2018 Daemon by The Ethel Walker School

Daemon, The Ethel Walker School literary magazine, is a collection of writing and works of art from this year. We would like to thank all of the students who submitted paintings, photographs, essay, stories and poems. It is always a risk to put yourself out there. Thanks, too, to the teachers who took the time to encourage their students to send in work. All of the submissions, visual or literary, were moving and thought-provoking. It has been an exciting process to design and edit this magazine; we hope that you like it. We know that many of you wrote beautiful pieces and made works of art that you did not submit; we hope that you will consider sending your work to the magazine next year. Happy reading!

Editors

Ella Gotbaum Ruoyi Jin Theresa Jo Samantha Logan Jenessa Lu Casper Marcrum Kaitlyn Thoma Victoria Wang

Advisor Catherine Reed, Head of English

Cover Art

Photograph by Jaden Kassa Designed by Theresa Jo

ArtWork Ruoyi Jin ‘19 Jenessa Lu ‘21 Jenessa Lu ‘21 Emma Binzer ‘21 Rachel Crampton ‘18 Emma Paterson ‘19 Theresa Jo ‘18 Ruoyi Jin ‘19 Victoria Wang ‘18 Jenessa Lu ‘21 Jenessa Lu ‘21 Samantha Logan ‘18 Ella Samson ‘20 Tianyi Huang ‘21 Ella Samson ‘20 Theresa Jo ‘18 Jasmine Morris ‘19 Ruoyi Jin ‘19 Ruoyi Jin ‘19 Jenessa Lu ‘21 Victoria Wang ‘18 Gloria Lin ‘19 Jenessa Lu ‘21

Writing No. 0731 005 003 Block Print Women’s March Series Radiant Sculpture No. 0107 Watercolor 001 006 Don’t Fall Down Dissociate A Japanese Town Block Print Acrylic + Color Pencil Block Print Nigiri No. 0308 002 Acrylic Pen and Ink 004

Garet Wierdsma ‘18 Kaitlyn Thoma ‘18 Lauren Pannullo ‘18 Beatrice Ballou ‘19 Esi Obeng ‘18 Victoria Wang ‘18 Samantha Logan ‘18 Jeanine Wang ‘18 Sophie Gribin ‘20 Marie Ettien ‘18 Jada Adams ‘20 Marie Ettien ‘18 Stephanie Makowski ‘19 Isabel Lardner ‘18 Ella Gotbaum ‘18 Jeanine Wang ‘18 Jacqueline Zhao ‘18 Ruoyi Jin ‘19 Caroline Smith ‘19 Beatrice Ballou ‘19 Briana Goolsby ‘18 Beatrice Ballou ‘19 Samantha Logan ‘18 Jacqueline Zhao ‘18 Annie Sherbacow ‘19 Isabel Rush ‘19 Samantha Logan ‘18 Katherine Tian ‘18 Bre Bogle ‘18 Jeanine Wang ‘18 Marion Carr ‘18 Marie Ettien ‘18 Garet Wierdsma ‘ 18 Bre Bogle ‘18 Monique Pace ‘18 Esi Obeng ‘18 Madeleine Pelletier ‘20 Kaitlyn Thoma ‘18 Isabel Rush ‘19 Victoria Wang ‘18 Madeleine Pelletier ‘ 20 Kristen Emery ‘19 Ella Gotbaum ‘18

Paradise Little Girl I love Untitled Heartbreak Do You Believe in Love? Yesterday Silence The Seat Next to Window

Meadow of Life No Hair Since #LightSkin Beauty The Malted Shell Knitting Monopoly Crevice There is a Girl Dancing Summer Evening Gettysburg, 2011 Thoughts at the Carnival

Thin Ice! No Skating! Clowns pt. 1 Origami Sky Restless Camp Personal Essay If Only When Who am I? The Race Screens Arcade Games, Shotguns, and the Surfboards “Free Free” The War White Door The Last Call Family Dinner Fleas Home Winter Years Here A Sailor’s Lullaby Alone For Julia

“ one day soon, dawn will come again.”

Ruoyi Jin ‘19, No. 0731 Ella Gotbaum ‘18, For Julia 3

Paradise Garet Wierdsma

Every year my mom and aunts and uncles took us to Storyland. I drove the antique cars with Addy and we laughed the whole way. Each time we went, Addy and I convinced our smiling moms to buy us ice cream cones. They tasted like Candyland, like we had been transported to a world of sugar. I was 12 the summer we walked into the amusement park and Addy turned to me and said that we did not fit. We fumbled through the doors, thinking only of the sticky sensation of the statue that waits in between the table for the antiques and the table for the cars, with a placemat for you at both and at neither, and the desperation for speed and for stagnation. We teetered above knee-high bodies of humiliating happiness, repulsed by the extinction of our chameleon. In all that time, we had never realized that paradise was flat.

Little Girl I Love Kaitlyn Thoma

Little girl I devoted my life to, she loves him and not me. I once bought that little girl a little, white rabbit with a little pink heart in its hands, plushy like her soft touch. She liked it very much. He bought that little girl a silky brown rabbit with a less silicone texture, and she adored it. I saw the way her childish and innocent eye gleamed at at him in a such pure infatuation, holding it in her small hands. The rabbit was not the matter which bothered me. I know, I am easily prone to sadness. That is not the question. This child I treat as my own makes my eyes hot with a nostalgia that leaks on every next birthday and conquered youth soccer team. The matter was her love for him, and the way in which I was unable to harness that. Even though we had the same blood in our veins, she gravitated to him, a stranger. And I felt guilty. Guilty that I married a man who was no good, and guilty that I let him be a part of her life. Guilty that I let her fall in love with him so cluelessly as I had when I first met him. Guilty that I let her fall in love with him and then wanted to take him away from her. Guilty that what she loved in him was something I could never give her. I gave her my heart. It was not enough. He gave her things and good times. She liked that. She liked him. She wanted to draw and cook with him. Ride his motorcycle with him. Have him take her to haunted hay rides in the fall, light shows in the winter. She wanted his rabbit, not mine, and I could not change that. Years after the bad stuff, the stuff I can not talk about, she came to visit me in my new apartment. She still asked about him. Poked around the topic a bit. My sister decided against telling her about our divorce. Probably easier on her that way. That life-size gorilla he gave to me on our anniversary sat in the corner of my room. It was her favorite item in the whole complex. Every toy I have ever bought her, overflowing in bins along the perimeter of my room- disregarded. That gorilla had his essence once it had been a gift from him. Nothing seemed to matter the way he mattered to her. She thought it was funny that he expressed his affection by way of a giant stuffed gorilla. Silly Uncle Joe, she’d said. Funny how she still called him “uncle.” Not actually funny, because it broke my whole heart. Hurt more when she tried on different ways of subtly just calling me Wendy, minus the “Auntie.” 5

She was into that childish side of him. The side that never grew up the way I had to before he drove our family into the ground. Money I put away for bills, retirement, and the child we had tried for since what felt like forever came right back out on his end. I saw it happening on the surface before I discovered the embezzlement. It had been going straight to foolish purchases that must have excited him as much as it excited her. The fish tank was filled with her favorite fish and was larger than her little body. The Christmas village set, which he let her assemble, took up the spare room in our apartment that I had been trying to salvage for a child of our own. I knew how badly she wanted a cousin. Come fall, all of my week’s paycheck turned into plastic bones or rubbery skeleton figurines scattered in the front yard and I scolded him, almost in tears. But I saw her big, toothy smile on her fat face hidden under her overgrown bangs when I arrived home from work to their decorations and I wonder if this is why she loved him more. She kept putting us in a box together. She had always loved to draw. Pictures with rainbows over houses and a happy family in the foreground. It was always me, holding hands with him, in every picture, and she was right there with us. He framed them all for the walls of our old apartment and we sure did love them dearly. It filled the spare room nicely after failing to fill the space with a child of our own. I took them all with me when I left him. She was about the only thing that kept me bound to him. Even after the divorce, she still drew me with him. I was trying to escape him, but she wanted him to be right back in the picture. I lived alone now. For the first time in my life, it was a place that was my own. A place that was not my mother’s basement, where he and I had been trying to make a living. Where our relationship went to die. He was still living there, in closer proximity to my whole family than I now was. I was moving on now, but so was the little girl. She lived with my sister, who was a great mother to the little girl and her two boys. The little girl went about her life as she had always done. The only difference was that I was no longer in he pictures. In my absence, he got to pick her up from school, bring her to the movies, take her trick-or-treating. He let her sit her little body in the front seat, shining that huge grin of hers out the window and kissing her chapstick lips to the cold pane. I kept thinking how unfair it all was, how he got to be there for her youth. That the man who had once been a stranger I was bringing home to her was now more to her than I ever was. Uncle Joe. And I was just 6

Wendy to her now, no more Auntie. I think she might go her whole life without ever knowing what he did to me. God, I love that little girl, and she loves him.

Untitled Lauren Pannullo

Love is to open sky as loathing is to the empty pits of fire in one's soul. No cooling water can satisfy the burning heat that violently warms the lungs and stomach, and it creeps up ever so slowly to the skull and roasts the brain with poison. For loathing is, in fact, poison. But what is the cure? If you cannot spread your wings and soar high, There is no cure. If you are incapable of admiring each fluffy marshmallow, mapping out each bump, forming a shape, providing a story, There is no cure. If you are incapable of loving, There is no cure.

Jenessa Lu ‘21 9

Jenessa Lu ‘21

Jenessa Lu ‘21 11

Heartbreak Bea Ballou

It was the end of the day, I saw your big smile, and I ran up to you. You were chatting with a couple people, but when you saw me, you turned to greet me. "Hey, I figured it out," she said with a cold laugh. "You're in love with me, right?" The world stopped, leaving me with her cold stare. "Yeah, it's fine. I just don't want you going near my little sisters." She said, eyes shooting knives my way. I couldn't believe what was happening, how did she find out? Did she just out me to our entire class? "I don't know what you're talking about," I said weakly. She laughed in response, shaking her head. "Whatever, homo," she said as she walked away. Movement returned to the world, but my heart stood still.

Do You Believe in Love? Esi Obeng “Do you believe in love?” How the hell are we supposed to answer such a loaded question? There is no way that at seventeen and eighteen years old we would have enough life experience to know what true love even looks like. And yet, most everyone in the class seems to have an answer, whether they open their mouths to say so or not. Those who believe, chime into the conversation without hesitation. Those who believe with some reservation wear thoughtful expressions on their faces and contribute to the conversation when they have finally come up with a full answer. Those who have very little to no belief in love, like me, sit quietly, doing everything to show no emotion, to keep from revealing what is actually going on inside our heads. After long and hard consideration, Dad had decided that the best gift for Mom was another gift card. During the thirty-minute car ride, I couldn’t help but think about how strange this family outing was. Why did it require the whole family to watch Mom spend her gift? Why couldn’t she just go on her own? Also, what type of family takes a mini road trip to Victoria’s Secret? After listening thoughtfully about the responses to the first question, Mrs. Reed follows with, “Well, I mean you guys are young. Perhaps the only real instances of love you may have been exposed to are your parents- or other older couples you may have in your life.” Once again, I feel so far away from those who agree with such a simple statement. In all honesty, when I think of love, I don’t think of the people who are in my life. Instead, I think of the fictional characters in the books I have read and in the movies I have seen. You can imagine how unrealistic my idea of love is just from that one statement. My journey with love begins with John Green. The Abundance of Katherines, Paper Towns, and The Fault In Our Stars polluted my mind with all sorts of unrealistic images of what love is. Love became quick-witted heterosexual adolescents who just happened to be in the right place, at the right time. Then there are shows like “The Big Bang Theory,” “That 70’s Show,” and “The Office.” Though the relationships were a little less cliche, they still portray love as something that always has a happy ending. 13

