Table of Contents Dedication Page Letter from the Editor-in-Chief Night Trance - Cristelle Hugo “Seaside” - Sofia Reeves Golden Gate - Mia Karlsrud Spacetopous - Sofia Reeves “Quimby” - Mary Lisanti “October 28” - Mia Karlsrud “Five Cents A Piece” - Maia Chareonsuphiphat “Friends on A Beach On New Year’s Eve” - Alma Becerra “5 Simple Words” - Sophie Freitas Goddess - Emilia Kaldis Melt - Ryan De Castro “Anatomy” - Sofia Reeves “I’m Not Like Her” - Serena Mahari Annalisa’s Dasies - Lily McKee
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30 31 32-3 34-5 36 37 38-9 40 41 42 43 44-5 46 47 48 4 | Prisms
An Altered Reality - Selah Gregory “Christmas Eve Is Near” - Gabriel Felix “A Moment” - Theresa Killian “French-xican Boy” - Diego Salgues FAMOUS. - Cristelle Hugo “Drama Is” - Erika Aguayo Gutierrez “Stone Cold Mission”- Zavier Annis “Dizzy” - Annemarie McGreehan Roaming - Joshua Bernaldo “Bongos” - Elias Macalino Mac and Cheese - Lily McKee “Ocean Walk” - Alma Becerra “Bird” - Richard Reid “A Dream I Had” - Mia Karlsrud “Stargazing” - Mia Karlsrud
49 50 51 52-3 54 55 56 56-7 58 58 59 60-1 62 63 64 65 66-7
Milky Way - Emma Courville “A Saying” - Alma Becerra “The Senior” - Noah Whitley “Crown of Stone” - Fiona Picchi “Open Doors” - Toni Anderson Freeland - Annie McCutcheon Pearglass - Sergio Martin “Until Midnight” - Christopher Ramirez “Mealtime” - Ben Wiley Lemonade - Emily Perez Gold Medal Flour - Vivi McKee “It Was A Different Time” - Joshua Bernaldo “Friday Night In” - Alma Becerra Drawn Beat - Amelie Ritter Branching Out - Cristelle Hugo “Tedium” - Sofia Reeves “Despair” - Ariana Yamasaki Prisms | 5
DEDICATED TO
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“The Precipice” - Toni Anderson Death Valley - Fiona Picchi 69 “The Pomegranate” - Toni 70 Anderson “Feathers” - Giselle Fong 71 “Hate Is A Fire” - Cristelle 72 Hugo In the Mind of A Chess Player 73 - Takim Sikin “Trust” - Madeleine Hoeffel 74 The Power She Holds 74 - Annemarie McGreehan Angel Wings & Angles - Joshua 75 Bernaldo 76-7 “In Light of the Dark” - James Republicano 78-81 Contributor Biographies Star Society 82 Colophon 83 Awards and Poet Laureate 84
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the daydreamers and the innovators, the visionaries and creators, who in the face of the naysayers ...
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demonstrating the true power of the human imagination. In a society dominated by precepts and norms, it becomes increasingly difficult t o i n d u l g e o n e ’ s i n n e r v i s i o n a r y. S e e k o u t opportunities to express your creative self; search for a new way to do a task or simply just discover a passion. PRISMS invites you to close your eyes and enter t h e d r e a m s c a p e . Ta k e p l e a s u r e i n t h e sheer grandeur and inventiveness of your surroundings, and let the artistry within t h o s e d r e a m s u n f o l d i n t o y o u r r e a l i t y.
Cristelle Hugo ‘18
Cristelle Hugo ‘18 Editor-in-Chief
NIGHT TRANCE
The mind is multifaceted, a double agent, if you please. By light it passes through monotonous d a y s o f d r u d g e r y, g u i d i n g y o u a s y o u s e n d o u t emails, type up essays, and schedule meetings. Ye t , a s t h e s u n p a i n t s t h e s k y i n t o a w a r m w a t e r c o l o r f a n t a s y, a n d a s t h e m o o n b e g i n s to rise against a murky backdrop, the mind transforms. It strips away its mundane cloak and r e v e a l s i t s e l f a s a v i s i o n a r y, a m a s t e r m i n d o f t h e i m a g i n a t i o n . Yo u c l o s e y o u r e y e s , y e a r n i n g t o b e free of all liberties and of the exhaustion that b e s e t s y o u d u r i n g t h e d a y. At first, it’s just darkness. Nothingness. An entryway to oblivion. B u t t h e n t h a t d a r k n e s s f a d e s a w a y, a n d y o u a r e pulled further away from oblivion and towards a magnificent, yet peculiar wonderland that resides in the depths of your mind. It is a prismatic landscape of the bizarre, of the profound, of the petrifying, and of so much more. On the left lies the monster that haunted you as a child; on the right you’re carried away to your own ShangriLa. In this world of wonder, the mind is able to run free after hours of routine preoccupation. It is devoid of all chains and concocts illusions
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SEASIDE
We f o l l o w i t a l o n g c o a s t l i n e s a n d
winding roads, the sweeping curves around cliffsides, catching glimpses of glinting blue far off on the edge of the world.
beneath its depths.
O n t h e s h o r e , f o r n o w, y o u a r e s a f e .
Wa v e s a h e a d , r u m b l i n g .
Gulls above, waiting.
I n t h e s a n d b e l o w, f o o t p r i n t s f a d i n g .
Sofia Reeves ‘19
We m a k e o u r p i l g r i m a g e s t o t h e w a t e r
like a thousand-mile Jerusalem, draped in floral button-down shirts and sloping sun hats, dipping toes in the holy water like an ancient ritual.
We w a t c h t h e w a v e s f o l d i n g o v e r e a c h
other in tissue-paper layers, the horizon never ending.
The ocean cascades around as it goes
f o r e v e r i n a n d o u t , i n a n d o u t . We i m a g i n e seeing the far-off water of somewhere else, another person on another coast, an endless space that binds together all the world right here in the churning waves around our ankles.
F a r a w a y, t h e r e a r e l o o m i n g w a v e s ,
tall hands to strike us down, swallowing life 10 | Prisms
GOLDEN GATE Mia Karlsrud ‘18 Prisms | 11
SPACETOPOUS
QUIMBY She sports a set of fearsome jaws, Her coat is black as night, Sitting proudly like the sphinx, Her toenails click clack as she walks, Signaling the arrival of the beast. She stalks her prey of socks and towels, Attacks them while they sleep, Protects her turf with vigilance, Wa r d s o f a s t r a y r o d e n t .
