HELM Vol. 21 2019-20

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We are the student-run literature and arts publication of The Harker Upper School.

500 Saratoga Ave; San Jose, CA 95129 (408) 249-2510

HELM

Harker Eclectic Literature & Media 2019-2020 Volume 21

HELM is a member of the Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

Editors-in-Chief: Annie Ma & Amla Rashingkar Junior Editors: Sophia Gottfried & Alex Zhai Contact us at HarkerHELM@gmail.com

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Voting Club Members: Members vote to decide the issue theme and the submissions to publish.

Nathaniel Melisso • Sarah Mohammed Claire Chen • Arely Sun • Vivian Bi • Anya Weaver Angelina Yuzifovich • Tessa Muhle • Shounak Ghosh Camilla Lindh • Elizabeth Fields • Katerina Fenner Nellie Tonev • Anika Pandey • Simar Bajaj • Andrew Lu Alina Yuan • Lucy Ge • Simren Gupta • Angela Jia Kimayani Butte • Elliot Kampmeier • Brian Chen Alysa Suleiman • Hunter Tucker Special thanks to: Our new advisor, Ms. Schimenti, for her constant reliability and crucial support; our former advisor, Dr. Douglas, for her years of unwavering dedication; the English department for funding and promotions.

May 2020.

April 2020. Amidst an unprecedented global calamity brought on by the novel coronavirus, we at HELM hope to bring you back to the spirit of simpler times. Nostalgia, you might call it. For our 21st annual issue, we’ve prepared a diverse, 65-page collection of visual and literary art that will invoke your inner child, romantic dreamer, and existential thinker.

What does nostalgia mean to us high-schoolers born from 2002 to 2005? We’re often left out of the conversation about generation differences, as a part of the in-between: too young to have grown up watching The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air while munching on Hubba Bubba gum, but not young enough to have spent our toddler years hogging the iPad to play with virtual toys. To us, the most meaningful icon of our childhood is none other than the DVD. With all the design aspects of this issue—most notably the rainbow criss-crossing lines sprinting across each page—we pay homage to these precious discs for the countless hours of movie and game entertainment they provided us. Volume 21 captures our unique sense of nostalgia.

For the first time in HELM’s history, our issue is published online at debut and completely free for all to enjoy. We hope that whether you’re reading it during the lonely hours of isolated quarantine life or years later while browsing HELM’s archives, the creative voices of our talented Harker community will bring you reflection and inspiration.

——— Annie Ma & Amla Rashingkar, editors-in-chief

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Cloud 8 Smriti Vaidyanathan ‘20 • Digital art

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Sadness is a sky

Aditi Khanna ‘20

Sadness is a sky it sees no end it has no bounds whether rosy pink after dark or the reek of wine after the rain the weatherman never knows whether a cloud of honey or sour lime will play its flute each bark of dawn and tickle us with tears.

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Memorial Lights Alysa Suleiman ‘22 • Digital photography

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Infinity

Nina Gee ‘20

I’d like to tell you– About the Theory of Impermanence About the ways in which My body aches.

The ways in which atoms collide Years and years from now Could never recreate you and me.

Because eternity and spontaneity don’t mix And fires like me burn out quick And I’m running out of time So I’ll talk.

There’s something poetic about the way Humans keep inventing ways to destroy themselves.

Back when I was just ‘girl’ And you were, well, ‘you’ Two atoms meeting in the great being of the universe.

You’d always loved to talk about the multiverse.

And maybe that’s why we stopped talking Because we knew there was only one universe at a time That could have a ‘You and I’.

There’s a universe where humans learn from their mistakes and A universe where we aren’t doomed to oblivion and A universe where I actually talk.

So I’ll talk.

I wish you knew that I didn’t sleep.

That I lay awake under the moonlight, Daydreaming in the night About Lucifer and Leviathan and The demons I don’t deserve within my head.

(You knew about the demons but you didn’t know about the sleeping, and some days I wish I had told you because maybe then the skin under my eyes wouldn’t be the color of soot.)

I wish I knew that you didn’t hope And that love had broken you, coast to coast.

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Sea foam crashing onto sea shores From one endlessly existential beach to the next.

(I knew about the ocean but I didn’t know nearly how deep it ran, and some days I wish you had told me because maybe then your eyes wouldn’t have turned that watery grey that they are now) The Theory of Impermanence states That our bodies are temporary That we flee life like Roaches from the burning eye of a light.

That our bodies will turn ashen Once God is done using them As the knives to carve his Chess pieces with.

That nothing lasts forever, Not even the idea of you or me.

You asked me once Why I never seemed to sleep and I said: “Because sleep is the cousin of death.” (there’s a universe where you don’t call me out for this, because you haven’t listened to Nas and you never will) I am a tiger breathing fire– My lungs filling with the Ashes of the dawn as I Hurtle towards Earth in A spaceship built with my own Regret.

