The mag 2014 publication by The MAG Vianney

The

MAG A Literary & Art Journal

â&#x20AC; St. John Vianney High School Spring 2014

“Creating [art] is an overflow of who you are personally…” -

Brother Mel Meyer, S.M.

The MAG is a yearly publication by the students and faculty members of St. John Vianney High School in an effort to support the living arts through words and images. Our title is an intimation of the Marianist Art Gallery where Brother Mel Meyer created for over thirty-five years and where his creative spirit still lives and breathes.

Special Thanks to The Mag Staff: Paul Morrison Aaron Reynolds Tyler Puszkar Michael Schmidt Anthony Schrader Alex Turek-Ash

iii

Table of Contents The Annual Fire

Kyle Williams, Class of 2014

Up Reach

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

City of Shadows

Dominic Bolt, Class of 2014

Magazine Crab

Michael Schmidt, Class of 2014

Revolution

Dominic Bolt, Class of 2014

Early Spring

Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

Society

Ty Borst, Class of 2016

Untitled

Mathias Young, Class of 2016

Sunset

Eric Sargent, Faculty

Spectrum

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

The Life Boat

Jasen Jackson, Class of [ ]

Candles

Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

The Trashbag Man

Alex Turek-Ash, Class of 2016 iv

from abz Paperless Sketchbook Journal

Brother Brian Zampier, SM

The Next Step

Logan Spies, Class of 2014

Pasture

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

The Untold

Dawn Finley, Faculty

Life is an Ocean

Dominic Biffignani, Class of 2015

Surface

Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

The Waters That Flowed

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

Guadalupe Breakthrough

Brother Brian Zampier, SM

Connection

Dawn Finley, Faculty

West 3rd Street

Michael Schmidt, Class of 2014

Torero

Eric Sargent, Faculty

Thank You For Letting Me In

Marc Scheipeter, Class of 2014

Resurrection Cross

Brother Brian Zampier, SM v

White Cloak

Brad F. Ramsey, Class of 2017

Brother Mel Meyer

Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

One Nation, Under God

Carrie Mitchell, Faculty

The Annual Fire

Kyle Williams, Class of 2014 The rain falls pleasantly The trees burn brightly The leaves have changed Yellow, orange, and red The rain continues to fall The fire does not waver On and on it burns The trees are aglow Yet there is no smoke The blaze slowly declines Colder and colder the rain falls The fire is extinguished Flames descend to the ground Trampled and raked they are forgotten The fire has fallen asleep Trunks lack combustion Like piles of ashes they stand Left over from the fire Embers lie among the ashes There they remain until next year When the fire catches again The cycle repeats itself The fire blazes once more Life continues Annual fire

Up Reach Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

City of the Shadows Dominic Bolt, Class of 2014 (Look out!) The car came to a screeching halt. (Oh my God are you okay?) I heard the screams of those around me. (Can you hear me?) The sirens were wailing like the cry of a distant banshee. (Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m losing him!) Time was standing still and in that moment, all I knew was silence... I felt a surge of energy pass through me like a divine wind as I drifted into another realm of consciousness. I was in a state of awareness of all things yet had no knowledge of anything in particular. Yet in this place of total ignorance, I found bliss. It was as if all the pressures of the world had slipped away and I was born again to a strange new world. The sound of weeping broke the gentle silence that surrounded me. I felt the teardrops dance as they descended on me from above. On my cheek they collected then rolled downward as a river runs off a snowy peak. I became aware of my hands and wiggled my fingers with childlike excitement. From my hands feeling permeated through my body until finally my eyes were opened. It wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t my mind that compelled my eyes to open, but rather the will of some higher power. I sat up and gazed around me in a dreamlike fog. The skyscrapers ascended to the clouds and the streets were abuzz with life. Cars beeped their horns and mothers pushed their strollers down the concrete sidewalks. Music played from the newspaper stand on my right while the man behind the counter nodded his head to the beat. Something about this place was strangely familiar to me. Perhaps in a dream or even a past life I had been here before and walked these streets that I saw before me. I pondered the possibilities as the strangers around me continued their commute. I took a right at the first intersection. The sidewalk was shaded by the colossal building that appeared to block out the sun. This road gave off a different aura than the one before it. I felt scared and anxious though no immediate threat coerced me to do so. It was an ominous gloom that blanketed the ground like an unseen layer of asphalt. Despite my premonitions, I continued farther into this place of darkened uncertainty. Up ahead I saw a man in a raincoat and a wide brimmed hat standing alone at the crosswalk. He gave me a cordial nod and stepped into the road. At a steady pace he walked as a yellow taxi sped by on my left. The taxi showed no signs of slowing as it approached the shadowed pedestrian. Fear came over me like a wave as I saw the imminent collision. 3

“Look Out!” I called to the man, but he walked onward, oblivious to my warning. The car barreled into him and I heard a scream as he rolled over the windshield coming to rest on the unforgiving pavement below. And just as lightning streaks across the nighttime sky and disappears, so too did the mysterious yellow cab. It nonchalantly drove onward leaving only suffering in its wake. I ran up to his limp body with all the speed my legs could bare. “Oh my God are you okay?” I asked as I cradled his head in my hands. His face had struck the pavement first and was badly bloodied. The abrasions had made him unrecognizable. His mouth moved in an attempt to communicate but I only heard the gargling sounds that his throat emitted. His eyes rolled back into his head and he became limp in my arms as I frantically searched for a pulse. Shaking him I repeated over and over “Can you hear me?” I was greeted by only silence. He began to show the first signs of cardiac arrest and I searched frantically for something to stop the bleeding. I removed his raincoat and held it to the sizable gash above his left temple. “I’m losing him,” I whispered repeatedly in a self-hating mantra. Again I checked his pulse to try and disregard the growing doubt in my mind that it was too late, but no comfort ever came to my grieving heart. I knew the bitter truth. I laid him gently on the ground and he drifted slowly into his eternal slumber. I backed away from his lifeless body in an attempt to regain my composure. A streak of lightning screamed above me and I was blinded by its heavenly light. But in my blindness, I saw a vision. The body had been moved from the bloodied street and placed atop a wooden pedestal. Crowds gathered around chanting ominous hymns. There was a staircase adjacent to the wooden tower that beckoned to me. I answered its plea and ascended it with innocent curiosity. Its twisted path led me to the dead man. Golden coins were placed over his eyes just as ancient tradition had dictated. The room was peaceful and in this light the cadaver seemed to bear a smile. After paying my final respects, I left for the stairs. When I reached the ground, I was taken aback by my surroundings. The masses of people had vanished without a single trace of their presence and a roaring flame had appeared at the tower’s base. In minutes it was an inferno. I sat down on the sidewalk and watched it burn to ashes. After the final ember died, I rejoined the main road. All the happy people that commuted here mere hours before were gone; I was the only soul in sight. The beautiful buildings that had lined these streets now looked tattered and dilapidated under the flicker of the broken street lights. Stop signs stood askew and sewers emitted a caustic smoke that poisoned the surrounding air. This was not the road that I had seen before, but rather a shadow of its former self as an aging man clings to vivid memories of his youth, so did I to this ravenous place. I felt alone and the sound of my beating heart was the only noise for miles. Down the street I paced, looking for any signs of life. Before me stood an intersection which bore the name of Camder. The left path sparkled in the light of the sun and offered hope of a brighter future, but the right path loomed ominously in the 4