Sofia Reeves ‘19
Few are as fierce as our Labrador, Sleeping on the couch, Who jumps behind us quickly scared, For reasons few could vouch, Who perks her ears so cute and sweet, Hoping for a treat, Her belly wiggles as she walks, Muzzle dotted in wise gray She’s not the fiercest dog of all, B u t w e s t i l l l o v e h e r d e a r l y, As she’s the sweetest dog there is, A n d w e c a n s e e t h a t c l e a r l y. Mary Lisanti ‘21
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OCTOBER 28 as the bee’s buzz hummed and children in costumes played in the jumpy house behind us, the sun was a blanket on our skin. my eyes glazed over your freckles, and curls. your eyelids shut close over your honeyed hazel, warm eyes and your head rested upon your hand. the smell of you combined with the freshly cut grass flooded my nose and then i rested my head down too and sighed in peace for with you, i was in bliss. it was in this moment in fact that i discovered that it was not the hum from the bees that i was feeling in heart but the drums in my chest that were beating, pounding. an orchestra that was playing, strumming, singing, along to the sound of your sweet, low breaths, the sound of my favorite tune. Mia Karlsrud ‘18 14 | Prisms
FIVE CENTS A PIECE At 7:20 a.m., there was the usual wait for the carpool ride from the friend down the road. Holding my books close to my chest, I waited on the sopping sidewalk with my new blue Columbia rain jacket a n d U g g r a i n b o o t s . I t w a s M o n d a y, n o t j u s t a s t a r t to another long week for students, but the day the garbage truck comes. If my carpool ride didn’t come soon, the garbage man would drive his monstrous truck along the narrow streets lined with bins of blue, gray and green, eventually blocking off the exit to the neighborhood. I looked to my right. Still no sign of a yellow Mini-Cooper. I looked to my left and there in the distance was a man. The Chinese man scuttled along with his little stroller and yet this stroller didn’t carry a baby inside, instead the stroller was utilized as a cart. He walked over to every blue container, opening the lid; each time putting his rough hands into the bin, rummaging through the leftovers of others. Clink, Clink, Clink, was the sound, and out came the bottles. House by house he made his way closer and closer to 1270 Silva Lane. Compared to all the other houses, my mom always left a separate garbage bag outside of the trash for the old man, full of used plastic and g l a s s b o t t l e s . We m a d e e y e c o n t a c t . H e q u i c k l y d a r t e d his eyes away from my gaze, hoping I would not notice the holes he had in his brown button up jacket, the old hat that offered little to no protection against the rain, and the cheap oversized shoes. He was Prisms | 15
shorter than me and his face was that of a humble man. When he eventually made his way to my house, he continued his routine of raking through the bins. In order to avoid embarrassment and awkwardness, I quickly looked to the right, searching for headlights or some sign of a yellow Mini-Cooper...but there was n o n e . I n d i s m a y, I t u r n e d m y h e a d t o s e e t h a t t h e Chinese man was gone and not only that, he forgot to take the plastic bag my mom had left for him! My eyes darted back and forth along the street, looking for any signs of the Chinese man. Scanning left and right I knew he could not have gone very far. Seeing him at the end of the road I quickly grabbed the bag and ran in pursuit of him. “Excuse me...Excuse me!” I called. Upon hearing me he turned and I held out the plastic bag to him, opening it so that he could see the content that was being held within. His deep brown eyes lit up at the sight of the bottles and he began to crack a smile, showing a glimpse of teeth. “A h . . . A h . . . s a n k y o u , s a n k y o u , s a n k y o u v e r y much”, he replied, taking the bag and bowing his head multiple times. I nodded in return. He hastily poured the bottles into the giant bag that was being held in the stroller. He then turned back and handed me the empty bag, smiling and bowing his head again and again. I nodded again and waved him good-bye as he turned, pushing his cart toward the next house. I immediately ran back to my house, hoping that I didn’t leave the Mini-Cooper waiting too long. Bbbbbbbbbrrrrrrriiiiinnnnnggggg! An end to a 16 | Prisms
Monday and only four days of school left before the weekend. I grabbed my books and my Kipling lunch box from my locker and started to walk toward the band room. Mom texted, saying she would be parked near the band room to pick up my sister and me after school. I opened the trunk and placed my backpack and lunch box in our new car and made my way to the front seat with my mom, “Hello sunshine! How was school today?” “ I t w a s o k a y. M o m , w h e n d o y o u h a v e t o p i c k u p Justin?” I asked. “A t 3 : 0 0 i f E l l i e w o u l d h u r r y u p . W h a t t i m e d i d t h e y pick you up this morning?” “I didn’t wear my watch, but I believe it was around 7:30-ish. The rain wasn’t too bad while I was waiting” I replied. “Did you see the man pick up the plastic bag with all the bottles?” Mom asked. “ Ye s , h e d i d n ’ t s e e i t a t f i r s t s o I h a d t o r u n a f t e r him and give it to him. He seemed grateful,” I said. “Good, good. I always admire that Chinese man for being so hardworking. It’s raining and yet he still goes around picking up water bottles” Mom said. We w o u l d c o n t i n u e t h e r o u t i n e o f l e a v i n g t h e b a g o f empty water bottles and glasses outside. Sometimes we found the plastic bag gone, other times it would be left completely untouched. There were moments where we would see the old man as we go about our d a y. H e w a s a l w a y s w a l k i n g a r o u n d w i t h h i s c a r t , making his way through the subdivisions. Sometimes we would notice him wearing a clean shirt without Prisms | 17
holes and hair neatly gelled to one side to cover the bald spot across his head. His shoes seemed to fit his small feet and his little mustache was neatly t r i m m e d . H e d i d n ’ t l o o k w e a l t h y, b u t h e c e r t a i n l y didn’t look too poor either. Encounters with the old man at first were that of admiration and as time went on, feelings of anger and resentment bubbled inside at the sight of him. Why were we giving this old man all these bottles when there are times he seems to not need them? Is he trying to scam us... make us believe he is poorer than he is so that we would feel pity for him? No, no , no... that can’t be right, plastic bottles are only worth five cents and glass bottles are worth only ten cents. Who would be willing to work so hard and retain or gain so little? As we were making one of our routine drives back from school, the old man came into view. Instead of walking with plastic bottles, he was face down on the ground, with red streams slowly dripping down his face. Two men were around him, one with a cell phone pushed against his ear and the other taking off his jacket which was eventually folded and slid under the man’s head. The Chinese man looked tired and haggard, it seems he may have tripped or fallen. Those next few months, the plastic bag was left indifferent, still in the same spot next to the blue bin a t 1 2 7 0 S i l v a L a n e . We w o u l d s e e t h e o l d m a n w i t h a bandage wrapped around his head, his scuttle was e v e n s l o w e r t h a n b e f o r e . Ye t e v e r y t i m e h e c a m e i n t o v i e w, h e w o u l d w a l k w i t h h i s a r m s c r o s s e d b e h i n d h i s