I don’t tell you that I’m afraid to sleep, Because sleeping means that Eventually I’ll have to get up, And there’s nothing I’d like less than to Look like I’m not Giving up.

Endings come for us faster than the Dawn breaks over the horizon, Shattering the sky into 11

A million rose-colored fractals As morning weeps blood in her Slow trek towards Solitude.

Pieces of me have been missing for centuries and no one even noticed.

And we’re falling apart.

There’s a universe where you are still ‘you’ And I am just ‘me,’ not the girl with the gaps in her being And neither of us ended up on Opposite sides of the earth.

But all we have is the impermanent now, If anything, to fill this space, This cacophony of atoms Colliding and bursting and dying Like stars in the wake of our speedy departure Because friends like this only come Once in a lifetime A spark in the multiverse and Eternity and spontaneity don’t mix And fires like me burn out quick So I’ll stay awake for every minute of it. Every minute.

I know now when you ask me for my dreams That you’re apologizing for forever, and When I ask you for yours I’m telling you I’d already forgiven you Long before our atoms passed each other On their ways out.

It’s your way of saying “sorry for missing out, but I’m Here now,” And I’ll ask you about the multiverse again Long after our dreams have run Dry. There will always be something infinite About the way we ponder mortality 12

About the ways in which Our bodies ache Because we love.

And love is short but Life is shorter So I’ll talk.

Into the Unknown Sarah Mohammed ‘23 • Digital art

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Reaching Alex Zhai ‘21 • Digital photography

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The Fruit Thief

Aditi Khanna ‘20

Our garden was a graveyard. Bodies screamed, their torture echoed through the cul-desac. Crows came in murders to play and bathe in the stench of what once was, and what could have been.

My father took the sun hat off his head and held it tight against his chest. He stood still for a long, profound moment, until plummeting down to the earth on his knees. Five bear, lifeless sticks stuck out of the soil, staring back at the poor man, open wounds still showing.

This year, our fruit trees had been ruthlessly poisoned. Ashley’s “magic” fertilizer, the one he so adamantly insisted we use, had caused the roots to rot and decay on the inside within weeks of the harvest. Last year, they all dehydrated to death. That spring, Ashley asserted a new water system for the neighborhood, which he so proudly paid for and set up himself. But in March, just as the popcorn was beginning to pop on our apricot trees, my father went back home for his sister’s wedding. He came back to the typical funeral: the water hose for our yard had been cut, and no fruit beared. Ashley blamed the dog, but I never saw any teeth marks.

Back in the garden, I began to dig until my nails turned black. Ashley brought the roses as usual. As he hurried out of the small brick-house with the water well, he carried a grin so wide that for a moment, I truly wished he would be pricked by a thorne. To me, he was nothing short of a wild animal; I didn’t come from a culture where neighbors destroy each other’s gardens, or do so happily, and without any good reason. I frequently found myself pondering over him, often about how strange it is that people still use wells, but mostly about how it didn’t feel right for a grown man to take a woman’s name.

Ashley opened our garden gate and found his way toward us.

“Get up then. I’m here,” he said, forcing my father up off his knees.

By now, he came by to our house whenever he wished, always to assess our garden, and always to leave with a complaint, either about the length of my mother’s hair or to “turn off the smell” coming from our kitchen. I had so many times been tempted to tell him off, but my father begged me to never say a word around Mr. Ashley.

When Ashley was done filling the ditches with his flower stems, he patted my father’s shoulder with his dirt-dusted glove and glared at him with a prideful smirk.

“Much better now, ain’t it?” he said. Each time our garden had been destroyed, he came to replace our dead trees with flowers from his own yard as an act of Robinhood. They were always marigolds, a sacred flower in our culture. But after years of living in this neighborhood, I have learned to associate it with deplorable things, and deplorable people.

“Thank you, Mr. Ashley, Sir,’’ my father nodded. He didn’t say much, partly because he was still mourning, and partly because he was afraid of Ashley.

Ashley put on a face of pity. “You people are cursed,” he said, shaking his head. “I sup 15

Monarch Elliot Kampmeier ‘21 • Colored pencil & watercolor on paper 16

pose the Lord above doesn’t bear his fruit to just anyone,” the old man sighed. The sarcasm in his eyes made them glow a little brighter. Our town is known for their fruit trees, “It’s where the gold grows,” people say. Every spring they bear the most divine, exquisite fruit, from plums to persimmons to apricots. That is, everyone’s except ours, somehow.

The old man turned around and raised a pale white finger to the back of our lawn.

“What happened to this one, boy?” Ashley never said my father’s name; he claimed there were too many consonants and syllables that weren’t worth the time.