shadow of the heavens. Light was not only absent on the right path, but it was consumed. Startled by the shadowed nightmare, I moved left and rejoiced as the sunbeams warmed my face. Onward I walked with naĂŻve excitement as my eyes searched wildly for a friend. Up ahead I saw a man standing at the corner; his charcoal raincoat played wonderful contrast to the brilliance of the day. With his right foot he took his first step onto an adjacent crosswalk. I ran to him with arm outstretched, elated by the company of another when something in my periphery turned my joy to screams of terror. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the sun reflecting off of a passing yellow taxi. It sped by me as it tackled my unknown companion. After a moment of silence, I turned back toward the intersection for the man was surely dead. Here I was again at the crossroads of good and evil. The darker side looked more appealing, perhaps it was all a grand ruse to fool the senses. So I ran down the darkened path in hopes of a final light and salvation from this urban labyrinth. Willow tress sprung up along the way blocking the already minimal sunlight as I plunged deeper into this vast unknown. I followed the path as it curved right and was greeted by a crowd of onlookers seemingly waiting for my arrival. I last saw them gathered around the tomb, but even before then as the happy pedestrians on the main road, but this time something was different. Their smiles never ceased, but the emotions that conveyed them did. Their smiles were no longer a sign of good tiding, but rather an outward display of inner malice. Men, women, and children splattered with blood stood in multitudes before me. Their expressions were haunting and their burning torches sat idly in their hands. The silence was broken by the march of feet that struck the ground with remarkable precision. The mob inched toward me, weapons in hand, and I knew this was fight or flight. I took off running to the neutral intersection hoping these demons were confined to the shadows. They matched my pace and I felt horrified by the advancing army behind me. Somewhere off in the distance I saw the flickers of the day, signifying my proximity to my goal. With gigantic strides I had arrived to the crossroads and turned to face the crowd to see if my theory was correct. They were not far behind and continued advancing toward me. Just as I thought all hope of a miracle was lost, they stopped just before the intersectionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s crosswalk. There they waited like a crouching tiger waits for the proper moment to strike his vulnerable target. I slowly backed away from the crowd while keeping them in my sights. The sunlight warmed the back of my neck as step by step I inched away from my attackers. Again, I felt that a miraculous end to this nightmare was in sight. Faster and faster I stepped away until I felt my lower back strike a barrier. I turned and felt an icy terror engulf me when I saw the obstacle that inhibited my retreat. A mangled corpse stood alone illuminated in the center of the left path. His face was dripping blood from his left temple and his back was badly broken. His tattered raincoat barely hid the atrocities of the accident and his charcoal hat sat crookedly on his head. A trail of blood extended behind him marking his gory path. Groaning he stepped forward into the intersection, 5

breaking through all the imaginary theories which I once held so firm. So too did the army advance. I retreated to the comfort of the main road as my demons followed. The distance between us grew for they were impaired by our crippled guest. They paid attention not to pass the man and treated him like their undead general as he led the charge. I was now approaching the city limits and with every step, I felt my chance of survival grow. Safety arrived before I knew it and I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stop running until the skyscrapers were miniature blocks that decorated the horizon. In my heart I knew I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t followed yet in my mind I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be sure. I stopped running and sat on the pavement staring back at the City of Shadows until the moon was high. Gathering wheat from a nearby field, I constructed a bed and allowed myself to slumber. That night was over in a flash and the cool morning breeze shook me to consciousness. Once I got my bearings, I returned to the dusty road which brought me salvation. I turned my back on the city for the final time and began to take my first step into a vast and promising new world, but something stopped me. Both my feet had felt restricted, tripping me up, and I fell to the ground with an earth-shattering thud. Through my agony I glanced down to see the cause of my distress and was shocked to see two metallic shackles around my ankles. With one realization came another. I then noticed that my feet were attached to a thick steel chain that extended down the road. And at the other end of this binding coil, I saw the outline of a yellow taxi cab. Its motor came to life and it accelerated quickly down the street. The slack in the chain grew smaller by the second as I watched with deep distress the tragedy before my eyes. With the strength and swiftness of a hydrogen bomb, my feet exploded into motion and I was dragged down the gravel road. I used my fingernails to claw the ground in an attempt to gain freedom but my attempts were useless. My fingernails broke and peeled away leaving only bloody stumps in their place, as I writhed in searing pain and floundered all around. Seeing that escape was impossible and consciousness was permanent, I accepted my fate and my damnation. As I moved over the tiny rocks, my bleeding body full of hurt and fear, I whimpered for the sins of a former life. A life that ended prematurely leaving me trapped in this infernal darkness. I cried aloud for sins committed and for the few good deeds that did not bring me retribution. Under the heat and blinding light of the midday sun, the bright yellow taxi dragged my screaming body back to the City of the Shadows where it would live in torment forever on.