But what I’ve come to realize is that more times than not, love always has a happy beginning and a rotten ending. “So what are we going to get Mom this year for her birthday?” It was almost as if Dad were waiting for me to ask this question. He immediately began to recount every gift he had ever given her of which Mom had been “unappreciative.” The list was something like this: multiple gift cards, a cell phone, a jacket, a pair of boots, a laptop, etc. He ended his rant with a defeated look and one simple question, “At this point, why do I even keep trying?” I saw his question as my escape from a conversation that I knew was painful for him, but couldn’t really understand why. I returned to my room and after some thought, decided to make my mom a card. “What do you think real moments of love look like?” She’s trying to make us think. How could you possibly choose which moments are real moments of love? Especially when you are on the outside, looking in? When called upon to answer the question, I give a most vanilla response: “I think moments of true love come in the mundane moments. Like when you’re sitting together at the breakfast table- or out grocery shopping. I don’t think the moment has to be extraordinary for it to show your love for each other.” But, of course, this is a complete bullshit. We can’t all be Levin and Kitty where our love is shown through sweet moments. Though most don’t like to admit it, the world is full of Vronksys and Anna Kareninas, people whose love is doomed and twisted from the start. “Why don’t you ever use any of the gifts we buy you for your birthday?” There was a long pause before she responded, “What did your father say to you?” I quickly tried to back-track the conversation and say that dad had nothing to do with it, but you could see in her eyes that no matter what I said, she would continue to blame him. “What gifts are you talking about?” “Well, what about that jacket we bought you last year?” 14

“Oh that jacket. It’s made of fox fur. Do you want me to wear something made from a poor animal?” And just like that, all was forgotten. Of course I didn’t want my mom wearing the fur of some poor fox. It wasn’t until a few years later that I would check the tag on the jacket and see that it in fact read, “Made from 100% Faux Fur.” “Yeah, I’ve definitely been in love before.” How could you possibly know that? Maybe there’s a way to know what it is when you are looking back at it. But then again, how can you know that? I guess that’s all part of the illusion. As in all situations in which I’ve found myself confused, I turn to Judge Judy. Time and time again, hopeless exes enter the show in order to make each other look evil, but in the end, they both look like fools. Every episode is pretty much the same. They were both helplessly in love after meeting each other in a bar. After two months of sleeping together, they decide on the brilliant idea to live together. One partner always ends up carrying all the weight. They pay all the rent, buy all the groceries, and while they’re at it, end up buying their partner a dog. For a short period of time, the two are in paradise. Nothing could be better. But then life takes a turn. Partner A cheats on Partner B or Partner B decides that it’s time for Partner A to start paying their fair share. Whatever the downfall may be, it’s always a sob story where one of the partners is the devil while the other can do no wrong. The great thing is that Judge Judy has a way of always getting to the bottom of the story so the audience sees all three sides to the stories: Partner A’s side, Partner B’s side, and the Truth. And all that really matters is the Truth. “Did you like your present, Mom?” “No.” “Why not? Dad worked really hard to pick it out. He really loves you.” “No he doesn’t. He may give me a lot of things, but that’s not what love is.” How could she say that? Of course he loves her. You can’t get married and not be in love. Isn’t that, like, the law? Besides, why can’t she just be happy with what she has? Dad’s smiling, the boys are smiling, I’m smiling. Why can’t she just be happy? Does she feel this 15

way all the time? She was happy while Dad was helping her pick out underwear. (Ew) Was that fake? But you can’t fake love. Right? “Do you believe in love, Meghan?” “I’m sorry, what?” “Do you believe in love?” I remember to respond with another fake answer when in reality all I really want to say is, “Of course not.”

Yesterday Victoria Wang

I could hear my my mother’s steps quietly walking towards me, accompanied by Bach’s Prelude escaping through my fingers and I did not lift up my head to turn back. I heard her stopping behind me, pretended an attempt to hide her presence. The Prelude came to end, and I started another Fugue of yearning and despair, hidden behind the well-tempered melodies. May silence be my best disguise. And now she turns to the windows, where curtains hang down loosely like a moribund old man, to let fresh air rush into my dusty, “nasty” room. Clocks tick. Music stops. It was the sunlight, shattering glass windows into halos on the floor, that hurt my eyes. Her lips moved, and I stood up as if knowing what she was going to say, I said, “Mother, we all live in the past.” Light shone on me, leaving a long narrow shadow ahead. I tried so hard to convince her that photons travel a certain speed, and whatever you see belongs to the past. Whatever I feel belongs to the past. As expected, she said just now, do look ahead.

Emma Binzer ‘21, Block Print 18

Silence Samantha Logan Heavy Like a breath you can’t catch Thick Like rough wool There Like family Yet absent Like a stranger The silence sits With you.

The Seat Next to Window Jeanine Wang I liked the seat next to window when I was off to somewhere new The images speedily fleeting backwards The raindrops, clouds and thunder Liked to be relaxed between people who love me on one side And the changing view of the journey on the other Liked the feeling of drifting to sleep on a reliable shoulder Needless to worry about anything Knowing that my dreams, peaceful and sound, would never be disturbed- I liked all these amazing things About the seat next to the window Until one day I outgrew the comfort, the protection and the relaxing reassurance Until one day I boarded a cabin full of strangers And the excitement of journeys became fear The blueness of dreams extinguished Replaced by red, alarming.. The seat next to window, I love no more I hate the seat next to window When I am off to somewhere alone The uneasiness of being trapped into unknowns the stingy slight touches, bodies leaning in on purpose, 20

eyes fixed on my vulnerability, and the vicious eagerness to penetrate I hate the the moving sights outside the window I used to love For them being unreachable, a luxury For them being there Unable to offer the same shelter I hate it when I do not dare to speak up, to show my disdain and anger, that are burning flame inside of me, that takes every last bit of my dignity, being aware of my lack of power. I hate feeling unprivileged, As unprivileged as one can ever be: A girl, a teenage girl, a teenage Asian girl Weakness, weakness, weakness What other people see I loved the seat next to window And my love exists no more shattered into pieces along with the times when my forehead against the cold of windows And my eyes clear and curiously glow Window, my old friend Now I lean toward you only for I have nowhere to escape Window, my friend how many times have you feel the desperate shivers And stood by, Looking bright and intact as usual? Shatter, cut the ugly fingers and drain their blood Shatter, So the sound of heartbreak and tear drops would be less pitiable Shatter, To make my story the last one of your lost love Shatter, shatter, shatter so your sacrifice could be a new shelter 21

for those who love sitting next to a window to righteously do what their hearts desire: For them to be fearless and equal

Meadow Sophie Gribin Bright and dark. Evil and pleasant. There are the good, bright, and pleasant things, and the bad, dark, and evil things. These make up our world as we know it. Without them, life would be an empty, abandoned, lonely field. Vacant, is how she would put it. An empty, vacant, open meadow of nothing. Ever since the beginning, she has lived in a meadow, but not an empty one. No, this meadow is crowded. It is crowded with thoughts, hopes, dreams, nightmares. These things will all live in this meadow until the end of her life. This meadow is extremely crowded, barely any room to stand. Yet, there’s room to run, walk, roll, skip, climb, and fall. Standing is not an option in this meadow. Why stand still when she can run? Why walk? Why let life pass her by when she can chase after things? Why sit and wait for things to happen, when she could be falling and getting up because of what happened. Why wait for a chance to come to her, when she could be pursuing it? Running, climbing, hiking, skipping, rolling, falling, and getting back up. These are her vehicles. Without them, she can’t get anywhere. Without them, there is no destination, no estimated time of arrival, no traffic. She sits at a traffic light in a fork in the road. Does she keep going? Does she stay and does she sit? Traffic. Traffic pleads for a pause, a breath, a thinking moment. Her traffic is waiting for something to happen. Her traffic holds her up. All she wants is to break out of it, but she must be patient. Patient. Daisies all around her, everywhere she goes. For miles and miles, until she can’t see anything but a white and yellow horizon. Nothing but flowers surround her. Flowers. A word that means to bloom. To blossom “where she is planted.” To flourish in everything she does. The daisies are the good, bright, and pleasant things in her life. They surround her everywhere she goes, but she might not always be planting them. Sometimes they can wilt; sometimes they can bloom.

Bats circling her, everywhere she goes. Black bats, swarming above her head. Bat. A mysterious word. They will be with her always, waiting to swoop down to her. Sometimes there are many. Sometimes there are few. A glass box. A glass box big enough for her to comfortably stand in and in which to lie down. The box is in the middle of the field of daisies, and is right below the swarm of bats hovering overhead. The box is her cage, her fence. She is trapped between these two sides of the world. Sometimes there is more good than bad, bad than good. More dark than bright, more bright than dark. More evil than joy, more pleasantness than evil. These operate in harmony, and alongside each other. Without one, the balance would die out. She thinks, there is no way out of this glass box. She thinks the cage will never unlock, and the fence will never be breached. However, she is wrong. She can only escape if she accepts, and accepts both. If she accepts both realities, both universes. If she accepts both good and bad, evil and pleasant, bright and dark. She can escape, if she accepts that everything, everything, must work in balance. She can escape if she accepts, accepts, accepts that too many bats are depressing and lonely, and too many daisies are tiring and boring. She must accept the life she’s been given. With too much sunshine, she misses the rain. With too much night, she misses the day. Without both worlds, she is just an open, empty field. She needs both sides to make decisions, to walk, to talk, and to breathe. Too many daisies are boring and tiring. Too many bats are depressing and lonely. She needs both sides because she is trapped in the glass box, below the hovering bats, surrounded by a meadow of daisies.

Rachel Crampton ‘18, Women’s March Series 25

No Hair Since Marie Ettien There has been no growth. I have not grown one inch of hair. No words to explain why, No feelings to express how. no words. Today I am a new woman. I cut off all the stress. The hairs drop to the floor, taking all my problems with it. A bald woman is not woman enough. A black woman is not woman enough. A tall woman is too manly to be woman enough. A short woman is too short to be woman enough. Why the is a woman defined by the length of her hair ? Take your standards and shove it. My hair does not define me, Hair or no hair, I am me I am strong A society that tells us to love ourselves but judges us when we do- Like water and fire Like heaven and hell Like yes and no

#LightSkin Jada Adams

The complexion of our skin puts you at ease The array of melanin that is evenly distributed through our bodies lets in just enough light Our yellow skin reminds you of Gold It makes us more valuable in your eyes You don’t fear what we’re capable of Because you don’t associate us with our fellow black brothers and sisters You’ll give us a smile on the street But look down when you see someone who is “too dark.” You will never consider us equal Because we’re somewhere in between, We’re still dark enough to be called ghetto But we’re light enough to be considered civilized I guess you can say we’re the lucky ones But we still have to watch our dark skin sistas be bashed because their melanin is just too much When we just made the cut to being beautiful because being light is what’s right But you’ll still bash us and then behind closed doors try to be us You praise dark skin only if it’s from the tanning booths You praise big butts but only if their made from silicone And big lips are only beautiful if they’re paid for You tell us to bleach our skin as if that will finally make us equals That by erasing our black we will finally gain some privilege But you fail to realize that under my layer of melanin lies beauty, wisdom, and power Not only is my black beautiful, but all black is beautiful And we’re good enough just being black

Emma Paterson ‘19, Radiant

Beauty Marie Ettien Beauty A word so often used That I forget the true meaning A word I now see as demeaning Because you see, beauty isn’t black Beauty is crying late into the night asking God why he would ever put such a burden on you Why would he ever make you so dark So ugly Beauty is scrubbing your skin so hard, it starts to peel. Blood drips on the floor, the ugliest part of yourself is exposed helplessly, Your skin. There's an open wound now, but anything is better than being in dark skin. Anything. Beauty is letting a man have so much control over you , that you no longer love the skin you’re in No longer love who you are No longer have the urge to keep going Beauty is looking up bleaching products because enough is enough And this skin must go Beauty is having so little confidence that denial no longer hurts I'm not into dark skins has become a line you now replay in your mind Beauty is hating lightskins. Because light skin is the right skin, And I just don’t got it Beauty is not seeing people who look like you in the media unless they are the loud racket black girl Mmhmm that's right Beauty is being told “you’re pretty for a darkskin.” As if you cannot be both pretty and dark. Your words have hit me like a dart You have torn me apart I no longer feel my heart Beating. 29

Beauty went knocking on everyone’s door, But skipped mine. I yelled at beauty and demanded it knocked on my door But it was too late Beauty was gone Beauty is not feeling beautiful Beauty is not me Pause But let's flip this and rewind this, cause something ain't right my future is real bright And in spite Of what they say Beauty is me. Beauty is loving yourself even when a black man tells you , you are not enough Beauty is cutting off your hair Because society tells you, hair makes you beautiful Well this one's for you pause This one's for the all the beauty standards I have shattered The confidence I have gained The hop in my step The beautiful to me Beauty is letting the sun beam down on you Because getting darker is a privilege Beauty is your bright white smile We can see from a mile away Beauty is saying I am beautiful and I am enough Beauty is acceptance of whoever you are Beauty is whatever you want it to be And if beauty tries to flee, You grab her and say Hey, beauty, you are MINE !

