Jon Mabie '17 1
Staff SENIOR EDITOR: JUNIOR EDITORS:
LAYOUT
FACULTY ADVISORS
"STAND UP, SPEAK OUT" THEME & IMAGE CURATOR: COVER ART "PEOPLE" DETAILS:
Nicole Fernandes Hannah Frisch Lydia Mead April Mihalovich Liam Bai MinGyu Jung BK Kim Matt Paliotta Lilly Post Lili Vazquez Sophia Zhou Chris White (Writing) Tricia Smith (Art) Kate Angell (Production) April Mihalovich
Maho Tsutsumi Matt Paliotta
The home of the Bowsprit is: TABOR ACADEMY 66 Spring Street Marion, MA 02738 2
Table of Contents Authors: Yujin Hong.............................................. 5 Hannah Frisch...................................... 6 Grace Douvos...................................... 11 Aidan McEnroe................................... 13 Trinity Monteiro..........................20, 64 Lydia Mead...........................................25 Grace Mead........................................28 Lachlan Hyatt......................................30 Brandon Sherman............ 35, 36, 63 Thad Lettsome.............................38, 61 Izzy Cheney.......................................... 41 Hana Liu.................................................42 Leah Kleinfeld....................................44 Ben Ackerman...................................46 Kelly Hanrahan...................................51
Artists: Jon Mabie.................................................1 April Mihalovich............................ 4, 27 Kayla Aimone................. 8, 34, 45, 49 Savannah Leao.................................. 10 Maho Tsutsumi.......................12, 18, 72 Kevin Yan......................................24, 39 Lucy Saltonstall.................................. 29 Fin Franyo............................................ 40 Lilly Post................................................50 Jui Buamahakul.................................54 Henry Knoblauch.............................. 60 Meredith Mahon................................ 62
***** This year's Bowsprit theme, "Stand Up, Speak Out" has generated some work that is more mature in both language and content. Some of the language is strong, some of the ideas challenging. For this reason we feel that it is necessary to caution readers to keep in mind that the audience is intended to be high school and beyond. Many of the selections are from our creative writing class where writers are encouraged to express their creative imaginings and embrace personal voice. We hope that you will read with an open mind. *****
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April Milhalovich '18
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Stars Yujin Hong '20
A little girl walks up to the sky And stretches her arms to touch a star Who could ignore the pleas of a little girl and then her sigh But her remote stars do not know she is at war The sky crumbles onto her tiny shoulder And crushes her small, shaking self The girl hugged the sky as the night got colder Later that evening, found on the streets was dear old Mrs. Delf Stiff as rock, cold as ice, dead The policemen told them she jumped from the skies Her husband glanced at her, without a even a sign of sad Not even grief or pity in his remote eyes We shall pray, may she be with her stars
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This I Believe Hannah Frisch '18
I want to believe in humanity. I want to believe the world is filled with kindness, sympathy, mercy, and peace. I want to believe that if I get lost in a city and ask for help, someone will help me find my way and will not kidnap me in the process. I want to believe that I can live in a country where guns are not needed or used to hurt other people. I want to believe the world can be accepting of all people and all differences. But I no longer believe in all of this. My faith in humanity has been lost. It disappeared like the two towers that once stood in New York City. It is riddled with holes like the innocent people shot in France. It was savagely pierced by shrapnel like the airport bombings in Brussels. My faith in humanity has been destroyed by terrorists killing innocent people under the pretense of religion. How can one conceive of taking a life under the guise of acting in the name of God? Terror cells, such as Al-Qaeda and ISIS, have twisted the ideology of their faith to suit their goal. I can not believe under any circumstances that there would ever be a God that would condone the taking of innocent human lives. These terrorists are without emotion or compassion. They are fanatics of their religion. They believe that if they strap bombs to their bodies and blow themselves up that they will be exalted in heaven. Instead, they are wounding or killing people in their wake, people who neither care about their religion or their ideology or their heaven; people who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I have lost my faith in humanity because no place is safe from terrorism and no person can necessarily escape it. My parents recently went to London and they were faced with the reality that something could happen to them either flying in a commercial airliner or being in a city under the constant threat of
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terrorism. Normally, traveling to London would not be a cause for concern; after all, my parents were not traveling to Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, or any other war-torn country. But because terrorism has become widespread, my parents were forced to consider the possibility of their dying. And with that thought came the question of what would happen to me and who would care for me. It was a subject they had not considered since writing their will when I was an infant. My parents sharing of their wishes for my brothers and me was a startling new reality. I was shocked to hear them speak of the possibility of their death, no matter how remote. I had been under the impression that I lived in a relatively safe cocoon and that terrorism was what happened to other people in other places. I was excited for my parents to embark on their journey abroad but never imagined they could be victims of random, unprovoked, unimaginable violence. I rarely considered my world without my parents, but senseless, selfish, radical people have caused me to realize that attacks don't just happen to people on the news. They can happen to anyone. We no longer live in a peaceful world. We live in a world where terror attacks are becoming more regular, brutal, and destructive. I do not have faith in humanity or human decency anymore. My faith in humanity has died, along with thousands of victims of terror attacks.
