The Ivy | #6 | March 2016

y v i

e h t

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ISSUE NO.6|PHS

CONTENTS

A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS

4 WAVES | Aileen Wu 5 HERALD OF THE NIGHT | Lydia

With one editor from public relations and the other from tech-staff, we bring very different knowledge and experience to The Ivy. While one of us has hung countless posters, made frequent Facebook posts, and staged a promposal (Spork was a lovely date), the other has spent hours creating spreadsheets, organizing the magazine’s layout, and finding just the right font. We knew that together, we could make The Ivy better.

With over one hundred submissions and limited page space, we simply could not represent each artist at Princeton High School in issue no. 6. We had to make difficult decisions when creating our first issue that resulted in a diverse selection of works that compliment one another. While we have used our own skills to improve our magazine, we could not have done it without our talented student body.

Until next time, please enjoy this beautiful collection of work by your peers.

McGrath-Manuilskiy

6 THINGS NOT TO SAY AT A DINNER PARTY | Anonymous 7 SKULL TREE | Amy Lin PALE FLOWERS | Keri Zhang 8 ONCE UPON A TIME I WROTE A POEM | Hamza Nishtar PROMISE | Rutha Chivate 9 IN GOLD | Amelia Wright

GOLDEN | Hannah Davies 10 FIREWORK SIN | Anonymous 11 UNTITLED | Casey Johnson 12 MERCURY RETROGRADE | Anonymous A BEAUTY OF A SECRET | Sarah Golobish 13 TIRED STUDENT | Audrey Zhou 14 REQUIEM | Claire Schultz UNTITLED | Elle Klein UNTITLED | Cheyenne Setneska 15 STILL LIFE SKETCHES- A BOWL OF INCREDI 16 17 BLY DANK SPAGETTI | Julie Clement 18 AMERICANO | Conor Heaney UNTITLED | Maria Servis I HEAR AMERICA CRYING | Bronwyn Hines 19 20 ESCAPE | Hannah Bradley FLY | Hannah Bradley 21 IF I WERE REAL | Katie Vasquez 22 SHADES OF BLUE | Owen Haft 23 ABSTRACT THOUGHT | Hamza Nishtar 24 BLUE | Danielle Almstead 25 A SHOT IN THE DARK | Maya Pophristic HOURGLASS | Cynthia Ma 26 27 2 A.M. | Amy Guan 28 WATERFIRE | Angie Keswani 29 BENIGN PAROXYMAL POSTIONAL VERTIGO | Anonymous

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Photo taken by Ella Nadeau

BUSINESS:

STAFF

Harsh Raythatta (Manager) Amy Wang (Secretary)

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF: Angie Keswani Katie Vasquez

PUBLIC RELATIONS:

Hannah Bradley (Manager) Carson Donnelly-Fine (Secretary)

MANAGING EDITORS: Stefan Pophristic Claire Schultz

TECHNOLOGY:

Amy Guan (Manager) Daphne Kontogiorgos-Heintz Grace Zhang Nathan Drezner (Contributor)

SECRETARY:

Cheyenne Setneska

REVIEW BOARD/COPY EDITORS: ADVISORS: Rose Gellman Sierra Zareck

Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muça

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CONTENTS

A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS

4 WAVES | Aileen Wu 5 HERALD OF THE NIGHT | Lydia

With one editor from public relations and the other from tech-staff, we bring very different knowledge and experience to The Ivy. While one of us has hung countless posters, made frequent Facebook posts, and staged a promposal (Spork was a lovely date), the other has spent hours creating spreadsheets, organizing the magazine’s layout, and finding just the right font. We knew that together, we could make The Ivy better.

With over one hundred submissions and limited page space, we simply could not represent each artist at Princeton High School in issue no. 6. We had to make difficult decisions when creating our first issue that resulted in a diverse selection of works that compliment one another. While we have used our own skills to improve our magazine, we could not have done it without our talented student body.

Until next time, please enjoy this beautiful collection of work by your peers.