The Malted Shell Stephanie Makowski The wind blew the whole day I was walking outside; Blew right through my body while I walked outside. The subway grates made an echoing reply. No part had been untouched by the sculptor; No hint of the true me had been left by the sculptor- “It's the only way to be beautiful, just trust her” They changed every small detail of my face; They made everything “perfect” on my face- My smile hide the emptiness beyond the carapace. They liked the pessimistic beauty I had become. My new friends liked the pessimistic Barbie I had become. But then I saw the hurt that had allowed me to have fun. I promise myself to stay true as I walk down the beach covered in shells. But all around me the emptiness swells.

Theresa Jo ‘18, Sculpture 32

Knitting Isabel Lardner Once she couldn’t afford heating, and now she shivered out of habit, hating the cold but resigned to tradition. It was quiet, the distorted voices mumbling from the television in the corner deepening the silence instead of breaking it. Their insubstantiality reinforced the loneliness of the room. The old woman sat at the round table in the center of the room, knobby fingers clutching a ball of yarn and two long knitting needles. Once, she’d known the next step, but now the needles were stubborn and still in her hands and nothing came of her efforts to tame the yarn with them. The yarn is an unattractive shade of yellow, the kind of color worn not to make a fashion statement but because one’s grandmother has made an article of clothing with love and to avoid wearing it would be unkind. This is exactly what the mittens are destined for, if they’re ever finished. A few hours earlier. There’s a collection of little shoes tossed in a pile by the door, car keys clattering on the counter as Emma breezes in to embrace me, the mother she hasn’t seen in weeks, followed by little girls. Hers? With difficulty, she managed to begin the project, lassoing delicate loops of yarn around one needle. The third loop tangled in itself, and when she paused to coax it apart her clumsiness tightened it into a knot instead and once that was undone she found that she’d already forgotten how to continue the stitches. Almost-genuine smiles, cursory hugs from the young children–whose were they?–and laughter as they dashed away. Emma’s reminiscing upon glimpsing a ball of yarn on the table: Mama, remember how you used to knit winter clothes for us because you didn’t want to buy things? The clicking of her needles surprised her. They’d started to move, guided by arthritic fingers that had acquired a measure of skill from some buried reservoir of remembrance, and in a few moments a whole row of stitches was 33

complete. She switched hands, began the next row, and was halfway through it when her attention drifted away again. Why were there so many people in the house? Emma, yes, my daughter, she belongs, but where have these other little girls come from? One of them is in my chair, yelling. Hey, hey, look, I’m sitting in Grandma’s seat! The clock ticked in time with her needles for a minute, a satisfying duet. One second. Two. Three. Then the clock outdistanced her. Mama, mama, mama, a trio of piping voices calling for me, but Emma answers them. And I wonder why there are children calling for my daughter’s attention with my name. The littlest girl turns from Emma and looks at me. Grandma! she says. There was a tangle in the yarn, one that had been stealthily growing during the last few rows but hadn’t affected anything until now. Her stitches stuttered to a stop, because the yarn didn’t move smoothly through the needles anymore, and it was immediately clear that drastic measures would have to be taken to remedy the mistake. Grandma? Sighing inaudibly, she reached for the scissors, but as her hands shifted they knocked a stitch off of her needles and the fragile yellow web of stitches was in a moment unraveling beyond repair. No matter. Maybe starting again would make it easier. Grandma, teach me how to knit! I want to learn! The little girl’s piping voice echoed in her thoughts as she disentangled the yarn and tried again to start the mitten. It would be the left-hand one, the same hand the girl had reached out with as she pointed to her grandmother’s knitting needles, accusatory and demanding. Grandma, she’d been called, by a little girl unknown to her but dear to her daughter. 34

The new mitten was coming along, rows of neat stitches counted and complete and compounding upon each other, piling into a vaguely recognizable form. I can’t teach you right now. You have to leave soon and there’s not enough time. What if I make you a pair of mittens? Yellow, like this yarn? I’ll have them for you when you the next time you come visit me. The left mitten is done now, and she eases it off the needles and ties a knot, to hold it together. It is no longer dependent on her. Then she starts the second one before the tide of her memory flows out again and she forgets the secrets of the yarn. She’d known the girl then, had known she would come to visit again, had maybe even called her by name. But how could she have a granddaughter and not remember anything about her? Not Emma’s pregnancy, nor holding the little girl as a baby, or even her name? Emma’s voice, tinged with worry, from where she was held captive by the other two little girls. Mama, it’s okay. You don’t have to make them anything. I know it’s hard to remember things sometimes. Please don’t trouble yourself trying to learn to knit again. I’ve made so many mittens I could do it in my sleep. But she can’t anymore. The yarn is too yellow and the needles too slippery and the sound they make too loud and Emma’s voice in her ear I know it’s hard to remember things and the nameless little granddaughters laughing. Her fingers pull frantically at her work, rushing to finish the stitching. She thinks of the girl who might be her granddaughter, can see in her head the three children thronging around her daughter. Her mouth moves as quickly as her hands do, running through their conversation, trying desperately to come up with the names that could belong to them. A chorus of goodbyes in little voices as the girls gather their shoes and are herded out the front door. Silence falls, overtakes the house. My eyes fall on the yarn. The mitten, complete, slips from her hands and falls onto the table, and her spine bows forward as she weeps into her hands. She has lost what tentative grasp she had on little girl’s name, and the other two have always been 35

nameless, and she imagines Emma watching her reproachfully, silently asking how, how can you forget your own grandchildren, my children? They will not forget you.

Ruoyi Jin ‘19, No. 0107

Monopoly Ella Gotbaum There is a decidedly expensive silence. She asks what I want to play today, sitting cross legged on the floor with her boots tucked underneath her calves. We both look out of place, I as someone who hates coming to therapy, and she as an adult who is trying desperately to connect with a child who sees right through her. She gestures to Candy Land, the box garish and beaming. I have never liked Candy Land, having always frowned on games that require no skill to play. I list them in my head, all the games that bore me, the ones I refuse to play: 1. Candy Land. 2. Go Fish. 3. Chutes and Ladders. 4. Uno. 5. Sorry! 6. War. a. Exception: I’ll play this with my little brother, Toby, if he asks me to. It’s safer than Beyblades or Super Smash Bros, as nothing involved can be used as a projectile. I choose Monopoly instead. This is a calculated choice. Monopoly can span many sessions and many silences and can take up as many Wednesday afternoons I have to waste here in this box on West End Avenue. Sometimes, I consider actually talking to her, but then remember she’s getting paid to care about me. I trace the patterns on the carpet and begin to clumsily count out the pastel money, hoping I don’t make a mistake that’ll expose my inability to add and subtract with ease. The other kids my age have long since grown out the counting on their fingers, while I’ve just learned to hide my hands when I do it. I give up, pushing the “bank” over to her, knowing she’ll be quicker at it. As she counts, she begins to speak. “Your dad tells me your medication makes you nauseous.” 38

This is true. Lots of things make me nauseous: 1. 27 milligrams of Concerta. 2. The humid hell that is the school cafeteria. 3. Keeping secrets. 4. Hearing people scream. I’ve lost a lot of weight this way. I ignore the question. We push around Monopoly pieces and listlessly pull cards from the deck. I talk to her about safe things, like my cats and my friend Henry, and how Lindsay said she’d let me sleep over on Saturday, just us. We go on like this for awhile, this back and forth of easy subject changes, before she says, “you never told me how vacation was.” She is referring to the previous long weekend I spent with my family. This is the first question that makes me look up at her, wondering how I will answer this as tactfully as possible. What I say: 1. It was okay. 2. Cal wanted to build a go-kart despite none of us having neither the materials or skills to build said go-kart, so we just nailed pieces of plywood together for an hour before Teddy almost hammered a nail into his thumb. It was fun. 3. Dad made us go on a hike. We all hated it, and that’s the closest to true solidarity us kids have managed to come to. What I didn’t say: 1. Cal lit a small fire in the leaves outside the country house when no one was watching. I watched as the smoke came up through the window in the kitchen. He blamed it on Toby. Toby doesn’t even know how to light a match. a. My babysitter threw up her hands at the kitchen table and said she doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this shit. She’s right. 2. Teddy locked himself in his room for a half hour and cried because he missed his dad and hates mine. I don’t blame him. 3. Nathaniel and I made a plan to run away like in Calvin and Hobbes. When the screaming starts, we settle for hiding upstairs in a guest 39

room and imagining our lives as spies and pirates and people with functioning relatives. 4. Cal and I gracelessly carved our names into trees with the pocket knife he stole from my dad. We get in a fight over something stupid and yell at each other. I made him cry and felt a sick pride. I love having the upper hand for once. 5. On the last day, Toby got upset and I couldn’t calm him down. He threw his shoe at the flat screen TV and broke it. All four of us stare in silence for a moment at the shattered glass and warped display before I hear Teddy scream, “Mom!” 6. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a good family vacation. a. I have. We’d go to the beach and Mom and I would dance to the Beatles. My mind is now reeling as I try to wrestle with these tangled thoughts. I’m now losing in Monopoly. I cannot pass go, I cannot collect $200. She tells me she’s happy I got time to be with my brothers, and I cannot help but grimace at the truth. I move the top hat piece down the board, space by space. We fill the last fifteen minutes with another expensive silence.

Crevice Jeanine Wang In the crevice where time stays still, And nightmares haunt I'm a tree, unable to sway the curve of tenderness I'm a sprout, Too weak to be a beam for a roof to lean on Mask over the hollowness, with pretentious delight Rattling over and over about the one they say I am, the passion they're sure I own Is it me you're looking at Or a lost soul sinking? In the crevice where time stays still I am a tree as well as a sprout I am an outstanding ordinary, and a modest kind of splendor

Victoria Wang ‘18, Watercolor 42

There is a Girl Dancing

She spins and spins, her hair falls down and down, from her restrictive bun to the darkness of the air. She dances and dances, and magically turns her movements into flying notes, into a bitter song. There's a girl dancing in a deep space, filled with a bitter song. She is dropping tears, which shine like crystals in a lonely, lonely night. The crease between her eyebrows is deep like the bottomless well in a fairy tale. At the end she gives a lovely bow, an elegant smile, and a goodbye wave to the empty seats.

Jacqueline Zhao In a hollow space, on a lonely stage. There's a girl dancing in front of the empty seats. Her face shines with sorrow, shadow upon her ballet skirt. Her ballet skirt glows, under a beam of blazing shade. The white feathers on her elegant dress keep falling and falling into a swirl of frigid wind. so fragile, so beautiful.... There's a girl dancing in a swirl of feathered wind.

Jenessa Lu ‘21

Summer Evening Ruoyi Jin On a summer evening, a strange and subtle distortion of sky—a little more crimson and a little sharper on the edge—grew in front of our eyes. This curious cloud blurred into a dense flock, extending along the ethereal horizon, chasing the last bit of sun. Though it complied with the rule of atmosphere, the ominous aura grasped us-- observers all. We marvelled at its quality, while we were told abnormality is another friend of evil. And it vanished. Our mind evaporated into the bleakness of an imminent rainstorm. There was something we could never see until the blight fell upon us; then we were children no more. But Dai was still different. Her calm eyes and the curve of her lips, pride without aggression, seemed unchanged, but only became more intangible and distant. We met Dai in the fall of 1999, on a rainy day like this. At the time, we were all fourteen and fifteen. We were us, and the sky was moonless. Dragonflies hovered. Black canopies waved and brushed off three silent crows. Heaven Mountain Academy stood in the sticky air, waiting for the rain to fall. Within, the hall was silent upon the arrival of a bunch of girls. A wall of pointed windows was covered by draperies that were rarely raised, even on the brightest days. Dusk was concealed in its foldings, absorbing the light from space, and leaving the room in earthly murk. It might have turned a happy person into a dull one, then turned a dull one into a shadow on the wall. The source of our depression was not only the lack of natural light, but a large landscape which hung in the middle on the wall. It was entitled “An Old Man and his Leaking Boat.” It had been finished and exhibited by a student decades earlier. This source of our depression, however, strengthened the fame of the declining school. A lump of barnacle stranded the great Ship of History. It had been exhibited at the Youth Palace and had received a bunch of rewards recognized by judges abroad. Then the school’s name had appeared on Red Youth News. Not long enough to carve its name on the Ship of History, the school faded away from the public’s view, dried out like pickled fish peddled by charlatan counsellors who deal with those backward families that over the years were still willing to pay for fame. Wandering onto the small wooden stage stuck with festoons 45

and spangles hard to remove, a few chattering girls aimed at a loose patch of flooring, and stepped over, to and fro, until the air inhaled was filled with creaking. Still in darkness, a girl made a complaint about engaging in the plan, and was immediately rebuffed by the others whose countenances were a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. As soon as there was a sound of footsteps from outside the hall, leather shoes held their breath on the squeaking floor.