We all walked to the other side. One peach tree had survived the poisoning, only it didn’t.

“Squirrels, sir. I put net, but no good. Teeth too sharp. They take one big bite, and throw to ground. I not get to eat a single one,” my father explained. Along with the neighbors, it seemed that even nature despised us.

We all examined the murder scene.

“You are too nice to them,” he said boldly after a long pause. “Don’t try to befriend your enemies. You know what I do?” He made a motion with his two fingers sliding across his neck.

“Kill em’.” My father widened his brown eyes. “Lure them in with a trap and snap em by the tail. Good and fresh. Or better yet, just get them yourself. Blow your rifle and just pop their brains right out. They won’t come back, I’ll tell ya. Don’t be shy. Sometimes I’ll just take those bastards with my hands, slice them open, grab my gold right out of their stomachs if I have to.”

My father nodded, speechless. I tried to yell back at the old man to get out of our yard, but as I moved closer to him I felt a hand on my shoulder pulling me back.

Ashley’s idea mortified the both of us. My father wouldn’t even let a gopher die. If it injured its paw while digging holes in our grass he would probably wrap it up in a blanket, nurse it back to health, and offer it some of his fresh harvest for its journey back home. To my father, nature was heaven; it’s what his father taught him. My grandfather was a sugar cane farmer in India, and when his son moved across the world to this country, he wanted his son to remember where he came from. He told him that he could have his white-picket fence and big house but to keep a garden, and to treat that garden like a temple. To worship it with patience and tenderness. But in this neighborhood where only his fruits never grew, he was reminded that this wasn’t his land and that his temple would never be blessed.

The next day Ashley got a little too drunk. He was always inebriated on something, which made sense for a widowed dying man. By now we were used to him screaming at my mother to “get back to work!” because he mistook her for his maid or when he would whistle at my father on his way back from work, as if he were trying to hail a cab. “We are foreigners,” my father would say. “Could be worse.”

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Looking for Berries Shounak Ghosh ‘22 • Digital photography

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But on this particular night, my father opened the front gate around an hour before midnight to fix the night lamp. He opened the door, expecting to be hit by a cool summer night breeze but instead was met with an intense smell of death, recent death. He looked to his feet and found five dead squirrels, blood fresh and raw, lying on the edge of his doorstep.

His throat clogged in shock as he ran across the garden to fetch his shovel and bury the poor creatures. But just as he placed on his yellow gloves and was halfway out the door, he stopped himself.

“You people are cursed,” he said aloud. And then he laughed. He laughed because year after year since the day they came, Ashley destroyed what my father loved the most. The garden was the last piece of India that was in his reach. It held the stories he wanted to pass down to his children of the sacrifices he made for all of us to get here.

But every year, it was always gone. Whether it was Ashley, or Shirley, or Barbara, everyone in the neighborhood told us we were cursed.

So he marched back inside and woke me up and took my hand and we ran. We went down to every house on our street and stole. We plucked every golden fruit from their precious, bountiful trees and let our teeth sink in and our tongues devour the sweet nectar we hadn’t tasted since we visited my grandfather. Our mouths were sticky and red and we just kept taking our bite and throwing them to the ground or filling them in our pockets and the inside of our cheeks. We both replayed my grandfather’s words in our minds, telling us to never steal from a temple, but we weren’t stealing. We were just taking back what they took from us. We were taking back what we rightfully deserved. And when we came back to the cul-de-sac, we tore the marigolds out from our soil and took them and the five murdered squirrels and all of the half-eaten fruits and dumped them down Ashley’s stupid water-well.

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Satellite Stage

Nellie Tonev ‘20

If the satellites of planets were built not of the stars, And were instead composed of concrete roads And weren’t quite as far, Our drones might pick up mustard seeds In their crater lakes and dust, And astronauts might turn muralists As they paint on asteroids.

What Shakespeare claimed, “All the world’s a stage” Would no longer apply, As with the universe within our grasp, That theater expands beyond the sky.

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Fly Me to the Moon Amla Rashingkar ‘20 • Ink on paper

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Golden Gate Fog Annie Ma ‘20 • Digital photography 22

Penance

Angela Jia ‘22

Factory. 1103. Drawer. 1103. It was all that flashed in his mind as he sprinted through the deserted streets of London, dimly illuminated in the dark of night, his bare feet pounding on the concrete with each stride. Racing against time, with fast-approaching sirens screaming louder and louder, his eyes frantically searched for the dark form of the abandoned factory that loomed out of the darker black sky.

All thoughts escaped him; only bitter fear pulsed in his head.

Murder had not silenced the raging voices in his head that beckoned him to vengeance. The wrathful fire inside him had not been extinguished. His daughter was still dead. Only now, someone else was too. At his hands. In the eyes of the law, there was no excuse for what he had done; they would never feel the heavy, gaping hole that his daughter had left behind. All he could do now was run. Run from the law.

