·Special thanks to the English and Art Departments for assistance with this publication. For back issues of the Stray Shot, go to https://www frederickgunn org/student life/student publications
Faculty Editor: Mr. Visentin
Cover Art: Untitled I by Alex Warren ‘22
Parker Hoffman…......................................................................1
Winifred Ezenwata…................................................................4
Paul Clement….........................................................................14
Clara Prander........................................................................…15
Savanna Cicarelli…..................................................................17
Sophia Kapkova…....................................................................18
Joanne Wimler….....................................................................20
Timothy Lacy…........................................................................22
Quentin Sheers….....................................................................26
Joshua Ly…................................................................................32
Erin W hitney….........................................................................33
Audrey Richards…...................................................................34
Avery Warren…........................................................................35
Ava Veronneau…......................................................................39
Andrew Baron….......................................................................40
Adrien Daou…..........................................................................42
Emma Eschweiler…................................................................43
Peter Cui….................................................................................48
Layla Copen…...........................................................................56
Theo Mercier….........................................................................57
Mary-Elizabeth Borzilleri....................................................64
Keven Farrell….....................................................................66
Alder
Winifred Ezenwata…................................................................2
Eric Li…........................................................................................6
Quentin Sheers….....................................................................29
Serdar Kaltalioglu…................................................................36 oyo
Katarina Crea...........................................................................50
raham
iovanna
Jenny
Quentin Sheers….....................................................................41
Jack
Paul Clement….........................................................................63
Ale
Contri
The dra s
The random ideas
The vulnerable thoughts
Regardless of flow or melody
Averting our gaze to the Mount Everest
Of our dreams
We forget to see how far we have come From the soil
Where we have planted our roots
Where we stand
Remember the resilience of your breath
With every step
The key is to spill
Who is to say what makes a poet, the answer is not sure but when you know, you’ll know it . I am for poetry that is unbound (relatively). Poetry is a calling, it is a beckon of the voice within to be written. Poetry is the art of writing, don’t overthink it, just as you’ll know the one if you keep coming back so as you will know poetry, it’s worth writing about . Tides of words will rise within you and all you can do is write until none are le , but get them out there. Poetry is tough , a struggle, with words, with a blank page. A struggle With oneself. It does not need to be published, polished or perfect, but it needs to be written.
On your hand, in a book, on the walls, but don’t break the law. Poetry needs not be specific or clear, but it must speak, so that everyone who reads it can hear,all that you have said. I am for poetry that evokes , beit curiosity, emotion or despair. The best kind of poetry is the kind that feels and lets feel.
Poetry should be limitless , unbound, a commitment, till death do you part. It must be a
priority or it loses significance. Every experience you have is a fuel for your poetry. Pay attention, take notes, capture moments, but don’t be a creep. The essence of poetry flows within you, for how else can one shape experience and meaning into rhyme and verse?
Stay inspired. But do not rely on the power of caffeine and jazz to combat writer’s block, just listen. To the voice in your head, and write. Just as much in those moments you are out of ideas as when you have a million thoughts. Embrace the muse. Trust yourself. Whenever and wherever. You are the best poet. Your job is simply to put the words on paper, words that can be made right later. Poetry should make them long for more, so share, generosity is key . W rite fearlessly. Write honestly, and write true. But you must Write
You had told me forever. Now time’s up.
I wished for you All day and through night
I wantedit all an all or nothing Type of love
To give me your beating heart if nothing else. I wished for it all, until nothing was le Because I could not bare If it belonged to someone else
Now it is my turn, I ask you , please, When I am gone, far into the land of dreams, Preserve our love, Remember who I was.
And if you forget me for a while Close your eyes, and later remember, Delight in our memories, Those moments in time.
So you want to get a head start at The Gunnery and think that you can gain a bit of useful information by reading this guide. Well, I don’t know who you are—nor do I really care—but I can help you find out whether or not anything I am about to say will be of any value to you. So before you dive any deeper, ask yourself this question first: Am I normal?
If you answered yes, then I caution you to turn away now. You probably have already figured out everything that I am about to tell you. There is simply no point in wasting your precious time, unless you find what I wrote entertaining somehow, which is fine too, I Guess.
If you are not the 102.75% of people who believe that they are normal, then you should study every word of what I said here carefully, because what I have in mind might just save you from experiencing some of the worst times in your life here.
Picture orientation, your first week on campus. While the normal people around you are actively networking
and exploring the unknown, you, knowing absolutely nobody here, are standing aside and watching the world around you unfold with overwhelming pace. You will feel lonely; you will feel confused; you will absolutely hate every second of it and it won’t be your last time feeling this way. But it is totally fine, because boarding schools essentially function like prisons: we are stuck with the people around us. In fact, you will immediately be surrounded by curious peers who simply want to know you. Whatever you do, just DON’T RUN AWAY FROM THEM.
You can think of me as a flawless, seasoned senior that makes no mistakes, so believe me when I say this: no matter how perfect you think you are, you WILL make mistakes. Truth is, people screw up all the time. Even I have to admit that I am only perfect around 60% of the time. Sometimes, your blunders can get you kicked out of the classroom. While it is true that it is a highly embarrassing experience and that your peers will give you a hard time about it for the rest of your time here, DO NOT REFUSE TO LEAVE THE CLASSROOM and wait for your teacher to get your advisor to escort you
out. Otherwise, you will immediately experience the Dean of Student’s reign of terror. In fact, to save you from further trouble, I can also warn you that Ms. Rimany, Teresita, Mr. Gritti, Mrs. Gritti, Mrs. Farrar and Mrs. Fisher will kick you out if they have to. Just don’t ask how I know.