Jenessa Lu ‘21 47

Gettysburg, 2011 Caroline Smith The first picture snapped shows me firmly planted with my face looking down and my shoes looking up at the black skeleton staring me down. I see no reason to move, but I am promised the truth if I can just leave the ground. I hold my breath as I count each step, not daring to think of becoming unbound. But on each platform I risk a glance to see if my sights can improve, but history does not yet show itself, although for just a moment I have looked down. Below lies the battle that stole many lives, but my heart feels too sound to hear the whispers of lives, who have since moved on. I feel too far from where they once rose up from the ground to even begin hearing their last prayer, plea, or any other such sound. Triumphantly, I arrive to see time whirl back, but all I see are forgotten plaques. Unmoved, I leave disappointed at the black skeleton for not taking me down to that time in history where everything becomes another mound. My feet hit the earth and I set off on a journey to retreat from the bronze plated plaques and skeletons. I head to where blood marks the ground. I walk along a thin line with grass on either side which hold only a few trees bound to my side. I walk along the high water mark line. It is blessedly quiet as I move along with no skeletons reaching to the sky and few signs to remind me to look down. Wind ripples across and a faint mist appears, while undeniable history rises up from the ground.

Thoughts at the Carnival Bea Ballou My world was collapsing, my heart was racing, my thoughts were swirling but there was no going back now. I had handed my four tickets to the man at the gate. I had stepped into the tiny compartment made almost entirely of glass and soon after, the door closed, trapping me. I sit down anxiously, peering at the people who surrounded me. Couples. How did I think I could handle going on this ride alone? Then again, it's not like I have any friends that would have come along. I've been alone as long as I could remember. There were times when a person would become interested in the girl who always sat in the corner, unfazed by the rumors flying around about her, but they never stayed. Besides, part of the problem with being human is that even if you are surrounded by friends, you are always alone in your head. No one else can hear your thoughts or see things through your eyes. You are forever trapped inside your own head. Kind of like I'm trapped on this ferris wheel. I've always been aware of my solitude for as long as I could remember, that's why it always seemed so unnecessary to make friends. You're always going to be alone, why take the risk of also being hurt, too? I take a deep breath, trying to better grasp my situation. I look around at couples again, all laughs and smiles. It was one thing to have to take on my fear of heights, but a complete other thing to be third-wheeling eight people while trying to get over a phobia. Just then, the compartment jerks ahead, moving at a snail’s pace. I jump up in surprise, and my eyes wander to the window. At that point, we're almost fifty feet off of the ground. My head feels faint and my body heavy. I look back at the couples, but they're distracted by the ride, they can't see that I'm about to pass out. I feel my knees give out, and the world slows down. I see a guy from one of the happy couples' eyes turn to me, his expression changes to worry as he watches me fall. He's the last thing I see before my world goes black, the last thing I think of before I'm reminded of my eternal solitude again.

Samantha Logan ‘18, Don’t Fall Down

Lineation Poem Bri Goolsby Thin Ice! No Skating! Those who know her light, bright smile put on shiny new ice skates and glide across her surface.

Basking in all of her, feeling the snowflakes nestle softly into their eyelashes. But those who really know her know They are standing on thin ice. They know what lies beneath. They know it is not forgiving. It will not show mercy if you fall and make a crack. (nothing had ever showed it to her) Fragile! This Side Up!

Clowns Bea Ballou

It was in the fall of '96. The time that I now refer to as “'the year of the clown.” There were sightings popping up all over the country. People were in a frenzy, fearing that these things might appear in their towns. I, on the other hand, was perfectly fine, partially because I had no idea what was happening, but also because I was an idiot. It started in Kansas, in 1986, on a side street in a town next to a large forest. Around six o'clock, a local man was finishing watering his gardenias when he looked up and noticed something peculiar. Under a street light, two houses down right on the edge of the forest, stood a man in a clown suit. Whether I can say for certain that there was a man in the clown suit or not, I do not know. But either way, he saw it. And he reacted by trying, unsuccessfully, to hunt down the clown. Now, if I saw a clown on a street, I probably would be a bit confused, maybe a bit unnerved, but would I be so terrified that I would try and hunt it down? Odds are, no. So, the real question is, what about this clown made this man so terrified that he felt as if he had to find the thing and kill it? This question still haunts me today. Fast forward eight years, to 1994, in New England, when clown sightings had become much more frequent. Since 1986, these clowns had started being a lot more active. There had been reports of kidnappings, that the clowns would lure children in with candy or money, and you would never see them again. Some children returned, missing days of memory, recalling only the moments before they were taken. Other clowns would chase people. One report said the clown had a chainsaw. All the sightings were different, but they all had one fact in common, the clowns would appear from the forests. In places near any kinds of woods, there would be sightings. They wouldn't appear if you were IN the forest, only if you were walking by the edge.

Origami Samantha Logan A blank 3D canvas Smooth on your fingertips Lined up perfectly You make the first crease Your hands gracefully glide Forming an impossible image You fold a pleat Too quick for the untrained eye You hold the finished crane Up to the late day sunlight It flaps its wings And lifts into the sky.

Ella Samson ‘20, Dissociate

Sky Jacqueline Zhao When I was little, I developed a special reverence toward the sky. Among many other peculiar feelings (such as getting homesick after showering, even when I was at home), this feeling of reverence came almost out of instinct. Every night, after my mother tucked me into bed and turned off the light, leaving me alone with the night in my bedroom, the sky manifested to me as a mysterious woman. I still remember her gentle stroke of moonlight on my bed, her silver stars and mostly her unfathomable reticence, concealing too many secrets. Her mysterious beauty made me too afraid to look at her, so I usually hurried into my dream with my eyes tightly shut. The Night sky was also seen as a woman by the ancient Egyptians who named her Nut (Nuit). She was shown in Egyptian artwork as a dark, star-covered naked woman, holding her body up in an arch, facing downwards. Her arms and legs were imagined to be the pillars of the sky, and hands and feet were thought to touch the four cardinal points at the horizon. To the ancient Egyptians, Nut was a goddess protecting the earth against the chaos and darkness above her. To me, Nut was an omnipresent woman who had seen the ancient Egyptians building the pyramids, helped great explorers to navigate, disclosed the future to the diviners, witnessed the extinction of the dinosaurs, housed deceased loved ones, overheard the conversation between two crickets, inspired philosophers to become scientists, ended millions of yesterdays, and birthed millions of tomorrows. Back then, the sky in Beijing was not yet contaminated by light pollution and air pollution. Our apartment rose to a certain height that bestowed us with a clear view of the sky, and my bedroom was angled perfectly toward the moon. The mildly surreal view of the arching Nut was right outside of the thin window by my bed. I slept right next to her. Now that I have lost that chance, I truly regret that I did not have the guts to look at her closely. “Sky culture” is a term used by Stellarium (a planetarium software that can be downloaded on your phone and shows exactly what you see when you look up at the stars), referring to the way a particular culture sees or saw the sky. When I looked up “Western sky culture” on the internet, I found the following line: 55

Western culture divides the celestial sphere into 88 areas of various sizes called constellations, each with precise boundary, issued by the International Astronomical Union. These constellations have become the standard way to describe the sky, replacing similar sets in other sky cultures exhaustively in daily usage. The Western culture chops Nut into precisely 88 pieces! And her disassembled body parts came to replace the way we recognize her “exhaustively!” As if, as a child, I had analyzed her as though she were an anatomy chart... I would have never developed reverence toward her in the first place. It is true that the western view of the sky dominates the world-wide “Sky culture” today. We learn about the universe, black holes, planets, galaxies and constellations in school, read about discoveries made on Mars and grow nonchalant toward the spaceships sent up to the sky. We have become so unimaginative, and the sky so physical because of our obsession with nomenclature. Maybe Aristotle wrote On the Heavens for the same reason I used to shut my eyes tightly at night. Aristotle and I both feared the unidentified, the mysterious and the unpredictable. Aristotle believed that sky was composed of the heavenly bodies, the most perfect substances whose motions are ruled by principles other than those of bodies in the sublunary sphere. He believed the latter was composed of one or all four of the classical elements—earth, water, air, fire—and that they are perishable; but the matter of the heavenly bodies is the imperishable fifth element (he named it aether), free from generation and corruption. Identifying the sky as a substance might have helped him eliminate some of his insecurity. Another great philosopher, Plato, looks at the sky from a different, but similarly logical perspective. He argues, “the science of seasonal time learned by contemplating the motions of the sky provides the foundation of every other technique that has subsequently been acquired through the exercise of human intelligence.” “Thanks to these celestial events,” he says. For instance, in early civilization, farmers made agricultural decisions based on the pattern of the stars and thereupon agricultural techniques were able to develop. In “Western sky culture”, the sky has been rationalized into a substance, a foundation of human civilization, a navigation map, a natural calendar, a potential for space colonization, and a wasteland into which we launch our garbage. Under these frames of reference, the sky is important, but uninteresting. 56

My mom once told me about sky burial (Tian Zang) with horror, but I thought the idea and its name sounded so beautiful. How can a person possibly be buried in the sky? Sky burial is a specific type of general practice of excarnation, practiced by the majority of Tibetan people and many Mongols adhering to Vajrayana Buddhism, which teaches the transmigration of spirit. The locations for sky burials are understood in the Vajrayana Buddhist traditions as charnel grounds. These charnel grounds are set on the mountain valleys of highlands such as Tibet, Qinghai, and Inner Mongolia. In the pictures, the vast mountains are covered in dark green grass and red soil, reaching high into the overcast sky like a staircase to afterlife. As I slide to this picture of a chopped-up human corpse surrounded by dozens of hungry vultures, I jumped up from my seat and finally came to realize why my mother spoke of sky burial with horror. However, sometimes beauty involves violence and sacrifice. According to Tibetan Buddhists, the original owner of the corpse had already gone, and the body was now an empty vessel. The owner generously gave the remains of him to sustain the living beings. His flesh was finally carried to the sky by birds. In Hinduism, Gods live in the sky, while mortals live upon the earth and look to them for support. The sky is a divine theater, from where gods and celestial beings watch the divine drama that unfolds in different planes of existence. We share a similar concept about the sky in China. I grew up hearing the prevalent Chinese proverb: “ren zai zuo, tian zai kan,” which means that the sky is watching what we are doing. Ever since I was a child, I believed that the sky has eyes, observing the good and the evil, ultimately rewarding or punishing them in direct or indirect ways. However, in reality, the sky seems not to be watching, as the good keep suffering, while the evil are left untouched. Also, no one can be entirely kind or entirely evil. But despite all of these complications and difficulties in rationalizing this belief, I still prefer to believe that perhaps the sky is watching; rewarding the good and punishing the evil. The sky has helped me to forgive the evil, and to let go, so that I can trust in kindness and move happily through life. Now, I have grown into an eighteen year old adult, who rarely feels homesick after showering, even in a foreign country, who no longer cries when she sees a fallen petal, who no longer shuts her eyes tightly when she falls asleep. I have grown into a reasonable adult with the ability to think critically. I try not to be sentimental. I rationalize things. And, sadly, I have lost many of my instinctive feelings from my childhood. But my reverence towards the sky 57

remains. I still choose the window seat for my thirteen-hour flights between China and America, as I would have as a child, despite its inconvenience. In the middle of the night and the middle of the sky, when everyone else is asleep, I press my face hard against the airplane window in search of her silver stars, the gentle moon that once escorted me into my dreams. Embraced by the sky’s unfathomable reticence and mysterious beauty, I swore I would never forget.