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Kayla Aimone '17 8
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Savannah Leao '19
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Things You Do Grace Douvos '18
I've wanted to say something for a thousand years: You can be moved by a solitary dangling branch On the way home. You can be moved by the squint of his eyes. Here's how movement works: The flutter in your chest, And lungs, and every organ, Is the recognition of art The scratch on the ground Is art; The drip of the faucet Is art; The change in your tone of voice Is art; His window pane squinting eyes Especially are art Everything is art. You could be moved By everything. But maybe One thing, Every once in awhile, Is enough. When you find it You should say, “This is art.” And you should say “That is good enough.” 11
Maho Tsutsumi '18
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Untitled Aidan McEnroe '17
A gunshot startled her from her sleep. She slid her Prada sunglasses on and sat up looking around for her dad. Small waves broke on the beach and the sun glinted off the surface of the harbor. Palm fronds swayed in the breeze and an iguana walked down the beach toward the surf. When she had laid down he had been right there, but the chair next to her was now empty. The beach was empty too except for her and a couple sitting at the bar further down the beach. “ "Dad!"” she called still sitting on the beach chair looking around, seeing nothing.Reaching into her bag she pulled out her phone. 'No Service.'’ "Well s***..." she said and threw the phone back into the bag. She pulled shorts and a tank-top over her bathing suit and shouldered her bag. She walked down the beach on the edge of the surf towards the bar. She thought back to her conversation with her dad before she fell asleep. She couldn't recall anything out of the ordinary. All they talked about was the route they planned to take around the islands and where they were going for dinner. He had been telling her about the restaurant they were going to tonight. The plan was to leave Road Town around two and tie up in Crown Bay before seven. Her watch read 1:43; they had gotten to the beach just before eleven after a late brunch on board Magic. She remembered the radio her dad had given to her after tying up the RHIB and reached into her bag. It was already on the 13
right channel.
"Magic, Magic, shore party, come in." No response. "Magic, Magic, shore party, come in."
Still nothing, she tossed it back into her bag. Walking up toward the bar she looked down the bar dock. Their dinghy was gone. The dock was almost empty except for a fleet of five jet skis and a tiny inflatable dinghy with no motor. The bar was partially covered by umbrellas but most of it was under direct sun. The bartender was an old woman who probably should've died of sun poisoning or skin cancer ten years ago. She sat down. The bartender was talking to the couple sitting at the other end. The bartender turned to make the couple another round and noticed the new patron. She set the fresh drinks on the counter and crossed to the other side of the bar. "What can I do for you miss?" "I'll just have an ice water, with lemon." "Sure thing." "Thank you." She set the glass on the bar. "Can I get you anything else?" "Actually yeah, I was hoping you could answer a question for me." 14
"What is it honey?"
"Did you see the man come down the beach and leave in the white dinghy that was here? He's about six foot two, athletic, short gray hair. He was wearing ahh, blue board shorts and a white button down shirt, probably unbuttoned" The bartender looked off down the beach. After a few moments she spoke. "There were three men. One looked like that." "What about the others?" “ "One was short, had a big belly and a Hawaiian shirt. The other was tall, big strong looking man." “ "Where'd they go?" “ "They took the boat that was here; the white one with the big motor. looked like they were heading to the motor yacht at the end of the harbor."
"The white one, over there?" she said pointing
"Yeah"
"Hmm... thank you."
"Anything else dear, some more water?"
"No thank you. " she said pulling out a 20 dollar bill and placing it in the tip jar.
Standing, she shouldered her bag and walked down 15
toward the dock. The fat man was definitely her Uncle Mac, they had stayed with him for a few days before the yacht had arrived from Nassau. The other man was probably one of his bodyguards. Uncle Mac was in the narcotics business until his very recent retirement. During their stay it was hard not to notice that his compound on St. John had been crawling with private security. She took a seat at the bar and stared across the water towards Magic trying to figure out what she should do next. There were five jet skis tied up to the bar dock but no one besides the couple was anywhere to be seen. A sign at the head of the dock read "JET SKI RENTALS! 80$ for 1 Hour 350$ for the day (for more information see bartender)." Turning around she reached back into her bag for her clutch and headed back to the bar. “ "Forget something, honey?" “
"No. I was hoping I could rent one your jet skis?" "Sure thing darling, I'll just need to see some i.d."
"Could I use it for two hours?" She asked handing the bartender her driver's license clearly marked with her birthday 07/22/94 and two American hundred dollar bills. "Looks good, I just need you to read and sign this release. Do you need me to show you how to use them?" "No, it's alright. We have some on the boat." She scanned the form and signed it; trading it and the pen for her change. "Alright here's the key. You can take the one all the way at the end of the dock." 16
"Thank you."