McGrath-Manuilskiy

6 THINGS NOT TO SAY AT A DINNER PARTY | Anonymous 7 SKULL TREE | Amy Lin PALE FLOWERS | Keri Zhang 8 ONCE UPON A TIME I WROTE A POEM | Hamza Nishtar PROMISE | Rutha Chivate 9 IN GOLD | Amelia Wright

GOLDEN | Hannah Davies 10 FIREWORK SIN | Anonymous 11 UNTITLED | Casey Johnson 12 MERCURY RETROGRADE | Anonymous A BEAUTY OF A SECRET | Sarah Golobish 13 TIRED STUDENT | Audrey Zhou 14 REQUIEM | Claire Schultz UNTITLED | Elle Klein UNTITLED | Cheyenne Setneska 15 STILL LIFE SKETCHES- A BOWL OF INCREDI 16 17 BLY DANK SPAGETTI | Julie Clement 18 AMERICANO | Conor Heaney UNTITLED | Maria Servis I HEAR AMERICA CRYING | Bronwyn Hines 19 20 ESCAPE | Hannah Bradley FLY | Hannah Bradley 21 IF I WERE REAL | Katie Vasquez 22 SHADES OF BLUE | Owen Haft 23 ABSTRACT THOUGHT | Hamza Nishtar 24 BLUE | Danielle Almstead 25 A SHOT IN THE DARK | Maya Pophristic HOURGLASS | Cynthia Ma 26 27 2 A.M. | Amy Guan 28 WATERFIRE | Angie Keswani 29 BENIGN PAROXYMAL POSTIONAL VERTIGO | Anonymous

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Photo taken by Ella Nadeau

BUSINESS:

STAFF

Harsh Raythatta (Manager) Amy Wang (Secretary)

EDITORS-IN-CHIEF: Angie Keswani Katie Vasquez

PUBLIC RELATIONS:

Hannah Bradley (Manager) Carson Donnelly-Fine (Secretary)

MANAGING EDITORS: Stefan Pophristic Claire Schultz

TECHNOLOGY:

Amy Guan (Manager) Daphne Kontogiorgos-Heintz Grace Zhang Nathan Drezner (Contributor)

SECRETARY:

Cheyenne Setneska

REVIEW BOARD/COPY EDITORS: ADVISORS: Rose Gellman Sierra Zareck

Mr. Gonzalez Ms. Muça

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HERALD OF THE NIGHT, Lydia McGrath-Manuilsky

Did you see it?

The wind, whispering in your ears.

Did you feel it?

The step of a bird’s call The flowerbeds sleep in their blankets of snow and the trees bend S’s as the sun falls.

Can you taste it, the crunching of leaves?

Midway between toast and maple syrup And fresh-baked cookies.

Can you hear it?

The voice of the rain The clouds are darkening Night is running before us, its velvet-black cape Spread across the sky The smell of the stars Is cold and icy And ice cream cannot compare.

WAVES, Aileen Wu 4

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HERALD OF THE NIGHT, Lydia McGrath-Manuilsky

Did you see it?

The wind, whispering in your ears.

Did you feel it?

The step of a bird’s call The flowerbeds sleep in their blankets of snow and the trees bend S’s as the sun falls.

Can you taste it, the crunching of leaves?

Midway between toast and maple syrup And fresh-baked cookies.

Can you hear it?

The voice of the rain The clouds are darkening Night is running before us, its velvet-black cape Spread across the sky The smell of the stars Is cold and icy And ice cream cannot compare.

WAVES, Aileen Wu 4

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SKULL TREE, Amy Lin

THINGS TO NOT SAY AT A DINNER PARTY

oh boy, i have an insatiable appetite! and sometimes i have an insatiable need to die i mean, rationally i know i won’t try but do i? you simply have to sample the dip! hahaha, i’m using this as a ploy to get you to eat so you stop expecting me to speak my social anxiety is making me weak. oh no. i can see you preparing to ask a question-“how bout this dressing though?!” you ask, trying desperately to make conversation. i don’t know about the dressing, but if i were a condiment i’d already be expired, or maybe i’m just tired, my brain’s a liar and my heart’s retired. “how’s work?!” sometimes i stare at the wall as i realize that adulthood is just a disguise for i still have no idea what i’m doing, please don’t see through my lies.

PALE FLOWERS, Keri Zhang

“any plans for the future?!” haha kill me and put me at ease, i know you can’t tell but i can’t feel my knees, just ask me a different question, please. “anyone special in your life yet?!” the only constant is the monologue in my brain the moon wanes and so does the purpose in my veins incoherent thoughts turn into rain and how do i forgive myself for all the self-inflicted pain and my cat thinks i’m insane and-it’s getting late, i really have to get back! thank you for pretending to be interested in me. “have a good night! cannot wait to see you again!”