Restless Annie Sherbacow Mind, flooding with pieces ripped from her soul, Fleeting moments rushing In and out of her head but she has no control. Each flashing thought More painful than the last, hurting Her more until her mind starts to rot Reminiscing in the best moments of their time Spent in a joyous embrace, halting To an unforeseen stop. Followed by the nightmare, a perfect crime She would run and just as they met It would all disappear, fading, Until the only thing left Was the cold gust of loneliness, Her hollow gut full Of nostalgia and wondering, restless

Tianyi Huang ‘21, A Japanese Town

Camp Isabel Rush The bus pulls up to a stop at a line of trees. The laughing and yelling which accompanied the blasting radio dies down as the counselor starts talking. The camp is farther into the forest and there is no road to get there. We are six hours away from town and my stomach has been hurting ever since I hugged mom goodbye. I am terrified- and thoroughly regretting my decision to go to camp. Driving six hours into the Maine wilderness was never mentioned on the website, and this makes me nervous. I file off the bus with my possessions, right behind the girl I had been talking to on and off with throughout the drive. She is not as loud and obnoxious as the others; I think she is worried, too. The last remainder of afternoon sunlight slants down on me as I step off the bus onto the dirt road. The breeze stirs my long brown hair as I crane my neck up at the trees swaying over me, and I breathe in the fresh scent of pine mingling in the air. For a moment, I forget that I am doing this alone, that this is my chance to fly. I almost drown in my own world, but the dull pain in my abdomen brings me back down to myself, reminding me that I am here, and not there. My legs are grateful for the excuse to walk after a day of driving and I walk faster, lengthen my strides, catching up to the counselor in front. I duck quickly as a branch comes sailing in my direction, and I shy away from the edge of the path when I spot some poison ivy that almost brushes my swinging leg. Finally, we arrive at a clearing and I see a cluster of buildings, all burgundy red with brown shingled roofs. We collectively come to a stop and the counselor begins to point out which building is what. To one side of the clearing, are funny-looking round, green buildings with umbrella shaped tops. Someone behind me whispers to their companion that the buildings are called yurts and that we are to sleep in them. Soon, we are broken into our yurt groups, and I am go with the eleven and twelve year-olds. Our yurt is named Trillium, apparently after a native Maine flower that I had never heard of in my life. I look around at the girls in my group and hope that this part will be eas:, no drama, no angry fights over the last piece of pizza. After we’ve unpacked for ten minutes, somewhere in the distance, a bell rings, and one of the girls outside yells “Dinnertime!” as feet pound the ground towards the dining hall. I walk slowly across the clearing towards the 61

building with steam flowing up from the side and a screen door constantly flapping closed behind turned backs. I am too worried to be hungry, but as I step into the dining hall, the smell of spaghetti engulfs me, and I figure going to bed on an empty stomach, whether I'm hungry or not, is a stupid idea. The days go by one after the other in a stream of motion, as I go through the steps and play my part as a member of Trillium. My mind is too occupied to think about the passage of time during the day; thankfully, we are always doing something. My arms and legs ache at night from climbing mountains of trees and straining on the wooden paddle of a canoe. One morning, I leave the yurt caked in sunscreen and bug spray as usual, ready for anything to come my way. I walk down to the edge of the lake and take off my sneakers. I put on my water shoes to protect my feet from what may be lurking on the bottom of the lake, step into the water, savoring the feeling of cold seep into my shoes and swish between my feet. I am awake now, my shoes sloppy but secure around my ankles. We slide the canoe across the sand and into the water on its curved belly, and I hold it as my partner puts her hands on each side and steps in quickly, careful to not jostle the boat too much. Then it is my turn, as I repeat the process and step into the stern. We gather our paddles and begin to paddle a few feet from shore. Once we are far enough from the shore, we put our paddles back on the floor and begin to gently rock the boat. As the seconds pass, the rocking becomes more fierce, ripples exploding from the sides of the boat as we forcefully sway to the beat of a song only we can hear. Gradually, we are able to tip the boat farther on onto its sides until we manage to flip it in one quick motion of surprise. Suddenly, I am falling through the air for a second, and then I am submerged in water. I breathe in as water enters my nostrils instead of the oxygen I was hoping for. I claw my way up to the surface and am able to grab one of the thin boards of the canoe and pull myself up. My head emerges from the water and all I see is darkness. I realize that I am underneath the canoe and I lift it slightly, duck under and then place it back down to float aimlessly. My partner and I go through the motions of flipping over the canoe and jumping back in. We paddle to shore soaking wet and dripping everywhere and cozy warm from the sunlight beaming down on our bare backs. It is late afternoon and the breeze whips my hair back while the rest of the sun shines through the trees and makes circles of light from far away. I kneel on the packed ground and hold a washing board with one hand and scrub my 62

clothes back and forth across it, while the metal ridges of the board sings a song of longing for something that you no longer have. When I am done scrubbing the dirt and sweat out of my soapy clothes, I walk to the lake to rinse my clothes out in the cool water, imagining myself as one of the many women who must have done this before me. The dock is sturdy and constant beneath me as I hang my pale legs over the old splintered wood and touch the glimmering water with my abnormally long toes. The water is dark blue and beautiful, almost completely still, except for the pair of loons that part it with their chests and glide calmly around the lake, not interested in the uproars of noise coming from the circle of girls next to me. The sun is beating down on us ferociously and my patience is waning with the closing morning. I could be in the circle if I liked, but seeing as I can’t seem to squeeze my way into it, no matter how hard I try, sometimes I take a break from the endeavor and retreat into myself. I am not part of their fight and I do not want to be. I slowly tune back into their argument and realize that it is my job to be the anchor, to keep the peace. I wait until one of the girls is done speaking before I turn my head and look at them all, beginning what I have to say. “You all complain that Emma is mean and rude to you, but you are no better. You blame her for being so horrible, but then you say that you are totally innocent and have never done anything to her. I have watched you all ever since we came and it’s not like when she says something you are hurt or take it in; you just spit something back out at her like your unkindness is justified. You talk about her behind her back, and snicker when she walks by, pretending to think that she doesn't hear you, but knowing just how loud you have to be so that she does. You can pick on her because you are in a group but she has no one to help her fight back, so it ends up five against one. It’s not a fair fight, so just leave her alone. You’ve made your point, we get it.” I put on my most menacing glare, and pray to God that I’m not squinting instead. Then I raise both eyebrows, because I can’t raise just one, and silently challenge them to mess with me. I turn back to my companion and swish my feet lightly through the slippery water. I imagine them glaring at my back and self-consciously suck my stomach in, sitting up a little straighter. My hands are shaking slightly as the adrenaline of an anticipated fight flows through my veins. I don't know why it bothers me; I wouldn't fight someone in a million years. I take a breath and breathe it all out. I would rather avoid confrontation than run to it. I am a watcher. For her, though, I made an exception. 63

If Only When Samantha Logan Those days When I felt as if I had nowhere to go. The pain If I had decided to let go But you held onto me For dear life. The calming peace Only When you are there to guide And comfort me. The promise I will make When You decide I am yours And you are mine.

Ella Samson ‘20, Block Print 65

Who am I? Katharine Tian

Where did I come from? It is always a challenge for me to say. I was born into the arms of a Chinese couple in Toronto. Seven years later, my mother brought me to her hometown of Nanjing. Another seven years passed, and I was sent to study on my own, half a hemisphere away here, in Simsbury, Connecticut. I have the studied focus of the Chinese, and the boisterous laughter of the American; I favor the taste of Canadian maple syrup, yet crave the most bizarre Asian food. It is always a complicated question for every international student, like me, to define who I am. At summer’s end, I opened a package from my mother containing a photo album, which she entitled: “Your unfolding story.” Flipping through the pages of my infancy, me frolicking in gold maple leaves and sledding down the snow, I eventually came upon a photo of myself bearing a gold cup at a investment banking competition. My team swarmed around me, shouting mutual congratulations, christening an achievement born out of minimal sleep, endless brainstorming, tedious fact-checking, while exhilarating group dynamics played out on a sand table. We argued and debated with each other, but ultimately put down our differences and found mutual ground from which to build our ideas. We won, because through that Chinese paragon of collective wisdom, we understood the power of teamwork. Flipping through this book, I saw myself, mid-swing on a Connecticut green. I was first recruited for varsity golf, “a perfect ball in need of a serious shine.” Coach Carrington, humorous and harsh, inspired me to work harder than I ever have before. And it was my teammates, who encouraged me during every single practice and game, to make my golfing experience all that it was. Even though it was my first year on the team, I never felt embarrassed. Thank you to those of you who talked to me during those times I was too timid to speak up as a member of the group. When I first came here, I always thought that, in America, I had only myself upon which to rely. But in the process of participating in team sports these past years at Walker’s, it was my friends and teammates who supported my drive, dedication, and perseverance. Little by little, I put distance between me and yesterday’s shadow, sending the golf ball of my life farther dropping it loser to my goal. Flipping through this book, I saw photos that I had just put in recently, showing me and my friends standing on the stage. Times I spent in the dance 66

studio with my friends: unforgettable. I never imagined that I could do all of these things, that I am enthusiastic about, being here, at Walker’s. Those memorable stages are built on the effort of both me and my partners, especially Kate and Sabrina. Thank you so much for completing my last old girl show at Walker’s with me. Flipping through this book, memories played over on a reel. Each photo felt warm and familiar, like a series of postcards sent by a wayward soul. I realized that wherever I come from, and wherever I go, it is always my friends who stand next to me and support me. I will remember those days and nights of Yining teaching me Physics; Gloria, Joyce and I watching Produce 101; Sabrina doing homework in my room; Nicole and Adela calling People’s Choice with me 9:30 at night; Lucy, Kate, Jeanine, and Ella to whom I can always talk; and my many other friends here. It is you who’ve enrich my years at Walker’s and helped me to find who I truly am. 67

Theresa Jo ‘18, Acrylic + Color Pencil

The Race Bre Bogle A little red tricycle went blasting down 199th street, ricocheting side to side from the immense force shooting out of my legs. Prior to getting on the tricycle that afternoon, I couldn’t believe how perfectly my day was going. It was a sunny New York afternoon, my parents were getting along, my cousins were spending the weekend and I was finally getting the hang of riding my big girl bike. I had always been an abnormally tall child, but my bike still towered over me like a giant tree, and the two white wheels still seemed daunting. I needed the support of two people just to get on the bike, and once I was on, my feet still dangled below, never touching the concrete. I loved my bike in spite of its intimidating features and swallowing my spit and fear; I hopped on the bike, knees wobbling, and hands trembling. Each time my knees hit the pavement, I brushed them off and got back on: again, and again, and again. I figured the more time I spent riding the bike, the more time I would have with my fairytale family: Mommy and Daddy. Ever since Daddy left us, I felt like I was being pulled in two opposite directions. A competition between parents and I was the judge. Who had more toys? Who was more fun? Who gave the best hugs? Who knew me best? Whom did I trust more? Whom did I love more? I tried to be impartial: Mommy gave the best hugs, but Daddy was more fun, giving equal points to each parent, but it was inevitable that the bond between the parent who stayed grew stronger and the parent who left grew weaker. The secret families, missed birthdays, recitals, Christmases, Thanksgivings, and graduations, eventually became normal. Still, I always felt his absence. The saying absence makes the heart grow fonder remained true in my 6-year- old heart and I happily attempted to make up for months of lost time in 48-hour weekends, just grateful that I could be apart of his rapidly changing life. Usually, I couldn’t help but feeling like I was traitor. Mommy’s face floated in my head,while guilt swirled in the back of my mind. This weekend I didn’t have to choose; instead, my parents put their differences aside for whatever reason-- and spent it with me. Together. As a family. I would do anything to make my fantasy family stay a little longer. As an only child I had always struggled with sharing, but I could hear Mommy’s soothing 70

voice in my head “sharing is caring, Brenique” and since I was a big girl now, I reluctantly gave the little red tricycle to my baby cousin, Reine, without coaxing from my mother. I took turns on my Big Girl Bike with my older cousin, Rodrica. I still couldn't believe Daddy was actually here, as promised, in the flesh and I surely wasn’t going to do anything to mess it up. I made a pact with myself not to cry, whine or fuss that day, no matter how much my knees hurt. When he asked for our favorite ice pop flavors, I just knew this day couldn’t get any better. Daddy jumped in his van and us kids watched him with our big brown eyes brimming with anticipation. Excitement filled our bodies and we could barely manage to stand still. As the van took off, instantly, a wave of insecurity flooded my body and my flight instincts shifted into high gear. I threw down the bike and jumped onto my little red tricycle, pedaling as fast as the bike could physically move. I raced to keep up with my disappearing dad. My little legs worked over-time in an attempt to keep up with the moving van. As we turned the corner, I shifted all my weight to the right and the bike leaned with me. I came crashing to the ground, breaking into uncontrollable sobs. I hadn’t realized that the remaining member of my fairytale family had been chasing me and yelling my name. Mommy tried to convince me that he was coming back, but I had heard one too many lies, and I didn’t know what to believe-- or rather whom to believe; my heart or my parents? Desperately, I clung to her shirt and soaked it with my tears, burying my face into her chest. This had become a routine for us: him leaving, me crying, her picking up the pieces. Within what seemed like seconds, the navy van came cruising back down the block. Mommy walked up to the car, speaking to him in the hushed voice they always used when talking about me, as us girls sat with our knees spread open on the front steps, comparing our ice pops. “I thought you had left me,” I yelled to him. “Do you really think Daddy would leave you?” “No,” I said, without hesitation, as I licked the red juice trickling down my arm. It was a perfect New York afternoon, but even my fairytale family knew that was a lie. 71

Screens Jeanine Wang

On three separate screens, we meet together from shoulders up， in the bright chirping morning When crescent moon hangs among black stars. Family again. There used to be no screen, when my warm little fingers wrapped in his palm. Then he left, for a warm little island wrapped in white waves. For the prospects, I said to myself between the sobs, against the door. There used to be one screen, when his voice distantly distorted and hers familiar. Then I left, for a place distantly foreign, with nothing familiar. For the prospects, they said to each other through the wire, across the sea. During summertime we do not gather on screens, but stare at them, separately, or together around one. On that one screen a decade has passed, then another one— no word is exchanged, except, It’s good to be together. On three separate screens, we meet together. Family again. Do you miss home? She says. I’m well. I answer. Then her voice, distant and distorted, is cut out, 72

I do miss home, As well as the time when your world was mine. On three separate screens we meet together, Our most genuine attempt, To be A family again.