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back, with an empty plastic water bottle in hand. “Mom? Why do we help this Chinese man or in other words, why does the Chinese man pick up the bottles? He doesn’t seem homeless or too poor. He sometimes wears old jackets and other times he wears clean clothes.” M o m s a i d , “ Yo u k n o w . . . t h i s C h i n e s e m a n r e m i n d s me a lot of your great-grandfather. When your greatgrandfather lived in China, he lost his mother at the age of six and was a very poor fisherman. He was not given a formal education, but was the true essence of hard work. His uncle owned a fish sauce company and he gave your great-grandfather an opportunity to w o r k a t h i s f a c t o r y. H e w a s s u c h a g o o d w o r k e r t h a t the uncle was going to pass down ownership of the factory to your great-grandfather. Being the good man that your great-grandfather was, he rejected the offer, knowing that it would be unfair to the son of the uncle. Instead, he decided to start his own fish sauce company in Thailand, which made him very w e a l t h y. ” I remember when I would go to his house, he would wear clothes with holes in them and cheap plastic shoes. One of my other uncles tried to buy him these luxurious shoes, lined with fur so that it would be more comfortable for my grandfather, but the first thing he asked of course was, ‘How much?’ My uncle would lie, ‘Oh, not that much. I got it on sale at a really good price.’ ‘How much?’ ‘Really A-Gong (Grandpa), they weren’t that Prisms | 19
expensive, a hundred Baht’ He still wore his cheap plastic shoes because he simply thought they were too expensive. I’ve already told you the stories of how your great grandfather built multiple school and hospitals, but his hard work and humbleness is what made him the great man he was. He was even met and was recognized by the recently deceased Thai king. When my grandfather died, he was in China at the time and was being transported back to Thailand to be buried. As the car with his casket was being driven through China, people would line the streets to see him, touching the car, getting on there hands and knees to bow. Some people would throw flowers and others were weeping a s h e p a s s e d b y. The old man...I don’t know if he is as successful as my grandfather or as poor as the homeless we see in the Bay Area, but seeing him working hard to pick up the bottles around the neighborhood...I don’t think it hurts to help him.” We e k s t h e n m o n t h s , t h e n a b o u t a y e a r p a s t . T h e Chinese man was sitting at a bench. Beside the bench was a trash bin, but he was not rummaging through it. His deep brown eyes were viewing something else. They were looking forward through the park, deep in thought. Beside him resided a plastic bag that said “ T h a n k Yo u ” w i t h a t o - g o b o x i n s i d e . H e g o t u p f r o m t h e b e n c h a n d s t a r t e d t o w a l k a w a y, I q u i c k l y g r a b b e d the bag and called him the same way when he missed the bag full of bottles. As fast as his legs would carry him, he jogged back to me and took the bag, bowing 20 | Prisms
his head once again. I smiled in return. The old man started to depart for the exit. I turned and started to walk in the opposite direction and then I felt an urge inside to peer behind my shoulder. He had walked passed a recycling bin, overflowing with bottles of red, green and clear, wrappers lying everywhere beside it. The Chinese man did not carry or pick up a single bottle with him. A little girl ran to him with open arms calling, “Gong-Gong (Grandpa) and leaped into the old man’s arms. She looked about four years old with green rain boots and a bright pink puffy jacket with a tiny lavender backpack. Her hair was black a night and her eyes were as big and round. The old man caught her and embrace her with much love eventually putting her down and delicately grabbing her hand as they walked together exiting the park. I didn’t understand why the old man picked up the bottles and I never understood why my greatgrandfather was so frugal. Perhaps the money from the bottles was for the little girl who could be his grandchild, perhaps my great-grandfather saved the money because of remembering what it was like to have little money through his poor childhood. Either way they each brought themselves lower, maybe out of humbleness, maybe out of fear, maybe out of love. Maia Chareonsuphiphat ‘20
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FRIENDS ON A BEACH ON NEW YEAR’S EVE I f e e l I ’ v e w o n s o m e l o t t e r y, I feel that my heart glows, As we are walking next to water, Sand sticks to our soles.
But in its midst, I h a v e n e v e r f e l t t h i s l u c k y. Never before was it made so clear to me. So I let them know that they are dear to me. We ’ r e How I need them to adhere Wa t c h i n g m i g r a t o r y a n i m a l s , t o m e . Making their way above O n w e w a l k - y o u t h f u l l y, waters that echo. cheerfully Then, the breeze turns to a The spring of friendship in chill, our feet. But I barely feel the cold. Onto the hands of two best On this dark, winter evening ones, Though they can not see, I take hold. I’m wearing a smile, Showing all my teeth. O u r v i s i o n s ’ g e t t i n g f o g g y, T h e y c a n , p e r h a p s , b e s e e n , We n o l o n g e r If only for a moment, can see our feet. Dimly shining in the T h e a i r b e c o m e s m i s t y, moonlight, Erasing lights of distant Reflected bright cities, in the whites of her eyes.
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On we walk by the sea’s side, Balancing on wood washed up during high tide. And while I never thought it wouldn’t, I never thought it could This is what I think to myself, When everything falls in its place, just the way it should
Here along the shore, We a r e w a l k i n g s i d e b y s i d e . With so much to be thankful for, I have never felt so fine. The hands of two best ones I hold, one in each of mine.
And as we watch the night ceasing to unwind, We a r e anticipating midnight A n d I f e e l s o l u c k y. And the new year to I thank each and every unfold. s t a r t h a t s h i n e s a b o v e m e . We s p e a k o f g o o d t i m e s t o As we’re walking, be had, we are talking, and never growing old, about a year to unfold. Forming stories along our As we’re walking I tell them path, things I have never told that, in the future, will be anyone told. before. Alma Becerra ‘18
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Wo w . I can’t believe I just wrote that. On paper. For the whole world to see. 5 simple words. In a simple sentence. Seems easy enough. But, the truth is, I have been terrified to write those 5 words in that simple sentence. I like you more than I have liked anyone. I like everything about you. Yo u r s m i l e a n d s i d e g l a n c e s m a k e s e v e r y b a d d a y become an amazing one. Yo u r j o k e s a n d l a u g h t e r m a k e m e g i g g l e a s l o u d a s a hyena. The way you care about others and dedicate your time to those less fortunate lets me see how kind and caring you are. The way you make fun of me, and only look at me when you’re talking to a crowd makes my heart melt. 24 | Prisms
I’ve been asking myself that same question. I have come to the conclusion that I am not brave. I am not courageous. It seems like i’m never gonna have the courage to write those 5 words. But even if I don’t, And we graduate and move our separate ways, At least I wrote it once and will write it once more: I like you a lot. Sophie Freitas ‘18
Emilia Kaldis ‘19
I like you a lot.
GODDESS
5 SIMPLE WORDS
B u t i f I a m t h i s h a p p y, Yo u m a y a s k : Why would i be terrified to write those 5 words?