Magazine Crab

Michael Schmidt, Class of 2014

Revolution

Dominic Bolt, Class of 2014 A world has driven us to madness Chaos anarchy and doom A tragedy of modern man A Constitution in a tomb From the biggest city street To the smallest little town All have dreamed of Revolution An aging king without a crown United in our suffering Hand in Hand weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d gather round To see the sight before our eyes Olympus falling down We laughed at all the distant sirens Discord sings to dancing fire Nobles hiding in the courthouse A jury gathers to admire Votes are in; a verdict reached The buildingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fate was looking dire The angel came to reap their souls While their bodies burned inside the pyre The sunrise marked our bloody victory And on that day a phoenix born From the ashes came a flag Of liberty hope and valor sworn

Early Spring Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

Society Ty Borst, Class of 2016 We want to be understood. Treated the way we deserve. We who aren’t responding to the threats of the world; stories are often left untold. How many times do we run and hide because of the way we are treated. Verbally, Physically, and Mentally confused are the feelings of kids like me and you. Recall the times being called “stupid” or “nerd” our voices are often never heard. Recall to days of being pushed and shoved. I recall being pushed against the wall for being merely too scrawny and small. Recall to what we have been taught, be a good kid and do what you’re told. Brainwashed living is how we live, without thought or emotion every day. Is this really the way we’re meant to live? I ask myself this every day.

Untitled

Mathias Young, Class of 2015

Sunset

Eric Sargent, Faculty

I leave a white and turbid wake Envious billows Sidelong swells To whelm; Ever-brimming goblet’s rim, Warm waves blush like wine. My soul is more than matched – She’s overmanned: Impious end. Whelped somewhere The embattled, bantering bow.

Spectrum

Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

The Life Boat

Jasen Jackson, Class of 2015

[Friday, March 21, 2014 (6:14pm)] The crowd surrounded the facade of my body while my demons creepily wound around my badly beaten interior. And on the outside my face was emotionless, almost ironically so. The bass line reverberated in the cavity of my chest, my arms haphazardly flung in rhythmic circles in the air, and my feet happily embraced the youth of the night. A thick layer of perspiration collected around my face, and around my body too. The sweat was so heavy that it permeated through my white button-up, so that I couldn't even wipe my face. And in my worn-out hyper haze, I stared across the ring of people, as I saw her cheer me on. I remember locking into her gaze with an emotionless ego that exaggerated how secure I was to be on the dance floor in front of the pool on the upper deck of the cruise ship in front of everyone. To make her laugh or clap or smile or dance or simply acknowledge me would be to prove to myself that the multiple voices of my desires have found harmony. And that is exactly what happened. Fluently, I bounced my feet in the circle of the tribal hooligans, partaking in the frat-boy ritual. Girls, cheering me on, joined the circle and bumped up against me. And through the jungle of flailing limbs, fast-paced music, and mindless self-indulgent behavior my eyes met hers, and a smile fell softly on her face. And it was then that everything slowed down, and the music became muffled. As I jumped in the air with my arms open wide, a confident smirk stretched tightly across my face, my heart thumped jarringly against the thump of the speakers, and the sweat flung down slowly from my body in every direction, something truly amazing happened. The smile on my face gained an inexplicable authenticity. Whatever it was, and whomever against, I had won it. For that split second, I truly was happy.

Candles

Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

The Trashbag Man

Alex Turek-Ash, Class of 2016 Tom walked out of his office building with a regretful sigh. He knew what he had done was the right thing, knew the young woman would find work elsewhere, especially with the sharp edged face and determined smile she had. She simply wasn’t right for the company and it was his job to tell her that. But the look on her face… He just couldn’t keep it out of his mind. The regretful sigh turned into a regretful mood as he drove along the highway that night. In the back of his mind he wished he could go back and remedy the situation but had to accept that the past could not be changed and he drove on through the night. The highway was lonesome of bustling cars because of the late hour, and there was still piled up snow on the side of the roads from the temperatures not being able to surpass freezing. The moon was out but was muffled in sight by the semi-dark clouds that layered across the dark sky. Tom veered off the highway at his exit and turned onto the main road. Driving slower now, due to the unshoveled snow on the side streets, Tom noticed something that looked like an overstuffed, black trashbag leaning on the stoop of an abandoned apartment. His car slowed even more as he squinted into the dark night to get a better look at the mysterious object. The black trashbag then grew legs and sat up to meet his gaze. Tom jumped in his seat and slammed down on the brakes in reaction, causing a long slush sound from the snow under the tires. Tom broke his gaze with the trashbag man and noticed a shopping cart full of unidentifiable objects and he understood. The trashbag man was trying to evade the downfall of icy snow under the small overhang in front of the apartment. Knowing the apartment was abandoned, trashbag man knew he couldn’t get arrested for trespassing. Tom saw that this was the way that the trashbag man was living, and sleeping, every day. Tom was overcome with grief and sorrow, he already ruined one person’s day and he wasn’t about to ruin another one. He unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, and slowly approached the trashbag man. “Hello? Sir? My name’s Tom and I was wondering if there was anything I could do for you?” he asked cautiously. The trashbag man began to rise to his feet while keeping a steady, hard stare at Tom. He answered, “ Yes sir. That would be very nice of you.” Tom waited for anything added to his small statement, but there was none, so he asked, “Can I get you something?” The trashbag man eyes seemed to open a little wider and a less intense expression came to his face. “A place to stay would be nice.” Tom was taken aback by the attempt for the trashbag man to stay at his house, but he was determined to not ruin anyone else’s day (or life) so he said, “Then please come with me, I have a spare bedroom in my house, but we have to be quiet when going in because my son and wife are asleep by now.” The trashbag man mumbled something that sounded like an excited thank you and gave an understanding nod. The car ride was awkward. No words were spoken, no movement was made from the trashbag man (Tom still didn’t know his name) and Tom was too soft and shy to pry into this strange man’s life. The trashbag man smelled bad, like… well like a homeless person. Tom figured if the strange and smelly man wanted to keep to himself and not provide a background check, then that was his choice. 16

Tom and the trashbag man pulled into his driveway, walked up the path to the front door, opened the door, and stepped inside. The trashbag man took a deep breath in, slowly let it out, and nodded his head. What’s up with the head nod? Tom wondered. They slowly and quietly walked through the house and Tom showed trashbag man to his room, said goodnight, and closed the door. Trashbag man walked tiredly to his bed, laid down, pulled the covers up to his chin, nodded again, and closed his eyes. Tom crawled into bed next to his sleeping wife, wondered if what he had just done was a good idea, and closed his eyes. Tom awoke to his teenage son shaking him violently awake and whispering in a raspy voice, “Dad! There is a hobo in the kitchen! A hobo, eating my cereal, in the kitchen!”

from

abz Paperless Sketchbook Journal

Brother Brian Zampier, SM

The Next Step

Logan Spies, Class of 2014 Believe this song is about the beauty of the chase, that butterfly feeling of a new experience. Celebrate life because you have the opportunities to share a beautiful experience â&#x20AC;&#x201C; passionate moments short term / long term. Sometimes you grow bored with water, wine adds excitement and sometimes you find a wine that you will like for the rest of your life.