Jasmine Morris ‘19, Block Print 73

Arcade Games, Shotguns, and Surfboards Marion Carr The repetitive music of a pinball machine blared as my cousin frantically hit the sides of the game, trying to collect the ultimate bonus. The antique machine rattled slightly and, concerned, I looked back at one of my step-uncle’s prized possessions. Around the room, there were three pinball machines and an electronic arcade game preloaded with hundreds of games. A sleek wooden autographed surfboard hung above an enormous flat screen TV with an LCD display, and a full floor-to- ceiling bar adorned half the room. Dim mood lighting illuminated an enormous stuffed buffalo head hung on the walls, painted a creamy off-white. Bowls of brightly colored candies sat in ornamental crystal bowls stylistically placed around the room. One might have thought the room was a bar or an arcade, but in fact it was the focal point of my forty five year old step-uncle, George, and his girlfriend’s home on the coast of Southern California. George spent years remodeling his house to the latest trends and styles while retaining his childlike vibe. As two of the few family members who were willing to interact with George, my cousin and I had agreed to go to his softball game—possibly more—to ride in his white Range Rover and pet his dog than to actually watch him play softball. As a twelve-year- old, I thought this was an extremely clever way to be given candy and snapback hats. In retrospect, spending time with my step-uncle as a child has allowed me to continue my relationship with him today. Most families have a so-called “crazy uncle,” but my family is not limited to just one or two eccentric members. It seems that everyone is a completely unique, and ultimately very strange, person. No one in my family has a typical American suburban existence. My other uncle, Caleb, lives alone on a mountain in a remote corner of upstate New York with his cat. He has a collection of historic weapons, electric guitars, and a large group of unique canes including one with a concealed dagger. After I was injured playing field hockey, he bought me one of his favorite canes adorned with a snarling lion’s head. As a writer, he keeps extremely odd hours, often working until six in the morning and awakening around three in the afternoon. He turns away most visitors, although many of them are creepy fans of his writing looking for an autograph. His mother, my grandmother, is eighty-seven years old and she and her husband still work. Her hair is dyed bright red and she considers 74

herself the life of the party and the family matriarch. Every year she agrees to make a full classic Thanksgiving dinner for our whole extended family. Remarkably, she has also completely adapted to modern technology and is looking forward to unlocking the iPhone X with her face. Keeping up email chains with my cousins and me, she remains involved in our lives throughout the year, and does her best to call when she is not at a concert or event with some friends, or running the board of her condominium. Although she is interesting to spend time with, sometimes I think that she thinks of herself as the teenager she was about seventy years ago. Not everyone in my family is related, some do not even know other family members. They live spread across the country and ultimately care little for each other. Even my parents have very strong opinions on our other family members. My father for instance frequently refers to my step-uncle as “that sleazebag” who drives a “drug dealer car.” My uncle, who is a painter, creates beautiful pictures of clouds, but sometimes I wonder if his head ever comes out of them. I cannot even imagine him with his paint splattered shirt and rumpled khakis in the same room as my step-grandfather who is so obsessed with having the perfect house that one can barely enter. It is especially difficult because he and my grandmother live a block from a beautiful beach, yet no one in the family is allowed to enter the house with a wet bathing suit or the towels he specifically earmarks for the beach. One beachgoer, usually me, sneaks in the back door to get approved towels so that we can enter. I am able to be a peacemaker and bridge the cultural gaps between my family members. Over time I have been able to recognize the personality traits I share with my relatives and how to relate to each of them through a shared interest. Although they live all over the United States, I am lucky enough to be able to visit many family members frequently. This past summer, I agreed to spend a day in Los Angeles with my cousin, Patrick. Affectionately known as “The Human GPS,” Patrick led me on a forced march across twelve miles of L.A., visiting anywhere that could possibly be of interest. Although I would not describe the experience as enjoyable, Patrick and I were able to bond over our shared love of travel and trying new things. During a family vacation, I tried to explain to my grandmother that my uncle, Caleb, was not intentionally snubbing her, he was just absent-minded and daydreaming instead of paying attention to their conversation. I might have been able to understand his point of view on the matter, but she spent about an hour ranting about how strange he was before 75

I was able to explain that he had not meant to offend her, but his eccentric personality, like my own, can be perceived as offensive and conceited. I frequently translate what my dad refers to as “surfer slang,” the barely audible and fragmented mumbles my Californian cousins attempt to communicate with, into regular English for my older family members. I fly remote control airplanes with my uncle, although his planes often end up stuck in trees until he shoots them down with a twelve-gauge shotgun. One can always tell which planes are his by the conspicuous holes in their fuselages. I can talk across cultures and generations and bring together the most eccentric members of the family. I am not the youngest member of the family, and I am far from the oldest, but I am able to relate to and befriend my family members across three generations --unlike anyone else.

Ruoyi Jin ‘19, Nigiri 77

“Free Free” Marie Ettien

We called it free free. Literally free. Hard. Uncooked. Raw. And free. FOOD FIGHT The stale broccoli is now used as a piece of armory Chad fires his arm, and boom, his target ,Archie is down. “You, you, you, and you, my office now.” We know what that means. Suspended. The lunch line moves slow, Especially for a line that has two people on it. Kiyah calls out Mo. “You a broke, eating free free and shit.” Poor Mo. No one knows, but she has it rough at home. We bonded over the benefits of being poor one day. Cool girl. I want to call out Kiyah, But I don't want to sound like a broke too. Even though I am one. “All these social networks and these computers.” The boys are screaming, I can't hear my heartbeat. Everyone is screaming, No one is eating. Because who eats free free? Even if your stomach is wailing for food. That’s the rule you don't break: DO NOT EAT FREE FREE.

The War Garet Wierdsma We sledded down the mud on our butts, delirious with the feeling of parent-allowed delinquency. A massive hill of dirt was the dream we hadn’t even known we’d had, yet here it was, the perfect playground, right in our new backyard. Ryker, three years and three months old, shared my imaginary world. In my role as older sister, I took charge of arranging the game, as we scampered up the hill from the pirates and sliding down the mud and off of the plank. We tossed the smaller rocks into the mud, and stacked the big ones into towers, the ones we could hardly carry, and named each of our Kingdoms. He was King, I was Queen. It was our castle. Tilly, my sister, squirmed in the mud to our left, still a baby, but old enough to sit on her own, as Ryker and I climbed up and down the hill with endless energy. Mom, in an eager conversation with Dad and the contractor, glanced over every minute or so and shook her head with an adoring smile. “Save the princess!” I cried with urgency. Ryker and went into a running slide down the hill and found Her Highness splashing mud between her clapping hands. Ryker picked her up by the armpits and dragged her limp, obedient body up the hill. I waited impatiently. He was doing it wrong. Ryker sent Tilly down first, giving her a little push and then preparing to slide down himself. But before he could sit down, I made a running start and sledded down the slope with stumbling quickness. “Save the princess!” I cried again, and scooped Tilly up around her middle, the way it should be done. Pleased to have cast myself as the lead, I sat Tilly between my legs and we scooted down together, spraying double the amount of mud, double the fun. I stood up with the strength of my eldest sibling authority and set my hand to my brow, surveying the area for those dirty, pirate scoundrels. I don’t remember the impact. All I remember is reaching a few tentative fingers to the back of my skull and coming back with blood. The rock had long since dropped to the ground, and my brother stood behind me, paralyzed with the gravity of what he had just done. 79

“Mom?” I was scooped up and placed gently on the kitchen counter, both parents buzzing around me with urgent anxiety. Frantic calls were made to the pediatrician, the emergency room, the doctor family-friend. Tilly sat on the floor with wide eyes watching the events of the world around her, and Ryker cowered skulking in the laundry room, peeking out with a pale face to plead his innocence. In that moment, I distinctly remember the sensation of separation. The lines had been drawn between the good and the not-s- good, the winner and the winner of second place. It was our first competition. Through the early years, the theme of the third child continued. Who would win the baby? Who got to tell her what to do, what game to play, what clothes to wear? Later, we advanced to social standing. Who had more friends? Who was invited to more birthday parties? Who chose the “right crowd?” Next was sports. Who could run a mile in under 8 minutes? Which was harder: soccer or dance? Who practiced for more hours- and who worked harder at home? Then grades- Who got a higher GPA? Who took Algebra One in seventh grade? Who had received the allowance bonus from Dad for getting straight “A”s that semester? The outcome of most of these competitions was consistent with the trophies earned in our first battle. One of us was the winner, and the other one hated them for it- enough to hurt them, time and time again, with everything and anything they could throw. Now, the war is for success, no matter the venue. Every point counts, but only one of us is still playing- and that player is not afraid to take a few penalties in order to remind the other team that the game is still on. The mud hill is covered with grass now, the rock piles long since removed and the contractor and his company moved on to other houses with other families requesting to clear the forest in the front yard. The pirates have sailed 80

away and the princess has been rescued. Only the King and Queen remain to govern the empty hill. In that moment, my clearest memory is this: I could feel the jealousy, shooting between us like firecrackers. My sister sat stone still, watching the world spin around me like a tornado. And my brother lurked on the edge of the scene, angry, ashamed, still ready to pounce.

White Door Brenique Bogle A

Good

person does the right thing

Sat

on my bed Criss

Cross

Apple

Sauce and turned up the music

BANGED

Her Head In head In She didn’t Cry Later my mom asked me if I had heard when it was happening I Said NO 82

Ruoyi Jin ‘19, No. 0308 Jenessa Lu ‘21, 002 83

The Last Call

I still remember that last call. Those three words lingered for hours and I thought about all the time I wasted. Your time. If I hadn’t let you go this would never have happened. I would be safe in your arms instead. And now, like the last ray of light before the sun sets You linger on my horizon Leaving me with only a wish of what we could have been.