With the biting wind howling around him, shrieking like the paranoia swirling in his mind, he pounded on the door of the dilapidated building with increasing urgency until his knuckles, already cracked from the frosty cold, bled and stung. He struck the door one last time, and the rotten wood collapsed from its frame. He faced a seemingly empty room.

Running to the middle, he traced out the familiar square indentation of an obscure oubliette with his calloused feet, reached down, and yanked the concealed door open. An iron tang filled the air as he rapidly descended the slimy stairs into the dungeon, and the entrance above clanged shut, echoing in the uncanny silence. He involuntarily shivered and curled his toes as he eyed the gloom warily, sensing a paranormal, hostile presence. Dismissing the far-fetched notion, he continued onward.

His eyes adjusted to the black, musty room, and he recognized the shape of a massive set of drawers from the ceiling to the dusty ground. Shrouded in darkness, he could just make out rusted blood stains imprinted on its surface. He approached the drawers swiftly, unsettled by the stillness of the chamber. His fingers ran along the sturdy antique, searching for a particular drawer. Soon, they grazed the texture of dried blood, and he caught the distinct odor of rotting flesh. Tracing the numbers engraved under the drawer, the digits formed in his mind. 1...1...0...3. This was it.

He yanked on its handle. It refused to budge. He pulled harder. Beads of sweat ran down his grimy face as he pulled again and again, growing more and more desperate. Tugging frantically, he mustered all his remaining strength to complete the task at hand. But it was to no avail. He heard the shouts of policemen outside, slammed doors, sirens wailing. His heartbeat quickened as he felt the vibrations of footsteps pounding on the metal floor above him. He stilled, holding his breath.

After what seemed like an eternity, the footfalls faded and the sound of sirens waned. He was hidden. They could not find him here. He released his clammy hold on the handle and let out ragged

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Gaze Karina Chen ‘23 • Digital art 24

sighs of relief, grateful for his luck. He was safe. He had time. He would not be caught. Closing his eyes, he began to inhale deeply, so relieved at his escape that he did not notice the stuck drawer swing open effortlessly. A veined hand reached out silently and gripped onto his throat. Suddenly, he could not breathe.

His eyes shot open as the icy fingers tightened around his neck. He opened his mouth, gaping like a fish, unsuccessfully trying to suck in breaths of air. His throat grew dry as he gasped out choked screams – anguished, desperate, silent cries. Tiny black spots danced in his fading vision and he slackened, succumbing to the grip. As his eyelids grew heavy and he began to accept his demise, his daughter appeared in front of his eyes. She stood there so vivid, so life-like. She smiled shyly at him, and he opened his arms to embrace her, euphoric tears forming in his blood-shot eyes.

He blinked once, and to his horror, the form of his beautiful daughter morphed into her corpse, curled up on a bloody floor.

He blinked again and glimpsed the face of the man he had killed.

He blinked yet again, and the man, her murderer, drew nearer, eyes gleaming, smiling sharply.

His features blurred, and morphed again into the man he had killed. They were not the same person. He had killed his daughter’s killer, right? His vision morphed into himself.

Panicked, he looked down, and his eyes widened as he realized that the fingers around his neck were his own. He turned around and discovered that the drawer was still stuck, the scent of stale death still emanating out.

The wrathful fire inside him sputtered out. He couldn’t rip his hands away from his neck. As his daughter’s killer leered at him, his vision blackened completely and he released his last breath. Only one thought pervaded his mind: Why did her killer look just like himself?

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A Rhapsody

Claire Chen ‘23

Inhale.

Exhale.

One foot in front of the other, Each breath after another.

Everything can be fine on the other side of the line, There’s nothing a few beats can’t drown out.

Chaos!

Like an out of tune guitar attempting to be in harmony.

So what if bad luck was struck?!

Could’ve been the only card— Or could a whole other stack be waiting to attack?

The beginning: A Rebellion A pull of a trigger is all it takes.

Thousands of tiny hammers pounding against the brain, Wine dark blood staining the inside, Smiles stitching and wiping from the outside.

Where is the state of eternal euphoria we long for so dearly?

Sincerity is not supposed to be scary, But if the bubble is to never be popped, Then a night at the opera would’ve been stopped.

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Enigma Nina Gee ‘20 • Digital art

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Godzilla Vivian Bi ‘23 • Digital art

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The Way You Smile

Lucy Ge ‘22

When you turn to look and give me a shy smile, my heart melts into a puddle.