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SKULL TREE, Amy Lin

THINGS TO NOT SAY AT A DINNER PARTY

oh boy, i have an insatiable appetite! and sometimes i have an insatiable need to die i mean, rationally i know i won’t try but do i? you simply have to sample the dip! hahaha, i’m using this as a ploy to get you to eat so you stop expecting me to speak my social anxiety is making me weak. oh no. i can see you preparing to ask a question-“how bout this dressing though?!” you ask, trying desperately to make conversation. i don’t know about the dressing, but if i were a condiment i’d already be expired, or maybe i’m just tired, my brain’s a liar and my heart’s retired. “how’s work?!” sometimes i stare at the wall as i realize that adulthood is just a disguise for i still have no idea what i’m doing, please don’t see through my lies.

PALE FLOWERS, Keri Zhang

“any plans for the future?!” haha kill me and put me at ease, i know you can’t tell but i can’t feel my knees, just ask me a different question, please. “anyone special in your life yet?!” the only constant is the monologue in my brain the moon wanes and so does the purpose in my veins incoherent thoughts turn into rain and how do i forgive myself for all the self-inflicted pain and my cat thinks i’m insane and-it’s getting late, i really have to get back! thank you for pretending to be interested in me. “have a good night! cannot wait to see you again!”

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ONCE UPON A TIME I WROTE A POEM, Hamza Nishtar

A fear of elevators, I must have.

Why else do I only take the stairs?

I always grab the railings, too afraid of falling.

Today I tied my hands and made myself walk.

I stumbled to the top; I may have missed a few steps.

That’s why I can’t take the elevator. It skips the whole story.

PROMISE, Rutha Chivate IN GOLD, Amelia Wright

GOLDEN, Hannah Davies It’s hard to explain a flower to someone blind, similar as it is to explain beauty to its owner Because she is the morning dew on the honeysuckle, she in the sun that radiates, yet she will never see She is the muses and the ocean tide She is everything beautiful in this world She is curves and wisdom and grace But she simply cannot comprehend the glory in her mirror, her heart.

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ONCE UPON A TIME I WROTE A POEM, Hamza Nishtar

A fear of elevators, I must have.

Why else do I only take the stairs?

I always grab the railings, too afraid of falling.

Today I tied my hands and made myself walk.

I stumbled to the top; I may have missed a few steps.

That’s why I can’t take the elevator. It skips the whole story.

PROMISE, Rutha Chivate IN GOLD, Amelia Wright

GOLDEN, Hannah Davies It’s hard to explain a flower to someone blind, similar as it is to explain beauty to its owner Because she is the morning dew on the honeysuckle, she in the sun that radiates, yet she will never see She is the muses and the ocean tide She is everything beautiful in this world She is curves and wisdom and grace But she simply cannot comprehend the glory in her mirror, her heart.

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bloodshot eyes from late nights like tonight dancing with childish schemes I know you love and speckled with clouds and red veins of concern for a future unmapped and riddled with holes like your old shoes

underground, boots, 6’1” youthful bloodshot eyes hands gripping a football and the stadium uproar fades to robin blue so you hide behind cronies as I pass by,

and the sky is bursting with pride in freedom and romance hides under the bleachers where I left the thought of you, and your heart in an empty seat to your left running into the rain screaming bye

quick prayers to the god we don’t believe in please please don’t come over blind friends sitting too close and more prayer because our hands are so close they could touch gently as we move away

underground, boots, 6’1” youthful bloodshot eyes from a $4.99 jewel crowned pink teen with nails encrusted in robin blue who left you under a burning July sky,

like distant fireworks, tonight we are exploding internally hiding from prying eyes our tears and putting on a show of smiles, bows, nods, ignoring raw cuts and bruises and flirting with the prospect of reunion

EXPLOSION, Casey Johnson

FIREWORK SIN

tonight I’m urban, pink, teen, crowned with $4.99 jewels nails encrusted in robin blue and the stadium mayhem is overwhelming so I hide in a friend’s arms when you pass by,

skin grazes and hands fly back crackles of heartbeats and comets are intertwined and quick prayers to the god we don’t believe in please please stay stay and you’re laughing and i’m drowning your laugh is summer and it’s fall and I can’t fall back to summer nights and sneaky grins and lingering smiles because underground, boots, 6’1” is a recipe for heartbreak serving two so for a moment I pause and watch your eyes light up one last time

