Still, Lambrequin 2018-19 by University Liggett School

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Still

lambrequin 2019

Liggett Upper School

cover art Delaney Garvey ‘21 | Digital Photography above Stained Glass Windows top: Maria Evola ‘20 | Kia Borum ‘21 | Ella Karolak ‘21 bottom: Virginia Gushee ‘20 | Maureen Barrett ‘21 | Sophia Filipof ‘21 facing page Katelyn E. Hayes ‘21 | Digital Illustration back cover art Digital Photography top & center: Aidan McFarlane ‘21 bottom: Victoria Ortiz ‘20

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Literary & Arts Magazine University Liggett School

School address: 1045 Cook Rd Grosse Pointe Woods, MI 48236 School phone: (313) 884-4444 email: the.lambrequin@uls.net Head of School: Mr. Bart Bronk Head of Upper School: Mr. Brock Dunn

Liggett Upper School

Letter from the Editor Still.

As I was sifting through this year’s submissions, I noticed a thread of pieces that dealt with identity. Whether it be one’s own identity or the identity of a generation, we are contemplating our lives—as they are now—through our art and writing. I fell upon still in searching for a word that could capture this collective introspection.

Still in photography refers to the photograph itself.

This represents the feeling stuck or frozen in a moment of reflection—immobility.

Still

as an adverb means the complete opposite when it refers to the present and all that led up to it. A constant: “I am still in high school.” It is motion— continuity. As you read, consider this a chronicle recording our lives as they were in this year. I hope this issue serves as a cathartic reminder of the beauty in celebrating the now.

Letter from the Advisor

I would like to thank Ms. Wagenschutz for completely trusting me with her brainchild. I couldn’t have asked for a better conclusion to my senior year.

This year’s Lambrequin has truly been a labor of love, and its existence would not be possible without Katriel’s creativity and diligence. The entire design of the magazine is down to her extraordinary vision. She single-handedly put together the spreads that follow, pairing the pieces the content judges chose to include while working to make the magazine visually appealing. The student work filling these pages—as well as the numerous other submissions, many of which were excellent but didn’t fit in to the overall issue—is a testament to the incredible variety of creative expression our school community encourages. The magazine only exists because of the students who create and the teachers who support their submissions. If you sent in work to publish but find it is not in this issue, please do not be discouraged. Submit again; submit more! We are always accepting submissions (the.lambrequin@uls.net), and next year offers another opportunity to celebrate your creative genius.

Lambrequin “Best In” Awards

Faculty Advisor: Ms. Elizabeth Wagenschutz with help from Ms. Helen Kendall, Dr. Sean Moiles, Ms. Veronica Toth & Mr. Alain Guedes

Best In Fiction Sanguine | Brooke Hudson ‘19

Editor-in-Chief: Katriel Tolin ‘19 Content Judges: Astana Gaffney ‘20, Grace Govier-LaParl ‘22, Anna McCauley ‘22, Izabella Mileham ‘22, Victoria Ortiz ‘20

Colophon and Mission Statement

The Lambrequin was developed to showcase the talent of Liggett Upper School and to provide an outlet for students to express themselves through visual art, photography, poetry, short story, and music. We also aim to inspire all forms of art in our world; with such an intense focus on analysis and STEM right now, we aim to offer a place to celebrate and encourage creativity. The magazine was published in May 2019 by One Step Printing in Oak Forest, IL. 160 copies were printed for the Upper School and distributed on a limited, firstchoice basis. A digital version—including full texts of longer fiction pieces—is available for reading via the school website: www.uls.org Typeface throughout is Playfair Display. Title font is Zamrack. The magazine is printed on 80# velvet paper, cover 100#. The magazine is designed on Adobe InDesign; images are edited using Adobe Photoshop.

Editorial Board Policies

Submissions are accepted throughout the school year, and all students are encouraged to submit. Work from art and writing classes are also reviewed to include in each publication. Submissions are chosen by the editorial team and faculty members. All students in the upper school are welcome to join the editorial staff.

Best In Creative Nonﬁction 7/26/2012 | Katriel Tolin ‘19

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Editorial Staff

Best In Poetry Resilience | Tiara Whitely ‘19 Basketball Hymn | Donovan Flournoy ‘21 Best In Art—Portfolio India Brooks ‘19 Best In Art—Piece The Result of Others’ Suffering | Isabelle Brusilow ‘19

Outside Awards for Student Work Summer of ‘67, a short story by William Higbie ‘19, was a state finalist for the Michigan History Day Fiction Competition The following students’ work was accepted to the Grosse Pointe Artists Association Promising Artists exhibition, a showcase for high school students who live in/attend schools in the GP Communities: Isabelle Brusilow ‘19 | Graphite Drawing Hope Kulka ‘19 | Graphite Drawing Lizzie Lukas ‘20 | Acrylic Painting; Marker Drawing; Acrylic Painting & Mixed Media Lily Xu ‘19 | Oil Paintings—Triptych GPAA Winner of Best in Show: Keri Inge-Marshall ‘19 | Acrylic Painting, Mixed Media; Acrylic Paint on Denim Jacket, Mixed Media; Acrylic Paint on Denim Jacket, Mixed Media Several Upper School students were selected to participate in Congresswoman Brenda Lawrence’s 14th District Art Awards Show: India Brooks ‘19 | Painting Taveon Colston ‘22 | Digital Photograph James Dailey ‘22 | Digital Photograph Keelin Dailey ‘21 | Digital Photograph Keris Wallace ‘21 | Black & White Photography 14th District Art Award Second Place Bea Bernard ‘19 | Glass Mosaic

Liggett Upper School

1 2 3 5 8 15 17 22 26 34 36 36 37 37 37 37

06 12 40 54 63 68 72 82

Victoria Ortiz ‘20 | California | Digital Photography

WRITING

Table of

43 44 46 50 52 56 57 58 59 66 67 71 71 74 78 80 84

11 14 16 16 18 21 24 28 32 64 76

0 0 0 0 0 0 0 1 2 3 6 8 9 10, 11 13 14 14, 15 17 19 19 23 24 26 27 29 30 32 34 35 36

AUDIO William Higbie | Podcasts Anthony Green | Song

Contents

Charlie Amine Isabelle Brusilow Emma Wujek Kaitlyn Lee Eva Papista CJ Morris Lily Xu Lily Xu Margaret Hartigan Egypt Brooks Hope Kulka Dean Xi Gabrielle Awada Keri Inge-Marshall William Higbie Lucy Barnowske Mary Weiermiller Bea Bernard Lucy Barnowske Lily Xu Dean Xi Keelin Dailey Alyssa Jones India Brooks India Brooks Isabelle Brusilow Katriel Tolin Astana Gaffney Trey Holmes India Brooks

38 40 40 41 41 41 42 43 44 46 48 49 49 50 53 54 60 62 65 66 67 68 70 73 74 76 78 80 82

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Emily Dunn Lucy Barnowske Keri Inge-Marshall Trey Holmes Hope Kulka Isabelle Brusilow Tiara Whitely Emmanuelle Cubba Brian Li Lizzie Lukas Jorden Dumas Reed Dank Jorden Dumas Lucy Barnowske Keri Inge-Marshall William Higbie Delaney Garvey Bea Bernard Sophia Filipof Cassidy Suzor Christina Brattain Cassidy Suzor Delaney Garvey India Brooks Chloe Outland-Knickerbocker Hope Kulka Lily Xu Delaney Garvey Gabrielle Awada Aidan McFarlane

Victoria Ortiz | Violin Will Bowen | Songs Trinity Lee | Piano

ART & AUDIO

Liggett Upper School

Audioph(f)iles: Podcasts and Music William Higbie ‘19

Podcasts Made for Classes The 60s and Rhetoric & the Media: “A Bomb Just Waiting to Explode” [bit. ly/2YCqlHh ] and “The Politics of the High School Lunchroom” [bit.ly/2w1bfPd]

Anthony Green ‘20

A Rap Song Written for Core II about the Walter from A Raisin in the Sun by Lorraine Hansbery. The audio is available for listening via the website uls.org.

Victoria Ortiz ‘20

A Solo Violin Performance of “Violin Concerto No. 1 in G minor” by Max Bruch. The video is available for viewing via the website uls.org.

