2019 Vol. 63
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Dear readers, Our school is made up of thousands of students, each with a unique and interesting background. We have people who have lived in the same home since they were born and others who have moved to a new country every three years. Yet, we have all found our way to this one school in this one state in this immense and ever-changing world. McLean High School is the common thread that ties all of our backgrounds, entwines all of our futures, and unites all of our creations. In this year’s edition of The Tartan literary magazine, we wanted to showcase those connections. We wanted to explore how the flickering light of a sparkler can find its way into a poem about anger, how a satirical piece on social media can be juxtaposed with the melancholy hues of blue and yellow acrylic paint, how three camels walking in the desert can move with a poem’s transition from Hebrew to English. Each piece we hand selected for our publication reveals a glimpse into the life of one of our community members and connects it to the work of another, a theme underscored by the lines reaching from one page to the next. We hope that you too connect to the words on the page, to the illustrations in print, and to the message that laces our paths together.
With Love,
The Tartan
The Tartan Editor-in-Chief Emily Chopra
Staff Melanie Chan Angela Feng Sophie Jones Hyohyun Jung Zane Kidwell Pran Kittivorapat
Elena Klenk Cordelia Lawton Marina Qu Lauren Scott Claryns Truz Michelle Ugarte-Nunez
Advisers Lindsay Benedict
Seth LeBlanc
McLean High School 1633 Davidson Road McLean, Virginia 22101
TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S Cover Art Grass Stains | Photograph by Alexandra Lagos Tartan | Typography by Dasha Makarishcheva Interconnection | Haiku by Tartan Staff
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Behind the Sea | Poem by Muna Al Mesheikhi Kashibai | Mixed Media by Nadya Steare
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Snapchat Satire | Non-fiction by Carenna Slotkoff Facades | Acrylic Painting by Kirsten Doane
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Leaving and Other Cold Things | Poem by Annika Harley Sparkling Goodbye | Photograph by Emily Chopra
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On the Subject of Anger | Poem by Annika Harley
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Fire | Poem by Emma Bradley The Rosebush | Pen and Ink Drawing by Dasha Makarishcheva
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Red Thread | Short Story by Sydney Wang
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Things Never Told | Poem by Janna Serrao Musical Forest | Watercolor Painting by Angela Chen
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What You Don’t Know | Poem by Angela Feng Plah | Ink and Watercolor by Nadya Steare
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The Little Light | Poem by Nathan Fishman Three Wise Women | Photograph by Genevieve Deeken
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Loving Her | Poem by Annika Harley Takeoff | Photograph by Elena Klenk
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曦曦 (Xi Xi) | Personal Narrative by Ashley Xing Petals and Populace | Mixed Media by Rylee Schaar
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One by One | Poem by Sophie Jones Specimen X | 3D Art by Anya Chen
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Dijaspora | Personal Narrative by Inaya Huric High Ceiling | Photograph by Pran Kittivorapat Caffeine on a Cold Day | Photograph by Alexandra Lagos
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Heartstrings | Short Story by Emily Chopra
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If All is Lost, Remember Me | Poem by Sophie Jones Nightmares | Charcoal Drawing by Anya Chen
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Reach | Poem by Ally Liu Deep in Thought | Photograph by Elena Klenk
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Anchor | Poem by Ally Liu Easy Washing | Photograph by Kirsten Doane
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Sorry | Poem by Lauren Von Elm Coping | Charcoal Drawing by Anya Chen
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The Hendersons | Play by Lauren Grobman Apple House | Photograph by Kirsten Doane
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Picturesque | Short Story by Izabela Firlej Mountain | Oil Painting by Isabella Powell
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My Land | Poem by Muna Al Mesheikhi City of Dreams | 3D Art by Ashton Kim
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Strawberry Wafers | Personal Narrative by Michelle Ugarte-Nunez Connectivity | Mixed Media by Michelle Ugarte-Nunez Colophon & Selection Policy FenĂŞtre | Photograph by Anya Chen
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Behind the Sea
by Muna Al Mesheikhi
You looked angelic in the beach house When I was there but I wasn’t. You didn’t see me but the trees did, The beach and the waves did. When I saw you I felt smooth jazz, An old, forgotten piano symphony. Those glassy, honey eyes, Harmonizing with the mountains. Your gold, light braids As shiny and dappled as sunset. When it hides behind the sea, Your beauty glows.