Although I can complain about anything that is wrong with this school for hours uninterrupted, I unfortunately have to admit that the people around you care. Yes, even the unnamed English 1 teacher who will give you 2s across the board for academic merit and subsequently send you to the misery of daytime study hall cares. In fact, I assure you that nobody wants to see you improve more than the same faculties who hand out points for breakfast. Your time here won’t be easy, but the peers and faculty around you will offer you support and help you navigate through the turbulence. Just remember that MOST PEOPLE WANT NOTHING BUT THE BEST FOR YOU, even though it can sometimes appear otherwise.
I want you to know about an industry secret: high school education serves only one exact purpose–it is for your Senior self to look back at your Freshman self in disbelief and disgust. You as a Senior won’t believe what you are about to do as a Freshman; you as a Senior will feel ashamed of what lies ahead; you as a Senior will have wished that you have done more. But I’m not here to tell you to do more or get out of your comfort zones like the countless cliche filled Junior Speeches that you will soon hear. I argue that the sense of remorse and regret are key indicators of progress. I am here to remind you to make the best choices to the best of your abilities now. As long as what you do is informed by your desire to become a better person, you will improve. And no matter what you do, YOU WILL HAVE REGRETS, BUT THAT IS AN UNAVOIDABLE PART OF LIFE. You are about to embark on an unique journey across the bumpy ocean of adolescence. Consider this guide as the beacon from the lighthouse piercing through the fog. You must do as I say, not as I do, or else you will end up beaching your boat at the lighthouse.
Over 86,000 people happily reside within my computer, living their lives just like the 7.6 billion of us on earth. But there is a catch: I am the creator, the mayor, the contractor and the planner of every aspect of the city.
From street signs and trees to eight-lane freeways and massive airports, I spent countless hours to single-handedly condense the unique beauties, characteristics, and flaws of many urban areas into a single save file in Cities: Skylines, a city-building simulator. It seems surreal that the concept of Urban Planning was foreign to me just two years ago.
The first city I built was nothing short of a disaster. Despite my best efforts, jumbled roads and gridlocked traffic still stretched as far as the eye can see and complaints piled up in my mayor’s inbox. With residents scrambling to flee from my concrete jungle of nightmares, I decided that an understanding of my home city, Shanghai, would be vital for me to build better. Infrastructures that used to be inconspicuous appeared as pieces of puzzles waiting to be solved, and a personal frustration of mine turned into a quest for knowledge: In a subway system with a daily ridership
of over 10 million, why does it take 15 minutes to reach a station just across the street from my apartment?
Feeling lost, I searched everywhere for someone with insights. To my delight, a professor friend of my mother agreed to assist me through a full-fledged research project to satisfy my curiosity. Under her guidance, I pored over various dense journals that provided me with valuable insight into the captivating and sophisticated process of urban planning. I learned to use powerful spatial analysis so ware that directly visualized the influence of transit accessibility on the social and economic structures of the surrounding areas. I began to appreciate the need to have inclusive and vibrant cities that serve their residents. I saw that when designs lack sympathy, people pay for the consequences.
A newly constructed boulevard near my suburban house serves as the perfect example. It seems like the ideal development—spacious lanes and a vast median stretching into the horizon, a high speed connection from several towns to the city. But there was something unusual: the remains of many demolished houses stand eerily along the road; scooters, bikes and pedestrians are frequently spotted against traffic in scenarios similar to Frogger; villagers gather atdusk in
the median with foldable chairs. But what caused these bizarre scenes? Speaking with the local residents, I learned that the boulevard pierced right through the heart of several villages, displacing many households, cutting pedestrian connections, and paving over community spaces with dark asphalt. Therefore people have to navigate across the villages by jaywalking, and the pointlessly wide median became the only place to socialize.
Disappointed by the blatant carelessness in design, I realized that Urban Planning is far more than black lines on white pages—it is a persistent passion that aims for the betterment of all; it is a discreet pursuit that demands personal empathy for everyone affected. Destined to set myself apart from those negligent planners, it became my personal mission to document the unseen flaws around me and voice my concern to the city.
But I can learn to do far more than that. I want to make a real impact as a decision maker, one who will put the public's best interest at heart and quietly improve people's lives. I have since taken many opportunities to prepare myself and further understand the many realistic challenges faced by the residents of those magnificent metropolises. Though I
know that I can't be the omnipotent planner that transforms an entire city through a few clicks of my mouse, I will be the one to put the needs of the community before anything else.
Natten känns som att den aldrig tar slut Solen går inte ner Ändlösa nätter
Utan sömn Jag tar en promead
I vattnet speglar sig månen
Det ser vacker ut, sorgligt
Sju blommor är det enligt traditionen Undra vem jag ska drömma om
Blommorna läggs under kudden
Jag försöker sova
Klockan är två Solen går up
Solen har nästan gått ner
Jag sluter ögonen och somnar
Det är den längsta natten någonsin
Midsommarnatt (Swedish) by Clara Prander ‘22The night feels like it never ends
The sun does not set
Endless nights
Without sleep
The moon is reflected in the water
It looks beautiful, sad
It is seven flowers according to tradition
Wonder who I should dream about
The flowers are placed under the pillow
I try to sleep
It is two o'clock The sun rises
The sun has almost set
I close my eyes and fall asleep
It's the longest night ever
I realized I love being a teenager, Romanticizing every moment of the day, Dancing around in the rain with friends, Chasing birds and butterflies, Jumping in piles of leaves, Getting coffee with my friends, Wearing nice clothes and putting on makeup, Finding funny jokes and laughing at them, Walking around bookstores looking for the perfect book, And because of all this,
I find I keep falling in love with myself
“I realized I love being a teenager” by Savanna Cicarelli ‘25
Life never stops. It spins you around like a carousel. When you get off The carousel never stops turning.