Will Bowen ‘21

Songs Made in Music Production Class: a remix or Post Malone’s “Sunflowers” set to a new beat, and a “found sound” song made from recording the noises of hockey played at the McCann Ice Arena. The audio is available for listening via the website uls.org.

Trinity Lee ‘21

A Solo Piano Performance at Carnegie Hall of Alberto Ginastera’s “Danzas Argentinas”: The first movement is titled “Danza del viejo boyero”; the second “Danza de la moza donosa.” The video is available for viewing via the website uls.org.

Emily Dunn â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 | Watercolor & Ink

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Hope Kulka ‘19 | from I Stand With You | Acrylic

Liggett Upper School 10

Keri Inge-Marshall ‘19 | Rhianon | Mixed Media

Lucy Barnowske ‘19 | Silverscreen | Acrylic

Trey Holmes‘19 | Self-portrait | Burned wood, stain & acrylic

Isabelle Brusilow ‘19 | Allegory of the Cave | Gouche

Tiara Whitely ‘19 | Self-Portrait | Acrylic

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Freshman Season Frannie Boyle ‘21 fall: it’s late no one is awake but me and the moon, who makes it clear she wants nothing to do with me so i sit in bed and wonder what will tomorrow bring? winter: i’m cold, mostly though not alone i stand on an icy peninsula find myself rendered useless spring: i stand in a field of sunflowers surrounded by a smiling crowd the sun sheds her rays on us staring up at a hopeful blue sky we get lost looking at what is coming ahead summer: is the year gone already? in the heat of michigan’s summer i question time behind me is a long and requisite path but for now i stand at a drawbridge excited to find out what lies on the other side

Emmanuelle Cubba ‘21 | Too Faced | Watercolor & Acrylic 1

Liggett Upper School

Road T rip, Summer Victoria Ortiz ‘20 three of us on a road trip across 19 states one and a half summer months 4700 songs of 47 different genres and our heads were out the windows the wind in our hair we never got sick of each other we learned more about each other than we knew about ourselves talked more about our pasts than what might be in our futures discussed important decisions underneath willows because we’re all stuck in the middle somehow between easy and unrewarding and hardships that seem far too fulfilling

this country never lives in the present obsessed with every decision— good bad & ugly— yet here we are planning one & a half futures without second thoughts without precaution— driving home a song came on the kind that makes you forget things that should be forgotten forget everything except being in this moment everyone should feel this at least once in our lives: such deep connection that when it ends you’re not (for once) disappointed

Brian Li ‘20 | Coming to America | Watercolor & Ink 2

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Unattainable Isabella Tomlinson ‘20 Words flow from her like Shakespeare her hands dance upon the piano as a concerto sounds throughout the room She is perfect. Her grades impeccable and test scores even better. University letters only ever welcome her, never say Thank you but… She is perfect. Beauty within her as radiant as her skin her eyes and in her hair there is never a single strand out of place She is perfect. How can one person have so many talents while so many have none? And I don’t get it. Does she ever make a mistake? Does she ever feel unworthy? Does she ever cry into her pillow at night when she finally reaches a breaking point? Does she ever feel so exhausted from being perfect all the time? She is confident. She is graceful. She is calm and collected and never exhausted. She is all I yearn to be— She does not exist. Lizzie Lukas ‘20 | Blue | Alcohol-based Marker

Liggett Upper School

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glyph, sign, or symbol: the silcrow is used to identify and differentiate discrete sections of our legal Code like two pythons locked in embrace

seeking to aid those in writing, citing, reading a never-ending convoluted and necessary foundation of modern Civilization

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Liggett Upper School

Jorden Dumas ‘20 | Art Talk | Collage

Worst & Best Times for a Bear Attack Quinn Nehr ‘19 Worst Times: “And Johnson, do you take Margaret to be your lawfully wedded wife?” “I do.” “Then you may kiss the—” BEAR ATTACK! “I would like to thank my cast, the Academy and finally, I would like to thank my mother for always pushing me to do my—” BEAR ATTACK! “No don’t worry we’re safe. All the bears are hibernating.” BEAR ATTACK! “Welcome to the 25th annual Cunningham family reunion. I am super happy that Aunt Belinda could be here at the age of 109! Aunt Belinda?” BEAR ATTACK! 6

A room full of senior citizens are playing bingo. Ms. Hutcherson gets the first bingo of the late afternoon, interrupting the rhythmic cadence of letters with her gleeful “Bingo!” BEAR ATTACK!

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“Susan Farndoup, will you marry me?” BEAR ATTACK!

“Hello, Mr. Snuggles would you care for some more tea?” REAL BEAR ATTACK! “Men, welcome to the 18th Annual Civil War Reenactment. As you all know, none of the weapons we will be using are actually loaded.” BEAR ATTACK! A business woman in a power suit is filling up her gas tank. She places a filtered cigarette between her lips and then accidentally drops her lighter on the ground in the gasoline puddle she has previously spilled because she also had a coffee in her hand and she was trying to do too many things at once. FIRE-BEAR-THAT-SMELLS-LIKE-COFFEE ATTACK! “Hey man, is that a—” BEAR ATTACK! “One step for man, one giant step for—” BEAR ATTACK! “Actually, bears won’t ever attack you unless you harm or intimidate them first.” SPITEFUL BEAR ATTACK!

Best Times: Antigonus. I never saw The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour! Well may I get aboard! This is the chase: I am gone for ever. Exit pursued by a—

Liggett Upper School

Basketball Hymn Donovan Flournoy ‘21

Reed Dank ‘19 | Block print

The hoop is not made of metal but a pair of outstretched arms— God’s arms joined at the fingers— and God is saying Throw it to me. It’s no longer a ball. It’s an orange prayer.

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Jorden Dumas ‘20 | Poppin’ | Acrylic 9

Lucy Barnowske ‘19 | Her Energy & Spirit | Digital Photography

Liggett Upper School

What isKaitlynFriendship: Lee ‘19

a.) it is growing up together, walking hand in hand through life and hoping there’s never goodbye. it is hour long van rides, giggling and laughing, snacking on treats and playing card games. it is lying side by side in the same bed, lamenting and laughing, listening to the thunderstorm outside. it is goofing off, not hesitating to make faces or say dumb things to light up their face. it is playing late into the night, laughing so loud that those in their beds begin to regret, regret, regret. it is hours of facetime, damning the long distance yet being satisfied with the moments spent together. it is wishing and praying for a future with each other, imagining thoughts of a dorm room, of a new group of friends, of a clean slate. it is the comfort in knowing that throughout life, there is nothing that can part us. b.) it is a thousand text messages with different emojis and laughing at your screen in the dark. it is bad selfies and long, confusing key-smashes. it is driving together and laughing, laughing, laughing. it is knowing the other better than they could possibly know themselves and the most amazing presents. it is picnics at the beach, big time rush playing in the background, and cold yogurt in jars. it is holding hands and exchanging glances in class and biting down big smiles. it is unconditional support, even through the hardest of times, and it is being apart but knowing, knowing, knowing, that the love is still there.

c.) it is comfortable silences and the colors red and blue. it is prom, rocking on the blue waters and dancing until our feet hurt. it is laughter and lunch in the art room. it is our hands intertwined, cold and hot mixing together to become a warm touch, skin on skin. it is leaning on their shoulder and trusting, trusting, trusting. it is crying and being held. it is being silently reassured that it is going to be okay. it is a dark hallway at a party and a children’s show. it is sharing glances and knowing if something is wrong, if they’re okay or not. it is confessing secrets and being warmly held, being told that they’re proud of you for sharing. it is knowing, without speaking, that you are loved, forever and always.

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circle one.

d.) it is giggling in class and whispering inside jokes. it is internet games and laughing in the hotbox during rehearsals. it is making eye contact and knowing what the other is thinking, and rolling eyes at each other in amusement. it is laughing over lunch and watching movies and sometimes just sitting in silence, comfortable in each other’s presence. it is knowing that you have a shoulder to cry on and someone to fight for you. it is sending endless memes and dumb pictures just to make them laugh. it is sitting in panera for hours, talking and laughing happily. it is the first football game in the cold and different adventures. it is the comfort of a longtime friend.