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cinderella wears nike air forces

Simren Gupta ‘20

cinderella wears nike air forces i shuffled in my new nike air forces stylish and stiff my first pair. i ignored the faint discomfort in my toes new shoes, not broken in they shined like fresh snow, straight from the box. you fitted the shoe to my foot, holding me as i stumbled sloppy, but steady. we danced for hours me standing on your feet. but the ice melted, and a speck of dirt found its way onto their bare throats they were stained, creased, and too worn out for you to put yourself in. so you waltzed into the night air, stone cold like shattered glass and sought after slippers that shined like the light in her eyes. and my soles fell apart but i finally understood. cinderella’s spell only lasted till midnight.

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Void and Freedom Nellie Tonev ‘20 • Ink on paper 31

Waves Nina Gee ‘20 • Printmaking

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heat

Aditi Khanna ‘20

slurp summer with a spoon and your tongue will burn soon anesthesia in every red inhale bakes your brain foolish and frail catastrophe is a cricket's crescendo the spark, he catches quick to the tempo gunpowder blows into scarlet fever a bitter monsoon the only burn reliever. heavy lights and bodies in the boombox perfect smooth shapes interlock purple perfume and the rocking of the room become dusty clouds of smoke fumes. squeeze the sun out like a sponge onto your skin, glowing orange feel the tingle and the tickle let its voice make you tipsy and fickle. seared, restless and dazed or if the angst in your blood is ablaze face flushed with the night rush or when the moment just makes you blush whether red, black, fiery, or sweet, there are a hundred ways to feel the heat.

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To a Sketchbook, From an Artist

Nellie Tonev ‘20

Dear Sketchbook, Your broken spine and torn pages Are victims of my overuse, I want to carve perfection into your pristine emptiness And sully your purity, mark my territory So I slosh water and paint, energy drinks and chocolate snacks Until the damp paper swells and gives out And colors bleed.

I shriek and slam you shut and throw you to the floor— The imperfections of us both glare out of every piece.

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Holding on by a Thread Katerina Fenner ‘21 • Pencil on paper

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Split Elizabeth Fields ‘21 • Twine on canvas

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Neon Tangles Alysa Suleiman ‘22 • Digital photography

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The Chosen One Arely Sun ‘22 • Digital photography

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Is This Love?

Lucy Ge ‘22

She finds the note lying on top of Biology: An Introduction, smudged with sweet, sickly honey, like when she found him lying through his teeth Ashley, you’re the one for me.

This one is different— the note’s longer and fancier than his usual chicken scratch, the boy is trying and her smile sweet.

He finds the returned note tucked into his fingers with a whiff of strawberry shampoo and a single scrawled word yes.

Yet there is no further romance than this inciting incident: he neglects his date in wake of an affair with Xbox.

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In Ten Years

Lucy Ge ‘22

In ten years, you’ll have forgotten the way room 31 smells of Takis after break or how light catches on her hay-blonde curls, or the scent of her strawberry shampoo.

Today you are learning about loci in geometry, today you are writing about the Industrial Revolution in history. The history teacher got a haircut a week ago; he looks the same as he did in 2005. He wears a Hawaiian shirt everyday except on Fridays.

His daughter is now one year old.

The girl who sits diagonal to you in math drew a mustache and the words “eat me!” on her orange yesterday. She doodles in her bullet journal while the teacher talks.

You won’t remember why you and your best friend stopped talking. You’ll forget the locker combinations of your friends and the taste of the greasy school pizza.

You will miss the jokes your biology teacher puts on the whiteboard daily, but you won’t remember the title he gave it: Punder Enlightening.

You’ll crave the tea candy your English teacher hands out on birthdays.

You’ll find the brand on Amazon and order five packs, but the candy won’t taste quite as good. You sat next to your crush in that class. He smiled at you once, and you melted.

Perhaps you’ll remember the mad dashes across the halls to the lunch line, or you’ll remember the annual Cancer Walk or student election speeches or molding coils of clay into a cat in Ceramics, but you’ll probably forget that the pink-colored glaze turned into lime green in the kiln, ruining your pink swan.

The paint for saturation gold is a deep black. You decide to write a poem about reflections; you are swept away by swirling nostalgia.

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Thrill Sarah Mohammed ‘23 • Digital photography

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got time?

Nina Gee ‘20 • Digital art

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Procrastination

Sophia Gottfried ‘21

I’ll do it tomorrow, Our trash bin can stay Nothing need be done today.

I think I love a girl, I just might tell her so, I’ll do it tomorrow.

Years and years of tomorrows, Bury what I should say, Nothing need be done today.

I know the rent was due, Some long time ago, I’ll do it tomorrow.

The flacet sprung, Water washed my money away, Nothing need be done today.

Live you say?

I’ll do it tomorrow, I’m happy to delay, Nothing need be done today.

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Roses in the Moonlight Shounak Ghosh ‘22 • Digital photography

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Eleven

Amla Rashingkar ‘20

It’s been eleven draining days and numbing nights.