Pasture Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

The Untold

Dawn Finley, Faculty The pain ripped through her heart more than it ripped through her womb. The thought of a life born and given away at the same time A dream long dreamt; a nightmare forever lived. He wondered where she had gone and if she had given birth yet? Was she able to surrender the baby that was theirs? A child that would always be theirs and never know them. He felt her tears wet on his face as she prepared to leave. He suckled and gazed at her face. A face he would forget. His loss one that he would not recognize or realize until much later. **** The virus will ravage her almost as fiercely as the pain of what she was losing. She had longed to give life to their baby created and surrendered with love 21

A dream long dreamt; a nightmare forever lived. He longed to keep his baby girl. But knew he couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do it alone. How would he cope with a loss of everything so precious and wanted? A child that would always be theirs and never know them. She was scared and alone in the street. Cold and alone. Longing for the warmth of her mother. The mother who she wouldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember. Her loss one that she would not recognize or realize until much later. This poem is the UNTOLD story of adoption. The story of birthmothers, birthfathers and the loss suffered by them and their birth children whom they surrender for a variety of reasons. It is important that we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t forget that the story of adoption is happy for adoptive families and parents but sad and heart-wrenching for birth parents who bravely surrender their children. Their story needs to be heard.

Life Is an Ocean

Dominic Biffignani, Class of 2015 Life is an Ocean; Tender and Alluring one moment, Bleak and Unforgiving the next. There are ups and downs in the current And patches of pure bliss that follow; We are the vessels-Numerous and Distinctive. Our job is to navigate this vast and ever-flowing current; To forge our own waves; to make a mark. Sometimes, we think we know where we are headed, But it is up to Mother Nature to decide. There is no clear-cut destination But a wide variety of locations. We can only try to establish a path And hope the wind takes us where we want to go; Sometimes an unexpected change-in-course Can be a present in disguise, With beautiful consequences that arise. Life is an Ocean; So while you linger and ponder in thought; Go ahead and set sail. You never know where youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll end up-And that might not be a bad thing.

Surface

Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

The Waters That Flowed Tyler Puszkar, Class of 2016

When I was young, I would always go into the woods. I would run and run until the brush got so dense that I could run no more, only climb. One day late in August I decided to go venture into the woods. I went all the way to a small creek that tore straight through the woods, like the morning sun rays tear through a dark room. I knew then that that was the farthest I had ever gone before. With much struggle not to get wet I leaped over the creek and continued onwards. I soon found myself so deep that I felt free, for the only sounds heard were those of the morning birds calling for their loved ones and deer grazing the grounds nearby. I then stumbled into a large opening in the woods. It was a beautiful sight, the kind every person only dreams of seeing in their lifetime. This grass field was so large that I could not tell the colors of the leaves on the trees that stood on the adjacent side of the opening. The sun shined over every luscious, green, blade of grass and sparkled back into my eyes. The field, in all, was as smooth as untouched water. The surrounding trees sang and danced in the wind. I cried, for the sight was more magical than love itself, and its contents held love in every speck visible. I then noticed a small glare in the center of the lush field. My curiosity drew me closer. Once I reached it I realized why this spot glared. This small area was that of a little pond. It was a perfect little pond, for it was as round as an angel's halo and its body flowed into that of the fields, with no muddy banks. The water was clearer than air itself but sparkled blue as the sky that day. It was then that I noticed that this was no ordinary pond, for there was no waterbed. The water flowed staight down like a natural, God made well. I then knelt at its borders and stared into it, admiring its beauty. After the grass had grown for some time, I saw a light reflect from the water into my wet eyes. Then, as I looked up, I saw Gabriel. He was dressed in a white cloak that was more pure than a baby's soul. He smiled at me and reached out his hand in my direction. I, too, stretched my hand out to meet with his. His hand was as soft as silk. As I touched his hand I felt free. It was then that he looked up into the clear sky and back towards me. When this took place I understood. I began to cry and for every tear that rolled down my cheek, I felt more greatly happy than the last. After the last drop fell to the waters below I stood and Gabriel and I lifted into the skies above. I felt no pain, no sorrow, no confusion, but only happiness as we flew into the Heavens above.

Guadalupe Breakthrough Brother Brian Zampier, SM

Connection Dawn Finley, Faculty America For a moment, I knew what they felt. Just a fleeting moment compared to the lifetime they will carry that feeling deep in their heart. A feeling that must overtake them at moments when they see others with their children. A feeling that paralyzes. A feeling that overtakes. A feeling that cannot be run from. A feeling that defines. There are experiences and moments that happen to each of us. Experiences that shape us and help to define who we are. Experiences that we carry in battered old suitcases and transport from one phase of our lives to another. Experiences that inform our perceptions—perceptions that become our reality. The phone rang, happily distracting me from my last minute preparations. I looked at the caller id and my heart stopped. Literally stopped beating life into me. I couldn’t move. I was frozen and my thoughts flew rampant in my head. It was our adoption agency. We were scheduled to leave for Ethiopia in 24 hours. There is nothing about this phone call that could be good. Nothing. My thoughts quickly conjure up Allison and her family. They received a call less than a week before they were to travel. A call that no parent ever wants to get—least of all a family who had never gotten to hold their baby. Their son had died in his sleep. He had died alone—never feeling the love of his American family. They had lost their son alone—never touching his sweet face. “Hello.” “Dawn?” “Yes…” I said tentatively not wanting to admit it was me. If it wasn’t me, there could be no bad news. “This is Susan from AAI.” “Hi Susan.” “We’re calling because Hojawaka was taken to the hospital last night and won’t be ready for travel home for another week.” My heart started to beat and pump life and fear back into me. He was in a hospital. In Ethiopia. He wasn’t at Children’s Hospital or even a modern hospital—no, he was in a hospital in one of the poorest nations in the world and one where many children don’t live to see their 5th birthday. How sick was he? Why was he there? When would he be released? These were questions that Susan couldn’t answer—it was now night in Ethiopia and power, phone and internet connections were not reliable. She told me all that she knew. He was sick and in the hospital. I was scared.