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MELT
ANTAOMY
Ryan De Castro ‘18 26 | Prisms
Yo u c a n r u n y o u r h a n d a l o n g y o u r s k i n And feel the bones beneath, Lines of angled ribs Pointed hips The mountain range ridges of vertebrae. Yo u c a n p u t y o u r f i n g e r t i p s Against the back of your head The place where your spine Collides with your skull. Vulnerable. Alarmingly vulnerable. There is an incessant Thump Of your heart. Sometimes it is enough to convince you That you are still alive. Sometimes not. Yo u i m a g i n e y o u c o u l d t a k e o f f All your skin And turn it inside out. Wa t c h t h e f r a g i l e o r g a n s Undulating with forgotten life. Desperate. Alone. Sofia Reeves ‘19 Prisms | 27
I’M NOT LIKE HER
I’m not like her, the girl over there, with the attractive so called shape and the blonde so luscious hair. Blue eyes so blue, Yo u c o u l d t a k e a s w i m i n t h e m . Skin so pale and fair, I couldn’t break the stare, Of how pretty she was: In which I lacked. All of it. I’m not like her. I am totally different. Different in shape, Different in hair texture, Different in skin tone... A n d t h a t ’ s o k a y. N o , t h a t ’ s m o r e t h a n o k a y, Because I’m not like her. I am, like me. I walk like me, I talk like me, I even scream and shout like me. That’s all because, I’m not like her. And you’re not like me. Yo u a r e y o u , s o o w n i t . 28 | Prisms
Yo u a r e y o u , So embrace. Yo u a r e y o u , And you’re unique. Yo u ’ r e n o t l i k e h e r . Learn to be the two words, M-E. And not the three words H-E-R. Because, you will never find a “ME” in “HER.” I know for sure, Since you’re not like her. Serena Mahari ‘21
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ABSTRACTION 1
Christmas Eve is Near
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Selah Gregory ‘21 30 | Prisms
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A MOMENT The young girl, like a blooming, pure flower Tried so hard to make a moment last It was everything to her To her its familiarity was exhilarating, yet comforting Her whole world seemed to be wavering before her trusting eyes She held onto the strength of that moment Flash forward one year later She is back in the same place, with the same people She has attempted with much conviction to recreate that moment And to no avail She became perplexed, began to doubt Her life and all she had come to know Little did she know that this was just the beginning Of the end of her innocence
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Now to another moment in time Many moons have shone and gone The young girl is now teetering on the edge of adolescence And the bridge to adulthood She walks beside her best friend Under the brilliant, rosy toned setting sun She savors this moment She vows to remember how she felt To remember the beauty of the setting sun The warmth from her friend S h e i s d i f f e r e n t n o w, m e t a m o r p h o s e d i n m o r e ways than one She now knows that a moment, A moment in time can never be repeated It can only be treasured with utmost admiration She no longer is like a blooming, pure flower B u t a b e a u t i f u l , s t u r d y, f l o w e r i n g t r e e Theresa Killian ‘18
Prisms | 33
FRENCH-XICAN BOY I w a s b o r n i n B e r k e l e y, C a l i f o r n i a , U . S . A on December 13th, 2001. I identify as an American Citizen and, for the most part, am in line with what my country preaches. On the other hand, I am ethnically a French-ixcan: French and Mexican. When I tell most people this the pitch of their voice usually gets higher as they say “FRENCH-IXCAN?”. Te l l i n g s o m e o n e y o u ’ r e F r e n c h i s i s v e r y anti-climactic. The first thing that comes to mind about France is Paris, “The City of Love”. This awe and veneration of an ideal F r e n c h i e l a s t s s h o r t l y, a s a p e r s o n s o o n begins to realize the bad things about us. Shortly after I tell people I’m French they usually ask “are you a smoker” or “do you like baguettes”? Then they remember that one time we surrendered in WW2, and how w e ’ r e a l w a y s g r u m p y. “A r e n ’ t F r e n c h p e o p l e s h o r t ? L i k e 5 ’ 4 ” ? “They aren’t six foot” I respond. “A n d h a i r y ? ” i s a u s u a l s t e r e o t y p e . “ Ya , t h e y l o o k l i k e l i t t l e a n g r y c h i m p s ” would be my appropriate response. Then, their eyes begin to roll towards my forearms, glaring. They check to see if I’m hairy and short. To their amazement, I’m just a tall French-ixcan. A monkey-like one. 34 | Prisms
When I tell people I’m Mexican, people reminisce over their trip they once took to Mexico and think of what small town I could be from. “How’s the food where you’re from,” I’m usually asked. “It’s any taco truck near East14” I respond as my mom is Mexican, but not the one they’re thinking about. My mom grew up in deep East Oakland where the street names are numbers. L u c k i l y, s h e w o r k e d e x t r e m e l y h a r d t o g e t o u t o f t h e r e and was the first person in her family to go to college. She met my Dad at the University of San Jose where they shared their personal stories about where they’re from. It differs from the stereotypes. My dad has French family from both the most northern and southern part of France. His family in the north is made up of engineers and chemists that have much interest in the sciences. In addition, his southern family is made up of a protestant French cowboys. That’s right. COWBOYS. Our family lives in the “Camargue” where beret wearing Frenchman use lassos to herd horses and cows. They also make some of the best cheese known to mankind. I am proud to hear somebody respond in disbelief as I say “French-ixcan” because it proves to me that I have something slightly unique about myself. I will continue to identify with where I am from because it is the way of a French-ixcan. Diego Salgues ‘20
Prisms | 35
FAMOUS.
Cristelle Hugo ‘18 36 | Prisms
DRAMA IS Drama is like a dangerous fire, There’s people like gasoline, That provoke that fire and ignite it even more. Drama is like the food at an “all you can eat” buffet, There’s people who like to devour all the food they possibly can, Ye t t h e y ’ r e n e v e r f u l l . Drama is like a bucket of fish bait thrown into the ocean, There’s people like sharks, That are greedy and love the feeling of biting into other people’s food. Drama is not necessary Ye t p e o p l e b e l i e v e i t i s a n d t h e y c a n n o t live without it. Drama is pure irrelevance That sometimes interferes with one’s intelligence. Drama: there is no need. Erika Aguayo Gutierrez ‘20 Prisms | 37
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Prisms | 39
DIZZY I see spinning stars above my head; I’m like a magnet, except pulled to both poles. My inability to face a single direction Causes a deep tinge of confusion and nausea in my soul. I ’ m d i z z y.
But that’s not the case, and that’s not the truth. B e c a u s e i f y o u ’ r e d i z z y, y o u ’ r e j u s t b e i n g y o u . People that face north or south simply have a different view. So there’s nothing I can do but accept it And learn to love what I see too. Annemarie McGreehan ‘18
ROAMING
I’ve been dizzy my whole life. Just as we don’t feel the Earth spinning on its axis, Yo u ’ d t h i n k I ’ d b e a b l e t o i g n o r e m y o w n spinning. For some reason it doesn’t work out that nice. I ’ m s i c k o f b e i n g d i z z y. Sometimes, there’s a deep desire within me to face north or south. I think to myself, only then will I have it All Figured Out. 40 | Prisms
Joshua Bernaldo ‘18
Prisms | 41
MAC AND CHEESE Bongos Andante q = 80 Player 1
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Lily McKee ‘21 42 | Prisms
Prisms | 43
OCEAN WALK
I walk through the water.
One foot and then the other. It feels like liquid silk on my skin as it moves past me in shallow waves. I feel a sting on the back of my leg as the salt water dances around me. I focus my eyes on the horizon, the edge of my human pool of vision; An illusion, supporting the ethereal blue green basin of l i f e a n d b e a u t y. I anchor my thoughts back to where I stand, on a small patch of shifting sea and sand. Bathed in earth’s salts, the skin on the back of my leg stings again, And I realize how beautiful it is that nature can so easily heal our trivial aches and pains, with a gentle touch. I close my eyes. Breathe in. And I dive into the water, Streamlined, towards the sand. I feel a surge of coolness as I near the bottom. Pulling my arms down to my sides, I rise to the surface. A g a i n , w a r m t h e m b r a c e s m y b o d y. I am flying. Gliding across a shimmering, aqueous atmosphere, I soar up. Up to where my face breaks the surface.
44 | Prisms
Bringing my feet under me, I feel the sand come up to meet my feet. I stand. I take a moment. I look around. T h e o c e a n i s a l i v e - r i p p l i n g w i t h w a v e s o f j o y, b r e a k i n g into foaming laughter. Springs in my toes, I walk into the waves, who greet me with a soft push. I bring my legs from under me and let them float to the surface as I raise my hands to the sun, letting my back fall And the water catch me. T h e w a v e s l i f t m e t e n d e r l y, p u l l i n g m e a l o n g o n t h e i r j o u r n e y. I open my eyes and see nothing but blue above me. A n e t e r n a l s k y. The depth of the water beneath me becomes infinite, Unknown, Unexplored. And for a moment, I am on the moon. I am floating. Flying. Then, I come back down to Earth.
Alma Becerra ‘18
Prisms | 45
Flute
Bird
Richard Reid '19
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A DREAM I HAD when it’s dark as night and the stars shine through my windows i dream about us driving on a lightning bolt crackling into the soil of our host striking hard and fast and crashing and maybe i am terrified because i feel out of control, but right before the beating in my heart halts… i am torn, and then i am dancing, dancing with the comets and stars. i a m a s h o o t i n g s t a r i n o u r n i g h t s k y. when i wake up from this dream, i hear a car pass by just outside my window.