I’ve woken to eleven rusting dawns with the stale taste of your memory lingering, slowly sinking into the shadows that reside in the corners of my mouth, mornings I’ve woken alone, tracing the outline of the ghost of your touch on my fingertips and feigning your warmth as it nestled deep into the cavity between my neck and my shoulder, right where you would lie, peaceful and unbothered.

It feels like ages but it was only eleven sluggish afternoons ago when the stars took you from me, when you shut your eyelids and never opened them again.

Eleven evenings I went to bed alone, crying next to the dent in our mattress because it still smells like you.

Eleven days since your lips went cold and my mouth burned with emptiness because yours can’t land on mine, with the kiss that started in your brilliant eyes before it reached me.

It’s been eleven days, eleven, exhausting, days since I’ve seen you, since I heard your wind-chime laugh, since I held your hand, since I saw you smile and I felt you breathe.

I’ll never feel that again. I’ll never feel you again. You’re gone.

Eleven days will turn into eleven months, and months will turn into years and decades into centuries and soon an eternity I’ll have to wander alone.

Eleven eternities stripped away from you, my lovely, my beautiful you, the piece of me I’ll never get to see again.

It feels like forever. It feels like you were my forever, but it’s only been eleven draining days and numbing nights.

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Ode to a Typographical Error

Marie, she had a little iamb’d verse, That followed her wherever she would go; And be it for the better or the worse, It meter’d well (as anyone would know).

Marie, her scansion’d pair of short-long tones, Accompanied her once or twice to class, Where amidst anaphoras and homophones It had the perfect reason to trespass.

Off by one letter, for the better, For Mary was no sheep, Structured rhetoric, like ruminants unfettered, may into your conscience creep.

For when you feel the need for epigram, Remember Mary’s infamous iamb.

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Emily Liu ‘20

Mittens Lying Down Camilla Lindh ‘22 • Digital photography

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The Veil Arya Tandon ‘21 • Digital art

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Thursday Night

Annie Ma ‘20

I was hammering away on my laptop.

Blam!

The little black keys jumped off, pizza toppings in a shower of N}VJSD⌘LP”Q. Blam!

Words rattled off invisible cliffs and died in a dense heap beneath the Word doc; away The shower in Thursday Blam!

The lightbulbs flickered and trembled and grew brighter until the glass shattered— Blam!

The door flew wide open and I was left with sauce, a red poem ripe in my hand.

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Summer Strawberries From an Unexpected Gardener

Alysa Su ‘22

Snip, snap.

A pair of freshly sharpened garden shears swiftly work to produce uniform cuts, evenly separating the thin prickly stem from the yield.

Plop.

A plump, semi-fuzzy red fruit tumbles into the waiting basket, its fragrance and familiar scent subtly wafting through the perfect weather of California sunshine. A surprisingly nimble hand, tanned and slightly wrinkled from the onset of middle age, forages through thick clusters of dark green leaves until it finds its target — yet another glistening jewel that is quickly harvested from the dense growth of the plant.

Moving with dexterity and the experience of many years, the gardener slowly pulls himself up from his stooping position and readily turns to focus on the next potted strawberry plant.

Despite appearing in all sizes and colors (most glazed in intricate designs on Chinese porcelain), the non-conformist arrangement of plant-holding pots spread across the bricked corner of the backyard, pushing through the roots a live, growing strawberry plant. Reaching out towards the inviting arms of the glowing, warm sun, the plants are blooming with fresh buds and blossoms turning their velvety-soft petals towards the expansive blue sky. Along with the hard and sour mini strawberries just beginning to turn a tender spring-green, the ripe flesh of the matured fruit hangs heavy over the pots’ edges, waiting to be harvested.

I am incredibly moved, however, that this gardener, whose skills grew from the experience of self-taught toil and endless perseverance, has a primary profession wildly dissimilar to the habitat he currently rules: his modest backyard. For the most part of the day, our beloved gardener, commonly addressed as Fu Lao Shi (Teacher Fu), is instead an extraordinarily accomplished mathematics teacher and tutor, who patiently explains problem after problem on a daily basis to an eager audience of students of all ages. Under the mellow ambience of a fluorescent light, Fu glows with the aura of a warrior empowered by knowledge, who at the time, instead of brandishing a pair of garden shears and a watering can, is equipped with the acuity of sheer brainpower and the ability to decipher even the most complex mathematics problem.

Fu’s wife, a classic grandmother-like lady who proudly runs as the head of various Chinese class schools, boasts a stunning talent in the kitchen, and she often showcases her husband’s fresh 50

brain Elliot Kampmeier ‘21 • Digital art

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produce in her delightful culinary creations. If you are lucky enough, you might even get to try a few of her recipes, as well as learn the intriguing details of her husband’s passion in gardening, as I was fortunate to come by during my time as a student there.