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bloodshot eyes from late nights like tonight dancing with childish schemes I know you love and speckled with clouds and red veins of concern for a future unmapped and riddled with holes like your old shoes

underground, boots, 6’1” youthful bloodshot eyes hands gripping a football and the stadium uproar fades to robin blue so you hide behind cronies as I pass by,

and the sky is bursting with pride in freedom and romance hides under the bleachers where I left the thought of you, and your heart in an empty seat to your left running into the rain screaming bye

quick prayers to the god we don’t believe in please please don’t come over blind friends sitting too close and more prayer because our hands are so close they could touch gently as we move away

underground, boots, 6’1” youthful bloodshot eyes from a $4.99 jewel crowned pink teen with nails encrusted in robin blue who left you under a burning July sky,

like distant fireworks, tonight we are exploding internally hiding from prying eyes our tears and putting on a show of smiles, bows, nods, ignoring raw cuts and bruises and flirting with the prospect of reunion

EXPLOSION, Casey Johnson

FIREWORK SIN

tonight I’m urban, pink, teen, crowned with $4.99 jewels nails encrusted in robin blue and the stadium mayhem is overwhelming so I hide in a friend’s arms when you pass by,

skin grazes and hands fly back crackles of heartbeats and comets are intertwined and quick prayers to the god we don’t believe in please please stay stay and you’re laughing and i’m drowning your laugh is summer and it’s fall and I can’t fall back to summer nights and sneaky grins and lingering smiles because underground, boots, 6’1” is a recipe for heartbreak serving two so for a moment I pause and watch your eyes light up one last time

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MERCURY RETROGRADE Party, 11:39 Her hair hangs just past her shoulders and her cheeks flush pink whenever she laughs. Her eyes are clear blue and peer out at me amongst the crowd of people and the hair that hangs around her face is dark and sleek and stark against her freckled complexion.

I watch as she dances with him.

I figure it’s okay- if I drink enough water the bubbling jealousy in my stomach will quiet down. People laugh around them, and she throws her head back, flipping hair out of those blue eyes that are bright and happy and I wonder why- why me, why her, why this party with these people and this music and all the laughter.

She looks thrilling under the poor lighting, her hair glistening as it sways and flairs out and the boy is there again, his head higher than hers, his hair lighter and thinner than hers, his eyes darker than hers, and I wonder if she knows I think of her before I go to sleep.

I figure she doesn’t, as I turn away. Probably not, as I take another sip.

Definitely not, as he leans in close and whispers something that makes her giggle and flush and nod. And they walk off the dancefloor, and she catches my eye, and points excitedly to the guy and I force an excited grin, and encouraging thumbs up. And they’re gone, with my stomach, and I see them kiss as I go to the bathroom, and I wish I’d never came.

TIRED STUDENT, Audrey Zhou

A BEAUTY OF A SECRET, Sarah Golobish

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MERCURY RETROGRADE Party, 11:39 Her hair hangs just past her shoulders and her cheeks flush pink whenever she laughs. Her eyes are clear blue and peer out at me amongst the crowd of people and the hair that hangs around her face is dark and sleek and stark against her freckled complexion.

I watch as she dances with him.

I figure it’s okay- if I drink enough water the bubbling jealousy in my stomach will quiet down. People laugh around them, and she throws her head back, flipping hair out of those blue eyes that are bright and happy and I wonder why- why me, why her, why this party with these people and this music and all the laughter.

She looks thrilling under the poor lighting, her hair glistening as it sways and flairs out and the boy is there again, his head higher than hers, his hair lighter and thinner than hers, his eyes darker than hers, and I wonder if she knows I think of her before I go to sleep.

I figure she doesn’t, as I turn away. Probably not, as I take another sip.

Definitely not, as he leans in close and whispers something that makes her giggle and flush and nod. And they walk off the dancefloor, and she catches my eye, and points excitedly to the guy and I force an excited grin, and encouraging thumbs up. And they’re gone, with my stomach, and I see them kiss as I go to the bathroom, and I wish I’d never came.

TIRED STUDENT, Audrey Zhou

A BEAUTY OF A SECRET, Sarah Golobish

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REQUIEM, Claire Schultz

UNTITLED, Cheyenne Setneska

When I was six and my mother had all the answers, I asked her what happened to us after we died. We were making dinner, or she was preparing a chicken and I was watching, trying not to make too much of a mess with the vegetables she’d so carefully laid out. She told me she didn’t know, went back to carefully drizzling olive oil atop the dead bird. No one knew, she said, that was the biggest mystery of all. I didn’t believe her.