We couldn’t postpone our trip—my brother was already in route and my motherin-law was leaving the next day. We were leaving the next day—I could not wait. My baby needed me and I need him. I needed to see and hold him, even if only just once. Ethiopia It is dark when we arrive but the poverty and developing nature of the country is visible even at two in the morning. We are tired from travelling but too excited to go to bed. I’ve been up and traveling for 24 hours but sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. I am anxious—I am hoping to meet my son in a matter of hours. I do not know if he is back from the hospital or when I’ll get to see him. I don’t know his condition. I try not to think of these things. I think happy thoughts. I talk about feeding him and dressing him as I unpack his things and get everything ready for him. I have to think positively. It is the only option. Waiting for Gail to come pick us up is scary. I don’t know what to bring. I don’t have any information. Is this how they felt, not knowing where their children would go? Who would care for them? Would they survive? I just know that Gail is coming and will be taking us to Layla. There are two other families there with us who are also meeting their babies. It is clear when Gail comes that she is not expecting all of us. She knows more than I do. I wish I would not have been ready to go. I wish I would have stayed at the hotel. We arrive at Layla. Hojawaka isn’t there. He is still in the hospital. My heart sinks. The pain is overwhelming. I try to be happy for the other families as they receive their babies and hold them. I am crying on the inside, but don’t want to mar their beautiful moment. We wait for what seems an eternity. I am lonely. I feel empty. Is this how she felt when she walked away from him? Is this how she felt when she left her in the middle of the street? Is this how they feel when they see mothers with their children? I can feel their emptiness. It’s just a flash. But it is the same even though it comes from two very different places. He finally comes. I get a glimpse of him and he is whisked away. He needs to be changed. They want to give him to me clean—I don’t care. I just want him now. I scream on the inside. But I respect them—these women who have cared for him and loved him for the past 3 months. Is this how they feel—helpless? Powerless? As someone else cares for their babies? It must be. I know if only for a moment—I will never forget. It is a moment in time that we share. It brings us together—if only for an instant. I hold him and am overwhelmed with happiness. I look at him and am overwhelmed with sadness. I worry. He won’t eat. He is sick. So sick. He is despondent. I am happy and sad at the same time. He is…is he going to make it? Is this the last time I will hold him? Is this the only chance I’ll have to show him I love him? How those women must feel giving up their babies after they have held them. What a 28

horrible feeling. What a courageous thing to do. Surrendering your child. Surrendering your love. Surrendering yourself. Mine is a happy story. One of joy. He recovered and with the love of his parents has flourished. Theirs is a sad story. One of loss and what ifs. One of holes and emptiness. A story of wonder. A story of courage. A story of bravery. A story that must live. A story I must tell my children. A story I can tell because it is also mine. For a moment—a split second—I felt what I imagine they must have. In the end, I have to be three mothers. In the end, I must honor them. I must honor us all.

This is a memoir piece inspired by the adoption of my Ethiopian children. This is the actual story of my son’s adoption but the feelings told are those of both adoptions. It is important to highlight that adoption is both joy and sadness. That one family’s happiness is another woman or family’s loss. The children are lucky but in their luck is also a great loss—a loss that can never be replaced or explained.

West 3rd Street

Michael Schmidt, Class of 2014

Torero

Eric Sargent, Faculty I should have liked to have lived Like the Torero, Motley dressed â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Cape de braga But here I sit in earthen dress with little regard to the sunset.

Thank You for Letting Me In Marc Scheipeter, Class of 2014

Erin sat alone on her couch, shoveling popcorn into her mouth. She stared at her TV tied to the suspense of the movie. The sky darkened as the sun approached the horizon, hidden behind the ocean of trees around her house. One lone tree stood in the center of her yard, visible through the living room window. A menacing presence filled the area and was about to make itself known. Erin was glued to her movie, but still able to catch a glimpse of the black object aimed at her door. THUD! Erin jumped, startled by unexpected noise, spilling the popcorn. “What in the world?” she whispered, approaching the door. The door knob was cold in her hand, her heart pounded in her chest. The hinges squeaked as the door creaked open. A rush of cold air washed Erin's face as her eyes scanned the dim yard. Nothing could be seen. Nothing made a sound. She slowly shut the door, then cleaned up the popcorn. She had just sat down when another black object hit her door with a louder thud than before. She looked at the tree in the yard, almost certain she saw what threw it. Erin sat there watching the tree, waiting for something to happen. “It’s just some kids,” she thought. “Nothing to worry about.” She quickly made herself comfortable and began to turn on another movie. Minutes passed and another thud shattered the silence, shaking the door. Erin raced for the lock, and quickly shut the blinds. “They’ll go away,” she said, but grabbed a knife to calm her nerves and give her a sense of security. Tap. Tap. Tap. She heard light pecking on the living room window. The pecking grew louder, faster. She froze there in place, staring at the windows as the tapping became more intense. She was afraid to find out what it was, but brave enough to stand her ground. Her home was small and every hiding place would be too predictable. Besides, she didn’t want to hide. She wanted to see it coming instead of cowering in fear. The tapping suddenly stopped. Erin slowly made her way to the door and put her back to it. A shadow passed in front the light from the window atop the door. She stood just out of sight, holding her breath. With her back pressed against the wood, she could feel it knocking, three times softly. Erin could hear the galloping beat of her heart in her head, her anxiety raised to the peak. Three more knocks hit the door, harder this time. “Let me in.” A hoarse whisper slipped through the door and into Erin's ears. She bit her lip, tears filling her eyes. Another three knocks, furious now. “Let me in,” a now angry voice ordered. The knocking didn’t stop. It grew harder as the voice grew louder. “Let me in! Let me in! LET ME IN!” The knocking grew so intense it could have shattered the door. Tears leaked from her eyes. “What do I do,” she thought. “Should I open the door?” The knocking was more than she could bear. “I know you’re in there, Erin,” it said. Her stomach twisted, her breath caught in her throat, and tears now streamed down her face. “Go away!” she shouted finally. “Let me in!” it screamed in response. “Leave me alone!” she cried. The voice and the knocking echoed in her head. Reaching for the lock hesitantly, she sucked up her tears and held her breath, unlocking the door and throwing it open.

Nothing was there. The tree stood in the yard unmoving, no wind. Nothing. She shut the door, shaking in fear. With the click of the lock, the room grew cold. Goosebumps covered her skin. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Thank you for letting me in,â&#x20AC;? a voice whispered behind her.