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cars drive and city lights burn, but we can light up the city with the energy we create. the earth’s core still hums from the molten and lightning that our bodies transformed. that is how we coexist with the earth when it’s dark as night. Mia Karlsrud ‘18
46 | Prisms
Prisms | 47
STARGAZING I will always remember nights like these. On the nights we would stay up and talk about Outer space and the moon and all the atoms and cells in our bodies, And our fears, The ocean, Nature, And time.
But you were more Yo u b e h e l d t h e u n i v e r s e i n y o u r b o d y a n d s t a r s o n your cheeks And I was lucky enough to stargaze. Mia Karlsrud ‘18
It was nights like these For the stars in the night sky were not syllables scrambled together, mumbled out of your honeyed lips, But in fact specs of dust that lay across your cheeks and nose. I found that stargazing was not craning my neck into the infinite zone above me But simply a glance away It was nights like these Where silky shadows dripped down my porcelain frame And a halo of my lion’s mane rested on my shoulders. I was a girl still planted on earth with organs and blood and water that filled her. 48 | Prisms
Background
MILKY WAY
Emma Courville ‘19 Prisms | 49
A SAYING “Shoot for the moon,” I tell myself, again and again. Shoot for the moon, Reach through the clouds. Reach up far, grab a star, and kiss it. Make it yours. Keep it in your pocket. Make your brain into a rocket. Shoot for the moon. But again and again, I remind myself that, this is just a saying. Te l l m y s e l f that, these are just words. Figments of untamed imagination. Bits of playful motivation.
So I aim for the target, At the height of my eye. I reach out and take What before me lies. And so, As the stars look down on me, The moon remains unscathed I n t h e s k y, And the ground still warms my feet W h e n I c r y. Alma Becerra ‘18
Noah Whitley '18
from High School Suite
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50 | Prisms
The Senior
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Prisms | 51
CROWN OF STONE Light caresses the rugged terrain on which the giant slumbers, stirring him from the tranquility of his ancient and anomalous dream. With gold in his eyes, and amber in his hair, he rises to meet the blazing dawn whose hues of citrine and amethyst illumin a t e t h e s k y. T h e g i a n t y a w n s h i s d e l i g h t and trembles with restraint, scattering both birds and stones with each throb of his granite heart. Excitement. The desire to stretch his statuary legs becomes entrenched within his mind. But he cannot stand. Nor can he sit. Nor can he move an inch of his own will without crumbling into dust. He is an immobile creature set upon Earth’s regal head, and one of the many spires to comprise her crown of stone. Shale. Marble. Limestone. Siltstone. Granite. Each pinnacle has been used for Winter’s acrylic art, leaving them bleached of their once dreary tones. But today is d i f f e r e n t . T o d a y, t h i n g s c h a n g e . T o d a y, t h e sun rises above the entanglement of stone and melts the varnish of white crystal until it bleeds like wax. The summits, alight with flames of blistering gold, burn as if 52 | Prisms
they were little more than wicks of an old candle. Ye t t h e h e a t i s e n o u g h t o b r e a k t h e s p e l l o f f r i g i d hibernation. Awake. The giant stiffens as the thrum of life resonates through his ancient limbs. All around him, the world is enveloped in a glowing celestial light. To his left he sees his cousin awaken from her stupor. To his right he sees his brother arise f r o m d o r m a n c y. W i n t e r h a s a b a n d o n e d h i s c a n v a s in search of inspiration, allowing his little sister to display her own alluring creation. Green rises from the giant’s ashen skin, bringing forth knots of brown and blue and red and purple. Soon he is coated by foam-flowers, white trilliums, trout-lilies, and thyme-leafed bluets, whose scents attract the final touches to Spring’s delicate art. With each creature, vine, and brush accounted for, the giant becomes content. It has been too l o n g s i n c e h i s e y e s f e l l u p o n s u c h b e a u t y. B u t i t does not last for long. Soon the green withers to brown, and the creatures depart from his side. But the giant is not sad. Nor is he afraid. He takes n o t e s o f e a c h d a y, w e e k , a n d m o n t h a s t h e s e a s o n s continue to change. Why? He feels the lull of Winter’s spell and slowly closes his eyes. It is time for him to sleep again. Fiona Picchi ‘18
Prisms | 53
I can see the door. A dim outline etched into the horizon. I wonder, where does it lead? I’ve been searching for this door most of my life, forever caught in the mystery of what lies beyond tomorrow. Fitting that it would wait until now to appear. Red and gold streaks are painted on the skies, the same shade as the blood steadily dripping from my stomach. The edges of the door are darker. A warm, red glow embraces me. I relish the c o n n e c t i o n a s t h e d a y s l i p s a w a y. I know I will not see another morning. The crimson rays adorning the heavens darken, fading into the purple flourish of twilight. The darkness calls to me, welling up inside, replacing the warmth with a cool, calming breeze. The door is more than an outline now. There it stands, an ornate aberration hiding in the shadows on the horizon. It calls to me, a familiar cry that has haunted the shadows of my dreams. But I feel no fear. The pain has faded with the light. The rough
54 | Prisms
Toni Anderson ‘18
FREELAND Annie McCutcheon ‘18
OPEN DOORS
ground, the congealing blood, the biting cold, all of it is just a dim echo in the overbearing darkness. As the darkness envelops me, I let out my final sigh; a breath of acceptance, of r e l i e f . O f j o y. The vestiges of color fade to black. We l c o m e h o m e .
Prisms | 55
PEARGLASS
To get me out of the blues. I really regret telling you how I felt because it just made our relationship melt, And I cussed in front of your face And I was too blind to embrace That all you have done for me A n d r e a l l y, I was just kind of angry
Sergio Martin ‘20
I ruined it all
UNTIL MIDNIGHT
And you took the fall. I was going to ask you out to the winter ball Now my chances are not that tall I would like to have things back to normal, Where it was all informal, When I hear your terrible puns to set the mood, When you took me out to eat Thai Food,
Alright so I am trying to make things right
When you stayed up till 12 to help me get relieved.
And of course, I am not trying to fight.
But then you said our friendship is over
The rope around my neck is a little too tight
And I made a big deal,
And if you stay in my sight
I am sorry for showing you how I feel
Yo u j u s t m i g h t
I d o n ’ t k n o w,
Let the rope cut loose
I a m s o r r y.
And untie the noose. I am giving you these clues 56 | Prisms
Christopher Ramirez ‘21 Prisms | 57
Mealtime
Ben Wiley '18
for knives and drinking glasses Moderato
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LEMONADE
©
Emily Perez ‘19 58 | Prisms
Vivi McKee ‘19 Prisms | 59
IT WAS A DIFFERENT TIME disco daddy disco dancin’ disco daddy daddy dancin’ e n t r a n c i n g , e n t r a p p i n g e n i g m a the way your bell bottom pants light up the room with every rhinestone, sequin, and button makes heads turn, turns stop. hips sway hearts sigh you’re the apple of her eye and the closer you get, you’re swept away l e a v i n g h e r l o n e l y d a y b y d a y, at her wits end but always yearning again and again
she twirls a n d t w i r l s a n d t w i r l s a n d t w i r l s a n d t w i r l s twinkle toes, no one knows no one knows. disco daddy disco dancin’ disco daddy daddy dancin’ disappointment d i s a r r a y n e v e r a g a i n , n o t t o d a y. Joshua Bernaldo ‘18
are you in it for the ride? or in it ’til you die? can you dance with her forever? or keep a promise never? b o o g i e b o y, b a b y g i r l 60 | Prisms
Prisms | 61
FRIDAY NIGHT IN I don’t want to go out tonight. I’d rather just turn off the light. Here, in my room, I turn on all my favorite tunes. I lie on my bed, And listen as the notes fill my head. In the darkness my mind unwinds, After a long day of struggling to find T h e r i g h t k e y, And of navigating the flats and sharps O f l i f e ’ s g e o g r a p h y.