When I was eight and had sworn off God, my uncle was lowered into the ground in a wooden box. My parents wouldn’t tell me how he died,they said I was too young, that they’d tell me later. He showed up in my room that night and said he’d been in an accident, but not to worry because he was fine. I shrugged it off: didn’t everyone’s dead relatives tell them bedtime stories? Grandma June showed up on Thursdays, sat next to me and stroked my hair and told me about her life. (She said she’d run away with the circus, traveled through Europe, been a pirate in South America.) Only half of it was true.

When I was ten and my dog moved to the Big Farm in the Sky, my parents didn’t try to hide it. They buried her ashes under the oak tree in our back yard alongside her favorite squeaky toys and some milk bones for the road.

She sat at my feet watching us, wagging her big black tail and panting happily. Play with me, play with me, play with me. My parents still don’t know what’s terrorizing the rabbits.

When I was thirteen and sticky with bubblegum lip gloss, cancer caught Nancy from next door. She gave it her best, but it’s not the kind of fight you can win with a smile and a neighborly wave. She brings me cookies on Sundays, chocolate chip, warm with love and the kind of ethereal chocolate you can’t get at Stop & Shop. She laughs as she says, “Maybe I shouldn’t’a smoked so many damn cigarettes.”

UNTITLED, Elle Klein

When I was sixteen, my brother crashed his Prius into a stop sign. Hubris and gin make for terrible backseat drivers. He lay in the hospital for days, his heart beating weakly, bandages eclipsing his beautiful hands and Adonis grin. Don’t go, I told him. Don’t go, you’re nineteen and stupid and have so much left to see. Grandma June sat at his bedside, intertwining her crepepaper fingers with his. The dog left him slobbery kisses and our uncle called him Champ like when we were kids and Nancy brought him snickerdoodles. When I found him in the kitchen on Wednesday, I asked my parents if they could see him.

(They could.)

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REQUIEM, Claire Schultz

UNTITLED, Cheyenne Setneska

When I was six and my mother had all the answers, I asked her what happened to us after we died. We were making dinner, or she was preparing a chicken and I was watching, trying not to make too much of a mess with the vegetables she’d so carefully laid out. She told me she didn’t know, went back to carefully drizzling olive oil atop the dead bird. No one knew, she said, that was the biggest mystery of all. I didn’t believe her.

When I was eight and had sworn off God, my uncle was lowered into the ground in a wooden box. My parents wouldn’t tell me how he died,they said I was too young, that they’d tell me later. He showed up in my room that night and said he’d been in an accident, but not to worry because he was fine. I shrugged it off: didn’t everyone’s dead relatives tell them bedtime stories? Grandma June showed up on Thursdays, sat next to me and stroked my hair and told me about her life. (She said she’d run away with the circus, traveled through Europe, been a pirate in South America.) Only half of it was true.

When I was ten and my dog moved to the Big Farm in the Sky, my parents didn’t try to hide it. They buried her ashes under the oak tree in our back yard alongside her favorite squeaky toys and some milk bones for the road.

She sat at my feet watching us, wagging her big black tail and panting happily. Play with me, play with me, play with me. My parents still don’t know what’s terrorizing the rabbits.

When I was thirteen and sticky with bubblegum lip gloss, cancer caught Nancy from next door. She gave it her best, but it’s not the kind of fight you can win with a smile and a neighborly wave. She brings me cookies on Sundays, chocolate chip, warm with love and the kind of ethereal chocolate you can’t get at Stop & Shop. She laughs as she says, “Maybe I shouldn’t’a smoked so many damn cigarettes.”

UNTITLED, Elle Klein

When I was sixteen, my brother crashed his Prius into a stop sign. Hubris and gin make for terrible backseat drivers. He lay in the hospital for days, his heart beating weakly, bandages eclipsing his beautiful hands and Adonis grin. Don’t go, I told him. Don’t go, you’re nineteen and stupid and have so much left to see. Grandma June sat at his bedside, intertwining her crepepaper fingers with his. The dog left him slobbery kisses and our uncle called him Champ like when we were kids and Nancy brought him snickerdoodles. When I found him in the kitchen on Wednesday, I asked my parents if they could see him.

(They could.)

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STILL LIFE SKETCHES - A BOWL OF INCREDIBLY

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DANK SPAGHETTI, Julie Clement

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STILL LIFE SKETCHES - A BOWL OF INCREDIBLY

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DANK SPAGHETTI, Julie Clement

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AMERICANO, Conor Heaney

I HEAR AMERICA CRYING, Bronwyn Hines I hear America crying, oppressed howls, burdened sighs, biting nails, I hear A man, crying as he eyes his bills and measures his debts, wondering how ends will meet on $8.50 an hour, try harder, they say, go to college, they say, but who will pay for that?