You get dizzy and want to get off, But when you do
The bright colors of the carousel Are luring you. With or without you The carousel never stops turning.
Your name is the strongest weapon. It shoots through my heart in a second, I lay there and bleed, Hopeful I’m what you need.
Not living –but existing. I’d do anything for you Even build myself up with glue.
One day you show me an ocean of love, The next it is all dried up. But a little love is better than none. So I stay, hoping that I’ll be ‘the one’.
I hope that one day you wake up and see that all the glued pieces of me are falling apart. I’ll always hope I hold a small piece of your heart.
If you are anything like me, you resent the winter. You hide when it’s cold and can’t stand the rain.
No matter what “perspective changing” or whimsical purpose I attempted to give the rain, I never brought myself to like it…to tolerate it even.
But now, as winters passed and the seasons that follow fill in the empty space, it isn't only rain;
It’s rain followed by sun.
I peel off the layer of anguish I had been dressed in for five long months, and hang it with my heavy winter coats.
It isn’t only rain because what follows feels a little more hopeful.
Like a snake shedding its skin, I am reborn.
Like the blossoms clinging to naked trees, out of hiding I come
And like the birds hatching over the hill, with each so spring dawn, my shell is picked away.
Like these birds I am young and weak, yes…
But a er winter I am filled with what feels like adolescent strength.
Spring is what I’d call a new opportunity for one who had been slave to the chilling grip of wintertide,
For we have a new beginning, a blank page to write our vernal vows,
And if you are anything like me, you struggle to resent this.
Because now it isn’t only rain…
It is rain followed by sun, and that feels a little less hopeless.
I was a fan of the past. The Buccaneers, The Pioneers and all for which The Die was Cast Cuz I was a sinner, down to my core
I smoked pipes and cigars, and romanticized war And it all began with an insatiable itch
To be a real man, though the media seemed to know That the baby boomers would be the last Of the John Wayne bangsters, from the World Wars The Army, the Navy, and the Marine Corps
Cuz they all loved someone who was already dead They spent the rest of their lives fighting battles in their heads
And made their pain the world’s truth, And passed their scars to innocent youth. And le all virility, as malice, perhaps forever typecast
By the time I came along, Things had changed
Yet the baby boomer’s rhetoric still burned Like a burning pile of trash in the middle of the range And for it to just let me live was all I yearned Yet it kept crashing in on me, until I cried, it wasn’t fair
Yet the older folks’ perpetuated to no avail, Until I became exasperated and I started to brood All I saw was pandemonium, leaving nothing to learn. Till my drinking, hollering, and yeow cat calling Wound me up in a small town jail. But now the bonds of Corona, and my past of shame Are letting me free once again
And I’m okay that this world’s not the same Because I know that before it was not near the end. Cuz I have lived when seven hundred thousand died. And seen the great Dixie Fire, and a Capitol Insurrection
Knowing that the strength of man’s muscles there could’ve been applied.
So long as I don’t become a bangster again, and try to wear
fraudulent scars, of battles le in the heads of those ascending to the past.
I am no longer ashamed of our next generation, the next hundred years. So, to all those sitting today in this bar, to the future, let’s raise a glass.
With you calling me deaf and blind
Then bury it, with garrulity, to lie
You take my stage, and say there’s not enough time
Diverting conversations to make me silent.
And I’m too afraid, to set that bomb off, Of first the tirade, and then you’ll sulk forever. And I
Self Portrait by Jenny Shen ‘23
I am 19
When did I start shaving? I am a broken windshield as I think of the filthy snow.
When did I start shaving? I remember; trudging through filthy snow walking in an empty street, with a hairless face.
I remember remembering The cold seeping through my puffy coat walking in an empty street with abandoned cars I scream out with a hoarse throat
My body is cold. This is a bad coat. Ice steals into my lungs with every breath
I scream out, with a hoarse throat No one hears me, snow stifles sound.
Ice steals into my lungs with every breath I sit in the intersection and the snow piles on me
No one could hear me: snow stifles sound.
I am cold, I will be lost for a while
I sat in the intersection, as a mound of snow
I am a broken windshield
I am still cold, I am still lost
I am 19
I don’t want a grand proclamation. I’m waiting for a little slice of life; a tribute for those who war every day for their sanity. I want a respite from the constant chaos of the world and glimpse of poetry.
An art that silences it all for just a moment, that makes us empty, makes us realize our emptiness and makes
you understand it. I should order my days, make them easier but there is no break from my disorder.
My grandparent's gravel driveway was a constant task in my youth. During our frequent storms, the small stones would ride their way down to the bottom of the driveway. It was always delegated to me to bring up that gravel, shoveling it into wheelbarrows and spreading around the countless tiny rocks. I decided to make games out of it; if I didn't, I am not sure what would have happened. Insanity, maybe.