My every breath in every beat. It lifts up stones I’ve left unturned, Swims about then out my brain, Swimming through my every vein. I blissfully wade in every note. On my throne, These jesters tell me all I need to know. They tell me what is heard not shown. Like this, I am never happier. All the while, I am Alone. I don’t want to go out. Have fun! I think that I’ll just stay at home. Alma Becerra ‘18
DRAWN BEAT
The plush vacancy O f t h e c u m u l o n i m b u s h o l d s m y b o d y. I am far above the ground. H e a v e n l y. Floating in the sound. Now the music speaks to me. Plays on my emotions, Rolls over like waves upon an ocean. Sings to me, To the rhythm of my mind’s EKG 62 | Prisms
Amelie Ritter ‘21 Prisms | 63
BRANCHING OUT
TEDIUM The same song is on the radio as yesterday And the day before. When I got home I played it twice Because I was so numb I didn’t even hear it the first time. The numbers go around and around Count to twelve and then start over To cross out squares on the pages of a calendar And try to remember the parts of you That you left behind I n e v e r y d a y. From here, they all look the same. I like to imagine that each day has a flat bottom So I can stack them all up like plates, Days upon days, And look at them through the glass panes of a china cabinet.
Cristelle Hugo ‘18
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Sofia Reeves ‘19
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DESPAIR “Hello?” The sound of her own raspy voice shocked her. She had not attempted to speak in what seemed like months. At first, she had hoped the whole thing was a dream, like in all those stories where the main character wakes up and lives happily ever after, until their next nightmare. Maggie’s hopes had been dashed as the cell around her came into focus. Then, all those memories of the things she had done came back to her. The insanity that had plagued her mind was now gone. All those years running, and then falling into crime, despair, and finally landing in an institution broke her. There was no escape, no leaving, ever. The sentence had been life. The padded cell was pitch black to replicate night. Her jacket had been put on after she had eaten and she now lay on her back. Her hair was shaven, it had been a matted and grimy mess. So she had shaved it off, before she came to this place. Her downfall started when her husband and h e r d a u g h t e r m o v e d a w a y. S h e w a s s e e n a s a n u n f i t mother. This ruined her career, and she had lost her house. Living on the streets she had thought was the worst, but it became worse. One day she was hallucinating that a little girl walking by with her father was her daughter. She ran over, her disheveled hair all matted up, her threadbare coat clung about her. Maggie reeked of sweat and dirt. The little girl saw Maggie and 66 | Prisms
screamed. Maggie was so enraptured with the thought of embracing her daughter again, she picked the girl up and hugged her tight. The girl screamed a n d k i c k e d , b u t M a g g i e h e l d o n . S u d d e n l y, a fist connected to her jaw. Maggie put down the little girl so that she could defend her baby girl. Everything seemed a blur. Then the girl began to scream “Stop!” Maggie realized she was still beating up the man, who now lay on the ground. Maggie backed away and the girl ran toward her dad. As the police sirens became audible, Maggie turned and ran. She hitched a ride with a truck driver and she began her run away from all she had done. O n l y n o w, s i t t i n g i n h e r c e l l d i d M a g g i e realize that she had fled from her crime, stealing to survive. It was the memory of that little girl that hurt her the most. Filled with despair, she turned herself in. That was the last distinct thing that she could remember, all that followed seemed a blur. So t h e r e s h e l a y, h e r b r a i n r o t t i n g i n h e r h e a d . N o o n e to care for her, no one to care about her. “Hello?” she said again just to make sure she was still able to form a word. “I am lost, I am not me, and my life and soul have left me.” So saying, s h e f e l l a s l e e p . H e r d r e a m s w e r e e m p t y, f i l l e d w i t h an indescribable nothingness. A r i a n a Ya m a s a k i ‘ 2 1 Prisms | 67
THE PRECIPICE
A legacy of success, of failure, or no legacy at all. T h e f i n a l c h o i c e s t a n d s i n m y w a y. T h e a b y s s looms at my feet. Oblivion approaches, just behind me, snarling in earnest. The other side calls to me. My feet edge closer to the drop. To n i A n d e r s o n ‘ 1 8
I’ve tried running. I’ve tried fighting. Hiding is useless. Each day it is closer. I can hear it snapping at my heels, tracking my every move. One misstep, one single mistake and it will catch me. I ’ m t i r e d n o w . M y s o u l i s w e a r y. T h e constant fear only serves to weaken my r e s o l v e . N o w, I s t a n d o n t h e P r e c i p i c e . O n e jump and I can be free. The sunlight dances merrily on the other side, mocking me with its promise of happiness. A short leap, only a few feet, and I can be gone from this hell. It is closer now. I can feel it. The longer I hesitate, the faster it will get me. Do I take the leap? Do I risk the fall? If I leap, I have a chance. To make my life anew. To dream. To achieve. But if I misjudge my leap, I will fall, forever lost in the abyss. Forever trapped among those who have failed. Or I may remain here, on the brink between two worlds, oblivion growing ever closer. My legacy depends on one leap.
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DEATH VALLEY
Fiona Picchi ‘18
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THE POMEGRANATE
FEATHERS
Red. The color of temptation, Of passion, Of fate. So visible in the darkness. That red calls out, And she yearns to taste it To embrace it To keep and never let go. She draws ever closer, Stalking the delicate flower, Ready to devour its innocence. But she saw not the faces the darkness, Ready to devour her own. Theresa Killian ‘18
Giselle Fong ‘19 70 | Prisms
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hate is a fire. all it takes is just a spark you smell it, the burning pine. the smell is appealing, like the apple in Snow White — sweet until it makes your world dark. you’re drawn to the red flames, a part of you thinks oh no, you should stop, but the trance carries on as the once calm world around you burns and the towering oak trees drop. the crackle of the burning trunks and twigs surrounds you wherever you walk, sounding like the leaves you happily sauntered on before the flames emerged from beneath the bedrock. 72 | Prisms
it follows you wherever you go, eating away at you, singeing both your soul and your hair. the burning rage, it consumes you until it dies out, and you realize there’s nothing there. Cristelle Hugo ‘18
IN THE MIND OF A CHESS PLAYER Takim Sikin ‘18
HATE IS A FIRE
the only taste in your mouth is that of the smoke. it pervades your very existence, with heavy soot and smoke making their way into your lungs, making it hard to breathe and reality becomes increasingly distant.