She turned and walked back down to the dock. It was long, extending into the bay like an outstretched arm with slips at the end like little fingers. Reaching the end she examined her new ride and was relieved by the fact that there was a cooler built into the back. She stowed her bag in the cooler and hopped on. After flipping the starter, it hummed to life vibrating slightly beneath her. She let the lines go and shoved off the dock. Navigating to the channel she set a course for Magic and opened the throttle. Water flew off the sides, sparkling in the afternoon sun. Her blond hair, blown back from her face; waving in the wind. Completely lost in the moment, she almost drove right over the body floating facedown in the water. The jet ski swerved and came to an almost dead stop. Looking down into the water she saw a young man with light brown hair; his head floating in a cloud of blood. She recognized the uniform immediately. He was one of the deckhands on board Magic. Her mouth filled with the taste of bile and she looked away trying not to be sick. Slowly she turned, and started to make her way toward the yacht with no idea of what was waiting for her.
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Maho Tsutsumi '18 18
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Only 5.00 Trinity Monteiro '17
"I only have $5.00" His hands were dry and ashy. They looked like they worked in construction for years with scars under the hair that was layered on his knuckles. His eyes pierced out beneath bushy eyebrows with grey hairs pulling opposite directions. He stared without saying a word right away, but then cleared his throat and spoke through his raggedy, outgrown beard. "Well then I can't sell this to you." "Are you serious? It's only .35 cents. Is .35 cents really going to put you out of business?" "I'm sorry miss, but this is a store, and if you don't have the money then you can't have the food." "F*** off," she said trying to snatch the bag off the counter. Her hair was dripping, old sweatshirt with holes forming at the bottom was soaked, and jeans were three shades darker. Her sneakers squished as she walked towards the door. She snatched a candy bar off of the shelf and tore it open. She turned back around towards the cashier and slowly lifted the bar towards her mouth while keeping strict eye contact. “ "If you do that miss I will have to call the police." She just continued to raise the candy taunting the man. She now stared at it anticipating the trouble she was about to come across. "Miss," he said as his stumpy fingers began to dial 9-1-1. Before he could finish dialing she had dropped the 20
chocolate bar on the tile and her head whipped to the window. She stared out the window like a deer in the headlights at the cars in the parking lot. Under the lights of the gas stations there was a twenty year old guy filling his tank, a police officer with one partner filling the tank and the other walking towards the store, and a woman smoking a cigarette outside her car. He could see her chest racing underneath her oversized sweater. All of a sudden she began pacing in between the aisles. "Ma'am do not take one other thing." She just continued to pace back and forth and then stopped in front of the cereals. He lost focus on her when the door rang. The police officer had come over with one hand in his pocket and the other swinging by his side. He walked steadily over to the counter. "Good evening, sir." "Good evening. You're awfully cheery for someone working a late shift." "No reason to sulk if I know I gotta do it. Business isn't gonna run itself, sir." "It's certainly not. Well, have you happened to see this man around here recently?" The police officer pulled out an image from his chest pocket. It was of a man about mid-thirties, bull cut, and rugged. He had no smile and scruff covering his whole face. There appeared to be a scar reaching from the tip of his left eyebrow across his eye. 21
"No, I have not, sir. May I ask what he done, sir?" The officer pulled out another picture. This one however looked a lot more familiar. It was of the girl wondering in the cereal aisle, but here she was put together. She was all dressed up and looked about two years younger. Her hair was curled and a light amount of makeup was applied. She was smiling in a green field with a little girl with the same brunette hair and a dog that looked a few months old. "What about her?" "Over there," the man yelled darting directly towards the aisle where he saw her right before the officer entered. They both rushed over, the man leading the officer, but when they turned the corner she was gone. All of a sudden they heard the bell ring. The officer sprinted towards the door, pushing over the crate of sodas in the middle of the store. He stiff armed the door, and it burst open. The cashier followed steps behind. They both ran into the middle of the parking lot looking all around, but all they spotted was the woman throwing her cigarette on the floor and a man driving away. All of a sudden they both heard a noise from the walkie talkie on the officer's chest, "Suspicious woman spotted. Main St. Cumberland Farms. Unknown if she is armed. Short brunette wearing a red hoodie with jeans. Escaped in the back of the Cumberland Farms." He responded, "Possible suspect. I repeat, possible suspect." “ "Suspect of what? What'd she'd do," the cashier asked confused, but curious. "She's a missing child," but before the officer could give any more detail his partner came from around the corner running towards the car. 22
"If she comes back, call the station," was the last thing the cashier heard from the officer before he was running back to his cruiser and left with sirens blazing. The man was just left standing in the parking lot scratching his beard and clearing his throat. He walked back into the store with his hand in his pocket and checking his phone. It was midnight, meaning it was time to close up the store. He picked up the sodas that tipped over, and locked the cash register. He shut off the lights and locked the doors. He finally got to his car and turned off the radio. He drove home in pure silence with only the heat on. Once arriving back at his home he unlocked the door holding the keys lightly to avoid making any extra noise. He took his shoes off beside the door and walked into the kitchen to grab a beer. He left it out on the counter and proceeded into the bedroom. He cracked the door open and could faintly see his daughter laying there between the flashes of light from the television. He walked back to the kitchen to grab his beer and sat in the recliner facing the television. He turned the tv on and lowered the volume. While sinking into his chair and chugging down his beer, he flipped through the channels. One particular channel had a familiar face. It was the girl from the store on the late night news. "MISSING CHILD. Sarah Thompson went missing earlier this week and was last seen with Donald Smith, known pedophile and rapist."