Resurrection Cross Brother Brian Zampier, SM

White Cloak

Brad F. Ramsey, Class of 2017 – KING BENEDICT IV LOVELL, the Fourth of His Name, His Grace of Titanstone, the Unlikely, fourth son of Bryce II Lovell – QUEEN RHAENA LOVELL, the wife of King Benedict, mother of Alysanne – PRINCESS ALYSANNE LOVELL, the sister of the king, unwed, kidnapped his son – LORD CORGYLE GREEN, a jealous lord, ordered the kidnapping of the princess - SIR ORWYLE GREEN, a knight of the King’s Guard, the kidnapper of the princess – SIR RANDYL CARTER, a knight of the King’s Guard on a quest The King’s Guard of King Benedict: – SIR HENRY MARTIN, Lord Commander – SIR TYMUND MOSS – SIR RANDYL CARTER – SIR BLAYNE PHILLIPS – SIR ORWYLE GREEN – SIR OTTO WEMYSSON The night was cool. He felt it on his skin. The moon shone in the sky like a giant glowing hunk of marble. There were no stars tonight. He read through a boring old book, one about the First War of two thousand years ago or a great siege or something of those sorts. It was a boring old book. Sir Randyl Carter was a knight, a good man. Good enough. He sat as his table, a large candle burning, wax trailing down it, and a glass of mulled wine sitting in a golden goblet. He took a deep drink and laid in bed, closing his eyes, hoping to doze off. As soon as his eyes shut, the door to his chambers burst open. A tall man man with dark black hair entered, followed by a man with tired eyes. They were both breathing hard, and looked very disheveled and winded. “Sirs, what’s going on?” Sir Randyl asked them. Both men wore plate-and-scale armor, gold inlayed with white. Their cloaks were white too. Swords hung at their belts, their hands on their hilts. Sir Tymund Moss and Sir Otto Wemysson were both knights of the King’s Guard, an order of six knights sworn to protect the king for life. Sir Randyl himself was one of them. When he was two-and-twenty, Randyl Crow, a newly anointed knight, was chosen by the king to be the next member of the King’s Guard. The last knight had gotten himself killed by a troop of bandits on the road to the castle. Sir Guymund Cassidy, Sir Randyl thought, a poor knight and a poorer fighter. He was named in the throne room where sat some fifty lords and ladies, with a lavish ceremony and a wonderful meal afterwards. That was one of the “great” times in his life after that. The life of the King’s Guard was busy and secretive, but mostly boring. Most of the time, Sir Randyl Crow and the rest of them would just guard the royal family 35

all day. Walking with them, standing guard for them, listening to them, protecting the king, keeping the king’s secrets. That was the most interesting part to Randyl. He must always listen to the king and his secrets, but he could never talk about them to anyone. Sir Otto caught his breath. “Randyl, there is…news in the throne room. He…needs to speak with you.” “What about?” Sir Randyl replied. “Just come with us, sir,” said Sir Tymund. Sir Randyl put on a white tunic, fastened his white cloak by two sword brooches, laced up his boots, and donned his black leather swordbelt. The three marched down long corridors, their boots echoing through the halls. Two guards pushed open the huge oaken doors to the throne room, and the three men advanced. The throne room was huge, large stained glass windows lining the walls, giant pillars holding up the massive domed ceiling. The king sat in his big marble throne, his head in his hands, his crown sitting loosely on his head. He and the queen were both in their nightclothes. Two other knights of the King’s Guard were standing on either side of the throne: Sir Henry Martin and Sir Blayne Phillips. Sir Henry was the Lord Commander, or head of the King’s Guard. Sir Randyl knelt at the foot of the throne. “Your Grace, what is the matter?” The king was almost sobbing. “Sir Randyl...it is the...princess.” “What of the princess Alysanne?” he asked. Princess Alysanne Lovell was a beautiful woman of thirty, with long chocolate curls and icy green eyes. She was the king’s sister, and was unwed. King Benedict IV Lovell was a tired looking man, with neck-length brown hair and a brown beard. He had tired green eyes, and was quite normal. He was not very special, being the fourth-born son of King Bryce II Lovell. All of King Benedict’s brothers had died in infancy, until he was the only one left. His mother later died giving birth to his sister Alysanne. “Your princess has been taken, sir,” the king replied. “She has been taken from her bedchambers by...by one of your brothers.” “Who, Your Grace?” It was the queen, good Queen Rhaena, who spoke. “By Sir Orwyle Green, that’s who, sir.” Rhaena was a comely woman for her age, around five-and-forty or so. She had loving eyes and long silver hair, streaked with gold. “My queen, where is Sir Orwyle?” asked Sir Henry. “We do not know, Lord Commander,” the king replied, interrupting his wife. “But we suspect that he has taken her back to Greenkeep, the seat of his father, Lord Corgyle, and the House of Green.” “Your Grace, why would Sir Orwyle even contemplate such an action. Such is an act of treason,” Sir Henry replied. “I have spurned him and his House, sir. A few days ago, Lord Corgyle had asked for my sister to be wed to his son, Sir Orwyle. I refused, and he was infuriated. I assume he kidnapped Alysanne to force her to wed his son in Greenkeep. They cannot be far now.” “If that is so, then we must rescue her and exact on Sir Orwyle the king’s justice,” Sir Randyl told King Benedict. “I agree, sir, and that is why I am sending you to retrieve her. Sir Corgyle is your Sworn Brother, yes, but he committed an act of treason by kidnapping the princess 36