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Kashibai by Nadya Steare
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Teens everywhere are “heartbroken” over the new Snapchat update and the challenges they now face by Carenna Slotkoff
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cLean, Virginia - In February, the popular social media app Snapchat released an extreme update to the dismay of users. The app is used by a majority of teens to send picture or video messages back and forth to friends and post them on “stories” for peers to see in a limited amount of seconds. The drastic changes of the update, such as the new location where users can view stories, have caused anguish and backlash from teenagers across the nation. “I was honestly shocked,” 15-year-old Carly Stewart said. “It was like, in that moment, I just felt like the world was crumbling into chaos.” Stewart, like thousands of kids her age, has been extremely emotionally attached to her Snapchat for the past few years. Stewart said that prior to the update, she had made a habit out of posting random and unnecessarily long rants for her peers to see, regarding first-world problems that she struggles with as a straight-A student and a member of a wealthy, white family. “It’s just not the same now,” Stewart said. “I mean, I can still post vain selfies of myself and my besties getting Cava and stuff, but now only about 115 people see it. If people can’t be jealous of what I’m doing…” She trailed off, overcome with emotions. “This is just not the kind of world I want to live in.” While views and popularity are 3
concerns for Stewart, other teens, like Daniel Rogers, are worried about losing important connections with peers. “The new update is so confusing. I feel like I’m in math class,” Rogers said. “With so many changes, it’s become so hard to keep track of my streaks.” Rogers, like many teens, is extremely concerned about maintaining his streaks, the number that tells the consecutive days two people have chatted with each other. “There have been so many close calls with the streak timer, all because it’s more difficult to navigate through the update,” Rogers added. “It’s really scary to think that 57 days could go down the drain. I would just feel like I’m letting my bros down, along with all the girls I send shirtless pics to. Without our streak, I have no excuse to flex my muscles on camera for them.” Though Snapchat has taken note of these suffering teens and the criticism they have unleashed, the onerous update still remains, and so does the despair of the kids who no longer find joy in Snapchat the way they used to. “Sometimes, I still can’t believe the update is real,” Stewart said. “It’s made me realize that you really take something you love for granted, until one day everything changes, and that thing you love is gone. I don’t know if I’ll be able to feel normal, or even happy again, for a long time.”
Facades by Kirsten Doane
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Sparkling Goodbye by Emily Chopra
Leaving and Other Cold Things by Annika Harley I left him frozen in the doctor’s office waiting room that November I spoke my piece as he sat under the painting on the wall that reminded me of the crisp hallways of art museums She left me shivering on my doorstep eight days after Christmas a thrilling kiss in the January air that was fraught with goodbyes, smiling lips cautious of watchful eyes through the frosted windowpanes
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Now it’s February and I’ve been left numb on the front porch in my purple bathrobe, daydreaming about hot summer nights and girls who still believe in fairies and wondering why I can’t help but rearrange the words I’ve already written
On the Subject of Anger by Annika Harley if you hold your breath and listen close and tilt your head to the falling horizon you can hear the sky collapsing it sounds like inevitability the predetermination of the tide rushing in before the moon beckons it back from the shore the clouds are shredded into a mist ragged edges melting into the blue awaiting the sun to set them ablaze it feels like a hesitant hand held over a flame wide eyes watching the dancing sparks that leap hungrily towards bare flesh a tremor runs through the nebula Orion wavers and Cygnus splinters under the weight of the wishes of the world below it’s the wind whistling past your ear as you stand upon the overhang knowing how badly it will sting when you hit the water the constellations fold in on themselves and lightning fractures the heavens leaving celestial bodies suspended over the earth it’s the pounding of blood in your head when you dive too deep under the waves and you have to claw for the surface before your lungs burst crushed stars rain from the sky above onto deserts and empty highways leaving the air with a smell like something burning 6
Fire by Emma Bradley Strong and deadly, The fire cackles At the weakness of men, Licking at their feet With power unmatched And devouring all Which dares to stand in its path, Its power fueled By the air around it As it reaches for the sky As if  grasping At the life above it. It battles water, As it is the only thing That can destroy the destroyer. The wind powers it in its raging battle While the smoke from its kills Suffocates life And the flowers around wither and die. The trees turn to ashes And the animals flee
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As it steals the oxygen Which brings life. It drives them away And kills all who stay. After they die And the fire dies too, New life is born And beauty rises again. The animals return To trim the plants Which grow from the ashes Of their elders. Although it is destructive When untamed, When contained It glows softly As it warms the soul.