Liggett Upper School

So You’re A Magician: the FAQ Quinn Nehr ‘19 Q: How did you do that? A: Now this is a question that I receive, quite literally, daily. And the answer is: I cannot tell you how I did that. I feel like you should definitely know that is the answer you are going to get, but nevertheless there is still someone who asks me EVERY DAY. And after we say “no,” don’t come back with that “Oh come on! I won’t tell anyone” crap. We both know that’s a lie, so let’s just leave it at that. I’m smart and you’re dumb, let’s move on with the show. Q: Can you do that again? A: Once again, my answer will almost always be “no” unless I am informed by a health care professional that you have a rare disease that causes you to immediately forget interesting, dare I say amusing, slight-of-hand tricks (if that is you and your condition, the answer is yes). The reason is quite simple: I will not do it again because if I do, there is a higher chance that I could mess it up. That’s because the truth is I’m not that great of a magician. I pretty much just learned a couple of tricks off of YouTube to impress this girl, and then she cheated on me with my best friend Claire. So really all magic has done for me was give me my first real heartbreak. Geeze, that got personal. Next question. Q: Who was the girl? A: You know, I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ve been trying to block out that part of my life, and it doesn’t help that you’re asking these questions about her. Sorry. Next. Q: Do you really see magic as a sustainable career? A: That is a great question, and the answer

is yes. While I understand how it can be hard to understand from an outside point of view, there are plenty of opportunities for magicians: street magic, comedy clubs, birthday parties for spoiled five-year-olds. So yes, it’s a great career! Q: We have all seen you pulling a rabbit out of a hat, but can you pull a hat out of a rabbit? A: Hmm, I guess I’ve never really thought about that before. I guess it depends on the size of the hat and its style. If it’s a top hat there’s no shot, but if it’s like a beanie or a Yarmulke then yeah, I don’t see why not. Q: How long did you and the girl date? A: Wow, okay. I said I didn’t want to talk about this, but if you insist, we dated for about four months. Q: When did you realize the relationship was ending? A: That’s enough! I said I didn’t want to talk about this anymore and that’s final! Only magic-related questions from here on out. I’m sorry. I just always get upset when I talk about Debbie. So please, respect my wish for magic-related questions only. Q: When did yours and Debbie’s relationship “disappear?” A: Alright, fine! I have tried to be nice but you want this information so here it is. Debbie and I met during our sophomore year of college. We were the only two people in Dr. Crudnick’s class who actually paid attention when he used his own cysts to teach us about infection in the human body. One day after class I overheard Debbie talking to a friend (while I was hiding

Keri Inge-Marshall ‘19 | UBU | Mixed Media

Debbie would tell me that she and Claire would hangout, just the two of them, and that they were becoming really close. If only I had been smart enough to realize their friendship was entering into a different realm. Then came that fateful day when I found out. But honestly it wasn’t so much that they told me; it was how they told me. I received a Google+ DM from my mother explaining that Claire had called to tell her something important and to come over immediately. When my mother arrived, Debbie and Claire were sitting on the couch. They then proceeded to tell my mother that they were in the middle of a secret relationship with each other and were both scared to tell me. The last thing they said to her before she left in the new truck she got from the settlement after her whole dead-cat fiasco (I don’t know why I included that, I’m uncomfortable) was, “We will never forget the magic that your son brought into our lives.” So now you know! Now you know why every time I even hear the word “magic” I get a little twitch in my eye, which is really painful since I AM A MAGICIAN. And now you know why I can’t eat Little Debbie Cakes without throwing up after. So there. There! I hope you’re happy!!!

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in a tree) about how she saw a magician over the weekend and that she thought it was super cool! So, I sped home on my moped and learned some magic off YouTube. After practicing all night, I brought a deck of cards to class the next day to show Debbie. She was amazed and couldn’t believe the sorcery I was able to create with just a simple deck of playing cards. And just like that we were dating. It was great. She truly was the love of my life! Then came the day I decided to invite Claire over to meet Debbie. They immediately clicked. I was a little bit worried that it would be awkward for Claire to third-wheel it, but she and Debbie were hanging out so much it was almost like I was the third wheel—but things were still going great! Really! It even got to the point where

Q: Do you ever share secrets with other magicians? A: No, no I do not.

Liggett Upper School

Road T rip Playlist Mila Filipof ‘19 1) “This Should be Fun!” by the Parents 2) “I Forgot… We Need to Turn Around” by The Irresponsible One 3) “I Hate This Song” by Angsty Teen Who Only Listens to Indie Music and Forgot Headphones 4) “When I Was a Kid, We Didn’t Have Headphones” by Reminiscent Parent 5) “I Have to Pee” by The Youngest 6) “You Can Wait” by Timely Dad 7) “My Phone is Dead” by Little Brother 8) “He’s Touching Me!” by Little Sister 9) “Shut Up! I’m Trying to Sleep Over Here!” by Annoyed Teen 10) “Arguing” by The Kids featuring The Parents 11) “Are We There Yet?” by The Impatient One 12) “Feed Me” by The Minivan 13) “If We Took a Plane, We Would be There by Now” by Captain Obvious 14) “Who Took Their Shoes Off ?” by Disgusted Mom 15) “Just Crack Open a Window” by The Guilty One 16) “I’m Cold Now!” by The Complainer 17) “I’m Hungry” by The Youngest 18) “The Bag of Chips = Lunch” by The Frugal Parent 19) “Ew, Who Farted?” by The One Who Dealt It 20) “I Have to Pee” (Reprise) by The Youngest 21) “Why Did We Think This Was a Good Idea?” by The Weary Parents 22) “The Final Destination” by The Family

center image William Higibe ‘19 | from NYC Sketchbook | Mixed Media 14

Victor Tawansy ‘19

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Morons It was late after the movie and we were hungry. Every restaurant in our small town was closed, so our only choice was Bubba Gump’s Jumbo Shrimp House. There was no one inside and we were alone together. The deafening silence was only muddled by the fryer in the kitchen. There was a noticeable absence of employees present, so the service was slow and my appetite was growing smaller. After we waited an endless hour, finally, our food arrived. We began to eat: it was awfully delicious. When we finished our meal and began to order dessert, we felt a quiet presence of people approaching. Minutes later, a small crowd of teens busted through the door. If I had to give you an exact estimate, I’d say their were about seventeen of them. They were being obnoxious and appeared as though they were genuinely imitating a bunch of big babies, or maybe even a tiny pack of small inebriated elephants. It appeared as though they had just come from a party. Some of their shirts were drenched in sweat and they were bumping into tables left and right, many had even passed out in the booths, which I normally would’ve found seriously funny but I had a headache and those buttheads were only making it worse. At last we finished our meal and began to leave. As we walked out— but just before we got to the door—my friend turned around and yelled, “Sleep tight, ya oxymorons!”

background photos Delaney Garvey ‘21 | from NYC Series | Digital Photography

Liggett Upper School

Katriel Tolin ‘19

Mila Filipof ‘19

sometimes when you’re walking up to a lighthouse you don’t make it not because you’re out of shape but because there’s a baboon standing at the top of the stairs and you, my friend,

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Lighthouse Logan Merriweather ‘22 don’t need that in your life as you make your way down the stairs, your old pal—the baboon— makes his way down with you it is at this point that you wonder why you’re in this lighthouse anyways Bea Bernard ‘19 | Sunflower | Glass Mosaic

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AMelanieList of Amazing Things Zampardo ‘20 1. Hearing a song for the first time and immediately loving it 2. Walking outside and the summer breeze hits you 3. Finding out you and someone else hate the same thing and knowing you just found your new best friend 4. Uncontrollable laughing 5. When you completely guess on something and it turns out to be right 6. Snow days (the only acceptable time you get to sleep and watch T.V. all day) 7. When you’ve been trying to understand something for the longest time and it finally clicks 8. Double rainbows (what does it mean?) 9. People that let you finish their food 10. When your dreams are low-key binge-worthy 11. Chocolate 12. When a dog falls asleep on your lap 13. Warm blankets (especially on cold, winter days) 14. Taking an artsy picture and feeling like a professional photographer (VSCO worthy!) 15. Unicorns, in general 16. When people call you by the nickname you really like, but you never told them to 17. Friends you know you’ll be able to count on to jump off a cliff with you 18. The fact that when you spell “socks” out loud, you’re saying “it is what it is” in Spanish 19. Girl scout cookies (Thin Mints specifically) 20. When you sneeze and three different people say “bless you” so you feel like a celebrity 21. Zoning out and knowing you’re zoned out and have the power to zone back in but you don’t feel like it just yet 22. Ice skating on freshly zambonied ice 23. Taking a compliment 24. Dogs that stick their head out of the car window (bonus if their tongue is flying in the wind) 25. Teachers that grade things based on effort 26. Convenient plug outlets (to charge and snap simultaneously!) 27. Milk shakes—always chocolate (refer to number 11) 28. People that play with your hair 29. Going to Disney World (would be better to live there, but visiting works) 30. Thinking you lost something but later finding it 31. Coming home after a long time 32. People that understand your sarcasm 33. Beating your sibling (arch rival) at pretty much anything 34. When your writing takes up exactly one page