Alysanne of the Royal House of Lovell. If you do retrieve her, I, King Benedict of the House of Lovell, the Fourth of My Name, King of Titanstone and Lord of the Realm, the fourth son of Bryce the Second, promised the hand of Princess Alysanne in marriage to you, Sir Randyl of the House of Crow. Do this, and I will do what I have promised.” Sir Randyl rose. “Your Grace, it shall be done. I shall leave on the morrow for Greenkeep.” And he did. He mounted his horse and rode off down the road, his golden armor on, his white cloak billowing, his golden helm adorning his head, his sword dangling from its belt at his side. Sir Randyl Crow was now on a quest and a race against time. ––––––– By the second day of travel, he was halfway there. Sir Randyl nodded to travelers and peasants here and there. He rested at an inn called the Trotting Hare, and slept there for the night. In the tavern, he sat with strangers and drank some ale as he listened to conversation. “I heard they’re weddin’ today,” one man said. “No, no, stupid, it’s in two days,” another replied. “Shut up, Jaryd, you know nothin’.” “Ah, bugger you, Styg,” Jaryd replied. Sir Randyl had to ask. “Pardon me, gentlemen, but did I hear you say something about a wedding?” “Aye, ya did, but who’s askin’?” the man named Styg asked. “Well, I am,” Sir Randyl replied. “And who are you?” Jaryd asked. Sir Randyl stood up, all in white silk, his armor upstairs. “I am Sir Randyl Crow of the King’s Guard. I serve King Benedict Lovell, and I have been charged with retrieving Princess Alysanne, the king’s sister, from Lord Corgyle Green at Greenkeep. Now, do either of you know anything about that?” “Er...aye, sir. Lord Green is weddin’ his son to the princess in two days, I think.” Jaryd replied, a little scared. He had disrespected a knight. Sir Randyl swallowed the rest of his ale. “My thanks, gentlemen.” He slept well that night, and got a good start that morning, when a light rain fell. During his ride, he thought about the history of the House Green. They had been established a thousand years ago by Sir Gardner Green, Sir Randyl recalled, and have ruled Greenkeep since then. A few lords have served in the King’s Guard before Sir Orwyle, like Sir Oswell, Sir Corlys, Sir Osfryd, and Sir Arwyle. The lords of Greenkeep have also been fairly wealthy, he thought. ––––––– At evenfall, Sir Randyl saw a few men riding towards him. He noticed their banner, the green tower on white of House Green, and got worried. Lord Corgyle’s outriders, he thought. He rode to meet them, his hand on his sword. Randyl had donned his armor that morning, and he was happy for it. They met in the rode as a heavy rain began to fall on them. There were four men, a knight in armor leading. The knight spoke through a closed helm, topped with a tall 37

green feather. He wore a flowing green cloak, embroidered upon it the light green tower of House Green. Around his waist was a green swordbelt. “Who are you, sir?” the knight’s muffled voice asked. Rain pattered against Randyl’s helm. “I am Sir Randyl Crow of King Benedict Lovell’s King’s Guard. And who are you, sir, pray?” “I have the honor of being Sir Garlan Green, cousin of Lord Corgyle. I...I suppose you are coming to find the princess, am I correct, Sir Randyl?” Sir Garlan was a big man, thick, strong, and he was called Sir Garlan the Green for the color he so constantly wore. Underneath the helm, Sir Garlan wore a thick but short black beard and dark, beady eyes. “You are, sir. I have also come to exact the king’s justice on the Lord Corgyle, and his son, my Sworn Brother. They have committed treason, a traitor’s crime.” “My cousins are no traitors,” Sir Garlan the Green protested. “They are, and they will pay the traitor’s price, Sir Garlan. When I strike off their heads, you will become Lord of Greenkeep, am I not mistaken?” Sir Randyl asked. Sir Garlan lifted the visor of his helm, revealing his face as water trickled down off of it. “I will, yes, become the Lord of Greenkeep. But I will not let you execute my cousins. I am loyal to him, and he has charged me preventing whomever the king sends to reaching Greenkeep. Sir Randyl Crow, take not another step!” Sir Garlan lowered his helm’s visor once more and drew his sword from its scabbard. Sir Randyl drew his own. “Sir Garlan of the House of Green, I charge you with treason against your king, for attempting to aid two outlaws and for threatening a knight of the King’s Guard.” Sir Garlan looked to his two companions. “Kill him.” What happened next seemed like seconds. Randyl vaulted from his horse, landed in the mud of the road, as did the two men with Sir Garlan the Green. They drew their swords as well and the fight began. The first man threw down a downward slash, which Randyl deflected easily. He grabbed the man’s shirt and threw him away into the mud. The second stood in the blocking position, and Sir Randyl sprang. Steel sang its high sweet song as the swords clashed. A few cuts were blocked, but Randyl finally saw an opening and thrust forwards. His sword took the man full through the heart, and blood ran down Sir Randyl’s blade. He wrenched it free as the first man came back at him. He swung another huge downward strike, but Sir Randyl ducked and spun out of the way, and grabbed the man from behind. Sir Randyl put his weight into it, and shoved his sword through the man’s back. He heard the man’s ribs break as his sword twisted. The man fell to his knees, and Randyl put his foot on the body and pulled the sword out. Blood sprayed onto his armor. Sir Garlan the Green gulped. His horse fidgeted back and forth and he re-gripped his sword. “Sir Randyl Crow, take no further action! I...I will cut you down where you stand!” Randyl laughed. “No you will not, sir.” He spun his sword. “Come down from your horse and fight, if you will. If not, run back to your cousin and tell him I’m coming for the princess!” Sir Garlan snorted in his helm. “Very well, Sir Randyl. I will see you at Greenkeep. See you hanging!” With that, Sir Garlan the Green spurred his horse and galloped away, leaving his two companions dead and bloodied in the mud as the rain

mixed dirt and blood. Randyl sheathed his sword, but not before he wiped the blood of his blade on one of the men’s shirts. He made his camp under a canopy of old oak trees, making a small fire and boiling a few sausages he brought with him in a saddlebag. They sizzled nicely on a spit above the flames as they were licked with fiery kissing. The next morn, Sir Randyl was greeted with more rain, pattering against his armor. He was curled up against an oak trunk when he woke. He stretched and stood and put on all of his armor again. He tied his swordbelt around his waist and gave his blade a few licks from the whetstone. His horse trotted along the sodden road. Sir Randyl Crow flexed his sword hand and readied himself for what could come next. He knew he would have to kill a few men today… ––––––– The rain had let up when he reached the gates of Greenkeep. The small castle was green, like the family it housed. Vines with huge broad leaves covered the place, strangling it in living paint. Sir Randyl’s horse whinnied unhappily. Above the battlements, a knight in a doublet and cloak emerged. On his chest, a small fire above hot coals was burning in stitches. Sir Rustyn Cole smiled down at him. “Sir Randyl Crow, is it!” Randyl looked up at the knight. “Yes, Sir Rustyn, it is! I am here for Princess Alysanne, Lord Corgyle Green, and his son, Sir Orwyle Green, a knight of the King’s Guard! I am here to bring them the king’s justice for committing crimes of treason, and to retrieve the princess! Assist me, and you will be rewarded by His Grace! Attempt to stop me or kill me, you will be met with the same death as the companions of Sir Garlan Green! What say you to that, sir?” Sir Rustyn Cole shifted on his feet. “Er...guards, let him in!” The gates lurched and groaned as they spread open. Randyl spurred his horse and trotted through the gates and into the courtyard of Greenkeep. Men in dull shades of green stood all over the place, swords and spears in hand. Randyl dismounted and gave the reins to a stable boy. Sir Rustyn Cole descended the battlements and gestured toward the doors into the castle. “Lord Green awaits you in the audience chamber.” He followed the knight. The castle was cool. Sir Rustyn’s steps echoed off the stone floor and they navigated the halls. Randyl’s hand never left the hilt of his sword. He flexed his sword hand a bit, but never took it from the hilt. When they reached the audience hall, Lord Corgyle Green sat in his chair, a small sort of throne; and he was all in green, an emerald tunic, moss green pants, but his boots were black. Along the walls of the hall, old tables were stacked end up, leaning against the grey stone. He heard Sir Rustyn close the doors. “Sir Randyl Crow. How are you?” the Lord of Greenkeep asked. “My lord Green. I am...well,” he replied. “I know why you’re here, sir. You’re here for my son. And the princess.”