A woman screams as she struggles to be freed from his grip, but she is told she was asking for it as her child watches from the other room, hungry, afraid A baby born unwanted wails neglected, kicked around, because this America cares more for birth than for Life, Now a student sobbing in the hours before dawn, words and numbers churning, a current of never-ending stress and, deadlines, college applications, assessments, if only she weren’t so lazy with that teenage brain of hers,

UNTITLED, Maria Servis

This same student’s cries can no longer be heard as she hangs lifeless-there was no money for help-America decided it was more important to pay for a stoner to go to jail, The final cry of a black man shot down by men in blue who were his alleged protection, The tears of a woman and her girlfriend who are denied a marriage license in the name of God, in the name of insurance benefits The agonizing weep from Earth too hot and Earth too dry and Earth too wet and Earth too cold, dipped of strength and beauty by racing technology and greed and waste, Cries in the form of whispers, parents who fear for their children, for the future But bee hives will revive and salmon will return to rivers and polar bears will fatten, if we starve the hungry w.a.s.p. and sing America once more

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AMERICANO, Conor Heaney

I HEAR AMERICA CRYING, Bronwyn Hines I hear America crying, oppressed howls, burdened sighs, biting nails, I hear A man, crying as he eyes his bills and measures his debts, wondering how ends will meet on $8.50 an hour, try harder, they say, go to college, they say, but who will pay for that?

A woman screams as she struggles to be freed from his grip, but she is told she was asking for it as her child watches from the other room, hungry, afraid A baby born unwanted wails neglected, kicked around, because this America cares more for birth than for Life, Now a student sobbing in the hours before dawn, words and numbers churning, a current of never-ending stress and, deadlines, college applications, assessments, if only she weren’t so lazy with that teenage brain of hers,

UNTITLED, Maria Servis

This same student’s cries can no longer be heard as she hangs lifeless-there was no money for help-America decided it was more important to pay for a stoner to go to jail, The final cry of a black man shot down by men in blue who were his alleged protection, The tears of a woman and her girlfriend who are denied a marriage license in the name of God, in the name of insurance benefits The agonizing weep from Earth too hot and Earth too dry and Earth too wet and Earth too cold, dipped of strength and beauty by racing technology and greed and waste, Cries in the form of whispers, parents who fear for their children, for the future But bee hives will revive and salmon will return to rivers and polar bears will fatten, if we starve the hungry w.a.s.p. and sing America once more

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ESCAPE and FLY, Hannah Bradley

I want to go to the places in the pictures Not the pictures of resorts with perfectly photographed swimming pools, But the places where there is magic in the ground The places where people wouldn’t build resorts, because they’re not pretty, or picture perfect No, the places I want to go aren’t pretty or manicured; they’re rugged and real and have been calling me since they’ve known I exist I want to be in a place where I can kiss the stars, I want a place where I can hear crickets every night A place where I’ll get bugbites and bruises and skin my knees and I’ll wear my hair down every night just to tie it up again at sunrise Where I’ll run through rivers and sleep with the sky as my blanket and I’ll be so, so, free I hear the valleys and the cliffs calling my name My feet have been ready to run, they’re just waiting for me to say when Because you see, I made a promise to the mountains in the distance. I already told the moon and she’ll be looking out for me when I go Everytime we talk, the moon and I, she asks me “what are you waiting for?” and I just...I...I just look up...and...

And I say soon Because at night I feel the wind under me, I hear the thunder of my feet hitting the ground, I have jumped into waterfalls and seen what it looks like from the top of a sequoia Please, I know what it feels like to fly through a cloud.

So don’t tell me to calm down. Don’t tell me that it’s normal. I know it’s normal.

I don’t want normal.

I was born for this.

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ESCAPE and FLY, Hannah Bradley

I want to go to the places in the pictures Not the pictures of resorts with perfectly photographed swimming pools, But the places where there is magic in the ground The places where people wouldn’t build resorts, because they’re not pretty, or picture perfect No, the places I want to go aren’t pretty or manicured; they’re rugged and real and have been calling me since they’ve known I exist I want to be in a place where I can kiss the stars, I want a place where I can hear crickets every night A place where I’ll get bugbites and bruises and skin my knees and I’ll wear my hair down every night just to tie it up again at sunrise Where I’ll run through rivers and sleep with the sky as my blanket and I’ll be so, so, free I hear the valleys and the cliffs calling my name My feet have been ready to run, they’re just waiting for me to say when Because you see, I made a promise to the mountains in the distance. I already told the moon and she’ll be looking out for me when I go Everytime we talk, the moon and I, she asks me “what are you waiting for?” and I just...I...I just look up...and...