Monique Pace

People tell me I should be grateful for the time we spent together. We were always running, you and me, trying to catch the other. We never had good timing, you would say, with that look on your face I knew all too well. But then, you caught me. And the world was right. You looked at me and time stopped. We’d dream about the small things, like walking home together and watching movies together and sleeping together But then, I went back. My old life wrapped its hands around my throat and I choked. Reality got the better of me and you

Family Dinner (One-Act Play) Esi Obeng CHARACTERS Ted Anderson: Single father of Stacy, Callie, and Sasha. Stacy Anderson: Eldest daughter of Ted. (20 years old) Callie Anderson: Middle daughter of Ted. (17 years old) Sasha Anderson: Youngest daughter of Ted. (6 years old) Benjamin Taylor (Ben): One of Stacy’s boyfriends. (early 20’s) Jason Adams: One of Stacy’s boyfriends. (early 20’s) Lights come up on the first section of the house to reveal a living room. Everything is perfect. Not one piece of furniture or decoration is out of place. On the back wall hangs a framed family photo, joined by multiple school photos. A lawson style sofa faces the audience, with one matching accent chair on each side. A coffee table sits perfectly centered in front of the couch. Sitting on the couch are two sisters, each staring blankly ahead at the television. On the television, “Finding Nemo” is playing. Ted enters living room, wearing his Sunday best along with an apron, that reads “Mr. Good Lookin’ is Cookin’.” Callie and Sasha sit with their feet up on the coffee table. TED: Alright ladies, dinner is almost ready. All that’s left is... Hey! Take your feet off of the coffee table! Both girls roll their eyes, but comply anyway. Ted walks over to a cabinet, takes out Mr. Clean, and starts to spray the table. TED (while frantically cleaning table): You girls shouldn’t slouch like that. You’ll wrinkle the outfits I spent so much time ironing. CALLIE: Dad, I still don’t understand why you’re wasting your time. It’s not like Stacy’s never been here before. She’s our goddamn sister, for Christ’s sake. TED: Callie, language! SASHA: SHHHHH! This is my favorite part. CALLIE (ignoring Sasha): She’s probably only here to kiss your ass because she ran out of money. 85

TED: Callie, I won’t say it again. Watch your― SASHA: I said SHHH! Ted and Callie both stop talking and turn toward the television. SASHA (in unison with Dory): I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my Squishy. CALLIE: Can we speak now, your highness? SASHA (looking straight ahead at television): Mmhmm. CALLIE (turning towards her father): Why is she even coming here ,anyway? She’s barely called us twice in the past year and a half. TED: Well, if you must know, she’s got a new boyfriend. CALLIE: That’s it? She could have just sent a postcard or something. (mutters) Nobody wants her sorry ass here anyway. TED: Hey!! I heard― Sound of car door slamming shut. TED: Oh no! She’s here and the broccoli isn’t finished steaming! Callie, please at least pretend to be a dear and let them in. Ted runs to the kitchen as he unties the strings of his apron. Callie moves towards the remote to shut the television off, but Sasha slaps her hand. Doorbell rings. Callie shrugs and stands up to open the door. As she opens the door, Stacy and two men walk into the living room. STACY: Hey, Cal. CALLIE: Hello, Satan. STACY: (sighs) I thought, you would have grown out of that by now. (turns to Sasha) Hey, squirt. 86

SASHA: (eyes glued to the television) Can’t talk. “Finding Nemo.” STACY: You’re still watching that movie. I could have sworn, you were watching this… CALLIE: 一the day you left. Yeah, we remember. (turns to the two men) So, which one of you is unfortunate enough to be dating my sister? Both men look at each other as a panicked look grows on their faces. JASON: I thought you told them. STACY: Yeah, about that… BEN: (obviously agitated) Well, she obviously didn’t. Couldn’t you tell how she was fidgety she was the whole way here? Jason walks over to Ben and takes both of his hands. JASON: Remember what we said about our breathing? Inhale (takes deep breath) and exhale... (releases breath) The two continue to do their breathing exercises with their eyes closed. Callie turns to Stacy and mouths “What the ...?” STACY: (looks annoyed) Can’t you guys find some other time to do this? BEN: (opens eyes but continues to hold hands with Jason) Don’t start with me. You had months to tell them the truth and you didn’t. Now I’m stressed and when I’m stressed, I do my breathing exercises. (turns back to Jason, closes eyes, and continues exercise) CALLIE: Something weird is happening here. I don’t know what it is, but I’m pretty sure we’re going to find out and when we do, Dad is going to flip out. TED (yells from the kitchen): Dinner’s ready! Come into the kitchen everyone! Callie drags Sasha off of the couch and turns off the television. She then leads the group into the kitchen, where Ted is waiting for them along with a 87

beautiful home cooked meal. Sasha pulls out a chair and sits in it. Callie hurries into her chair, waiting excitedly for what is to come. TED: Stacy! It’s so nice to see you! (Hugs Stacy. Looks over her shoulder to see Jason. Releases Stacy and goes to shake Jason’s hand) You must be Stacy’s boyfriend. JASON: Very nice to meet you sir. BEN: Don’t forget about me, dad! (pushes Jason out of the way and shakes Ted’s hand) STACY: (shoots an icy look to Ben) Do you have to be so weird about it? BEN: (continuing to shake Ted’s hand) You had your chance. You’re lucky I’m willing to rip off the bandaid for you. TED: Oh, so you’re Stacy’s boyfriend. BEN: Guilty! TED: (turns to Jason) So, are you a roommate? JASON: Not exactly… STACY: Well… technically, Dad… , they’re both my boyfriends. BEN: For now, at least. I may start to reconsider after tonight. JASON: Oh shush. Stacy stands in between Ben and Jason. All three hold each other’s hands. CALLIE: (face slowly growing into a smile) This is even better than I imagined. SASHA: Woah. You can do that? TED: I… I… I don’t understand… You’re dating both of them? How does that even work? 88

STACY: (happy to explain) Well... Jason is gay, but he's straight for me, and he's gay for Ben and Ben's really gay for Jason. And I hate Ben and he hates me because… well, duh! (smiles). BEN: It’s really not that complicated once you get used to it. TED (slowly sits down and puts his head between his hands): So, let me get this straight― CALLIE: Well, daddy dearest, technically only one of them is straight. STACY (turns to Callie): You stay out of this. CALLIE: Not a chance. I’ve waited a year and a half for you to finally get what you deserve. Now that the time has come, I’m gonna enjoy every second of it. TED (obviously stressed): I’m still not quite understanding this. You. My daughter. Stacy. Are dating not one, but TWO men? STACY: I thought you might have questions. (pulls out a big stack of paper from her purse) I printed out some articles about polygamous relationships to help you understand our little… situation. (hands stack of papers to Ted) TED: (looks down at stack in complete disbelief) WIKIPEDIA? REALLY, STACY!?! YOU SHOW UP WITH TWO MEN ON YOUR ARMS AND YOU EXPECT ME TO DO MY OWN RESEARCH? YOU DO REALIZE THAT POLYGAMY IS ILLEGAL IN AMERICA, RIGHT? YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK FOR THE UNITED STATES TO LEGALIZE GAY MARRIAGE, LET ALONE THE MARRIAGE OF MORE THAN TWO PEOPLE? WHAT’S YOUR PLAN HERE DARLING? CALLIE: This is the best day EVER. BEN: Well, I’m gonna let you two have your father-daughter moment here. This food is calling my name. (sits down next to Sasha and starts to serve himself. Jason does the same) 89

STACY: Daddy, we’ve got it all figured out. That’s actually why we’re here. I didn’t want to tell you like this but here it goes… TED: JUST SPIT IT OUT. STACY: We’re moving to Australia. TED: AUSTRALIA? WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO DO IN AUSTRALIA!?! STACY: They are actually far more accepting of relationships like ours. It’s actually in your study packet; now, if you turn to the page that I highlighted― TED: SCREW THE PACKET. HOW COULD YOU JUST LEAVE LIKE THIS!? CALLIE: Wouldn’t be the first time-- and it won’t be the last. STACY: What’s your problem? CALLIE: MY “PROBLEM” IS THAT YOU KEEP DOING THIS.. FIRST YOU LEAVE AFTER MOM DIES. YOU SHOULD HAVE SEEN HOW HEARTBROKEN DAD WAS. HE REALLY BELIEVED YOU WOULD COME BACK, BUT I KNEW BETTER. THERE WAS NO WAY YOUR SELFISHNESS WAS COMING BACK. NOW LOOK AT US. DAD WON’T STOP HOPING THAT YOU’LL COME BACK TO HIM AND ALL SASHA DOES IS WATCH THAT STUPID MOVIE OVER AND OVER AGAIN. AND YET AFTER ALL THIS, THE ONLY PEOPLE I REALLY FEEL SORRY FOR ARE THE TWO IDIOTS YOU DRAGGED IN HERE. Callie stomps out of the room. STACY: WELL, DAD, ARE YOU GOING TO SAY ANYTHING? TED: (defeated) No. She’s right. I can’t keep depending on you. It’s obvious you’re just going to do your own thing and forget about the rest of us. STACY: FINE. Jason. Ben. We’re leaving. 90

JASON: (with food in his mouth) Really? Now? I haven’t even finished my dinner! BEN: Oh, suck it up. (turns to Ted) It was lovely meeting you. You have a beautiful home. Stacy, Jason, and Ben gather their things and leave. SASHA: (looks up from her dinner) Is she coming back? TED: (head between his hands) I’m afraid not, honey. SASHA: You have to put 25 cents in the swear jar. TED: I know, honey. SASHA: Why isn’t Stacy coming back? TED: Because not every story can end like “Finding Nemo.” CURTAIN

Fleas Madeleine Pelletier

Turn right off the Highway 8 past the mini-golf course. Gravel snaps under the wheels of the old Suburban. Three generations crawl out of the stuffy car onto the desolate parking lot. The flea market sits on a field bordering what must be the busiest highway in Wisconsin. We scurry as if on the hunt for a crumb of food. Grandma and Grandpa go left, my brother and aunt go right. The first stand makes my body numb. Two men sit on stools admiring the slick black rifles lined up before them on a table. A man behind the table picks one up showing it off to a scrawny plaid- shirted man. His hand grazes the gun’s exterior, and the plaid man nods in agreement. One dilapidated building is full of mismatched items hanging on the walls, stocked in shelves, and cluttered on the sides of the narrow walkway. My fingers reach a game box and shake it hearing only two hard thuds. Rocks. Too cheap to even sell a real game? The store keeper stands behind the front counter wearing a purple tank top, a jean skirt and bedazzled cowboy boots. The gunshot snaps of her gum startle the customers in front of her. She is standing next to an obese man who sits in a tiny chair. Sweat stains the underarms of his large shirt. He mumbles something to her and she grins as her face wrinkles into paper. A seemingly abandoned cider donut stand sits on a patch of mud while flies buzz around the sugary residue left behind on the kitchen supplies. Racks of sweatshirts hang under a sign that reads $1. The appealing offer is spoiled by the pungent perfume of damp basement that emanates from the cloth. Pez containers, glass beads, piles of mix- and- match shoes. Luck has run out and the ants march back to the parking lot. Every hand is empty except the littlest one. My brother clutches a grease-stained Wendy’s bag. He pulls out two rocks, one pinkish and one blueish. Two dollars a piece. Into the car, three generations burned by the hot leather seats. No one particularly satisfied. It’s what we do.