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Sophia Filipof ‘21 | Disney Dreams | Watercolor & Ink

Cassidy Suzor ‘22 | My Dog | Watercolor & Ink 19

Liggett Upper School 20

the moon glistens o n t h e l a ke . . . the windmills in Canada light up, f l a s h e s o f re d a n d wh i t e . . . w a v e s crash on windy days and the i c e b l a n ke t s t h e l a ke . . . t h e b l o o d re d , f i re - o r a n g e , l i l a c- p u r p l e sunrises stop cars

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Asphalt and Paint Nicole Rivera ‘19 Continuous, dark, mostly smooth. White segmented lines marking the division. A getaway from home, yet so close in proximity. Withstanding all seasons and taking the beatings of harsh winters—evident by the holes that form near the outer portions of the lanes. This road—Lakeshore to be specific, or Jefferson if you live in Detroit and St. Clair Shores—has seen more sides of me than even my family. How? Running adjacent to Lake St.Clair, Lakeshore has been with me through it all. Despite living on the road my whole life, it became more significant to my friends and me after we turned 16 and got our drivers’ licenses. There’s something about this road, especially at night; the way the moon glistens on the lake and the windmills in Canada light up in flashes of red and white across the horizon is captivating. The waves that crash up on windy days and the ice that blankets the lake during the cold winters are attributes to the scenery. The blood red, fire orange, and lilac purple sunrises that stop cars on side streets to take pictures often accompany me on my way to school in the mornings. Besides the views, Lakeshare provides a getaway. All you need is a car, some friends (optional), some music (also optional), but most importantly—yourself. Lakeshore has seen it all: tears from both laughing and crying, stress, anxiety, pure joy, and everything in between. Lakeshore has been there through heartbreaks, winning state championships, taking a study break from a big test, losing a playoff game, boredom, friendship, and love.

Lakeshore was there on the first official drive of summer: not knowing whether you passed or failed your last final but not a care in the world because you’re driving with the sunroof down belting out your favorite songs with your best friends. The cool lake air in contrast with the warm humid weather makes you yearn for the 12 weeks that lay ahead. Lakeshore was there after you played your last hockey game: the songs that grew to signify your team throughout the season playing to drown out the tears of you and the two best friends you made from the sport. The comforting feeling as you move along the road somehow makes the sadness better. More often than not, Lakeshore has given me a reason to not care about the bad. Lakeshore was the reason 8:30pm turned into 12:30am in what seemed like a matter of seconds. You get lost in the loops that take you up and down the road, no matter what you’re doing inside the car. As your car moves along the road, your mind is moving as well, but in a much less organized fashion. So Lakeshore. Simply a road composed of asphalt and paint. The simplest things in life can have the biggest meaning to a person. It seems that through all of these experiences, I would have my doubts about my reliance on Lakeshore. But from being there on the drive home from the hospital after I was born to being there with my best friends after I got accepted to my dream college, Lakeshore has seen it all. Somewhere exists the reason behind the amazing capabilities of this road, and one day, I hope to find it.

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Eye of the Beholder Walter Rowlands â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

W the hen I f to I fir I d ell fo rture st sa o t r s sh w h his om e e Th eve eo wou r, I j i n it s o ry e e ld ust no lse pu kn I st felt li ne th w a , a t m ew the arte ke t oug nd gai e th se d o her h, the n. rou he ff e w felt n. gh Ho art wit ou so . fel h m ld m tha wev t fe y be ew Wi t th er, I eli ap a c hat ng pr ha st I to th p is ju was s I oac ng ra re lain st w qu did h, e. nge t i t h a c i My e b ve snâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; k t ; bro oth mi t m o s sh rea a c n e h so h. of d a ean ee ad nin us nd t t an g i ap br o b art ok e. iPh s p en l . on ain he e, u to art nli see ke : me .

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Christina Brattain â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 | Easy As | Ceramic 23

Liggett Upper School

A Guide to Curing Both Childhood Boredom and a Refusal to Bathe Alyssa Hamilton ‘19 Who Can Play: Players should be females between the ages of 5 and 7. Players must have extremely active imaginations and be filled with the desire to be a fairy (bonus points to players who actively believe they are a fairy). Players should be in need of a bath—or shower if you prefer—and dread the necessary but brutal activity. What You’ll Need: • An average sized bathtub, preferably with a shower. It must be able to comfortably accommodate game player(s) and supplies seen below. • A collection of different-sized bowls taken from a small-ish kitchen with light brown cabinets and dark granite countertops (these should be from somewhere easily accessible for players, such as a large cabinet below the counter). Players should get large bowls for mixing as well as multiple small bowls to act as transfer devices. It is best if these are acquired with a bit of resistance from the parent/ guardian of player. • A large spoon used for cooking, preferably wooden, for each player. It is crucial that each player have her own; sharing is simply not an option. Spoons should be big enough that players must use two hands for optimal control. • A multitude of various soaps and bubble baths: try to find as many as you can in as little time as possible. Colorful soaps make the game more enjoyable for all, especially when it comes to clean-up.

1. After all of the materials are gathered, it is time to get started. Have a parent or guardian run the bath—or turn on the shower (players should try their best to make this part as difficult a possible by wanting to “help”). It is crucial that there not be too much water. Make sure there’s enough empty space to set the large bowl down and not have water flood.

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How to Play:

2. Set up materials: mixing bowls on the floor, transfer bowls ready to move water from the bath into the large mixing bowls until desired amounts acquired. Players should not be careful with this part; it is best to get as much water outside of the bath as possible. 3. Examine the array of soaps and bubbles to choose only the best. How much of each used depends entirely on the player at the time of playing: do what you think Tinkerbell would like best (in other words, the more the better). Mixing colors is encouraged. The goal is to make the bowl overflow with bubbles of unidentifiable colors. 4. After all desired ingredients are added, it is important to stir as much as possible for maximum bubbles. Splashing water out is fully within the rules—the messier the better. 5. Now: the potion is made! Enjoy! 6. Once the potion has served its purpose and is no longer of use, it is time to repeat, starting at the beginning. However, first you must discard the potion to ensure a blank canvas; this must be done in a very specific manner. Holding the bowl by the sides, flip it over as quickly and sloppily as possible. Bonus points are available for getting water all over the parent/guardian and/or the floor. Now that the player has a blank canvas, it’s time to start again. Repeat steps 2-6 to the heart’s content. Game is finished when fingers and toes resemble shriveled-up raisins.