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Kevin Yan '20 24
I Believe in Rain Lydia Mead '18
I believe in rain. Mist so light that the air simply feels thick; lending an unreal feeling to the earth. Or larger drops of rain, steadily speckling the ocean. Or a torrential downpour. Rain drops race down windowpanes. Drops hang precariously from leaves. It smells like rain; damp, with a tinge of acidity. I believe in rain. In the city, the water puddles in the dips and potholes of roads. I always notice the rainbow-tinted shine of oil that coats their surfaces. I never thought about how much oil is in the roads until I noticed those rainbow puddles. I believe in rain. It wakes me up, restores my consciousness. It's easy for me to slip out of the moment, and dive deeper into my head. But when caught up in a frantic, swirling storm, I jolt into the present. Cold drops pelt my face, stinging my skin. Wind whips my hair and pushes me around. Water soaks through my shirt, makes me shiver. I know I'm alive. I believe in rain. We people live with the illusion that we control our lives. We build up the skyscrapers and carve out the land, we cut down trees, and we harness the power of the oceans. But, in reality, we can control our actions and our words, but nothing else. We can't control the rain. When it rains, it rains. I am at its mercy. Sometimes I wish for rain, and sometimes I wish it would stop; but I have no power over it. Not at all. The rain reminds humans that we haven't mastered everything. I believe in rain. Sometimes, rain comes in thunderstorms. The thrumming on the roof, the sharp crack of thunder. Then a 25
bolt of lightning slashes the sky. So loud, so fantastic, demanding attention. Such a powerful force; explained by science, but incomprehensible nonetheless. Thunderstorms make me feel small; they put my life in perspective. I believe in rain, though it makes me feel sad sometimes. The gray skies and falling water— whether a splattering or a constant stream— often feel melancholy. It's an incentive for me to stay inside. Rain darkens the world; but that's fine. I believe in rain. During one lacrosse practice last year, it poured. The rain collapsed in heavy sheets, and the coaches sent the team for three "cool down laps" (which doesn’ t even make sense). My cleats tore up the sodden earth as I ran, as I circled the field in our pack of crinkling nylon jackets. The makeup of the other girls ran down their faces in streaming black lines. Before this, I had no idea how many girls wore makeup.
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April Mihalovich '18
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Future of Mankind Grace Mead '20
All the pixels on the screen meld into one big picture - the moment a rocket takes off - the fire. You can see the sweat trickle down his face, and imagine the taste of salt. I watch the movie, my face becoming warm. Everything rushing up there, I remind myself to breathe. The roar flickers from the television. The man's face becomes unreadable under the space helmet encapsulating his head. Or, maybe not, if you look close enough. He's about to burst into space. I care a lot - because that's what I want. I turn my body into the corner of the couch, like there's someone I'm holding on to. The living room is warm and dark, with a wood and beam ceiling, like a boat. If I look up, and close my eyes, the wood can be darkness and shifting gravity pulling galaxies to the edges of black holes. John Glenn was the first American to orbit earth. I wonder if the actor was put in a simulator that shakes and rocks till all the skin is about to slide off your face. I have a feeling that's what it's like shooting into the atmosphere. Until - quiet. The tranquil detach. My breathing relaxes, I didn't even notice I was holding it before. My legs curl up, and fake John Glenn looks out his Friendship 7 window. Everything is calm. Calm like I don't understand. What's that feeling, seeing earth as something in orbit, something real, a piece of infinite space? I know I want to be up there, it's what I'm most afraid of. I hold my right thumb - wondering. Are galaxies too much to want? 28
A Hard Day's Work Lucy Saltonstall ‘ '17
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Late Lachlan Hyatt '17