Nonetheless, each shovelful began to be a town with living people. Particularly big shovelfuls would be big cities with all the problems of high rents, dirty streets, and men in gray suits with briefcases everywhere. I felt the vibrations in my feet as I unloaded each wheelbarrow. The heaving and shoving up the increasingly steep angle of the driveway sapped my strength. As I brought up a distinctly heavy wheelbarrow, I stumbled over a stubborn stone, and the wheelbarrow ripped from my hands: hundreds of pebbles were spilled onto the grass.
I scowled, realizing the extra hours I had just created for myself. I got down on my knees and began to carefully pick out the gravel, mindful not to get any grass on them. I did so and noticed each stone was a
little different from the next. I picked up each pebble and wondered what life had it lived: was it simply doing nothing, or did they have a family, a partner? Each one turned into a person until I had a wheelbarrow full of people. It became almost too heavy to li , though I hadn't picked up half of what I dropped. I gazed at the gray-white stones dotting the tall grass, seeing little villages in a forest. I looked up to the sky, spotting the sun sneaking behind the horizon. Those villages, I told myself, would be for tomorrow. I carefully spread out the remaining people and wearily walked back to the house for supper and sleep. The next morning, I woke up to a pungent, acrid smell coming from the open window. I hurried downstairs to find my brother. I saw him say, "Outside."
The pressure in my chest began like an inflating balloon. I dashed to the door in my threadbare pajamas to see the driveway being tarred. Workers, silently spreading the sticky, nauseating pitch. I could barely breathe as the ballooning tar compressed my body. I saw my grandfather mouthing to me, "Now we have a real driveway." I looked at the noxious black tar suffocating the cities, tearing down towns, and destroying my driveway. The unstoppable tide of tar
swallowed each pebble, and the balloon in my chest popped, leaving me breathless.
Tears started to stream down my face, and I began to choke on the fumes. I could taste the poison trickling down my throat. There was no chance for me to say goodbye.
Everything is nature, God gave us this feature. Birds fly in the sky, and mountains are so high. Trees are green and water is so clean. Please leave it as it is Don’t try to play with it.
The swoosh of the sliding window closing, A wa of chemicals from the chlorine plopping into the filter, The stamping of the clock-out timer. Who’s driving with whom? Where are we going today? Who’s in charge of the music? Stopping by Vanderwende’s Creamery, Driving over Lewes Bay to the beach, Eating ice cream and watching the sinking sun from the jetty.
Stripping off our work shirts, Red suits underneath, Diving under the waves as the sky paints the sea cotton-candy. This summer will last forever, we said. But no summer lasts forever.
From the clouds that float above.
Does anyone know where the rain goes
As the sun shines on those she loves?
But the children never frown. For now, there are puddles For them to jump around.
The sun has gone away
And we will miss the children’s delight. She will be back another day But oh I love the April Rain tonight.
He may shackle the muse’s weary ankle
But hear that rhythmic jangle
That echoes through the sky
So expressive it can make a brute man cry
Chain clashing against chain
To vocalize that man’s pain
He tried to take the muse away yet the music still remained
Poetry is all around us.
Some people have probably dedicated their lives to deciding what is poetry and what is not. They spend their lives trying so hard to not cross that line, to remain a ‘poet.’
These people are not poets. Far from it. They try to define something that has no clear definition. A stinkbug’s spray. A pretty purple pair of pants. Waves of heat rising above the turf while arms and legs void of sunscreen burn, slowly. An airplane’s hum, summer cicadas, singing at the top of your lungs with your best friends. Poetry, all of it.
Poetry should be nothing. No expectations, no goals. You might think I'm contradicting myself. Read it again. Poetry doesn’t have to change the world. No goals, no purpose, just existing. Poetry doesn’t need to be noticed or famous. It doesn’t need to be understood. Poetry asks nothing of you except that you see it, acknowledge it. Do not expect more from poetry. Poetry is found, poetry is created, both are the same. Everything you create will be a collection of the
old. Words, memories, people, places, we try our best to immortalize them, to build shrines in their honor, to burn them to the ground. All it takes is vision. We copy, we plagiarize, but that does not mean originality is gone. I like poems that show an everyday object, experience, or feeling in a new light. Our intentions, our context and our presentation all give old words new meaning.
Poetry should not follow any rules. Rules are made to be broken. Poems should break them. Poems should not be boxed in by form, rhyme, and meter, they can be messy and free. Poetry that is confined only scratches the surface of possibility. Poems should not hide behind sophisticated, ancient language. Poems should go beyond the simple meaning of words, use sound, homonyms, and onomatopoeia even to convey meaning.
I am adamantly against the competition that some people bring into poetry. Anything can be poetry, anyone can be a poet, except those that put down others. There is no objective truth, no ranking system that can elevate some poets and not others. Just as anyone can be an artist and make art about anything, or nothing. Deciding that one poem is less
than another is where the art dies.
The act of creating poetry is translating the essence of our surroundings into language. We all take part in poetry, every day. So stop for a second, look around. Close your eyes and listen. That is poetry.
use all the senses in our body.
Fetid, malodorous, putrid. Sapid, palatable, savory. Contingence, palpate, clutch. Auscultate, hark, heed. Descry, regard, scrutinize.
Each word has a meaning which gives our body feeling.
As they vanish into the air.
The sun glows through the haze, Appearing bright orange, Casting a reflection
Onto the quiet harbor, Two rowboats are le , Paddling through the stagnant waters, Returning home for dinner.