The Rosebush by Dasha Makarishcheva
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Red Thread by Sydney Wang
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n old Chinese legend states that everyone has a red string that connects them to the person they’re destined to love. Everyone has a string. A string of fate, of love and hope. Sometimes strings stretch and tangle, but never do they break. Destiny assured and etched into stone by the red knot tied around one’s pinky finger. But is fate so permanent? For not everyone is destined to a happy ending. And who is to say that life, such a grand and unpredictable power, can be held in check by a flimsy red string? “I feel like such a stalker,” I complained. “It’s for a good cause.” “You didn’t deny the stalker part,” I pointed out. Rose glared in response. “Quit being a drama queen.” Like the mature teenager I was, I stuck my tongue out at her. It was a perfect Sunday afternoon. Birds were singing, the temperature a pleasant 80 degrees, and the sun was shining in a cotton candy blue sky. Which is probably why I was miserable. “Quick, they’re moving.” My sister pulled on my arm, taking us away from the tree we’d been hiding next to and into the throngs of people that filled the outdoor mall. I sighed in acceptance, letting her drag me along. 9
“I got them to go on a date. I don’t understand why I have to follow them,” I muttered under my breath as we kept our eyes on the giggling couple. I’d spent a few weeks following the trail of the dull, red thread connected to our client. Painstaking months were dedicated to finding his fated partner, and when it was finally over I’d been eager to put it all behind me. Of course, Rose had then dragged me out of the house to stalk the couple, who were meeting for the first time. “It’s our job to see it through to the end, Zhu.” The annoyance at the familiar argument dripped from her voice. “We’re not the most successful matchmakers in the country because of half-assed work.” She emphasized her point with a condescending flip of her hair, like the explanation was obvious and something I should have understood from the beginning. “But the threads match,” I pointed out. “According to grandma’s destiny mumbo jumbo, they’re a fated pair.” Rose sighed. “Grandma also explained that the threads don’t always let people meet.” I scowled at the reminder of Grandma’s favorite lecture. “We’ve been given a gift that lets us circumvent barriers like time and distance, and we need to make sure that the threads will recognize their meeting and take their bond, Zhu.” “Fine, fine, just stop calling me that in public,” I growled, yanking my arm from her hold.
Rose had always been the one to take the job more seriously. The one who believed in all the pride and tradition our grandmother preached. She loved being a matchmaker. On the other hand, I was more of a realist. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans, slouching down as we made our way through the throngs of people. “A date to the mall is super cliché. Didn’t I tell him to take her somewhere unique?” I sighed as we passed a group of giggling teenagers. “You told him to take her to a graveyard,” Rose said without turning away from the couple. “It’s unique and shows creative effort. I don’t see the problem.” My sister elected to ignore me. We wandered around the stores, Rose powering through the crowds as I followed at a more relaxed pace. In my faded and torn jeans and my favorite Star Wars T-shirt featuring a cartoon depiction of Yoda and the words “My Yoda shirt this is,” I looked like a nerd who’d been forced into social interaction. My sister was pretty much the opposite. Her intricately styled braid perfectly complemented her outfit: bright white jean shorts and a blue, flowerpatterned blouse. You wouldn’t have known we were related if it wasn’t for the fact our hair was the same shade of raven black, and our noses were both button-shaped and low-ridged. The couple in front of us made a turn, disappearing around a corner. My sister frowned as we rounded the corner to find a large crowd of people milling around,
obstructing our view. I turned towards my sister with a beaming smile. “Oh well, it looks like we lost them,” I said with a shrug. She looked unimpressed. “Zoe.” “Rose,” I snarked back. She glared at me, eyes hardened like glinting steel. I held her gaze defiantly for a moment before heaving out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, okay, just give me a second.” I closed my eyes, the sounds of mallgoers fading to a mumbling drone in the background. Taking a deep breath, I let my mind center into a familiarly comfortable corner. With practiced ease, I reached for the mentally constructed switch glowing in the darkness and flicked it on. I opened my eyes. The sudden influx of color in the world made me wince. The overwhelming shades of red always gave me a headache. The strings crisscrossed every which way, glowing in every possible shade of red. They spun and tangled together into the world’s largest abstract tapestry. It took me a few moments to regain my bearings. Blinking, I focused in on a familiar distinct shade of crimson. Both ends of the thread pointed in a similar direction, curling into a loosely floating “u” that drifted down the outdoor mall. ► 10
Leading my sister through the crowds, I followed the distracting trail of flowing red thread swaying ethereally in an unseen wind. The string guided me around the turns between shops. “A Starbucks, really!” I said, zeroing in on the string caught in the familiarly monogrammed door. “Of all the places to go for a date…” “Really, Zhu?! Priorities.” My sister sent me an exasperated look as I shoved open the doors of the shop. “I told you, don’t call me Zhu!” I hissed, rounding on my sister with a furious glare. She met it with one of her own, her lip curled in defiance. I knew she was messing with me. The sibling competitiveness between the two of us had always been volatile, but I was annoyed and fed up with the air of superiority she’d been projecting all morning. I opened my mouth to deliver a scathing insult. “Stop!” a woman’s high pitched voice interrupted. I looked over. In the back of the short line, a familiar looking woman was struggling against the hand on her arm, her eyes wide with fear as a tall man leered at her with a casual smirk. “Come on, don’t be like that,” he drawled. “I just want to chat with you.” Watching the woman flinch away from his outstretched hands, I moved forward. All the rage that had just moments ago been directed toward my sister boiled under my skin, seeming to erupt as my fist made contact with his face. The guy went down hard and fast, 11
slamming into the floor at the force behind my punch. The shop that had previously been filled with casual conversation was now silent. I grinned, the stinging feeling in my knuckles drowned out by a sense of vindictive achievement. I looked down on the man who was lying on the floor, hand pressed to his bruised cheek. “Hey man, when a lady says stop it’s impolite to not listen.” “Zoe?” I startled at the sound of my name. My eyes met with the young man we’d been stalking. His arms were wrapped protectively around the brunette girl who had been harassed by the man on the floor, eyes wide with shocked recognition. The crimson thread drifted in the air, one end tied around his right pinky, the other curled around the finger of the girl in his arms. Suddenly, it dawned on me why the girl looked so familiar. “Hello Mr. Gardner, don’t mind us. Just stopping by for a cup of joe.” I raised my hand in a nonchalant wave. “Trevor, you know them?” the girl asked meekly, her eyes wide and still full of fear darting back between the man on the floor and me. “Oh, we’re just his matchmakers,” I answered, gesturing towards Rose. “We’re here to make sure that you two find lifelong happiness, get married, have babies, and grow old next to each other as you sit in matching rocking chairs on a white porch, starring in erectile dysfunction commercials,” I finished with a pleasant smile. Rose groaned, head falling into her hands in exasperation. ■
Things Never Told by Janna Serrao The average person has thirteen secrets, five of which have never been told. Thirteen things‌bouncing around inside the caverns of the mind, five of which are so deeply buried that no one else has ever seen them. But how long can you keep thirteen things hidden? How long before someone unearths the truth? How long before you tire of the secrets? How long before the black void of the secrets engulfs your mind? How long until the things never told become things you’ve told?