Cassidy Suzor ‘22 | Abstract Puzzle | Acrylic

Liggett Upper School

a small house white and warm one that fits in the gaps between our bones our skin our pressed cheeks bigger than the spaces between our toes our knees our shoulder blades we dance in the place where my shoes fit spider fingers overlapping palms heartbeats slow like our blinking eyes white walls like the teeth in our gritty smiles cold blue tile floors like my body when it’s not with yours a creaky screen door outside oak trees for every glance you’ve given me dirty windows and water that is seventeen cartwheels away a porch made for splinters and wiping tears slivers of stomachs and hands on bony hips the place where my shoes fit not too snug ones that fit around my bones big enough for my toes I will dance in the place where my shoes fit

Where My Shoes Fit Allie Quint ‘19 Delaney Garvey ‘21 | Sunset | Digital Photography 26

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India Brooks â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Night & Day | Gouache 27

Liggett Upper School

Honor, Courage, Commitment Katherine Gray ‘20

My brother recently got through hell week in BUD/S—the brutal six-month training program for Navy Seals (Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training)—and they say that if you get through this agonizing week, the rest of the training is a walk in the park. For those of you who don’t know what happens during hell week, allow me to explain. From Sunday night to Friday afternoon, they’re only allowed four hours of sleep in total. Keep in mind that they’re partaking in twenty hours of physical activity and four hours of mental torture everyday. My brother said that one day they had to paddle around an island for ten hours in a typhoon with only three guys per boat. He also mentioned he was thrown into a pool with his arms and legs tied together and was given two minutes to untie the knots. He failed to mention to my parents that he actually passed out when he got out of the pool during his first try. By the end of the week, he had horrendous open wounds under his armpits from carrying logs for miles and miles, and his feet were so swollen that they looked like blown-up plastic gloves. In the first two months of my brother’s training, 96 people quit out of 180. That’s about twelve guys who dropped out per week. During hell week, twenty-two quit and eleven had to dropout due to medical reasons. Only forty guys left. What made these forty guys different from those who quit? Obviously SEALS are physically strong, but so were all of the guys who quit. To become a Navy SEAL the most crucial thing to have is mental strength. After hell week I asked my brother if he ever thought of quitting; he said that it never once crossed his mind. Teamwork is necessary when it comes to the boat paddling, but it’s vitally important in every aspect of the training. The whole point of having such a lengthy and intense training program is to strengthen and build camaraderie while weeding out the weakest. In order for the trainees to acquire the necessary abilities, they need to help one another get through the many grueling tasks. There is a great sense of honor when the lucky few finish. At the very end of the training, the commanding officers call everyone to the beach making them expect to endure yet another round of surf torture, when they link arms sitting on the shore while four-foot waves crash against them, filling their eyes, mouths and ears with sand and seawater. But instead, the commanders waved American flags and told the guys that they made it through the hardest week of their lives. There’s nothing they can’t do now. facing page Chloe Outland-Knickerbocker ‘21 | Block Print 28

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30 Liggett Upper School

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Hope Kulka â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | ARP 1: Portable Mural | Acrylic

Liggett Upper School

Dearest Sycamore Keri Inge-Marshall ‘19 It pains me to admit that it has been five months since I’ve seen you last. More time than I can count on my fingers and toes combined. As I navigate the land between youth and adulthood, I feel an inexplicable mix of emotions. I am lost. I can certainly assure you that if anything, I am scared to grow up. It’s not a terrifying fear, as though I’m getting chased with a rusty metal chainsaw, but more of a nagging one, lingering in the glands of my palms, pacing my heart. I don’t believe there is genuine panic; perhaps just a bit of static? I get awfully nauseous at static. I want to be moving as quickly as I can, and although I hate being plagued by stagnancy, it seems to follow me everywhere I go. Maybe it’s too deep to dig myself out of. Maybe I am too far away from my childhood— my toys, my swing set, my silly aspirations of having my first kiss under your very branches— but I’m not quite ready to file taxes, you know? It’s driving me mad. Absolutely mad. There have been some highlights in my life lately. Although they may seem small in retrospect, they’re very important to me. I tried a new Alfredo sauce on my tortellini the other day, and I saw a baby bird hatch from a calloused beige egg on the frayed tiles of my rooftop. I saw a swarm of ants gather around a piece of toast, even. I could smell the fig jam from 10 feet away. They lucked out on condiments. I watched Donnie Darko five times today— two more since the last time I wrote you— and I think I may get a tattoo with Frank’s infamous countdown until the end of the world as we know it. Just in time for spooky season. Of course, my mother would never allow it... but she doesn’t have to know. Maybe right behind the ear, under the streak of hair I burned with a flat iron yesterday? Maybe? Of course, though, with everything good, there comes an inherent bad. Not horrid, just a little bit to throw off your week. Like the tortellini staining my new plaid pants and a few of the ants crawling their way into the holes of my Converse soles, smelling the chocolate I had stepped in prior to my arrival. Or like the French homework I currently have swarming around my head, which is quelle tragique to say the least. Today, even, I spent an hour staring at the sun wishing it

You seemed to me like pure, unrelenting magic. Your dew was the prettiest thing in the world, the droplets and the wet bark smelling like mist; you embodied what I believe a fairy to be like, emitting enchanting energy. I remember I once found my pregnant kitten under your bushes as she lept from my two-story window and plopped into the thorns like the lazy oaf she is. Pulling out the thorns from her fur was such an awful experience; I’ll never forgive you for that one. Or another memory; a baby bird still born, small and decrepit. I was 8. Its small body broken, presented as if your roots were putting on a show. The bird stayed there for god knows how long, sprinkled with soft snow residue. Tears still linger on my cheeks when I think about it, just as they do when I think of you.

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would bake me alive so that I could avoid the look of disappointment on Madame’s face when my presentation was 50 seconds shorter than required. But much to my dismay, the sun passed by as it always does. And I just lay. For a while perhaps. And I thought of how you used to lay with me.

You brought me great stability; I wonder, will I be lost without you? I am scared to move halfway across the country, 2025 miles, away from you. I will be lonely—I am already lonely. Even now, only 2 minutes away, and I still do not make the time. I never make the time. I’m sorry you are not able to come with me. I am sorry for leaving you to rot, sad and imobile, the lingering of cracked wings stuck inside every thorn you have. I am sorry I presented you with the premise of death rather than the livelihood you could have by my side. But you see, you are likely too much for me. Your trunk too thick, your limbs too long, your leaves overgrown into places they should not. At night your spindly fingers extend to tap at neighboring windows as you and the howling wind dance in the moonlight. A tap that reassures of a larger presence, larger than the listener, and without it they’d be as lost as I am without you. You are big and you are not mine. You are larger than life, the connection between my youth and my adulthood, and you will never be mine. You do not belong to me, yet part of me will always belong with you.

Lily Xu ‘19 | Mixed Media

Your Loving Friend, Keri 33

rit t l ‘19 er s Ma rsh al

and I have nowhere to hide

Ke r i In ge -

id C

the house on the corner smells like seaweed

Orc h

Liggett Upper School

there’s a copper moth in my headlights

Delaney Garvey ‘21 | Light Drops | Digital Photography 34

Gabrielle Awada â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22 | Language Dinner | Watercolor & Ink

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Liggett Upper School

Douglas Wood ‘22 If you leave take my heart and every one of its pieces

Bella Meredith ‘22 sometimes when life gets messy and stressful and you look up into the deep, dark night sky it seems quiet and lonely until you look at the moon and realize they might be looking too and then the quiet bad things fade away 36

Aidan McFarlane ‘21 | Digital Photography

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Memphis Grifﬁn ‘22 our story ended quick and abrupt with so many unanswered questions it felt like a movie ending and I left praying for a sequel

Ava Said ‘22 drowning in emotion and regret can kill one faster than any wave in the ocean

Grace Gover-LaParl‘22 what would it be like if we used our hearts on fire to melt the plastic in our brains? what would it be like if we found our old selves and soaked them up again

Walter Rowlands ‘22 we do not idolize those who are fearless but rather those who are the best at hiding how scared they really are

Liggett Upper School

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Charlie Amine â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Collage

Liggett Upper School

Caterpillar Patrick Illitch ‘20

It feels like just yesterday everything in my life was destroyed. I had gone to the doctor to be tested for what my mother said was mono, which was probably from sharing the drinking fountains at school. The nurse drew my blood after poking me with the needle three times to find my vein. I smiled to myself, thinking about how I used to shake and be so scared of needles; now they don’t even faze me. After leaving the hospital with purple bruises on the inside of my elbows, my mom bought me vanilla ice cream with sprinkles, my favorite. She felt bad for me at the time, and I complained about the pain, but I had no idea what was to come. I remember the whispers of my parents in our kitchen late at night after the doctors came back with my blood test results, after they tucked me in and said goodnight. I went in afraid they would have to poke me with more needles, but my mom said we were just going to talk to the doctor at this appointment. I remember when I never worried about going to the doctors; I actually liked going. The walls of the rooms covered with all these pictures of butterflies that reminded me of when I was young and got a butterfly net for my birthday. I spent the rest of the summer outside, catching as many as I could, and creating a home for them. At the end of the day, my dad and I would let any that I caught for that day go. He told me Isabelle Brusilow ‘19 | Tempera

that when you have something so beautiful, it is selfish to capture and hide the beauty of it from the world. He called me his Butterfly. Now I’m lying here in bed as they crowd around me, tubes punctured into my arms, not a strand of hair on my head. I used to have beautiful hair. It was long and dark brown and wavy. I used to think about how I would probably never see my old hair again and would get really upset, but with time, with one relapse after another, it’s all become rather trivial. I’ve learned how to not be affected by minuscule details like my eyebrows being gone or that when I get to see my brother he has to wear a mask to cover his mouth so I don’t get sick. If I spent the last few years worrying about small things, I would be even more depressed than I already am. So I taught myself not to care that I couldn’t race the boys at recess and that I spend more time in a hospital room with doctors than with my friends. They visit me every once in a while, but life is different than it was when I first heard the word cancer. My brother has come to visit with my parents every single day. They have to. It’s their fault I’m alive. They have to sit with me every day of my miserable life. But my brother, he was younger. He didn’t fully understand. Still though, Emma Wujek ‘19 | Tempera