At this time of day, In the harbor, It's like a ghost town, The ships are tied up for the night, The sailors cooking dinner, Getting ready for the next day.
The eerie haze creates An ominous but beautiful sunset.
Untitled by Quentin Sheers ‘22
Slowly walking out from behind a tree the wild boar perks up its head. A sea of brown and black and white lunging for his neck, his back. Fi een to one but he will not surrender. Powering through two then three. He tramples one and steps on the next, throwing off these tireless pests. The relentless creatures with a single goal in mind. He powers ahead and narrowly escapes, but all his children have been le behind.
As I open the front door and leave my toasty room
The cool brisk air hits my skin
And the door hinges squeak alive
A er being frozen by the nighttime temperature.
I step on the creaking floorboards
Only able to hear the sound of my own footsteps
And the distant singing of early morning birds.
The sky is a dark gray speckled with clouds
Only made visible by the dim moonlight
And the small sliver of sunlight itching over the horizon.
I walk by dark windows and when I cross the road, Sometimes a car passes by.
Headlights as bright as the sun blind my tired eyes, And the smell of gasoline makes my nose twitch.
The morning air crawls across my skin
As I stop for a second
To take a sip of cold water
That runs down my throat and quenches my thirst.
I approach my destination, But decide to pause for a second And take in the dream that dawn is, Because I am up before the world.
In “Sonnet 116” William Shakespeare creates a speaker who believes in the enduring, perpetual, and indestructible quality of love. Throughout the poem, the speaker explores the relationship between love and time to prove that love is permanent and unchanging no matter how time passes by.
By personifying both Love and Time, Shakespeare is able to create a faithful persona who dedicates himself to love. Shakespeare claims, “Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle’s compass come.” By using the personification, “Love’s not Time’s fool,” Shakespeare endows Love with an insubordinate personality. Even though Time may seem to dominate Love, Love will not succumb to Time. By building a seemingly dominant-inferior relationship between Love and Time, Shakespeare emphasizes the determined, resolute, and faithful characteristics of Love. Shakespeare continues to personify the destruction Time brings to Love, especially shown by aging. Love’s “rosy lips and cheeks” will become pale and fade away under the savage of Time. The “rosy lips and cheeks” indicate the importance of physical
appearances in a relationship. The image of “Rosy lips and cheeks” also indicates youth and freshness at the start of a relationship. Time challenges the endurance of the relationship by casting a shadow on and sabotaging the physical attractions. However, Love is not just limited to physical attraction. Love can be nonphysical, celestial, and platonic. Even though Time takes away the physical appearances, Time cannot take away the inherent purity and loyalty of love. Thus, Love will not surrender to the brutality of the Time. Time further carries its “bending sickle” to destroy Love. According to the Oxford English Dictionary, “sickle” means “an agricultural implement similar in form and use to a reaping-hook, but properly distinguished from this by having a serrated cutting-edge.” Time uses the sickle to destroy Love, to reap the beauty and youth of Love, and to devour the fruit of Love. Most importantly, the sickle arrives with a compass. Personally, I perceive “compass” as having the meaning of measurement. It seems like Time is measuring whether the Love he is reaping is truly faithful.
However, Love is able to prove its faith, sincerity, and truthfulness. At the end of the poem, the speaker further illustrates, “Love alters not with his
brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom.” Love will withstand the test and measurement of Time.
Made juicy by springtime rain, It’s sour to eat, sour to smell. No subtle fruit is this!
Top of lemon from the tree. It looks like a car’s wheel: I eat and it surprises my tongue And puckers my mouth.
Untitled I by Jack Bavoso ‘22
My Antonia is a novel about a Virginian boy, Jim, and a Bohemian girl, Antonia, who moved to the same farm town in Black Hawk, Nebraska, on the same day and the relationship they form as their lives intertwine. Throughout the book, the majority of both Jim and Antonia's lives center around farming, and unsurprisingly, the seasons have an immense impact on farm life. This means that Jim and Antonia's lives change rather drastically between seasons, and therefore their relationship with each other changes periodically. Jim and Antonia grow similarly in the easier months of spring and summer, but the difficult winter months highlight the stark differences in their lives and set them off on contrasting life trajectories. The easier spring and summer months provided many more opportunities for Jim and Antonia to experience similar things and grow closer outside of Antonia's struggle. In a farm town such as Black Hawk, the warm weather of spring and summer offered relief from the stresses of winter. Spring was a time of new growth and the end of devastating crop frosts, and summer was a time of harvest and prosperity. Even the poorest farmers were better off
during the seasons of spring and summer. These easier months created a more balanced lifestyle between Jim and Antonia. They, therefore, allowed Antonia to escape from her stressful responsibilities and find happiness in acting her own age like Jim. "The Harling's children and I were never happier, never felt more contented and secure, than in the weeks of spring which broke the long winter" (146). In this quote, Jim shows how much impact the change of seasons can have on the emotions and moods of the people of Black Hawk. This quote directly links his and the Harling children's, which included Antonia at this time, feelings of pure contentedness and safety to the change of the season, and states that they were all feeling these same emotions. These shared feelings that spring brings out help create a bridge between Jim and Antonia.