Despite passing the majority of his own summer days deepening his students’ understanding of various math concepts, Fu’s inner gardener is always able to find those few, preciously tranquil moments during the day to open up his hidden persona and allow his nature-inherent soul fly free.

In the wee hours of dawn and the parting rays of dusk, Fu tucks his graying hairs underneath his sensible sunhat and trudges across the lawn and through loose pebbles and gravel to arrive upon the scene of his artwork, his garden, where not only do those infamously sweet strawberries thrive, but where tangling networks of tomato vines interlace around overhead beanstalks just starting to unfurl. Dotted throughout the pungent soil are knee-height and tenderly green sprouts, glistening purple eggplant, blueberry, spicy pepper, and crisp green onion, swirling with the summer breeze to create an inviting aroma of his garden fauna.

Under his daily without fail routine of nurture and care, the garden becomes a masterpiece.

Overprotective and cautious, as any true master of his trade would be, the shifted into “gardener phase” Teacher Fu takes great pride in his creations, which bloom in an enchanting yet wild spectrum of richly vibrant shades that surpass the common beauty of your regular piece of artwork.

If you ask any of his students, most of them would be oblivious to the fact that behind the very doors they sit in front of, where some struggle in frustration, unable to discover the solution to their math problems, their own teacher had already discovered the true solution to the bigger picture, creating balance and harmony within by combining his profession and his passion.

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where are you? nathaniel melisso ‘20 • Digital art

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The Jewelry Box

Angela Jia ‘22

Running my finger over the pearly design, I marvel at my jewelry box’s elegant nacre etching, an intricate flower resting atop a bed of leaves, dancing with an iridescent shine when it catches the sunlight. I open each small drawer, stacked like a three-tiered cake, by pulling on a small round knob in the middle, revealing a red, velvet-lined compartment. Both sides of each button-like knob hold a nacre design of a five-petaled flower embedded in the wood. A rounded curve at the center of the entire box adds a polished undertone, and both textures, wood and nacre, feel smooth and cool to my touch. With an overwhelming sense of remorse, I set it down, and my mind revisits the beginning of the past summer when my grandmother came to stay with our family for a few months.

She, like any traditional Chinese family, arrived bearing several gifts: an assortment of colorful silk scarves, Chinese herbal teas, exquisite jewelry, and two smooth, dark wood stain colored jewelry boxes. Noticing that my eyes kept wandering back to the delicate jewelry box with the flowery design, a sharp contrast from my first grade Hello Kitty box that I had grown out of years ago, my grandmother beamed. Admiring its style, I gushed to my grandmother, “太漂亮.” It’s too beautiful. She joyfully explained that she hoped it would always serve as a reminder of her, as our family rarely reunited with relatives. Back home in China, all she could think about were her granddaughters. After my grandmother finished presenting the gifts and the conversation dwindled, I dutifully picked up my new jewelry box, carried it into my room, and set it in the middle of my nightstand. Next to my black guitar case, plastic alarm clock, and pile of books, the jewelry box sat proudly, gleaming in all its pristine glory.

As the summer continued, my polite manner toward my grandmother began to dissolve.

I became busier with basketball practice in the morning and programming in the afternoon, so I convinced myself that I had less time to spend with her. I had quit Chinese class years before, and unwilling to make an effort to overcome the language barrier, I communicated with her less and less. At night when I studied, my grandmother would come to my room and sit quietly in the corner just to be closer to me, but I shunned her away each time. During the few hours between basketball and programming when only she and I occupied the house, she sat in the living room, under the pretense that I was studying hard, waiting for a chance to connect with me or play guitar and sing to me. However, I was only watching TV shows in my room, reluctant to communicate with her. Every time my conscience flickered with guilt, I smothered the flame by giving myself the flimsy excuse that there would always be another day when I could make the effort. But that day never came. Although only a wall separated us, we were constantly worlds apart. In one futile attempt to interact with a stone wall, she brushed my arm gently with rough, weathered fingers 54

Great in Her Own Right Arely Sun ‘22 • Digital photography

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while I studied for an upcoming programming test. I stared at her expectantly. Hesitantly, she smiled and held out her phone with a game that she had loaded, explaining that she remembered when I happily played it years ago, and she wanted me to help her beat a level. I knew that she was not concerned about the game at all; it was simply a hopeful way to share a moment with me during my “busy” schedule. I told her I didn’t have time. The jewelry box on my nightstand began collecting dust.