Musical Forest by Angela Chen
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What You Don’t Know by Angela Feng The moment that I wake reminds me of your presence and every step I take is one for your acceptance I feel my heart skip beats each time that you pass by You stare down at your feet Can’t seem to meet my eye A smile and a laugh directed at each other The secret that we have unknown to one another There’s beauty and there’s pain in this game we have to play Hiding feelings we can’t explain in words we cannot say
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Plah by Nadya Steare
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Three Wise Women by Genevieve Deeken
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The Little Light by Nathan Fishman האור הקטן ממריץ את כולם קטן מדי לראות
Ha-ore katan Memritz et culam Katan medi Lera-ote
The little light Energizes everyone Too small To see
ואם לא נוכל ראה את האור איך אפשר אנו מאמינים
Ve-am lo nochell Row-eh et ha-ore Ech afshar Anuw me-ahmeeneem
And if we can’t See the light How can We believe
אנחנו צריכים להצטרף האור שלי עם האור שלך
Anachnu tzricheem Le-hatztoref Ha-ore sheli Eem ha-ore shelach
We need To join My light With your light
כי אני לבד לא משיגה דבר ואתה לבד שותקים
Key ani levad Lo masigah davar Ve-ata levad shotekeem
Because I alone Achieve nothing And you alone Are silent
אבל יחד אנחנו חזקים
Aval yachad anachnu Chazakeem
But together we are Strong
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Loving Her by Annika Harley maybe it’s because she was born in the summer heat that could explain why she bought a balloon at the zoo that day in june just to watch it float away maybe it’s because she dances under the sun that could be the reason why she drinks dewdrops like orange juice and smiles with pulp on her teeth before she kisses me a sweet goodbye
Takeoff by Elena Klenk
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曦曦 (Xi Xi) by Ashley Xing
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here are approximately 300,000 Ashleys in America. Yet, during the first few weeks of my life, there were about 299,999. I was born with the name “Xi Xi,” which in Chinese, means “morning sunlight.” An extremely rare Chinese character with a whopping 22 strokes, the odds of any average Joe knowing its meaning is next to nil. Similarly, the odds of any American knowing how to correctly pronounce it are slim. Though the most common pronunciation is “Zi Zi,” my favorite, by far, is “Exi Exi.” Realizing that my extremely Chinese name might not bode well with the terrors of American public school, my parents hurried to a Baltimore court and changed my first name to Ashley and my middle name to Xi Xi. For me, the name Ashley represents losing sight of my background. Though America is known as a salad bowl of cultures, it feels as if the inevitable fate of all Americans is to melt into the standard. While immigration has made America the beautiful blend of diversity that it is today, with every day spent in this country, immigrants and their families
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slowly begin to lose their past. As an insecure elementary schooler, I always cringed in embarrassment when hearing my middle name. I have already lost most of my Chinese speaking ability, and I find myself sitting on my phone during family reunions. Sometimes, I wonder if 10th generation Chinese Americans would still consider themselves partially Chinese, and if they would still eat mooncakes for MidAutumn Festival. Don’t get me wrong, I am proud and honored to be privileged enough to call myself American. However, I can’t help but feel that my renaming catalyzed the spiral of forgetting my Chinese heritage. Over the past few years, I have endeavored to be true to my roots. From remembering to eat noodles on my birthday to taking Chinese at school, my efforts to be more mindful of Chinese culture have not been fruitless. Yet, my name serves as a permanent reminder of how, no matter my efforts, there is no fighting entropy; my whole life will progress as a gradual migration towards being more American and straying away from Chinese culture.