And I say soon Because at night I feel the wind under me, I hear the thunder of my feet hitting the ground, I have jumped into waterfalls and seen what it looks like from the top of a sequoia Please, I know what it feels like to fly through a cloud.

So don’t tell me to calm down. Don’t tell me that it’s normal. I know it’s normal.

I don’t want normal.

I was born for this.

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IF I WERE REAL, Katie Vasquez if i were real, our conversation would be face to face. you wouldn’t email me at 2:37 am to tell me who to call so you could get to know me. if i were real, that conversation wouldn’t only last an hour and you wouldn’t repeat questions from our previous correspondence. you wouldn’t have these predetermined questions in a five-inch binder. you wouldn’t take notes on the back of a piece of junk-mail. if i were real, our conversation wouldn’t be to your profit: i wouldn’t pay seventy-five dollars just to communicate. if i were real, the conversation wouldn’t cover my dad’s income or my ethnicity or my sex or my middle initial. if i were real you wouldn’t expect me to brag about 2400’s and 4.0’s and 5’s. you wouldn’t expect all of that as well as a genuine smile in the photograph of me you requested.

SHADES OF BLUE, Owen Haft

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IF I WERE REAL, Katie Vasquez if i were real, our conversation would be face to face. you wouldn’t email me at 2:37 am to tell me who to call so you could get to know me. if i were real, that conversation wouldn’t only last an hour and you wouldn’t repeat questions from our previous correspondence. you wouldn’t have these predetermined questions in a five-inch binder. you wouldn’t take notes on the back of a piece of junk-mail. if i were real, our conversation wouldn’t be to your profit: i wouldn’t pay seventy-five dollars just to communicate. if i were real, the conversation wouldn’t cover my dad’s income or my ethnicity or my sex or my middle initial. if i were real you wouldn’t expect me to brag about 2400’s and 4.0’s and 5’s. you wouldn’t expect all of that as well as a genuine smile in the photograph of me you requested.

SHADES OF BLUE, Owen Haft

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WARM BRICKS, Hannah Semmelhack

A SHOT IN THE DARK, Maya Pophristic A shot in the dark A shot not to the heart But yet the soul Young and restless Was she Now her passion Paints the walls A shot in the dark A shot not to the heart But yet the mind Young and wise Was he Now his intelligence Is scattered along the floor A shot in the dark A shot not to the heart But yet to the legs Young and wild Was them Now their escape Cripples them A shot in the dark But by those that see With their feline eyes Of the old and the “wise” A shot in the dark A shot that was aimed A shot not to the heart But to everything that Was supposedly theirs Shots that weren’t theirs To make

BLUE, Danielle Almstead

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WARM BRICKS, Hannah Semmelhack

A SHOT IN THE DARK, Maya Pophristic A shot in the dark A shot not to the heart But yet the soul Young and restless Was she Now her passion Paints the walls A shot in the dark A shot not to the heart But yet the mind Young and wise Was he Now his intelligence Is scattered along the floor A shot in the dark A shot not to the heart But yet to the legs Young and wild Was them Now their escape Cripples them A shot in the dark But by those that see With their feline eyes Of the old and the “wise” A shot in the dark A shot that was aimed A shot not to the heart But to everything that Was supposedly theirs Shots that weren’t theirs To make

BLUE, Danielle Almstead

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HOURGLASS, Cynthia Ma

in the movies, this is the part where everything comes together. instead it is 2 a.m. and i am in bed thinking about four years ago when you stepped closer to me and i— i stepped away. now it is 3 p.m. and i look down when you pass and remember three years ago when you held my hand and told me not to be afraid. the clock says it is 6 p.m. when i click send and my face still grows hot when i think two years ago when you asked me to dance and i laughed it off instead. somehow it is 11 p.m. when the feeling of one year ago when you touched my head and let me lean into you hits me again. it is 2 a.m. and yesterday you smiled and turned away. in the movies, this is the part where everything comes together— but it is 2 a.m. and our silence is too loud.