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TRUST
ANGEL WINGS & ANGLES
P e o p l e h a n d i n h a n d S h o w i n g e a c h o t h e r s u p p o r t N e v e r G i v i n g U p MadeleineHoeffel ‘21
THE POWER SHE HOLDS
Annemarie McGreehan ‘18 74 | Prisms
Joshua Bernaldo ‘18 Prisms | 75
IN LIGHT OF THE DARK People fear the dark because they do not see the beauty it contains. They are not able to wrap their mind around its depth and take it in. They are too washed by society and look at the dark in fear; fear that makes them run from it. The dark is almost seen as something that can only be negative. They pair the words “negative” and “darkness”, “positive” and “light” together. They ask, why can the darkness be good? The darkness gives freedom to the mind to express itself. It gives freedom to the heart to pour out and shine. Darkness is beautiful because it protects us from the s e e n . E s s e n t i a l l y, w e b e c o m e t h e l i g h t i n t h e darkness and the center of expression. In darkness alone, we shine bright through our imagination, through our hearts, and through our souls. Our imagination shines bright in the darkness, as all of our wildest and most unrealistic dreams are set free. Our hearts shine through the darkness, reminding us of what we value most in this life and what we love the most about being alive. Our soul shines bright in the darkness reminding us of 76 | Prisms
who we are and promising us that we have a purpose. In the dark, we feel safe because we are not judged, we feel beautiful because we are all we can see. This feeling shows us that we are all that truly matters in life. So whenever you feel down, unwanted, hurt, lost, just sit in the dark for a little bit, let your heart pour out, your cries be heard, your imagination be freed, and relieve yourself of any pain inside. Then, ask yourself ‘Who am I?’ ‘Why am I here?’ And realize that you have a purpose because you are still there, otherwise you wouldn’t be. Believe in what is to come. Stay h o p e f u l a b o u t t h e f u t u r e . M o s t i m p o r t a n t l y, know that you’re not alone. And whether you can see it or not, your soul shines beautifully in the dark just like each and every soul. So let go of the things that do not matter in life. Instead, focus on what shines the brightest to you. And remember, although the dark may s e e m s c a r y, i t i s s i m p l y a g a t e w a y y o u c a n use to close your eyes and open your soul. James Republicano ‘18
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PRISMS CONTRIBUTORS To n i A n d e r s o n ’ 1 8 h a s b e e n w r i t i n g s h o r t s t o r i e s e v e r since she could hold a pen. She loves to create and get lost in worlds of her own creation. Zavier Annis ‘20 has been playing piano since 2nd grade, and discovered a new interest at SJND in compositions and arrangements. Alma Becerra ‘18 is on PRISMS staff and is the artist of this year’s beautiful cover. She loves art in its many forms, how making it allows for unrestricted expression of thought, and her notebook! Josh Bernaldo ‘18 serves on PRISMS staff. He likes to take major themes and events from his life to transform into p o e t r y. H e f i n d s t h a t i t i s t h r o u g h p o e t r y a n d w o r d s t h a t h e f i n d s s o l a c e a n d c l a r i t y. Kelly Carlson ‘21 enjoys writing poetry in her free time. H e r p i e c e “ Ta k e M e T h r o u g h t h e W i n d ” u s e s i m a g e r y t o t e l l a v i v i d s t o r y. M a i a C h a r e o n s u p h i p h a t ‘ 2 0 l o v e s p h o t o g r a p h y, c o o k i n g , literature, music, and everything in between. But nothing gets her more excited than a good ol’ story! Emma Courville ‘19 has made poetry and art since her freshman year. She loves being a part of PRISMS so that she can express thoughts and messages through art and writing. Ryan De Castro ‘18 has been creating art for most of his life. He believes that all art forms can speak to the human soul, tell a message, or change a life. 78 | Prisms
Gabe Felix ‘18 is a dedicated musician and enjoys hanging out with his friends. His piece “Christmas Eve is Near” has melodies that mimic the joyful songs of the holiday season. Giselle Fong ‘19 is excited to share her work with PRISMS readers. She especially loves digital art. Sophie Freitas ‘18 loves writing both poetry and music. As Literary Editor, she enjoyed reading all of the fabulous submissions this year! S e l a h G r e g o r y ‘ 2 1 e n j o y s a r t i n h e r f r e e t i m e . We h o p e s h e submits again in the future! Erika Aguayo Gutierrez ‘20 has loved music and writing since she was little. Both have played a big role in shaping h e r i n t o t h e p e r s o n s h e i s t o d a y. Madeleine Hoeffel ‘21 enjoys the outdoors and spending time with her friends! Cristelle Hugo ‘18 has been on PRISMS staff for 3 years and is honored to serve as Editor-in-Chief. Being on staff has helped her learn to admire all forms of self-expression. Mia Karlsrud ‘18 is PRISMS Co-Layout Editor. She has l o v e d p o e t r y, v i s u a l a r t a n d m u s i c e v e r s i n c e s h e w a s l i t t l e . Theresa Killian ‘18 has enjoyed reading ever since she was young. PRISMS has given her a greater appreciation for the written, physical, and musical arts. Mary Lisanti ‘21 has loved writing and storytelling since she was little. She hopes to pursue writing as a career. Prisms | 79
Elias Macalino ‘18 has had music as a part of his life for many years. It is a universal language that he loves sharing with others. He believes it has the ability to take you out of r e a l i t y, e v e n f o r j u s t a w h i l e . Serena Mahari ‘21 has found different ways to express herself. She believes that writing is important because each p i e c e t e l l s a u n i q u e a n d p e r s o n a l s t o r y. Sergio Martin ‘20 is a storyteller. After winning an 8th g r a d e a w a r d f o r h i s b i o g r a p h y, h e c a u g h t t h e b u g f o r s t o r i e s , beginning in reality and going to places beyond. Annie McCutcheon ‘19 is passionate about art, and enjoys creating it in her Pre-AP art class and in her free time. Annie McGreehan ‘18 enjoys taking photographs and experimenting with different art medias. Occasionally she will m a k e a n a t t e m p t a t w r i t i n g p o e t r y. Lily McKee’s ‘21 love for art started as soon as she could hold a pencil and has never left her. Vivi McKee ‘19 is a newcomer to the PRISMS staff this year and has been taking photographs since she was little. She loves to document her life through pictures. Fiona Picchi ‘18 has been avidly writing since her elementary years. Her poem “Crown of Stone” personifies the changing of the seasons in the mountain terrain. Emily Perez ‘19 enjoys artwork and made her stunning piece Lemonade in her painting class! Christopher Ramirez’s ‘21 personal voice shines through in his top-of-the-head poem “Until Midnight.” 80 | Prisms
Sofia Reeves ‘19 has been writing poetry for a while. She notes that her work tends to improve slightly over time, and is generally readable. Richard Reid ‘19 is a dedicated rower and pianist. In his free time, he enjoys reading up on athletic trends, especially beet juice! James Republicano ‘18 loves writing poetry and freestyle creative writing in his spare time. He’s also written several songs for various percussion instruments. Diego Salgues ‘20 has loved books and movies since he was little and finds the beauty of stories in their ability to resonate with others on a personal level. Ta k i m S i k i n ‘ 1 8 e n j o y s p l a y i n g v i d e o g a m e s a n d h a s b e e n able to express himself in his Pre-AP art class. Ben Wiley ‘18 has been playing drums since his sophomore year of high school. He was inspired to compose “Meal Time” after eating food. Yum! Noah Whitley ‘18 enjoys creatively expressing himself through literature, film, drawings, and music. He is inspired to create art by everything he sees in the world. A r i a n a Ya m a s a k i ‘ 2 1 e n j o y s w r i t i n g s h o r t s t o r i e s . H e r short story “Despair” vividly illustrates the life of a tormented outcast in jail.