Spring and summer bring out more than these emotions; they also bring out youthful, carefree depositions in children and adults alike. "A er the apple and cherry trees broke into bloom, we ran about under them, hunting for the new nests the birds were building, throwing clods at each other, and playing hide-and-seek with Nina" (146). Both Jim and Antonia are carefree and can enjoy their youth without the
hardships of winter pressing on their shoulders. During these months, Jim and Antonia revive the bond they had when they moved to Black Hawk, and the dance tent also revives the sense of adventure they had in those early months. "When you spun around the floor with Tony... you set out on a new adventure every time" (167). The overwhelming theme of the warmer months seems to be Jim and Antonia coming back to the people they were when they first met and growing together as young adults without struggle or pain. "Antonia seemed to me that day exactly like the little girl who used to come to our house with Mr. Shimerda" (178).
The first winter Jim and Antonia spend in Nebraska highlights the stark differences in their lifestyles. While the first Autumn Jim and Antonia spend in Black Hawk is consumed by their endless adventures and short reading lessons, the following winter uncovers the truth in their vastly different living situations. In the months approaching Christmas, Jim's family grows closer in a comfortable and warm home. The Burdens are extremely well-fed and even live in a bit of excess concerning food as the days get colder. "On Sundays, she gave us as much chicken as we could eat, and on other days we had ham or bacon or sausage
meat. She baked pies or cake for us every day, unless, for a change, she made my favorite pudding, striped with currants and boiled in a bag" (53). The Burden family was in good spirits, Otto singing every Sunday and Mrs. Burden caring for the family with "a cheerful zest" (53-54). The Burden family had little worries, and their lives "center around warmth and food and the return of the men at nightfall" (54). During this time, Jim regains a stable family a er the loss of his parents and cements the family bond the Burdens share. This was not the case for the Shimerdas, however. The Shimerda family was close to starving, their food supplies so meager they would have died without the Burdens help: "In one (barrel) there were some potatoes that had been frozen and were rotting, and in the other was a little pile of flour" (59). Everyone was hungry, the children and adults alike: "The crazy boy, seeing the food, began to make so , gurgling noises and stroked his stomach" (59). Their living conditions were horrendous, and the cave was freezing cold. "In the rear wall was another little cave, a round hole not much bigger than an oil barrel. When I peered into it, I saw some quilts and a pile of straw" (60). This hole is where Yulka and Antonia sleep, and to Jim's astonishment, Antonia says she likes sleeping there
because it is far warmer than the floor (60). Lastly, while the Burdens remain in good spirits, the winter is so horribly harsh for the Shimerda family that Mr. Shimerda kills himself (75). This winter has the opposite effect on Antonia's family as it does on Jim's. Not only is their family as separated as ever, but Antonia must now grow up to fill her father's place and lose her childhood. The first winter in Black Hawk sets up both Jim and Antonia for the kind of lives they must lead, which are immensely different from each other.
The winter seasons of Jim and Antonia's lives send them off on entirely different life trajectories. As Jim and Antonia get older, new opportunities appear for Jim as larger hardships appear for Antonia. Jim is accepted into college and "had the good fortune to come immediately under the influence of a brilliant and inspiring young scholar" (193). Jim works extremely hard and advances up in college. This opens up many opportunities and sets the bar for the intelligent and privileged life he will lead. Antonia, unfortunately, is abandoned by her fiance and must return to her family farm to be the sole help of her brother while she is pregnant. Antonia undergoes one of the most life-changing and painful events in her life,
the birth of her first child in the dead of winter. "There, without calling for anybody, without a groan, she lay down on the bed and bore her child" (234). This event completely changes Antonia's life and paves a tremendously difficult path for her future. While Jim and Antonia may have begun in the same town, winter makes it evident that they will end in completely different places. The theme revealed through the seasons in My Antonia is that difficult times separate the privileged from the impoverished. In spring and summer, Jim and Antonia live similar lives and experience the joys of youth together. They adventure and bond with each other and seem to share the same farm town lives. However, with winter comes struggle, and Jim's privilege shines brightly against Antonia's struggle. Throughout their lives, Jim is given opportunities Antonia could never dream of, and while they come together in the easier months, winter always highlights this Asymmetry. The book's epithet "the best days... are first to flee" reflects this theme, telling how while summer and spring may mask Jim and Antonia’s differences, winter will always come with the cold, hard truth.
Among those souls who feel alone
Like the comfort found in a dying hearth
How strange, to me you are unknown
But they, they know your loving touch
My eyes turn green, rage starts to grow
Yet I’ll never feel this way as much I turn away, calm down, and so Resigned, I begin to heal my heart
Hard to forget, though try I must Keep my head down, I’ll do my part
As time goes on my love turns to disgust
How could I adore you, I would never have dared
If I knew my love was pointless, you never cared
A silent warrior walking through the valley of death. Scarred by the battles in which he partook. Wounded by the onslaught of identical days. His kimono is stained with the blood of yesterday, the grime of tomorrow.
His wounds sting, but he must continue on. Only under the shade of a tree, can he find sanctuary. A place to rest. With the knowledge of the violence he commited, Solivagant
Rust plagues his joints and renders him immobile. All he can do is watch as the rain falls.
Its pitter patter on his cold damp skin. The dull flame inside of him is patiently waiting for the storm to pass, hoping that when it is over it can be enkindled once more.
His comfort in the storm will be his own downfall.
The monsters he fought No lizard eyes or monster tails Rather humans, like you or I Deceiving
And now his wounds are far too great to heal
He will wait here. Hoping that, one day, someone may come to join him
to watch and admire the beauty of the storm.
The rolling of the thunder as it echoes through the clouds,
The deep grey of the clouds above, their misshapen bodies cut from a different cloth
And the rain
The rain that makes our tears invisible and brings new life.