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2 A.M., Amy Guan 27

HOURGLASS, Cynthia Ma

in the movies, this is the part where everything comes together. instead it is 2 a.m. and i am in bed thinking about four years ago when you stepped closer to me and i— i stepped away. now it is 3 p.m. and i look down when you pass and remember three years ago when you held my hand and told me not to be afraid. the clock says it is 6 p.m. when i click send and my face still grows hot when i think two years ago when you asked me to dance and i laughed it off instead. somehow it is 11 p.m. when the feeling of one year ago when you touched my head and let me lean into you hits me again. it is 2 a.m. and yesterday you smiled and turned away. in the movies, this is the part where everything comes together— but it is 2 a.m. and our silence is too loud.

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2 A.M., Amy Guan 27

I had a dream the other night that I remembered for a change Well, really more a thought if I’m being truthful But in those passing moments between sleeping and awake In my inner ear, balance was beautiful I thought that same old song was coming to an end I theorize I fear a rise again My chosen lonesome shattered Whilst facedown on the bluff I came to realize it doesn’t really matter

BENIGN PAROXYSMAL POSITIONAL VERTIGO

Who am I to judge?

WATERFIRE, Angie Keswani28

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I had a dream the other night that I remembered for a change Well, really more a thought if I’m being truthful But in those passing moments between sleeping and awake In my inner ear, balance was beautiful I thought that same old song was coming to an end I theorize I fear a rise again My chosen lonesome shattered Whilst facedown on the bluff I came to realize it doesn’t really matter

BENIGN PAROXYSMAL POSITIONAL VERTIGO

Who am I to judge?

WATERFIRE, Angie Keswani28

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In Loving In Loving Memory of Memory of Mr. Mr. John Kavalos, 1953-2016 John Kavalos, 1953-2016

Left: Untitled, Sophie Mann-Shafir, ‘19 Kavalos told Sophie to try to find a place in the collage that would “lock eyes” with the viewer, and she thought the cowgirls were characters who were a perfect connection between the art and the audience.

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teacher, artist, and friend with seemingly infinite knowledge, John Kavalos’ teachings and art have influenced and touched countless students and teachers over the past 20 years. He was never found without a group of students in his classroom, exchanging words and imparting knowledge over paint or the Tempura Kidz. He’ll be remembered as fiery and passionate, always looking for a lesson to teach his students, something to point out and share with the world. The Ivy has compiled several pieces of art from his students and reflections about his teaching in this issue to commemorate the teacher we know and love.

Above: Cavallo, Marie Louise-James, ‘16 Below: The Geisha, Rachel Glasser, ‘16

Right: The Ear, Zoe Kim, ‘19 Mr. Kavalos was always complaining that he couldn’t hear some of the quieter students. He later told us that his ears were literally filled with the paint that got stuck on his fingers (he’d rub his hands past his ears when working). It became such an issue that it hindered his hearing ability, and when he finally went in to get his ears checked out, the nurse was horrified to discover years of layered paint inside a man’s ear canal! As told by Zoe Kim.

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In Loving In Loving Memory of Memory of Mr. Mr. John Kavalos, 1953-2016 John Kavalos, 1953-2016

Left: Untitled, Sophie Mann-Shafir, ‘19 Kavalos told Sophie to try to find a place in the collage that would “lock eyes” with the viewer, and she thought the cowgirls were characters who were a perfect connection between the art and the audience.

A

teacher, artist, and friend with seemingly infinite knowledge, John Kavalos’ teachings and art have influenced and touched countless students and teachers over the past 20 years. He was never found without a group of students in his classroom, exchanging words and imparting knowledge over paint or the Tempura Kidz. He’ll be remembered as fiery and passionate, always looking for a lesson to teach his students, something to point out and share with the world. The Ivy has compiled several pieces of art from his students and reflections about his teaching in this issue to commemorate the teacher we know and love.

Above: Cavallo, Marie Louise-James, ‘16 Below: The Geisha, Rachel Glasser, ‘16

Right: The Ear, Zoe Kim, ‘19 Mr. Kavalos was always complaining that he couldn’t hear some of the quieter students. He later told us that his ears were literally filled with the paint that got stuck on his fingers (he’d rub his hands past his ears when working). It became such an issue that it hindered his hearing ability, and when he finally went in to get his ears checked out, the nurse was horrified to discover years of layered paint inside a man’s ear canal! As told by Zoe Kim.

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P H O T O B Y: M A L I K C AL I Q U I A N