Petals and Populace by Rylee Schaar
One by One by Sophie Jones I peel off my fingernails I pick off my toes I pluck out each eyeball I snap off my nose I unhinge my elbows I dig out each lung I let spill my intestines I bite out my tongue I rip off each eyebrow I twist off my hips I yank out each canine I pull off my lips I squeeze out my liver I break off my chin
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I tear off my ears I slip out of my skin One by one go my limbs And organs and parts They were used but not loved So I take them apart After my body is gone And disposed of somewhere Leaving no dreams, worries, memories Nor a voice in the air Will someone Please tell me If something’s still there?
Specimen X by Anya Chen
Dijaspora by Inaya Huric
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he sun awakens me, illuminating Washington, D.C. from the eastern horizon. It rises over Baščaršija, the Ottoman-era old town of Sarajevo. I walk to Starbucks and order the usual treat: Iced Caramel Macchiato. On my promenade through the cobbled streets, I pass by coppersmiths and vendors while the aroma of dark Bosnian coffee and sweet Turkish delights tempt me. ►
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I walk to the bus stop, sipping my coffee and jamming out to Faydee’s newest single. The bus arrives, and I pull out my vocabulary cards to study with my friends before class. As we walk into McLean High, I spot the coldest water fountain to fill up my bottle. I drink water from the magical fountains at Gazi Husrev-beg’s Mosque, which promises that I will return once again. My friends and I continue to the cafeteria to get a snack before the bell. I find myself on Ferhadija, a pedestrian street home to the grand Cathedral of Jesus’ Sacred Heart and the city marketplace where I buy local cheeses and smoked beef. Next, I walk through the blue hallway to Mrs. Billingsley’s class. Ferhadija leads me to the Eternal Flame on Marshal Tito Street representing the everlasting spirit and unity of diverse ethnic groups that call Sarajevo home. The school day progresses, and eventually it’s time for the longawaited pep rally. Students rush to the gym. Suddenly, the street begins to quake. Red smoke fills the air with a contagious euphoria. I meet with Anisha and Yasmin, and we enter wearing our ruby red senior shirts. My uncle picks me up and we join the fans walking to the Zeljeznicar vs. F.K. Sarajevo soccer derby in our brilliant sapphire jerseys. Handmade posters
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displaying our Highlander pride hang from the walls. As we approach the modest Grbavica Stadium, I see banners posted on its walls to cover the bullet holes that scar the building. The atmosphere is equally as vibrant at the football game against Langley High, our rival. Fans form a sea of blue in the stands, burning flares to represent the passionate fire burning in their hearts. This fire is present in all of us, connecting everyone in the stadium into one being. The rambunctious Highlander rumble overpowers the speakers. The announcer commences the anthem, but the music cannot be heard over the thousands of voices singing along: “When I see Zeljo’s Stadium, I see my pride, I will give my life, but I will not give you, because you are my life.” In this moment, one feels what it means to be passionate, to be part of something with greater meaning. Anything can happen. A penniless team with a destitute stadium in an impoverished city can survive solely on the hope that it will one day triumph. The sun sets on a victorious day. I carry my cities with me wherever I go like they’re in a locket around my neck. When I open it, my heart is made of Sarajevo and D.C. It gives me a dual perspective on life and reminds me who I am. ■
High Ceilings by Pran Kittivorapat Caffeine on a Cold Day by Alexandra Lagos
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Heartstrings by Emily Chopra
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hese tiny little threads define us. Wrap us. Twist us. Intertwine us. Taut they pull to wind us. Test us. Hold us. Firm they bind us. Time and time again, others crawl in. Threads from people we have seen. Around our threads, they creep and spin, send our minds reeling to what could have been. “Or what we could be,” our thoughts remark. Our threads betraying their master heart. The alien threads knot our insides. Woven into the fibers, they hide in plain sight. Our body struggles with concealing; the outsider threads evoke too many feelings. Yet, our own threads stayed put while theirs came in seeping. One
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tied to another, but the other so bold, they never experienced quite the same hold. Apathetic and aloof, the other passes with no comment. Shock and anger then strike with a vengeance. Confusion and woe arise with great might. Suddenly, the foreign threads are expelled. Ripped from their prey, unwound, and repelled. But fragments remain, buried deep within. Despite the pain that cut them so thin.
Self-destruction is the only option remaining to silence the inner soul’s wailing. The parasitic strands evaporate into thin air leaving their host a jumble, fumbling in despair. Chopped to pieces, the threads no longer do their job. Defeated, their master’s a bumbling slob. No longer strong and steadfast. No longer sure of oneself and built to last. Broken and beaten and torn up inside, we retreat to a cave by our bedside.
No longer can our own threads be spared. The outsider made sure it was not fair. They go off joyous, jubilant, and jesting. We remain jealous, judgmental, and jeering.
Slowly and steadily the wounds stitch together. Threads start reaching out, attempting to make things all better. They wind back up, hopefully forever. They’re optimistic for what the next day will bring, until another thread slithers in and does the same thing.