So now he must stay
A warrior awaiting a trip home
Hoping to find shade in a barren wasteland of storm and cloud.
A er centuries of marginalization in the narrative of history, and an exceptional deafness to works that discuss the tribulations of African Americans, a myriad of authors have begun their migration towards telling those formerly muted stories. Among them, novelist Toni Morrison stands out as one of the few who can boil down those vast amounts of untold human experience and encapsulate it into her works of fiction. The novel Home attempts to serve homage to those lives as it follows black Vietnam War veteran Frank Money along his difficult journey of post war reintegration. Morrison’s fiction successfully represents the previously unrepresented minorities of America by using templative characters whose experiences are translatable and by using a narrator that is eager to tell Frank's story.
Although Home closely follows the Money family and their numerous run-ins with injustice, Morrison makes sure that each experience is translatable to the larger population of black Americans living in the 1950’s. It would be easy to take the novel as if it were telling of an extraneous family experiencing extraneous instances of hardship, however Morrison
did not intend for that. She first exemplifies the univirsality of injustice when telling of the time Frank and his sister witnessed the burial of a murdered man, carefull to reveal none of his identity besides his race. Saying that “She saw that black foot with its creamy pink and mud-streaked sole being whacked into the grave” (4). By providing only the racial identity of the victim, Morrison is able to alter the reader's perception of the murder from being an isolated and irregular occurrence to one applicable to the larger popuatiuon of Black Americans during the 1950s. Similarly, Morrison further implies that Home’s characters are templative when Cee notices the manifestation of racism and injustice; “it looked to her like a small man in a funny suit swinging a watch chain” (144). What the reader previously thought to be a product of Frank’s delusion has now been confirmed as a vision viewable to any black American willing to stare down the rabbit whole of descrimination. Morrison strikes the perfect balance between having characters who seem personal enough to feel sympathetic towards while secondarily making them broad enough to be representative of a larger demographic.
In order to redress centuries of black historical diminishment, Morrison uses a narrator who is eager to tell/listen to Frank Money's story. Although the identity of the narrator is never explicitly stated, their intentions starkly contrast those of the 20th Century United States. Time and time again Morrison shows that the narrator is “set on telling my [Frank’s] story” (5), wanting to understand all of his troubles, triumphs, and failures. Through this dynamic alone, even for just a measly 145 pages, history is rewritten, the forgotten are acknowledged, and nothing else is more important than the life of Frank Money. In order to perfect this, Morrison intertwines the enthusiastic third person narration with direct personal accounts. She knows that the addition of an enthralled narrator may spark the danger of misrepresenting Frank’s story, so she carefully gives him the floor when necessary. At times the protagonist even lies and then comes clean when their consciousness is ready for it (133). The culmination of the two perspectives allows for a completely authentic narrative le up to the full jurisdiction of a black veteran; something rarely seen in United States history.
When viewed in a vacuum, void of all historical context, Toni Morrison’s Home could be read as a theatrical drama, telling of an unfortunate man with an unfortunate fate. However, when placed into reality, the horrifying nature of society and humanity become exposed. Morrison subtly communicates this throughout the novel in hopes that her audience will look past the dreamy facade of 1950s America and see it for what it really was: discriminatory and racist.
Seeing Red by Paul Clement ‘22
Mom found and old recipe she used to have as a kid
You were home for the summer because of the virus that shall not be named
We used to go strawberry picking in Sharon with Opa every summer
They were so small but so sweet
Unlike anything the store could ever rival
Each bite better than the last
We hadn’t gone for many years since his departure, even though I ask at least once a month
One July day we were so bored
We found a farm much closer than Sharon and le on a whim
There were so many people, mostly young children
As soon as we got out of the car the smell of sweet berries wa ed around us
We bought our catrons and made our way to the open field
There were so many rows picked clean, we were not the only ones who thought of this
We tried to avoid the overwhelmed parents, baby sitters, and toddlers, almost like it was a game
We found a spot and started to pluck the bulbus red
I filled up my carton very quickly while you weren’t even halfway done
I said, “I’m too picky, and you’re too choosy”
We still laugh at that joke all the time
In the middle of our row, a er eating many many berries
We stumbled upon a curious sight
An unattended carton full of berries, with no one seeming to be looking for it
We gazed at it like it was a treasure trove
Deliberating whether or not to take it
I looked at you and you flashed a cheeky grin
We quickly filled the rest of your carton and rescued that poor lonely berry carton
They would no longer be subject to be a meal for the birds and bugs
But to be apart of a delicious pie
With smooth cream cheese filling
And crunchy graham cracker crust
Made with love by my favorite brother
Although, I did most of the work
updated information will make it easier for you to make informed food choices
Calories . . . . . . 230 the flesh of the avocado which darkens learn how to use it as a tool for maintaining healthy dietary practices
Total Fat . . . . . 8g . . . . 10% so quickly, though if you scrape what’s been exposed to the air it’s new-green
The baby babbling in the other room over the din
programs and policies that help people eat nutritious foods within their calorie needs
My feelings for her take me so far inside myself I can see the pure or people to be more physically active can also help them maintain a healthy weight Serving Size ⅔ cup (55g)
Last night we fed her some of the avocado, Her first food. high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes, asthma, anxiety, and depression
Total Carbohydrate . . . . 37g . . . 13% she tried to take it in, but her mouth. . .pushed it out. And my heart did burst.