“Yes, my lord. His Grace, King Benedict, has–has also named you a traitor as well. I am to execute your son, Sir Orwyle Green, but I believe, my lord, if you give me the princess now, I may be able to buy your life from the king,” Randyl explained. “Really, sir?” The lord chuckled. “That’s very kind of you to want to bargain for my life, but I have soldiers all the same. I believe I will just kill you right here, Sir Randyl Crow. SIR GARLAN!” Randyl backed away from Lord Corgyle and drew his sword. From behind the chair where Lord Green sat, Sir Garlan the Green emerged, sword in hand. His helm was gone, and the armor on his legs was gone too. He smiled at Randyl. “Well, well, my noble knight, we meet at last.” “Aye, Sir Garlan. I warn you, take no action. I will kill you as I did your friends.” Garlan the Green laughed a dry laugh. “No, I think not, sir. This time I kill you.” For a moment, there was silence. Then, Sir Garlan lunged at Randyl with full force, but he deflected the blow. They squared up again, both glaring. Randyl swung his sword this time, and Sir Garlan met it with flash of sparks. Their swords rang as they slashed and slashed. Finally, no one had died after a few moments, and Randyl knew what to do next. He charged head on and tackled Sir Garlan the Green to the ground, his sword spinning across the floor. Randyl raised his sword, point facing down at Sir Garlan’s neck, and brought it down. Blood sprayed up into his face, and Sir Garlan the Green stopped moving. Randyl stood, facing Lord Corgyle, who was seething. “You murdered my cousin,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now, you will pay the price for blood.” With that, a back door opened and out came Sir Orwyle Green in his golden plate–and– scale King’s Guard armor. He stood in front of his father’s chair, smiling slyly. In his arms was Randyl’s prize: a sobbing, beaten Princess Alysanne. She clutched Sir Orwyle’s arm, which was around her shoulders, locking her in. At her throat was a golden-bladed knife. “Sir Randyl, I give you Princess Alysanne Lovell.” “Sir Randyl, please, save me!” she cried. Sir Orwyle held her in place. “Quiet now, woman, ‘e won’t be savin’ you,” Sir Orwyle said mockingly. “Listen here, Sir Randyl. Lay down your sword, leave this place, go back to your king and tell him to bugger himself, and the princess will not be harmed. Stay and fight, and you and the princess will know a bloody death,” Lord Corgyle Green explained. “What will you choose, sir? Leave and live, or stay and die.” “Stay and fight,” Randyl said, steadying his sword. Lord Green sighed. “Very well. Son, we will have to find you a new wife.” Randyl’s eyes widened. “What!?” Sir Orwyle laughed, and ran his blade along the princess’s neck, opening it for the hall to see. Blood rained down upon the floor, and upon Sir Orwyle’s armor. Princess Alysanne fell to the floor, choking on her own blood and sputtering upon the stone. Lord Corgyle laughed. “Enough blood to bathe in.” Randyl watched the last color fade from Alysanne’s lovely green eyes, and the princess’s life left her. “NOOOO!” He ran at Sir Orwyle, his Sworn Brother, who was still watching the princess’s body, and shoved his sword straight through the man’s armor with a crunch. Blood bubbled from his lips and Randyl slid his blade from the man’s body. He staggered backwards as the knight slid to the floor. Randyl fell to his knees at the foot of the body of Princess Alysanne. “I’m sorry, my princess,” he whispered, “I failed you.”

He stood up again, facing the lord who sat agape at the sight of his dead son and cousin. “Sir Randyl Crow, I will see you in the lowest circle of hell.” He waved his hand. Something punched Randyl in the belly. He looked down, and a quarrel stuck out from his armor, blood welling in the hole. He gasped. Something punched him in the back, too, and it stung deep. Randyl groaned and labored to stand. A third quarrel hit him in the side, and then he saw the men from behind the stacked tables, crossbows in hand. He tasted copper in his mouth, and his knees began to buckle. He heard a voice laugh behind him as Sir Rustyn Cole slid something across his neck, its touch red and cold. He put his hands to his throat, but it was no use. He began to fall. He never felt the fourth arrow, nor the fifth, nor the sixth. Only the cold grey floor, running up to greet him…

Brother Mel Meyer Paul Morrison, Class of 2017

"Creating art is an overflow of who you are personally." These words were spoken by Brother Mel Meyer. For all their wisdom, they form only one part of the vast legacy that he has left for us. When I joined the Marianist family this year, I knew very little about Brother Mel. I had heard his name, but I had seen only a few examples of his work. However, in the time since then, I have begun to discover more and more of what he has created here. This quote from Brother Mel is just a fraction of his legacy. Still, it has had a tremendous impact on me. When I first read it, my perception of what I wrote and created was completely altered. I reconsidered what I put into the world, wondering what it reflected about me and what might overflow from it. I thought more deeply about everything that I make and doâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;not just artâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and how it could be made better. I am awed by the immense legacy that Brother Mel has shaped. His work fills the Marianist galleries and adorns the school, and the attitudes that it inspires can be found everywhere at Vianney. Something truly beautiful has been poured out through his art, and it adds something wonderful where it is found. When I think about Brother Mel's contribution, I feel as though I am wondering at the weight of mountains while holding only a single stone. The fraction of Brother Mel's legacy that I have found has changed me greatlyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;so how powerful must his entire legacy be? May he rest in peace and love.

One Nation, Under God Carrie Mitchell, Faculty