Uncle Earl wasn't answering the buzzer. Of course he wasn't. His cassette player was probably blasting music too loud. Thomas pulled back from the buzzer for a moment and looked at his watch. The angle of the late winter sun was low over grey snow piled up high on the street and he had a headache. So Thomas left the stoop and walked around the building to the backyard. "Hey Earl, we gotta go now!" cried up Thomas from the base of the brick apartment building. He was staring up at a fourth floor window, slightly open, where floral moth-eaten curtains swayed just as lightly as the breeze that stirred them. Thomas looked around, waiting for an answer. The lawn was brown, crunchy, and dry, but yet was still overgrown. Broken lawn chairs lay half-sunken into the grass. A faded pink flamingo stuck out crookedly, it's tacky irony elevated to a new level. It looked like it was molting. "Thomas! You're here early! Traffic must not have been too bad." said Earl, as he emerged from behind the curtain in the window. “ "No, it's pretty bad, we're late. We have to go or we'll miss our flight." “ "Ok, I'm just finishing packing my things," and Earl disappeared back into his pad. Thomas rolled his head and stretched his neck. This was going to be a long trip. He wondered how much acid his uncle had taken back in the day. Too much. Much, much too much. And how much had he smoked? And what else had he done to fry his brain? Or had he always been this spacey? Probably not. Not if he had gotten his PhD at Yale. No, it was the drugs from the time he had spent in the military back in the '50s. Uncle Sam needed someone to test all 30
those tabs of LSD and mescaline and MDMA and alphabet soups of chemicals and doses of marijuana. That duty fell on good ol' Private Earl. A human guinea pig. "You don't happen to have an extra suitcase with you by any chance, do you Tommy?" Jesus Christ. "An extra suitcase? No. No, I don't. I...." Thomas looked around, trying to find words. “ "Oh, uh-huh, it's ok, I bet a have some,” and Earl disappeared once again into his apartment. They were going to be late. They were going to miss their flight. They were going to have to book a new flight and Thomas was pretty sure Earl wouldn't be able to pay for the extra ticket. It's not like Thomas could either. They were going to miss their flight to Mexico, miss the funeral; they wouldn't be able to meet Dad's lawyers, sign the documents and the house would be auctioned off. Just as Thomas began to seriously consider leaving his uncle behind, Earl came walking out the back door carrying two black garbage bags stuffed full of clothes. “ "Are we off then?" asked Earl. 'Uhh, yup." They went back around the apartment building to Thomas' beat up old Volvo. Earl threw his bags in the backseat and climbed in shotgun. It wouldn't start. The engine wheezed and belts turned, choking out like something was stuck in its throat. Five minutes later, Thomas sat in the passenger seat of Earl's old jalopy. 31
"Did you remember your keys?" asked Thomas, already bracing himself for the answer, eyes clenched.
"Oh no, I lost my keys months ago."
Earl open up the console in the car and pulled out a single scissor, a small flathead screwdriver, and some old rubber bands. Thomas watched in amazement as Earl worked all materials into place in the ignition. Jerry rigging at its finest. Years, hell, decades of practice. The engine roared to life. His car a howdah, a smokey sweet tent in arab camel trains and caravans. A Moroccan red oriental carpet, much too big, was laid over the backseat and curled up to the ceiling, from which torn fabric hung in veils. It smelled like cigarillos despite the years old air freshener on the dash. Tapes of Creedence and King Crimson were hidden like landmines in the field of receipts piling up on the floor mats. Their cases cracked when Thomas stepped in. The dream catcher and fluffy dice hanging on the rearview swung into each other as the car bumped along. “ "How are you holding up, Doc?" said Earl. “ "Fine. You shouldn't take Broadway or the highway, just stick to 6th." “ "Right-o, Captain. You all good? You seem pretty on edge, man." "No. We're just late. We could miss our flight." “ "What time does it leave?" “ "1:30." “ "Oh, we should make it. Have you thought about a eulogy?" “ 32
"No. A bit. Take this left."
"Yessir. You seem mad, man, what's up?" “ "We"re late."“ "That's it?" "Yes." “ "You're sure, man?....What's up?" “ "What's up? I seem mad? I'm on edge? Dad just died in some Mexican s***hole town and now I have to get there before the banks auction off the house and these lawyers aren't doing shit and Danny isn't even going to bother showing up and now I have to deal with all this shit and people can't cover my shifts and my car just f***ing died and now we're going to miss the f***ing flight! I seem mad? No, no, you're right, I'm just on edge. F***." The rest of the ride was quiet and they watched the car's shadow grow longer as the day slipped into twilight. The airport wasn't crowded and Earl was able to park close to the building, only getting lost once in the parking garage labyrinth. Thomas asked for the parking receipt and carefully placed it in the car's console.
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Kayla Aimone '17 34
Drums Brandon Sherman '20
The rain beats down on the eager cement. Banging and splashing its never-ending tune. Heavy drops pull down light branches Pulling them, yelling out “Join the song.� Your heart intertwined with mine. Beat after beat Slowly aligns. Long awaited, heart strings pulled, finally Joining the song. Falling together rain and love. Overflowing into streets Flooding into hearts.