One by one our threads snap. They rip. They tear. They unwrap.
Nightmares by Anya Chen
If All Is Lost, Remember Me by Sophie Jones I’m saving you, a memory, For a night so dark it keeps me awake. If all is lost, remember me.
Yet we might last a century, With lips we meet and hands we take. I’m saving you, a memory.
Our love is our reverie, Let’s keep it for our own heart’s sake. I’m saving you, a memory.
I hold your face so tenderly. You think you made a grave mistake? If all is lost, remember me.
I fear the soul’s December sea Will toss and turn this ship to break. If all is lost, remember me.
Goodbye is not an enemy, Despite the long and dying ache. I’m saving you, a memory. If all is lost, remember me.
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Reach
by Ally Liu
If you follow me, We might be swallowed By 14 minutes. You’ll hear color that you can’t touch I’ll see music that I can’t taste But you’ll be behind, Won’t you? Hanging from the cliffs of grief, Safety wheels down. Sorry, but I can’t catch you.
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Deep in Thought by Elena Klenk
Easy Washing by Kirsten Doane
Anchor by Ally Liu I showed you my soul It sparkled like shattered glass. Close your eyes, and drift away From the blood Pooling at your feet. From the blood Pooling at your feet.
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Sorry by Lauren Von Elm Sorry, for bumping into you Sorry, for being too loud Sorry, if i don’t understand Sorry, if i’m blunt Sorry, if i come off as rude Sorry, for making you raise your voice Sorry, for making you work more than you have to Sorry, if i bother you Sorry, for everything You taught me to say sorry for everything Because that’s the polite thing to do Now you tell me “You don’t have anything to say sorry for. Why are you saying sorry?” Because i was taught to Sorry, i’ll stop.
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Coping by Anya Chen
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Apple House by Kirsten Doane
The Hendersons by Lauren Grobman THE KITCHEN TABLE Curtains open to a family sitting at a table. It appears to be an early 1960s all-American household. The father, Richard, still in his business suit, is drinking a beer and staring at the TV. His wife, Deborah, is wearing a dress and apron and is smoking a cigarette. Their young son, Wilbur, is sitting next to her, wearing an astronaut helmet and playing with a stuffed animal. The stuffed animal has a seat at the table. Next to Wilbur is his older sister, Sandra, who is dressed casually and playing with her food. A plastic baby doll is also seated at the table. Skeeter Davis’ song “The End of the World” is playing. The song plays up until Deborah gets up and turns off the radio. The song should stop immediately after the line “Why does the sea rush to shore?” and then everything snaps to. The TV starts playing the show Gunsmoke loudly, the son is having a full-fledged conversation with his stuffed animal, the wife is complaining about the neighbors and the daughter is continuing to play with her food. Deborah is giving Richard some more tuna casserole when she notices Sandra is not eating. 33
DEBORAH Sandra, honey, why aren’t you eating?
DEBORAH Let me get my sashes.
SANDRA I... um...
Deborah runs off stage.
DEBORAH What is it? You can tell me. SANDRA It’s just that... DEBORAH Is this about your weight? SANDRA No! I just... WILBUR Mom, can Leroy have some more meatloaf? DEBORAH Please be quiet, honey! Okay, what is it? SANDRA I’m training. DEBORAH Training to be what? SANDRA It’s hard to explain. DEBORAH What training involves not eating food? Wait, are you going to go into pageantry just like your mother? SANDRA What? No!
RICHARD Women. WILBUR Women. SANDRA She doesn’t need to goRICHARD That would be great though, wouldn’t it? You’d be a pageant girl and then get a rich and charming husband, just like your mother? SANDRA That’s not whatRICHARD And when you’re a pageant girl, you do real well with getting a husband. And then your life will be perfect. SANDRA Father! RICHARD Did you just raise your voice?! SANDRA No, I’m sorry! RICHARD I should’ve gone to ‘Nam! 34
WILBUR Leroy is full.
RICHARD What the hell?!
SANDRA AND RICHARD Shut up!
SANDRA Wilbur, where did you hear that?
RICHARD So, what is it?
WILBUR Daddy.
SANDRA I’m training to be a...
SANDRA Oh my god.
RICHARD A...?
RICHARD Wilbur! I told you not to not snitch on me AND I told you not to call me that. Call me your old man.
SANDRA Competitive eater. RICHARD What the hell is that? SANDRA It’s where you compete in eating mass quantities of food in short periods of time. Like thirty hot dogs in eight minutes. Richard gets up. SANDRA What are you doing? RICHARD Getting cigarettes for when your mother hears about this. WILBUR I support my wife on everything. Especially her smoking habit because every time she yaps her mouth I wish she would drop dead! 35
WILBUR Because you’re old? RICHARD No! I should’ve gone to ’Nam. WILBUR Where’s ’Nam? RICHARD Heaven compared to dealing with you people. DEBORAH What the hell?! Deborah storms on stage, carrying several bulging plastic bags. RICHARD Woman! Mouth!