She flew back to China soon after. I realized that I missed her quiet presence in the corner of my room and her wide smile after I returned from basketball practice – one that I never returned. Studying and exercising were no excuse to shut her out of my life when all she wanted was to spend precious time with her granddaughters. Afterall, she only saw us once every few years. Did I not have thirty minutes or an hour to spare? Countless scenarios of possible ways for us to have bonded played out in my head, yet none of them had actually come to fruition due to my own lack of effort. If only I had accepted the phone and played that game with her. My cheeks flushed hotly as I registered that I prioritized mundane tasks over connecting with my grandmother, whose sole intention for flying across the world and living in a foreign land was to create memories with me. Despite my cold treatment toward her, she never failed to greet me with a smile and has always loved me unconditionally.

Blinking back guilty tears, I surrender to the shame that washes over me and gaze at the beautiful box resting on my nightstand between my alarm clock and guitar. I pick it up gingerly and carefully wipe off the dust, restoring the small box to its former splendor. The jewelry box is a constant reminder that I must always make an effort to spend time with a loved one no matter the barriers. Although the delicate designs on the exterior drew me in at first, what it holds inside is truly priceless. Not the gold necklaces or silver bracelets, but my grandmother’s eternal love.

Taking a deep breath, I grab my phone off my bed and type out the beginning of a long message: Hi Grandmother, I want to apologize…

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If Atlas Were a Girl Sarah Mohammed ‘23 • Digital art

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Solitude Shounak Ghosh ‘22 • Digital photography

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The Sherpa - after Yusef Komunyakaa

Brian Chen ‘23

Thanks to the mountain that supplies me with wealth, Enough to feed my family for a year, I risk my life for this.

Coerced by the need to survive, Dragging foreigners up Chomolungma, What they call Mt. Everest.

I hear the shattering of ice, as I fix aluminum ladders, across teetering statues, of water crystals.

I can feel the heavy sense of dread, floating through all brothers, friends, and fellow Sherpa. and I am thankful for still being alive, I see the avalanche, racing down the powdered slope, like a wild herd of mustangs, and I am thankful for still being alive, I hear screams in the night, not knowing if the wind is playing tricks on me or a human is succumbing to the blows of Mother Nature.

And I am thankful for still being alive I watch my wealthy clients, suffering from altitude sickness, fluids seeping into their brains.

I pity them because of their pain, I am grateful to them because they provide the money, I despise them because they force me up the mountain.

And I am thankful, for still being alive.

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Scottish Castle Camilla Lindh ‘22 • Digital photography

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Nietzschean Villanelle

Sophia Gottfried ‘21

All bodies burn and stars explode As butterflies birth giant winds And joyous fate just grins and grins.

Now Dionysus dances and drinks His Satyrs sing this tragic ode “All bodies burn and stars explode.”

The vultures suck lamb bones till dry The sheep now shout about these sins And joyous fate just grins and grins.

What’s there to do when life’s awry?

Ought we reject this oft’ trod road?

All bodies burn and stars explode.

Should we seek struggles cross the globe?

To love all life both loses and wins?

While joyous fate just grins and grins?

It’s up to you to crack the code And leave others when life begins All bodies burn and stars explode And joyous fate just grins and grins.

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The Scent of Pumpkin Pie

Kimi Butte ‘21

Everything looks a little brighter Now that the sky is gray.

The rain rolling off the rooftop Washing away the smoky fumes Looks like someone took a pipette And squeezed out the dihydrogen monoxide drop by drop.

Pumpkin pie on my mind Filling my empty stomach Replacing the lunch I did not have.

The rain like the glow under the plastic keys As the brightness turned up On the world’s computer screen.

My cardboard blue divider Falls against the others In the pile in the corner of the room Right where it’s supposed to be.

Was the tree always this green?

Was the sun always so white reflecting off the glistening asphalt?

Were the lines on the streets always so highlighter yellow?

Has the world always been so beautiful, and I just never noticed?

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Drawing the Past Alysa Su ‘22 • Digital photography

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Epic Vista Alex Zhai ‘21 • Digital photography

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n o i iss

HELM encourages and celebrates student artwork and writing, including multimedia works, by giving students a space to have their work discussed and publicly displayed alongside the creations of their peers each year. By the same token, HELM allows the Harker community at large to view high-quality student produced art, allowing for our creative tradition to thrive.

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The 21st volume of HELM was created in Adobe InDesign.

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licy o P l

This issue will be released online, via Yumpu, on April 1st, free and in public domain.

Ed it o

HELM reserves the right to publish versions of accepted submissions in print and online. In collaboration with authors, some submissions have been edited to remove errors or content that would prevent them from being published in an English department publication.The content in this magazine was solicited from the Harker Student body during the 2019-20 school year. All submissions were anonymized for selection, and published submissions were selected through member voting and discussion. The concepts and ideas expressed in published works reflect the viewpoints of the contributing artists and not neccesarily those of HELM staff, Harker admin, Harker faculty, or our club advisor.

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