Untitled II by Alex Warren ‘22
Oh jeweled newt
Paddling through the marshy water
Amphibious skin
You take everything in
Paddling through the marshy water
Two legged tadpoles praising the sounder
You take everything in Haunted by an unreal dream
Two legged tadpoles praising the sounder
The violets bloom for the sun’s gaze
Haunted by an unreal dream
Stranger than I once thought
The violets bloom for the sun’s gaze
Chrysanthemums, azure and standing brave
Stranger than I once thought
The words spill over, a bubbling mess
Chrysanthemums, azure and standing brave
Do not forgive me, amaryllis mine
The words spill over, a bubbling mess
I still hold onto your prison of quartz
Do not forget me, amaryllis mine
Rose tinted opalite leaves me in a dream
I have moved on from your prison of quartz
I am the sphinx, despite what it seems
Shattered opalite leaves me out of the dream
Of clear blue skies and sandy waters
But I am no sphinx, despite what it seems
I sponge it up, take everything in
Of clear blue skies and sandy waters
I am just a jeweled newt
I sponge it up, take everything in Cursing this amphibious skin
I sat on the weathered bench, watching the world pass
And from my side, a seat was always taken While others scraped their knees, pride of the action We sat on the weathered bench, watching our futures grow
I was making violet tea, and tending to the alder trees
I’ve always been focused on myself
While amaryllis was growing from my lungs
And branches grew from my spine like wings
You had camomile in your joints, and hyphae in your hands
Forging a mind anew, with incomparable growth
You would watch the fungus, I would tend to the birds
Feathers and leapfrogs, leatherbound papyrus
You would paint a void of color, I would paint my swirling mind
But in this ocean of oils you find yourself sinking
And I am growing my wings to take flight
I know not of what started your journey, not personally It is not my business and never will be
But I know how we will forge them now
Ill help you make a mosaic from the broken tiles
With the mortar of the melting world
For feathered friends and croaking frogs
Even when meaning fades behind my eyes i’ll fly back home if you will it enough
You long for a body of rolling boulders
With moss as the space between them
You think yourself aged like creaking wood
A sapling under the press of wildfire
We are in the same ocean, with the same shattered tiles
Of wisteria vines and forget-me-nots
I have feathers doused in the acrylic of my moods
And I am flying off to new lands without you
But I will rest my wings on the ever growing oak tree
When its branches have grown old enough
To see the world differently and not falter
Stand tall for me, old friend
I will be waiting
A plethora of oil paints drips down the side of your face
And I can't help but notice that its started to bleed into the ocean below
You. I’m gripping your hand, not with desperation but consistency.
It's all I can manage, I'm afraid. Speeches steeped in sunshine stir around my mind, But my voice only croaks like the old bullfrog when I speak, singing indifference. You know, but that is alright.
Our friendship was like the swans when nothing else was alright
I never used to feel that umber of disdain when looking at your childlike face
That tries to pretend it’s old. I can accept the fact that I now feel when indifference
Takes hold of the old cuckoo that swallowed my soul, letting go fast of the things I used to bellow Into the scriptures. Every word of love that crossed my mind.
Even if I did not actually feel it. I sit on the wire with
you, you think it’s consistency.
I used to think that I held that platonic love for others consistently
Or rather that I held any lasting kind at all. I fade quickly. It is alright
That I have outgrown this, but the thought of losing the silhouette in my mind
That I tasked with wearing your face
Is one that haunts me. Loving is easier when its youthful, and reality is far below
My line of sight. I only knew I had grown when I faced you and felt the jaded indifference.
I could always try to bat away the Indifference, That mingles with contempt when we are together, but upholding the consistency
That would require in terms of false affection is something far below
What I find moral. This is fine. Everything is okay. We are alright.
Even if I cannot see you right now, not your face
I could never let disappearing cross my mind
Again. I have a picture of dependency in my mind
I do not think it is you, but if you were to sense this bitter indifference
It might be. I will not leave you, I can promise that to your face
But never expect a lifetime of consistency
From me. You want a partnership of lifetimes, like the mycelium and the trees, it’s not right
Of me to rob that from you when I once promised it in honeyed words. But I am below
Honesty at my worst, and you are below the face of the clock
That I have put on my wall. My mind is ever changing now, and
You still have yours swathed in chamomile and youthful chirping
You are bleeding rainbows into the oil paints and care not of what is around you
You do not see the faces in the water, moving forward, upholding normalcy
I cannot condemn it, but I think there is a certain tune to growing older
When certain habits are unacceptable for one so youthful
It should not bother me, I should just let it lie and
handle the temporary Embarrassment, but I fly south with the magpies, and you do not.
Jack Bavoso Mary-Elizabeth Borzilleri
Savanna Cicarelli
Paul Clement
Layla Copen
Katarina Crea
Peter Cui
Alder Curry Adrien Daou Emma Eschweiler Winifred Ezenwata
Parker Hoffman Graham Ince Serdar Kaltalioglu Sophia Kapkova
Eric Li
Giovanna Liu Joshua Ly
Theo Mercier Keven O’Farrell
Clara Prander
Audrey Richards
Quentin Sheers
Jenny Shen Erin Whitney
Ava Veronneau Alex Warren Avery Warren Joanne Wimler
Yoyo Zhang
Special thanks to the English and Art Departments for assistance with this publication. For back issues of the Stray Shot, go to https://www.frederickgunn.org/student-life/student-publications
Faculty Editor: Mr. Visentin