CJ Morris ‘19 | Tempera

I can barely move because I feel so weak. I haven’t been able to have a real, good meal in what seems like an eternity. My mom gets up from her chair and comes over to me. She has gotten so much grey hair since I lost mine. She caresses my face with her cold hands, whispers, “I love you.” She goes back to sit down and starts talking to my dad. My mind drifts off in thought... maybe it’s the pain meds, maybe just my weird imagination, but I look out the window at the cars below and can only think about one thing: if I’m going to die, I want to give my family some good last words. Maybe to laugh at, or maybe to cry, I’m not sure. I just know one thing: they have to be good. My thoughts are interrupted as the nurse walks in and starts talking with my mom. They think I am asleep, but I can hear the murmurs as the nurse asks, “How is she doing? Still asleep?” “Yeah... she seems a bit better today. She hasn’t gotten up through the night at all these past two days...” My mother spends every night at the hospital, even when she had to work early in the morning.

“Can I get you anything, coffee? Water?” My mom replies, like always, “No thank you, I’m fine.” The nurse finally walks out after a few seconds of the saddest face she can make. She is the young nurse, my favorite, the one who had a baby boy when she was a junior in high school and stayed in school just so he could have a normal life. She is always extra gentle, especially with the needles, and helps a little more than any other doctors or nurses. When she changes my IV she tells me stories to distract me from the large needle. She even makes me laugh sometimes, which helps to slow down the time that seems to be slipping away so fast. She told me about her dad’s last words, which got the idea in my mind. She told me that he was very old and suffering f r o m Eva Papista ‘19 | Tempera schizophrenia. The last thing he

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his teacher had every kid in his class make me a card telling me how strong and beautiful I was. But after awhile, they stopped making the cards. Only so many things can be said, I guess. I feel selfish that my parents have had to miss so much of my brother’s childhood. I always come first now. I don’t even want to think about what he will do after I’m gone.

Kaitlyn Lee ‘19 | Tempera

Liggett Upper School

said to her was, “I feel that I am at the end of Earth. ” “What?” she replied, as he fell asleep. But he never responded. I wondered if I would know just the right moment to say what I wanted to say, or if I would just have to take my chances and guess. I hoped for the first scenario. I thought for hours and hours, day after day, to come up with just what I wanted to say and be remembered by. She had told me that story months ago, but I still think about it. Every time I think I have the words perfected, I find a flaw and have to restart. I used to be sad that I was so unlucky. I had to come to terms with the fact that I had to do what is my biggest fear. Dying used to scare me, just like getting my blood drawn. Now it’s something I’m almost excited for. I realize that sounds dark, but when you are in my position, any relief from pain is something to look forward to. Through the constant cycles of chemo, I don’t remember the last time I wasn’t vomiting, fatigued, or even remotely happy. It seems like I cannot be in a worse state physically, but mentally I am. That is why death almost seems like a relief. I considered speeding up the process, but I cannot do that to my family, especially my brother. I wouldn’t know how, anyways. My brother walks in, still carrying his backpack from school. It looks new, all black with camouflage straps. He runs to the side of my bed, smiling and holding his painting he made at school. “Elly! Elly! Look what I made you. Do you like it?” I look down at what he put in my lap. At first I can’t make it out. I stare at it for a second more before looking back at his innocent smile. He says, “It’s me and you, Elly! But this time I had to get the shot!” I look again at the painting and start to see shapes: a girl with long brown hair, a young short boy with a bald head. A tear slowly travels down my face, and my mom shoots from her chair to see at what has me in awe. Charlie knows how much I used to fear needles. He used to hold my hand when I cried,

kiss the bruises that they left behind. Now I don’t even give them a second look. He looks up at me and says, “If I can be strong so can you Elly!” He doesn’t quite understand that the needle doesn’t matter anymore; it’s dying that I needed to be strong for. My dad, who had walked in behind my brother, he had the biggest smile I’d seen since the day before I was admitted here. I look from him to Charlie, my absolute favorite soul on Earth, and then to my mother. She is crying, and as Charlie sees her tears his face shows concern. I can tell he thinks he did something wrong, something to make her sad. He thinks I’m here because I want to be, like how he wants to go to school. Looking at this painting, created by hands half the size of mine, helps me realize that the line between life and death shouldn’t be scary. It’s a small fear, like needles, needing to be overcome. Death is the only thing promised in life. Every person since the beginning of time had to die, and once you die, your story is told—and then people move on. I realize that dying isn’t my real concern; being forgotten is. This is why my last words have to be perfect. I can’t have a miserable life and suffer so much just to be forgotten. I begin to feel light-headed. “Can I get some water?” I ask my dad. “Of course Butterfly.” He walks out of the doorway in a hurry. I scan the room. I can tell my mom is asking Charlie about every detail in his painting, but I do not hear them. I start to feel very strange. The window to my left shows an aerial view of the parking lot. I never got the chance to drive. The weather looks nicer now. The rain seemed to stop as soon as my brother came into the room with his painting. He is the ray of sun my that keeps my family together and sane. The sky slowly changes, from a dark grey to a welcoming baby blue. My dad walks back in the room holding a plastic cup with a bendy straw. I feel groggy and my vision starts to blur. “I’ve been struggling... to find the right words...” I try to take the cup from his hands, struggling to even keep my breathe. “I want you to always remember me... remember that just when the caterpillar thinks it’s world is over, it becomes a beautiful butterfly.”

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Hope Kulka â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Acrylic

Lily Xu â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Graphite

Liggett Upper School

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I’ll Keep Writing Jada Moore ‘21 As the sun keeps shining And my brother smiling And the rain keeps raining I’ll be skating While my family’s living And I keep breathing No more crying; I’ll keep writing.

Lily Xu ‘19 | Oil & Paper 43

Liggett Upper School

Alyssa Hamilton â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 you are the feeling in my stomach when the roller coaster finally drops you are the constant fight between my mind wanting to stay and my body wanting to run you are a sunny day after what seemed like a thousand rainy ones you are the smile creeping on my face as iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m trying to stay mad i am a child who lost her mother in the grocery store i am your grandmaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favorite vase that you broke and tried to put back together i am the last week of school before summer vacation that seems to last forever i am sitting alone in a crowded room we can be the strands of hair intertwined to form a braid we can be the light at the end of the dark high school hallway we can be late night drives we can be something

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Margaret Hartigan â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;20 | Acrylic

Liggett Upper School

Resilience Tiara Whitely ‘19

The narrative of the “strong independent black woman” dismisses our ability and our right to have feelings. It instead paints a picture of us having crowbars as spines where we must see about everyone else… yet no one sees about us. To be a black woman is to face discrimination in many forms from many different groups How our lips, hair, hips, and thighs are sexualized and fetishized; How our features are deemed unattractive on us but praised when they’re on women of a different race, as if the beauty we were born with does not belong to us. How we are expelled from schools and not given jobs because of the hair or the name we were born with. To have them look at us as if “Angry” was our first name and “Black Woman” was our last. To be disrespected in the public eye but “appreciated” behind closed doors for reasons that aren’t PG but I digress. The narrative that we are incapable of being loved by people outside of our race and how we are sell outs to our own people when dating outside of our race, as if it’s not evident that many black men in today’s society degrade black women just to show that he favors someone else... as if his affection for her was not enough. They mistreat us as if they didn’t come from a black woman’s womb and fed from a black woman’s nipple but again, I digress. How we are inaccurately represented in the media. How Amandla Stenberg and Zoe Saldana are receiving roles meant for Skai Jackson and Lupita Nyong’o. How the dark skin black girl is always the ghetto best friend... How makeup brands have 30 shades of light and 3 shades of dark. I heard Mammy, Jezebel, and Sapphire are still alive and well. Walking, talking and breathing.