Victoria Wang ‘18, Acrylic 93

Home Kaitlyn Thoma I never really knew how to love things. It was small, particular niches I had growing up that piqued my interest, and it was limited to just that. Everything was one at a time, nothing ever overlapped. My parents were lovers, players, and avid fans of hockey. I was encouraged to play since I was as young as three, but it was not interesting enough and even made me tired. So, I would lie down in the middle of the ice during community skate, and fall asleep on my stomach. This continued for the following fifteen years that I played, getting more and more annoying, until I was getting pulled off the ice repeatedly because I did not try. I knew I wasn’t trying, I wanted everyone to know just how jaded I was with the sport, and that I had better things to do. It never really occurred to me that I was disappointing my parents by doing this, and I probably would not have cared. For much of my life, it was that way with many people except the few individuals whose opinions had some inexplicable influence over what I did. Everything was at my own will. By age six, I decided I wanted to ride horses. This held my interest for longer than anything had ever been able to do. I rode all through elementary and middle school until I decided I wanted to go to a school for riding. I ended up here at Walker’s. I failed to recognize that riding was not going to be something I would really pursue in the long run, even if it seemed that way at the time. I wanted things to stay as they were forever, as I always do. But riding started to bore me even so. I’d abandoned my close friends so effortlessly from public school. Just left without saying bye or why I was leaving. They never really understood. I don’t think I really ever understood, either. They waited anxiously for me to come home, as dogs do.. I did not feel like I owed them any sort of explanation, as I did not feel like I owed my parents an explanation as to why I wasted their time and money on hockey when I did not care about it. I continued to do this repeatedly in my life, holding to this idea of what I wanted life to be, and getting too invested in an image, leaving no room in my life for anything else. Over my several years here at Walker’s, I have done the same. I have withdrawn from people, even my friends, once it felt like I found something I could love that did not involve them. I’d hone in on it, and leave the rest of my life in the dust in my leap of faith in this new thing that I was expecting to finally be --authentically-- my own. But everything was 94

enchanted with my imagination of what life should be like. I could never be content that way. And I did indeed continue to disappoint my parents. “Kaitlyn, we are so proud of you, but I feel like we don’t really know who you are anymore.” My mom said things like this to me frequently that ricocheted off this stubborn front that cloaked me, and blinded me from my reality. All my life, I have only ever wanted to feel a sense of home. I couldn't even find it in my own house. I did not find it at the barn, or the rink, or here at school. The other day, my mom asked me why I was always trying to come back from school, just to always be out with friends, and not actually home. I didn’t know how to respond, because I didn’t know. Maybe I was just looking for somewhere that felt more like home. This endeavor has failed me consistently in my life... and it made me realize that hobbies, people, places-- these were not the issue. I had set too high a standard, beyond their power to grant me. I went from abandoning my town and my friends to reclaiming it all as my own. I had begged my parents all my life to move, because I never fit in in there. But, when it came down to it, I couldn’t bring myself to see us living anywhere else. And I came back to Walker’s every year with no consciousness of why. Maybe it was just the investment of time, I suppose. But I believe that there was a reason I did not leave sophomore year when I had the chance. It’s because I felt myself drawn back, as I were a part of something here already and it was part of me, even as I pushed it away. You come to realize that home is never just a building with a chimney and a front door. It’s the people inside, and the experiences you share with them that shape you, and they stick to you whether or not you chose for them to. Home is a feeling. It exists subtly, but it is omnipresent. It’s the feeling that makes you sit in Abra’s at dinner talking with your friends until the staff has to kick you out. The feeling that overwhelms you when you pull out from the driveway onto the road and suddenly start sobbing because the reality of leaving truly starts to cave in on you. The feeling that it is as though you are missing something, once you return to the quiet solitude of your room after spending good time with your friends. And that’s because they’re your friends, and they are your home. I’m not saying that you should withhold from opportunities for change, but do embrace your roots. Everywhere you go, you leave your mark, and people 95

leave their mark on you. That is why you are who you are, and no matter where you end up, you bring that with you. Love your friends, your family, and your school, because they are the things that make you, “you.” So, come home to them.

Winter Isabel Rush Snowflakes fall, land on my face, Brush my cheek, The soft tips of a thousand feathers. A hint of cold, Lingers in that gentle caress. Light from street lamps, Shine down on the snowflakes, Twinkling stars of hope To me. The pathways I walk, White with snow, Tiny sparkling crystals, Just waiting to be found. I tip my head up, Toward the dark blanket of night, Sprinkled with fiery balls of light. Always watching, Whether we know it, Or not. I see the moon, My constant companion, Whom I've never met, But have forever known As my friend. I twirl on the sidewalk, Snowflakes descending around me, Clinging to my hair, As children grab on to their mothers. I bid my friend good night, Turning towards my promised bed, The whispers of peaceful sleep, Drifting to me on the wind.

Years Here Victoria Wang Words flew beneath my eyes. The portrait the life of a young man courageously pursuing his dream of success, yet eventually being depleted by it. I felt splendidly towards the purity of his dream, sorrow towards the carelessness of others upon his death, and indignation towards the materialist society that let his passion slip... These were the feelings I experienced after reading The Great Gatsby, written by F. Scott Fitzgerald. In tenth grade English class, I gladly accepted the assignment to develop a thesis on the novel, and with these turbulent emotions roiling in my mind, I was able to complete the best reader’s response I had ever written. I carefully analyzed every quote useful to developing my idea, emphasizing how they would manipulate my sentiment, step by step, to its current state. On that sunny day, when my paper was due, I clicked the “submit” button on my iPad, and silently celebrated the completion of another one of my missions. Nevertheless, at the very moment I finished my paper, I felt the part of my emotion, that had been so colorful, disappeared. Now, you may or may not have noticed where the problem was. It lies within the word “analyze”- or more specifically speaking, my way of analyzing. Described by my friend Nina Zhang, who graduated last year from Ethel Walker, I am probably the most rational thinker she has ever met. Being taught to be logical by my parents and teachers, I grew gradually accustomed to the way of breaking issues down into little pieces with premises and conclusions. The ability to analyze things thoroughly until they were reduced into transparency was like a shortcut for me, enabling me to sail through vacillations in my emotional states and to achieve final resolutions. But things do not usually turn out to be as easy as they initially seem. During the final days of the last year of my middle school, back in China, I faced the problem of parting with my closest friend. She had decided to remain in China for high school, while I was already looking forward to my journey to 98

and in America. I thought saying goodbye would not be difficult, since I knew that the end of middle school did not signal the end of our relationship, and with video-chatting possible, we could still talk with each other whenever we wanted to. However, I was wrong. One night, during freshman year here, I sat in my room and felt waves of oppressive, relentless depression overwhelming me. I examined myself and my friendship, and realized that the problems occurred within the twelve to thirteen hours of the difference in time, and the twelve thousand kilometers of distance between us. I recollected our times in middle school, where we saw each other every day, face to face, and considered this to be a very good reason for me to cry. As soon as I start to think over the reasons for my sadness, I no longer felt it anymore. I awkwardly sat in my bed, sensing my right to feel sorrow being deprived from me. Stepping into high school, I encountered people and experiences so colorful that I would not like them to be reduced into points in time as straightforward as mathematical functions. I will always remember, how, during my freshman year, my advisor, Ms. Manderlink, encouraged me to explore my passion for reading, painting, and music; how, during sophomore year, my math teacher, Ms. Overtree introduced to me the book called The Elegant Universe which initiated my pursuit in astrophysics, how, during junior year, my friend, Nina, shared with me her happiness and troubles, trusting me with her genuine friendship; and how, during senior year, when I did not do well in a physics class outside of school, Dr. Mitchell encouraged me with empathy and helped me to regain my confidence; how for so many times Mrs. Riggles and Indie welcomed me to their family, how for countless hours Mrs. Smith sat with me to explore the eternal meanings behind music pieces that reflect my emotions. I evaded analyzing the causes and effects of the tremendous kindness I have received throughout my years in Ethel Walker. What matters to me the most is that I know I am no longer alone, and this community is where I belong. I am not trying to say that the ability to analyze as useless; in fact, we must acknowledge its helpfulness in some circumstances. What I am trying to say is, that no matter how intensely we are persuaded, in daily living, to be 99

rational, there are experiences, not nameable or quantifiable, that are not meant to be dominated by sense and reason. And these constitute the most precious memories I hold.

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“A cityscape, a silent sky Someone else's paradise” Madeleine Pelletier ‘20, A Sailor’s Lullaby Gloria Lin ‘19, Pen and Ink 101

A Sailor’s Lullaby Madeleine Pelletier A Sailor’s Lullaby Alone is simple You simply suffice Somberness slips away And sails to sailor’s end Crowds surround a man Who seeks tranquil peace A mass his own holds his shape The blue The wind and wet A silent sentence Will save our souls When only noise survives A cityscape, a silent sky Someone else's paradise A sailor wishes on a star Happiness abides The lilt of waves, a lullaby A smile will Suffice

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Alone Kristen Emery You sit alone in a dark room playing music trying to block out the unavoidable screams in the room next to you. You wonder if it is your fault. You contemplate going in there to try to resolve what has happened, but you know that it will only make things worse. So you wait. And wait. Eventually it is midnight and the screaming has not stopped. You close your eyes and try to count sheep. You should be used to this by now, you tell yourself, but you know you are not. Morning comes and all is well. Nobody speaks of what happened; you all carry on. Night time comes and the routine continues. You are determined. You will not be afraid tonight. Tonight you are not going to tune the screams out. Tonight you will confront the two of them and try to help. You open your door and make your way down the hall. You pause for a moment to try and gather your thoughts before opening the door. You enter. They do not notice. You speak. They do not hear. You leave. They do not notice. You wipe your tears and go back to your room, turn off the light and turn on the music. Today, the teacher is talking about the properties of matter. You listen intently and try hard to focus and stay on task. Unable to make sense of it, you ask her to repeat what she has said. She stares at you until your palms begin to sweat and then continues to teach, disregarding your question. You ask the girl next to you if she can help and she begins to tell you, but then stops. The class is silent. You look up and the teacher is right in front of you. She tells you, if you speak again, you will be sent to the office. You swallow your breath and nod. The only thing you can hear is the sound of your heart beating through your chest. You know that your face is as red as the unopened ketchup bottle sitting in your refrigerator. The bell rings shortly after, and the teacher tells you she wants to see you after class. You stand there with your heart in your shoes and nod again. She’s furious. She tells you that she is going to contact your parents and tell them about the incident that has happened in class today. You try to tell her that you just needed help so you wouldn't feel lost. She tells you to leave. Walking down the hall, you hear the girl behind you yell, “You're such an idiot.” 103

You turn around to see who it is. It’s your classmate. You walk away and try not to think about it. The next class is history. You sit quietly. You do not say anything. It is November 18th, 2012. You are assigned to work with a partner and make a presentation. You can see the disappointment on the girl's face when she gets paired up with you. You hear her whisper to her friend saying, “great, I got stuck with the stupidest kid in class.” She drags herself over to you and drops her bag down on your feet. She pulls out her pencil case with pens of every color and tells you that you don't have to worry; she will do all the work herself. You reassure her that you are fully capable of doing the work with her. She looks at you blankly saying nothing, grabs the poster and begins to write. You give her ideas. She ignores you. You are invisible. The class ends with you never touching the poster once. You suggest to your partner that you meet the next day to plan out the presentation. You decide to meet at the library before class. She shows up two minutes before you have to go to class and says, “don't worry; I’ve got it covered.” Your head drops. She never gave you a chance. You stand there, but don't say a word. You love the jungle gym. You look forward to it after a long morning of first grade. You go outside and play with your friends like you do every day. That day, nothing is different, or out of the ordinary. You come home from school and go outside to play with your brother. At your house is Mrs. W.- Anna’s mom. Anna is your neighbor and friend from class. Mrs. W. calls you over and asks you why you pushed her daughter off the jungle gym. You stare at her blankly not knowing what she is talking about. Anna is your friend; you would never do that. You want to speak up, but all that comes out are tears.. You think, why is this happening? You later find out that Anna had tripped and fallen, but was too embarrassed to tell her mother so she’d made up a story. Your mom told you the truth. Anna never brought it up with you. She pretended as though it never happened. Yet you never spoke about it, either, and you feel like that was a terrible thing for a friend to do to you. You wish you’d told her how you felt. 104

You tell yourself you're not the same shy little girl you used to be. You are confident now. You know that is a lie. After a long day, most people crave silence and peace. Silence is people's asylum. But not you. Not yours. Silence is dead air. You abhor it. You fear it. This is why you are always the loudest person in the room. When you can't hear your thoughts, you feel peace. When you can't hear anything. Because you know nothing good ever happens when you’re quiet.

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For Julia Ella Gotbaum if eyes are the window to the soul, yours fogged up while i wasn’t looking. smoke leaves a hazy film on the hopes you used to have, they dull and dissipate before they leave your mouth. nothing has the same clarity it used to. dust is beginning to settle. it lines the window panes gray. it seems no one’s home anymore. the lights don’t turn on like they used to. you’ve gone glassy from the drugs and the memories and all the words that can’t be taken back. every abandoned home, every sharp silence that manages to echo with the knowledge that you’ve fallen from grace; from the person you were. from the person i believe you always will be. some days i’d glance at you and be unable to look away. you were stained glass— all glory, bright colors glinting and laughter flashing. you knew the sun shined for you and would never dare cast shadows on your face. you knew that even the beams of light that danced on the walls admired how you looked with golden hours playing in your hair, illuminating your smile. on those dark nights, my own eyes red from crying, i’d look in through the window and find myself home with you. you’d hold me close until i didn’t feel lost anymore. until my being didn’t ache with that familiar loneliness we had learned to greet like a childhood friend. one day soon, dawn will come again. the world may not glow rose-colored, (but then again, when does it for us?) but on those days marked with rebirth, you will look in the mirror and realize your eyes aren’t dulled like they have been. 106

you can now see through the windows that had been shut and boarded up before. there is light coming through, and it’s yours. it doesn’t come from a lighter and it’s not born of synthetic escapes. you will realize that the shadowed corners of your mind are not your home. you will realize you have always been bright.

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Jenessa Lu ‘21 004 108