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THE STAR SOCIETY Caroline Abellar ‘04* Jared Alokozai ‘11 Alfonso Alonzo ‘16 Lucy Álvarez ‘05 Alexia Aranda ‘16 Ernesto Arévalo ‘10 Jose Ávalos ‘08 Ye s e n i a B a i r e s ‘ 0 9 Olivia Ballesteros ‘15 Fernando Barragán ‘12 Eric Baskett ‘13 Michelle Bautista ‘93 Jacqueline Belloso ‘13 Jessica Blomstrom ‘06 Ariana Braga ‘10 Tia Brown ‘11 Zoe Byrne ‘06 Danielle Campbell ‘06 Natalya D. Caraballo ‘07 Crystal Carrillo ‘12 Cynthia Carrillo ‘08 Perla Casas ‘15 Kedron D. Casteen ‘06 Erik Castillo ‘14 Tracy Castillo ‘10 Natasha Chacon ‘06 Daniela Chaparro ‘14 Sophia Chaparro ‘09 Rosemarie Compton ‘17 Claire Connacher ‘11 Michael Cuellar ‘16 Ann Dam ‘06 Oliver Dam ‘10 Jo Anne C. Dantoc ‘05 Justine C. Dantoc ‘07 Bianca de la Cruz ‘15 Omar de la Cruz ‘11 Natalie De Leon ‘07 Danielle Diaz ‘05 Justin Dimig ‘06 Thomas Dinh ‘14 Emily Dobrzanowski ‘10 Emma Doud ‘16 Nigel Duniven ‘13 Christopher Duong ‘10 Jessica Edwards ‘16 Crystal Estrada ‘12
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Rachel Falkner ‘13 Jackie Favela ‘06 Diego Flores ‘06 Gabriel Flores ‘10 Martin Franco ‘08 Tia Gangopadhyay ‘11 Axel Garcia ‘13 Victoria Geter ‘18 Gemora Givens ‘09 Guadalupe C. Gonzalez ‘13 Kimberly Gonzalez ‘14 Rebecca Gonzalez ‘12 Dalton Green ‘14 Casey Greer ‘12 Alyxandria Guzman ‘07 Lydia Hall ‘14 Katherine Hanover ‘14 Desiree Harris ‘13 Gabriela Hinjosa ‘13 Lynnea Jawad ‘15 Lena Jennings ‘14 Patricia Jimenez ‘09 Jonathan Kachiu ‘10 Colin Karch ‘16 William Keane ‘14 Amelia Khoo ‘14 Kate Lassalle-Klein ‘12 Natalia Layson ‘15 Karina Leon ‘15 Beatrice Levy ‘18 Robin Levy ‘13 Adrea Lino ‘04 Gabriela Lippi ‘08 Marisela Loza ‘07 Danielle Maddix ‘08 Ryann Malicdem ‘14 Megan Manning ‘10 Giuia Marinos ‘14 Alexa Martinez ‘14 Peter Matarrese ‘06 Amanda Matoon ‘14 Chris McClintock ‘10 Allison Meins ‘09 Priscilla Mena ‘05 Rocio Molina ‘08 Annie Mooney ‘11 Joanna Mooney ‘06
Te r e s a M o o n e y ‘ 0 9 Carlos Mora ‘14 Jeonimo Mora ‘11 Martin Moreno ‘07 Paulani Mui ‘06 Karina Myers ‘13 Sean Obligacion ‘15 Allegra O’Donoghue ‘04* Mary Onglatco ‘11 Kim Owens ‘05* Tiffany Palmer ‘11 Fiona Picchi ‘18 Jeremy Poggio ‘04* Christany Poggio ‘07 Micael Priest ‘05* Marissa Quinones ‘14 Jennifer Quintanilla ‘06 Aaron Ramos ‘16 Christian Ramos ‘05 Jordan Rausse ‘12 Jessica Reader ‘05 Barry Reed ‘44 Isabela Reid ‘14 Mary Carmen Reid ‘17 Katherine Riley ‘10 Renato Rocha ‘07 Carlos Rodriquez ‘14 Maya Rowell ‘15 Emilio Sanchez ‘14 Emily Sanchez ‘15 Cesar San Miguel ‘11 Oscar San Miguel ‘14 Jonathan Schuitema ‘14 Kenn Scullin ‘44 Courtney Shojinaga ‘15 Lily Smith ‘09 Gabrielle Soria ‘06* Aaron Stanek ‘15 Sarah Su ‘10 Jackson Sundheim ‘15 Jarod Sutton ‘15 Jesse Swatling-Holcomb ‘09 L o r e n a Ta b a r e s ‘ 0 8 Allison Tuazon ‘11 Imani Todd ‘12 Sara Torres ‘04 Nneka Umeh ‘08
The Star Society of Creative Writers is a privileged m e m b e r s h i p o r g a n i z a t i o n o f t h e S J N D c o m m u n i t y. Membership is offered to students, alumni, and faculty whose creative writing has been published in PRISMS. Each member receives a star pin to wear at graduation.
J e n n a Va c c a ‘ 1 3 Kelley Villa ‘10 Mirella Villalpando ‘09 A m y Wa n g ‘ 1 5 A l e x a n d e r We y a n d ‘ 0 1 Harrison Wilkes ‘03 Michael Williams ‘02 Norman Xie ‘09 J e s s i c a Ya l u n g ‘ 0 5 * J o n a t h a n Ya n n a n t u o n o ’ 1 7 Alessandra Zambrano ‘13 Francesca Zambrano ‘10 Dulce Zamora ‘89 Faculty and Staff: Susan Beck* Martha Carpenter Dempsey Lynn Kane Meza* Elizabeth Pelaez Norris* Robert Williams
Honarary Members: Mary Rudge. Poet Laureate of Alameda 2002-2014 J u l i a P a r k T r a c e y, Poet Laureate of Alameda 2014-2017 Gene Kahane & Cathy Dana Poet Laureates of Alameda 2017-Present
P r i n t e d b y U r b a n A r t L i t h o g r a p h y, 2331 C Street Sacramento, CA. Font: Limelight & Oswald, Cover: 100# Blazer Digital Silk Cover Te x t : 1 0 0 # B l a z e r D i g i t a l S i l k Te x t Printed on Canon Imagepress 7000 - 4 color high speed production laser printer
PR I S MS literary-art
magazine, established in 1991, is a Signature Program published by students of St. Joseph Notre Dame High School in Alameda, California. Submissions are accepted throughout the year and are judged anonymously by staff. As a “rainbow refraction of light,” PRISMS reflects the diversity of the SJND student body through dif ferent media and genres. Funded by St. Joseph Notre Dame High School, PRISMS is shared and enjoyed by our school community. Each SJND family recieves a free copy. Prisms | 83
AWARDS Best High School Literary-Art Magazine 2017 - National Council of Teachers of English
Reccommended for Highest Award 2017 - National Council of Teachers of English
Excellence Award 2015
- National Council of Teachers of English
Best Photographer Award - Julian DeGuzman 2015 - American Scholastic Press Association
Outstanding Theme: Best Bilingual Selections 2014 | 2016 - American Scholastic Press Association
Superior Award 2014 | 2016 - National Council of Teachers of English
Golden Seal Book Award 2013 - Artists Embassy International
Superior-Nominated for Highest Award Finalist 2009 | 2013 - National Council of Teachers of English
Most Outstanding Private School 2003 | 2005 | 2013 - Literary Art Magazine of the Year - American Scholastic Press Association
First Place with Special Merit 2002-2017 - American Scholastic Press Association
POETS LAUREATE
Sarah Su High School Poet Laureate of Alameda 2009-2010 Tia Gangopadhyay SJND Poet Laureate 2010-2011 Robin Levy SJND Poet Laureate 2011-2013 Amelia Khoo SJND Poet Laureate 2013-2014
Karina Leon SJND Poet Laureate 2014-2015 Aaron Ramos SJND Poet Laureate 2015-2016 Jonathan Yannantuono SJND Poet Laureate 2016-2017 Beatrice Levy SJND Poet Laureate 2017-2018
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