We are survivors that have experienced unimaginable pain yet we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let our downfalls define us. Our voices have power like no other, capable of blowing down the walls built by our oppressors and allowing us to execute our progressive intentions with compelling grace. Our contributions to society, alone, are countless, proving how essential our existence is and our ability to handle any hardship in our lives is proof that we are a force to be reckoned with.

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However, despite the endless obstacles we face everyday, we stand tall. We are driven beyond belief. We are a body of phenomenal conquerors. Constantly evolving, supporting one another, and sharing our stories. We keep moving forward, rising to the occasion, possessing a confidence and ambition that goes unmatched.

Despite the deprivations, We are beautiful. We are magical. We are resilient.

Egypt Brooks â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Digital Photography 47

Liggett Upper School

Syrena Hope Kulka ‘19

Hope Kulka ‘19 | Syrena | Digital Illustration 48

Dean Xi ‘20 | Block Print

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Gabrielle Awada ‘22 | Yarn

Liggett Upper School

The Mystery of My Blood Dakota Jones ‘20

in the style of “Child of the Americas” by Aurora Levins Morales I am a child of a confused love The love-child of a wounded marriage My identity is one of love, pain, sex, and secrets African coursing through me, in remembrance of their pain This is absolutely for sure The rest of my history was kept a secret until I could understand Russian burning through my veins like a sharp shot of vodka Native Americans who first inhabited this land A culture in my mold, at least from what I was told I could not make out the truth of what my blood holds, I am not the best Christian, though it coils through my history I am not unsure anymore, my identity is not mystery I am not a child of a cold cut marriage from above But honestly her passionate nights were more true than their ‘love’ Regardless of ‘truth’ I am a creation of migration, My love for my own self-discerned culture has only grown I’ve stopped looking for answers, and simply accepted I’m a beautiful mix of worlds that may be untold

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Keri Inge-Marshall â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Cerulean | Digital Photography 51

Liggett Upper School

Broken Volume Button Anjini Chaddha ‘21

sometimes the world feels too loud. you remember when you were little and your parents took you to a party but the adults just talked without you and they were all so tall and it got so late and your eyes could barely stay open and the thoughts in your head moved like syrup thick and sticky and you couldn’t make sense of anything and all you wanted was to leave but everyone around you just kept talking? that’s what it feels like. sometimes when it’s too loud, i close my eyes. but the dark only makes everything sharper and brighter and scarier and the stuff inside my head, the stuff that still moves in the dark, is just as loud as what’s outside. so i open my eyes again, because the world is always too loud, and sooner or later i guess i’ll get used to the noise.

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William Higbie â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | from NYC Sketchbook | Mixed Media

Liggett Upper School

Sanguine Brooke Hudson ‘19 “Would you say you are more of a hunter or a gatherer?” The chair creaked as I leaned back. It would be so easy to reach out and straighten her crooked nose. A quick crackand then I’d be able to concentrate. I arranged my features to communicate the thoughtful tenacitylisted in the job description. But the United States of America couldn’t care less about how I would feed myself should I ever leave the home of the brave; they’ve got bigger fish to fry. I lied like a dog. I spouted something about how being the hunter is so much responsibility, and balancing it with gathering is the way to go so you don’t have to kill so many animals. If only that’s how it really worked. If they were honest, everyone would choose to be the hunter. Take control before it’s taken from you. But I didn’t want to seem bloodthirsty or weak, so I capitalized on my a bove-average decision-making skills. It worked. I had no doubt it would. I’d only been there a week when I started counting down the days until I could quit. The colleagues didn’t help. In addition to a thief and not-so-secret nose picker, I met a small woman named Lisa. She was to help me acclimate to my new role in Intelligence. She wore loose, shapeless pencil skirts and had mousy brown hair. She looked like the type of woman who would rather listen than speak. I saw a lot of myself in her. “Do you have any questions about what you can tell your family?” she had asked. “That would imply I have family to tell.” “You don’t?” “My mom died one week before the leak.” She stopped short and looked at me, opened her mouth and then shut it. She wanted me to speak, to say anything, but I had the power and I intended to keep it. She kept her eyes on the ground and moved towards me, wrapping her arms around me. I wanted to lean on her. I wanted to tell her how I stopped eating after my mom died and lost ten pounds. I wanted to tell her how I couldn’t get out of bed when Eugene Petrov told the public that the government had withheld the cure. That it could have saved my mom. I wanted to tell Lisa what I planned to do—how I was so

scared I couldn’t breathe. But I didn’t move. When she pulled away and stopped patting my back, she finally looked into my eyes. Her mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed as she gripped my shoulders. “This is not a game. Do you hear me? This is your life you’re playing with. Whatever you’re doing—” I wrenched out of her grip. She brought her arms back to her side and straightened herself. She looked at me a beat longer and then nodded. She turned swiftly, and I listened to the dull thuds of her sensible heels on the carpeted floor. The nose picker brought a thick manila folder to my cubicle. I waited until he turned away from me to vigorously pump Purell into my hands. When he turned to face me, I gave him my widest smile as I rubbed in the ethyl alcohol. He stopped and clenched his fists before knitting his brows together and walking out. I couldn’t resist wondering which hand he preferred to go digging with. Lisa told me he tried to get her fired when she first arrived. I thought he should know the nice guy act didn’t work on me. I turned my attention to the folder. So far I’d done little more than bring important men coffee and pretend to be deaf as they discussed matters of national security, so it was unusual

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when she could just live on daddy’s money? I flipped through painful high school pictures to the policy proposals. The one at the top was stamped “Denied.” Lisa apparently didn’t believe that Americans deserved to know that their Smart Glasses could be tapped into by the government. They probably wouldn’t care anyway. I flipped through several more pages until I came to one marked with a red X at the top. This one had been approved. My hands went numb as my eyes climbed over the words. My vision was blurring and I could hear the blood in my ears. Suddenly, I was no longer the hunter— that was Lisa. She had the power I’d always wanted, that I came here for. But she used hers to help kill my mother. Over the roaring in my ears I became aware of the familiar Lucy Barnowske ‘19 | My Boy | Acrylic sound of dull heels in my cubicle. “Hey... the that I would be given a task requiring brain power. closet’s all of out of band aids.” I flipped the folder to read the tab that read Lisa She came closer. I kept my voice even, my Pﬁzer. back turned. “Is that so? My breath quickened. “Yes. Apparently America can’t afford to After her warning, Lisa and I had been keep band aids stocked. Do you have any?” getting along much better: she had come into my I said nothing as I reached into my desk,as cubicle the day after as if nothing had happened, I set out the flimsy box without meeting her eyes. and I went along with it. I needed her to keep “I suppose these paper-cuts are to be helping me, and she wasn’t terrible company expected,” she said. A sudden motion caught during lunch. But now, I felt light-headed—this folder was Lisa’s employee profile. Opening it my eye: a single drop of blood had disrupted the would show me everywhere she’d been, everyone clean, white expanse of the desktop. She, however, she’d spoken to, and the policy proposals she’d did not notice, and went about the business of approved. The United States government was bandaging her index finger. “I must say you are adjusting very well. You nothing if not thorough. seem to have a handle on how things work.” She seemed to have had a very comfortable She paused; the silence begged that I fill it, childhood. There were cooks, nannies, and trips to but I simply cast my eyes to the blood and licked Paris. Had her silver spoon somehow rusted, leaving her penniless and in need of a job? Why work here my lips.

Liggett Upper School

Bode Neumeister â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

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Nihilism Izabella Mileham ‘22 They say my generation thinks nothing matters That all we care about is the screen But know: our thoughts of nothing mattering matters more to us than most would think For if nothing matters, then it doesn’t matter what she was wearing, she still said no. It doesn’t matter if he feels guilty and is only a “child” [a child doesn’t shoot up schools], he still killed murdered seventeen people during school. So we take to the streets Our belief never wavering that if everything means nothing, Then it doesn’t matter what their excuse is, They still hurt, they still killed There is still blood on their ledger that will never be erased So yeah, Maybe nothing matters But that just motivates us more So watch, As we march, As we protest, As we change the world And wonder When did the phrase nothing matters Ever become such powerful motivation And not the insult you intended it to be We Change Their Poison Into Our Favorite Drink

Liggett Upper School

Blue Book

Mila Filipof ‘19

“Remove the seal and begin. Good luck.”