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Today Brandon Sherman '20
Everyone crowds around a single, Dark, couch. Over 20 people just standing, Staring. Looking on with grief as tears sear their cheeks. I can not bear watch. I cry in the guest room, memories flooding my eyes, Staining my soul. My nails dig into the rough wood of the bedpost, Clinging. Willing life's depression away. I stare at my uncle's old treasures. Golf clubs. Hockey sticks. Pictures of him and my dad. Pictures of him and I. I smile for a moment then feel fear's swift pain Effortlessly whisk away my joy. My foot taps the ground over and over My breath shakes in convulsing patterns. The long fought battle ends, today. Yet I am stuck in Yesterday. A knock at the door and someone is in the room. I try to scream but death chokes the words, Try to stand but my legs are shackled to my thoughts. A prisoner of the past.
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My eyes stay locked on the picture in front of me, On the smile that will haunt me Tomorrow. "Your uncle wants to see you." The voice of my father barely recognizable behind muffled sobs, Behind countless tears. The ground beneath me tilts, The walls beside me press in. Further And Further. Between hidden gasps and trembling fingers, I walk forward. My uncle's warm smile welcomes me. Wiping my eyes free I see his hairless head. Radiation stole that too. I see his frail cold body, Ravaged by microscopic savages. Eyes glancing down to mine, past the pain Past the sorrow. Our eyes met, for the last time, Today.
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Patience Thad Lettsome '20
I remember them telling me to have patience, I remember them telling me to wait, Oh how I remember the smell, So thick and so sweet, Wafting through the house, Drifting around corners, Slipping underneath doors, Brushing me in the face, Tickling the tip of my nose. It beckoned for me to follow it, And I did; Navigating the labyrinth with ease, Careful not to unsettle the menacing figures shadowing over me, Until my destination was in sight. There, High above my head, Out of the grasp of my diminutive, flailing, fat, fingers, On the countertop, Resting on a gleaming silver rack, The work of art presented itself, Surrounded by a yellow aura, Flanked by massive guards, I would have to wait, Until I received my slice, I would have to be patient.
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Kevin Yan '20
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Fin Franyo '20
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"Falling"
Izzy Cheney '20
The wind whistles high above the ground I am closer to the sun, yet goosebumps appear on my arms The air is thinner, and my breaths are abnormal I reach for the next branch Each inch upward I climb Is another minute of pain I will feel if I fall I persevere despite my fears My small, clammy fingers Grasp the lean wooden rod, unsure It is a fight, and the branch must make the first move I wait, frozen, unable to advance I pull myself up a fraction of an inch And then the branch throws the punch I at first hear a crack so quiet it is deafening Then it becomes louder like a hammer to my temples I wish for a strong redwood instead of a scrawny pine Suddenly everything is gone No leaves, no branch, no tree Just me and the ground The wind has stopped The warmth is gone The air is no longer necessary 41
This I Believe Hana Liu '18
A beautiful woman with long blonde hair stood on the pier. She gracefully dove into the turquoise water, and a mesmerizing tail with metallic blue scales replaces her legs. Seeing her reflection on her shiny tail, she shakes her head hard with disbelief. But the more she shakes her head, the darker her hair becomes and the fatter her limbs expand. Opening my eyes, I see my bedroom ceiling. I'm back to me, again. Throughout my childhood, I have dreamt of mermaids ever since I began to believe in them in kindergarten. All my life, my faith in mermaids has remained, but the reason for my belief turned from simply believing in the supernatural, to something deeper. Before going to elementary school, my mom would kiss me goodnight and say I'm the prettiest girl. And blindly, I thought so, too, until the third day of first grade when my teacher crushed my soul by announcing that I was overweight in front of the whole class according to my BMI, body mass index. Time stopped, and I was deafened by the explosion of laughter. Everyday since then, whenever I look in the mirror, I need to restrain my urge of taking a pair of scissors to just cut off all the fat on my stomach. They all say to love yourself. But I just can't. The countless shopping experiences of always asking for the largest size shredded my love for myself, which can only be glued back together by extreme self confidence. As a 16 year old, I don't have that kind of faith in me, and I doubt I will in the near future. 42
Life is a labyrinth of constant struggle, and because of that
struggle, we all need something magical in our lives to make the labyrinth more bearable. For me, the magic that soothes the pain is mermaids. In all the books and movies we see, mermaids are always portrayed as having the perfect body, blue eyes that reflect the water, and long hair that, despite all the salt water, is always silky smooth... like they're swimming in an ocean of Pantene conditioner. There are no fat mermaids, except Ursula who is evil, so that doesn't really count. Every mermaid is perfect. Body parts are all in the right proportion, and the wave motion they swim in adds the final touches of elegance. Living day to day hating my body, I often wonder why I cannot just be a happy mermaid carelessly swimming in the sea where I can actually love myself, because I will be like all mermaids, perfect. So, whenever I have a bad day, I give myself ten seconds to close my eyes and imagine myself with a long scaly pink tail diving along the sea bed. When the time's up, I will then open my eyes and take a deep breath to continue on my confusing journey in the maze. My belief in mermaids is merely a pain medication; it does not cure the real sickness of the dissatisfaction for myself. The antidote for self-hatred is at the end of the labyrinth, but until I reach there, I desperately need my mermaid utopia that I can escape to during my darkest times in the tangled maze to survive just one more night. I believe in mermaids because it's the key belief to keep me alive on my journey to find self love.