DEBORAH Shut it, Richard! Call me woman again, I dare you. Because next time I will make your lunch for work like I always do, all pretty. I’ll give it to you while I look all pretty. While we stand in our house all pretty. But, you know what won’t be pretty, Richard? You know what won’t be funny? I will put the soap for the dishwasher in your Thermos and let your drop to your knees like a guy who got shot in ’Nam! Silence. SANDRA Wow, Mom. DEBORAH Oh, you’re not getting off the hook either! You know, I didn’t end up getting the pageant stuff. You know why I didn’t get all of my pageant accoutrements? All of which I would have had to make two separate trips for? Because when I was making my way up to the attic, I smelled something. Something...something that smelled putrid. Absolutely repulsive. I asked myself, what could that smell be? The scent seems to be oozing out of your closet, and you know what I see?
RICHARD Really? DEBORAH No! SANDRA Mom... This is my dream. This is my passion. DEBORAH Jesus Christ, you’re going to try and justify this? SANDRA You don’t even get me! Competitive eating is my life! Look how many I can eat! Sandra throws herself on the floor and starts eating the hot dogs. DEBORAH Get up! Can you not do this right now? Just have some consideration! Mommy is going to have a full-on anger blackout. WILBUR Mommy, Leroy is scared! Deborah starts screaming as she grabs the stuffed animal and rips off its head.
Deborah opens up the bags to have tons and tons of hot dogs fly out. Why do you have so many hot dogs in your closet? Why can’t you just be a normal teenage girl and go smoke cigarettes behind the bleachers? Please, go smoke. Richard, throw her the pack! 36
Picturesque by Izabela Firlej
“I
’m scared.” I feel his breath on my ear as he whispers to me. He reaches for my hand. His hand is strong, bigger than mine, not surprisingly calloused from the years of work he’s done in his life. “It’ll be okay,” I whisper back, nodding my head at him. Observing his face, I notice the familiar stubble, a constant five o’clock shadow on his strong jaw. His red cheeks remind me of home, of winter, letting me drift back there, letting my mind rest. Thick, bushy eyebrows that frame his face like a bow on a gift. His eyes, amber flames flicking at my heart. Doe eyes, kind and unassuming. My fingers make circles on the back of his hand. I look around the room. It’s drab, I assume not to give anyone here any kind of hope. The walls are a bluish grey, peeling at the bottom, revealing a beige color you’d see in a post-apocalyptic movie. I look to my left at the window, the yellow wheat waving back and forth, as if it were swaying goodbye. The sky is clear except for a couple of clouds. Suddenly I feel his hand shaking. My free hand reaches to stop him. I look up. He’s facing away, looking out at the same fields. I wonder if we’re seeing the same thing. “Hey,” I say, tugging at his arm. He looks at me, and his face has changed,
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fallen. It’s red and wet, his strong features blurred by the tears coming like rain from his eyes. “I can’t do it,” he whimpered. “I don’t think I can do it.” He’s breathing hard, not trying to stop, letting the tears flow, for once in his life letting himself cry. “Come here.” I gesture for him to come to me. He kneels down to my level, looking at his shoes, his tears dripping on the tile floor. “Of course you can do it,” I say to him, wrapping my hands around his neck, feeling the collar of his shirt, the hair on the back of his neck. “Look at me,” I say, grabbing his cheeks, prickly and wet. “You have to do it.” I feel my cheeks itch with wet. “What do I say to her?” his voice trembles. “You tell her the truth,” I respond, my voice shaking. “Tell her how I was.” My lips begin to quiver. “Don’t let her remember me like this.” My vision blurs. He reaches for my face and wipes my tears. We’re looking right in each other’s eyes now. “Show her pictures. Never let her forget how much I loved her.” “Excuse me,” a meek voice calls from the door. “It’s almost time.” My husband stands up, wiping his tears. I chuckle. “No one can see him soft,” I think to myself. I wipe my own tears. “Would you like to see your daughter?”
Mountain by Isabella Powell
the nurse asks. She’s wearing scrubs embellished with hearts. “Yes, yes, of course.” The nurse steps out of the room, and in a matter of seconds she runs in with the same blonde hair I once had. She hops on top of me. I groan. Her dad reaches over. “It’s okay,” I say, holding onto her. “Hi Mommy,” she says, smiling and bouncing around. “Hi sweetie,” I say. I study her face. I don’t want to forget her. She has her father’s eyes, those same amber flames. She has my nose, strong and pointed. My ears, dainty. “The nurse gave me a lollipop,” she says gleefully. “Did she, honey?” I ask. She nods.