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Color
Leah Kleinfeld '20
A world of brilliant color Swirling and shifting Happiness everywhere I looked Speeding by me in the car A flurry of green and brown and blue. Then the black phone On the car seat beside me Began to ring And my heart falls through my feet. And as I answered The colors were gone Trees black and light grey at the top The sky a lifeless shade of ash. And the only time I see color anymore Is in the blue of your eyes The blonde of your hair The colors that come in flashes Every night when my eyes are closed. So suddenly The color was gone from the world Like you were In a flash. 44
Kayla Aimone '17 45
Cookout Ben Ackerman '20
While I listened to the roar of my family reunion I decided my brain must be shaped like a football crudely jammed into a skull that resembles a tennis ball This was the only feasible reason my head could possibly feel as it did Most third graders have yet to suffer through intense migraines Which therefore accentuates the pain of those that do occur And I, as one would expect, was no different In urgent need of Advil, I sought out my favorite uncle And inquired if he might have any to spare "Of course," John said "Its right in the glove box." I stumbled through the tall grass of my grandfather's backyard And climbed into the front seat In order to get into proper position to rummage inconsiderately through my relative's Cadillac As my little hand reached the back of the drawer It grasped a small container About the size of a pill bottle 46
"This must be it," I assumed Yet when I pulled it into view Instead of sporting an Advil logo, it was crystal clear And filled to the brim With what I reasoned must have been a moss sample Moss with a pungent odor and a strange, unique texture Intrigued as to why he would keep such a thing in his glove box I decided to bring it up later on Not wishing to leave a trace, I quickly located the Advil and scurried back to the gathering Luckily, I avoided an uncomfortable conversation By crashing on the couch A perfect impromptu bed For the party raged on much later than a responsible third grader's bedtime The memory was promptly lost In a far corner of my jumbled and naive brain Only to be brought back in vivid detail 47
In the sixth grade Upon being informally educated by a peer of mine on common narcotics
Ben Ackerman Jan. 13, 2017 I began to piece together the puzzle And drew a sickening conclusion I was robbed of my innocence As if I had just watched my first R rated movie Similar to the feeling of horrified understanding After viewing the health class sex-ed video I was taken aback, My view forever changed of my uncle Who I once believed could do no wrong In retrospect, I wish I hadn't had the eye-opening conversation In retrospect, I wish I had just suffered through my ailments
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Kayla Aimone '17
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Lilly Post '20
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Women's March Kelly Hanrahan '17
With the Boston Common packed with what city officials estimated to be about 175,000 people ready to participate in the Women's March, Elizabeth Warren
preached to throngs of united women, men and children, that "We are here! We will not be silent! We will not play dead! We will fight for what we believe in!" Rabble roused and thrilled to be out of class, thousands of students stood in awe and absorbed Warren's words, but in meditation, it is important for all of us to consider why we were there and what it is that we believe in. So why were we there? On paper, the purpose of the rallies around the country on President Donald Trump's first day of office was to send a strong message to the incoming administration that women's rights are human rights. Marchers congregated to advocate for LGBTQ rights, immigration and healthcare reform, worker's rights, racial equality, and a variety of other reasons. Although these marches make waves among these issues that desperately need to be addressed, it is not enough to march. It is not enough to show up in a “ "pussy hat"� with a snarky sign. It is not enough to clutch a chai latte and pose for pictures with 51
other marchers. It is not enough to use your experience in the Women's march as evidence that you do, in fact, care about human rights and justify for yourself or for others that you have done enough in the battle for human rights. For many, the Women's March was enjoyable - a recreational activity of sorts. For others, and most likely for those who didn't have the privilege of showing up, it is more than a recreational activity. Participants in the Women's March should be challenged to evaluate the feminism for which they advocate beyond face value. It is easy to simply believe that all women in the United States are second class citizens and that are all part of the same fight. On the contrary, however, women of color and members of the LGBTQ community fight different battles from the white women who comprised a large percentage of participants at the Women's March on Boston. It is important that privilege is recognized by those who possess it, and though white women may be fighting for things that do directly impact them - policies that restrict access to birth control and their right to autonomy over their own reproductive systems - it is important to recognize that these issues pale in comparison to the struggles that minority groups of women struggle with and have been struggling with for years. Just because 52
white women are becoming more active in this battle for social rights and justice for all, doesn’ t mean that this movement hasn't already existed. Showing solidarity by participating in the Women's March is important to demonstrate the strength in numbers that women united can manifest, but it is more important to thoroughly understand and to act as an ally to women whose experiences differ from our own. Everybody has different experiences, and we must align ourselves and show support to women whose privilege may not extend as greatly as ours. Learn as much as you can about the experiences of other women. Make yourself available for support, and understand that feminist ideologies must delve deeper than sex to be effective. All women must understand that inequality results from race, socioeconomic class, gender and sexual identity, disabilities, and countless other factors. For feminism to be effective, it must be comprehensive. Showing up is simply not enough. The purpose of the Women's March is the continuation of understanding and dialogue among men and women regarding gender inequality. Although the march was in January, the task at hand lives on and we are responsible for continuing to learn and pursue social justice for all women. 53
Jui Buamahakul '18 54
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Black Girl Trinity Monteiro ‘ 17
OMG Black Girl, I love your hair. Can I touch it? Is it real? How do you do that? How much is your real hair? Is it heavy? Do you get headaches? How do you wash it? Hey Black Girl, I love your confidence. But why are you always mad? Why don't you smile more? Why are you so loud? Why do you clap out your syllables? Do you always have to roll your eyes? Why don't you change your attitude? What's up Black Girl, I love your family. Does your mom make good fried chicken? Do you always have soul food? How's your cornbread? Do you have any family members in gangs? What about jail? 56
Is that your full sibling? Do you know your father? 'Sup Black Girl, I love your neighborhood. Have you ever been robbed? Are there shootings? Do you have a local dealer? Are there a lot of high school drop outs? Yo Black Girl, I love your body. Do you play sports? Are you a track star? Do you play basketball? Can you swim? How do you do that? Can you twerk? Can you teach me to twerk? What's happenin'’ Black Girl, You're like an oreo. Do you know what that means? Why do you talk like that? Do you need help? Are you going to college? How are so so put together? 57
Well dear rest of the world, Did you ever think I had braids, because my hair is so heat damaged from the pressure to make it pin straight, but obviously I am still too insecure to wear it natural, because then you see it as dirty, crazy or a petting zoo? Did you ever think I have feelings too? Did you ever think I get mad at people constantly questioning and offending me on the daily? Would you not be mad at always being a target? Did you ever think about your own family? Is it perfect? Did you ever think my biological father wasn't healthy for my mother and I so she loved us enough to get us out of that situation? Did you ever think I'd love my sister any less, because DNA molecules which I can't even see, aren’ t exactly the same? Did you ever think these foods are traditions passed from generations to generations, and no human could live off of just fried chicken, cornbread, and kool aid? Did your family purposely look for a house somewhere with high crime rates? Did you ever think if my family could afford the best then we wouldn't be in a mansion and I wouldn't have whatever I want? Did you decide to get robbed? Do you lock your doors at night? Did you ever think I could be anti-drugs? Did you ever think I have body image issues too, or what about how it feels to be shamed for not having a large ass, but also told I need to lose weight? Did you ever think there's a chance I could be an artist, not an 58
athlete? Do you just stand still when an upbeat song is on? Did you ever think how it feels being told that since I am respectable I cannot be black? Do you not have an accent, because really who doesn’ t? Do you never need help? Did you ever think that I work hard and care about school too? Did you ever see me as human? Did you ever think? Or am I just a mad, loud, sex symbol that you expect to shake her ass for you while cooking and lighting a blunt? So dear rest of the world, Open your eyes and realize the magic you are surrounded by whenever a black girl is near. Realize all she has to fight for, all the things she has to fight against, and not by choice. I repeat ,not by choice. Please realize all she is outside of her color. We are AP students, applying to colleges, leaders, sister, daughters, prep school students, human And the cherry on top is that is we are black girls.
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Henry Knoblauch '18
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Who Thad Lettsome '20
I sit patiently, Legs stuck to the icy pews, Blinking back the tears, Up steps my grandma To celebrate her sister, She breathes in‌ and out Sorrow in her eyes, The words trip up on her tongue, Grandpa takes her place, He begins slowly; My grandpa speaks dolefully, He cannot finish. I am now baffled, Do we all just get replaced? Is that how it works? I sit patiently, Legs stuck to the icy pews, Who will replace him?
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Meredith Mahon '19
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Dream Brandon Sherman '20
Golden light flows through cracks, In the waiting door. Hands shake and falter Break and bruise. Fingers crawl out from long forgotten caves, And nightmares resurface. A shadow cast upon the wall A silhouette of nothing more. A constant battle being waged By the monsters in my head. Eyes scan a dark room Finding only another pair staring back. Flying through the air. I am free. Freefalling back down. I am lost. Shadows screaming I'm alone. Lights spark Sporadically. Eyes open Finally. 63
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