“What flavor?” “Blue.” She giggles. I laugh. “Blue, huh?” She sticks her tongue out, and, sure enough, blue. I brush her cheek with the back of my hand. “Your hand is cold, Mommy.” “Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” I say, smiling. “It’s time,” the heart-covered nurse interrupts. My husband leans in. We hug. The three of us, how it’s meant to be but will never be again. He takes our daughter, and the nurse walks over. “Do you mind if I look over at the window?” I ask. “Of course.” The nurse gives me a grim smile. I look over at the window, then I feel a prick. It looks so picturesque, almost fake.
City of Dreams by Ashton Kim
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My Land by Muna Al Mesheikhi Who would I be without you What would my identity be My land, my home You went away You were where I played Please, my land, stay My mum and dad My sister and brother We all miss you We yearn for history, literature and culture We’re nothing but dead souls Without you What did we all do to deserve this
من ساكون بدونك ماذا ستكون هويتي آرضي وبيتي ذهبتي بعيدا كنتي مكان لعبي ابقي. ارضي.ارجو ابي وامي اخي واختي كلنا نشتاق األدب والثقافة،نشتاق للتاريخ نحن لسنا سوى أرواح ميتة بدونك ماذا فعلنا لنستحق هذا
You’re in our hearts
انت في قلوبنا
You’re in our blood
انتي في دمنا
You’re in the soul Who would we be without you
انتي في الروح ماذا سنكون بدونك
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Strawberry Wafers
E
by Michelle Ugarte-Nunez
ntering my grandfather’s bedroom, two things become apparent: an entire wall full of religious figures and the scent of incense. As a kid, I was always afraid to go up to his bedroom, as the stairs going up were squeezed into a relatively small space and, to me, it felt like climbing Everest. Every time I willed myself to make the climb, I was greeted with nothing less than warmth. Warmth and strawberry wafers. “Michelita,” he would exclaim kindly, followed by a hug that engulfed me in his brown sweater vest and the scent of some cologne that I never bothered learning the name of. His childlike spirit and humor faded slowly—he was well into his 90s—along with his memory. The last time I saw him, he didn’t know who I was. Despite this, he asked for God to bless me, “Que Dios te bendiga, mi hijita,” followed by making the gesture of a cross on my forehead. After our interaction, I ran into my brother’s trembling arms. We were surrounded by our entire family in his bedroom. Traveling back to Virginia from Peru, I prayed that our goodbye wouldn’t be the last. I held on to this idea until my mom got a call on December 26th, 2013. On the fifth anniversary of his death, I found myself still grieving—not only the loss of my family’s patriarch, but a loss of self. My idea of being an inherently good person became questionable at best, thereby causing a cycle of helping toxic people, hating 41
myself, becoming numb to everything, and finding comfort in pain. This was my reality for five years, and as dishonest people became more frequent, so did my panic attacks. I went down the checklist of resources prior to taking a drastic step, exhausting every option. Friends. Parents. Psychologist. Counselor. No one could get through to the neverending screaming in my head. I found myself in my bedroom with the dim light of the computer screen bringing me comfort as I made the second cycle of edits on my suicide note. I figured the last thing I wrote should at least be grammatically correct, and hopefully somewhat profound about the meaning of existence or something. When I returned to Peru, I stared at his picture behind the glass under the unforgiving Arequipa sun with praying family members filling the silence. I daydreamed of a reality where he was still alive and his reaction to me telling him that I’m graduating high school and becoming a nurse. He would ask me if I was following in my mother’s footsteps. “Vas hacer una enferma? Como tu mamá?” is all he could muster, even in my imagination, but his voice was clear. A voice I had forgotten though I swore I never would. A voice that reminded me of a time I felt safe and made me yearn for that time to return once more. I cried tears of pain followed by relief as I felt the silence overcome my brain. After five long years, the scream that was
a combination of my own self-destructive thoughts and my family’s expectations finally subsided with his voice. The sensation was foreign, but welcomed. That night, I climbed the Everest-like stairs with my cousin and stared out at the gleaming night sky. My grandfather’s room lacked the scent of incense and the wall of religious figures had become a corner, but the table where he gave me strawberry
wafers was still there. I took the room in with a single breath and felt content with myself for the first time in my life. My grandfather was able to revive me from the deep depression I was in by giving me memories of safety. He will always be the man that showed me how powerfully a small act of kindness can affect a person, even if it’s just a strawberry wafer.
Connectivity by Michelle Ugarte-Nunez
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Colophon
All art and writing was contributed by McLean High School students. The Tartan was printed by Printing Center USA, and 750 copies were distributed to the student body and faculty free of charge. Pre-press was completed by the magazine staff using Adobe InDesign and Photoshop CC. The cover font was created with Adobe Illustrator. Titles, author credits, and artist credits are in Raleway. Copy is in Crimson Text.
FenĂŞtre by Anya Chen
Selection Policy
The Tartan literary magazine is a public forum for student expression that accepts literary and artistic work from all McLean High School students. Each piece is reviewed by Tartan staff and evaluated on its individual merit. Students may submit their work in person or through the club’s email: tartanmagazine@gmail.com
memories and thoughts lacing our paths together as we move forward