Tick-

I am beginning to feel sick

-tock.

Why do I have writer’s block?

Write something, anything. A name, a date, the fact that the main character is homesick.

Tick-

The arm of the clock has moved halfway from once it came And I’m sorry to say, I don’t remember that important name

-tock.

Tick-

Focus.

Breathe.

You will do fine. You still have time to finish this climb, But something is stopping me All I hear is this droning tick-tock And all I wonder is if it will ever—

“Stop.” 58

Relax.

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Anna McCauley â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

60 Liggett Upper School

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Mary Weiermillerâ&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Make-up

Liggett Upper School

Bea Bernard â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Digital Photography 62

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Blue

Allie Quint ‘19

On the southern tip of the island, peeling baby blue buildings lie sun-dried, and pearly white yachts stay for the summer. Here you will find women, ones made for men. Their mouths hold words that are meant for whispers. Each one with perky cheeks and botox-filled noses. Thin creamy black lines behind stringy eyelashes. Fresh polish on each toe and wrists soaked in perfume. You will find men made for families. Tanned skin and beers in hand. Adjusting lines on docks and boasting about their newest investment. Seersucker shorts and cigars between lips. Rumors of affairs hidden behind thick silver wedding bands and Christmas cards. Sunset means wine-stained lips pressing into flasks kept in clutches. Freckled chests and sun-kissed shoulders bending over sinks. Red painted fingertips pushing Hampton pink lipstick into the crevices of their pursed lips. Sport coats and polos, spaghetti straps and shawls. Kids sneaking candy out of mom’s purse. Wrinkled palms clapping to the live cover band and gripping dresses in fistfuls. Cork wedges and espadrilles shuffle on the wooden floor. Dirty looks shoot across humid ballrooms. Drunken smiles are exchanged amidst white table cloths and shiny centerpieces. Midnight means speeding rickety golf carts with boys hanging off the sides. Girls on laps and stolen beers in the glovebox. Bonfires made of old boxes and dock planks. Sneaking into the parties held by college kids home for the summer. Tangled hair beneath

sweatshirt hoods and chapped lips singing off-key. Blankets over shoulders and secret kisses in old boat garages. Long talks on playground swings. Rolled up jeans. Dirtstained feet. Sunrise means soft rays over white fences. Tipsy smiles sipping lukewarm coffee and lemon water. Floppy hats over bleached hair. Dogs on pink leashes and golf carts in a row. Tennis rackets vibrating like bumblebees. Empty old wine glasses scatter the poolside. Kids riding scooters and bicycles on bumpy docks. Men scrubbing the pearly yachts top to bottom. American flags line the edges of the fence. Behind the pastel cottages lie small fishing boats with lone men. Sleepy teens with leftover pizza in hand. Radios buzz with the words of captains. Midday sun means clanging of the pool’s gate door. Kids with chlorine-soaked hair and life-ackets. Pizza sauce smiles. Boats pulling tubes down the channel with faint joyful screams. Sunscreen bottles on hot lawn chairs and golf balls pinging. Fresh cut lawns and makeup-free faces. Teens racing jet skis and dads sharing drinks. The smell of grease and herbs escape the kitchen and waitresses carry plates on each arm line the pool. Women in big sunglasses and designer swimsuits sip margaritas. Long walks out to hidden bridges found by sunburnt teens. Kisses and damp towels on wet rocks. Bandaids on elbows. Card games under umbrellas. Sunset again. And again. And again. It means as much—or as little—as it can.

Liggett Upper School

An Open Letter to Anxiety Alyssa Hamilton ‘19

Everyone has experienced you at least once. Everyone knows that feeling of a pit forming in the bottom of their stomach, the pool of sweat developing in their palms. We all have those things that make us nervous, those people that give us butterflies. A little bit of you is normal, everyone knows you, everyone has felt you. You and excitement come hand in hand and excitement is one of the great things in life. Me and you fight a lot; you try (and succeed too often) to take the control away from me. You have become so normal that I sometimes forget what to do without you. I stay home because you tell me too—I want to go out but you say we should stay in and cry about everything we are missing out on. I want to meet new people—you tell me all of the reasons why it is a bad idea. You make sure I know all of the things that could go wrong before I make any decisions. You help me analyze every situation and understand why, even after we go through all of the worst possible scenarios, it’s always a bad idea. We have endless midnight conversations about all the embarrassing things I did throughout the day and plan to avoid eye contact with everyone the next day in fear of them remembering that one time I laughed a little too loud at 12:28 on a Tuesday in October. We like to talk about boys—well, it’s mostly you talking and me agreeing. You tell me all the reasons why I shouldn’t ever approach a cute boy and start a conversation. You help me take in every detail of every look, sentence, snapchat; we consider it all and tend to come to the same conclusion every time. You remind me of who (you say) I am. You keep me in check. We have known each other for a long time. We talk constantly. Some would say that makes us best friends, but quite honestly that is the farthest thing from the truth. You are like a leech I just can’t get rid of, constantly sucking the life out of me. You are the itch I can’t reach; you are always there. You consume me. But mark my words: one day I will reach just far enough and then—you’ll be gone. I’ll be back in control.

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Lucy Barnowske â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Music | Acrylic

Liggett Upper School

Happy?

Meeena Pandrangi â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 morning i wake up i go to school i put on a smile i

Lily Xu â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Past, Present, Future | Oil

sit in class watch everyone else is different than me my skin a different color clothes a different style i feel uncomfortable in my own skin i dont feel like i fit in i go home check my phone quiet i go to bed i stare at the ceiling i feel like no one likes me like no one will ever accept me for who i am and i wonder i wonder are we happy 66

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Dean Xi ‘20 | Watercolor & Ink

Invisible Neighbor Reese Martin ‘21

There’s an echo ringing in his chest A piercing scream that fills his head The rhythm of another life forced To the whisper of shallow breath

The sky brings down the moon and stars Deep markings in an old man’s scars But cold night air still feels the same His skin aged solid, his nerves lay sparse

There is a smile upon his face A stamp used to fill an empty space The fleeting thoughts of a troubled man Masked behind a daunting haze

Till deep in the shadows a noise so faint The beating drum of a life so quaint A melody sparks the tiny pulse: The constant yearning of a lonely heart 67

Liggett Upper School

Stella by Starlight Astana Gaffney ‘20

Somewhere far out in the North Atlantic Ocean sailed an old French captain. His former years smelled of sea water and adventure, yet as years flew by his age hindered him more and more. As he grew old, he found himself immersed in adventures below the sea rather than above it. Captain Jacque found himself preoccupied with the ocean’s secrets which swam where light could not reach. Despite the captain’s initial hesitation, Fizz—a brash sailor with an affinity for jazz music— accompanied him. They traveled in an old submarine called Lennon; the infrequent shrieking of metal was the only giveaway of its age. At exactly 23:00, sometime during the summer of 1966, the submarine rested in darkness 20,000 leagues beneath the ocean’s surface. The desaturated yellow paint clung to the walls as the ship swayed gently in the water. Captain Jacque peered out of a window into the abyss. Particles floated like little stars in a galaxy. The sea is not unlike outer space, thought the old seafarer. Both worlds remain uncharted darkness and are dauntingly beautiful. A world above and a world below, both just out of reach. Captain Jacque laid his head on the glass and closed his eyes, resting his hands on his lap, content to sit by the window for eternity. The room, usually full of movement, seemed on pause as everything stilled. The majority of the submarine was littered with artifacts from old ship wreckage. Shells scattered the floor and dust seemed drawn to every piece of furniture. Crates upon crates were stacked in every room. 17th-century paintings hung along the walls in erratic patterns. Captain Jacque’s prized possession, a taxidermied tiger shark, hung proudly along the main hallway. The beast and captain had fought many years ago. The result: a dagger lodged in the shark’s eye. Out of the silence, a crackle interrupted the dreamy atmosphere. In the dimly lit hallway stood Fizz, the skilled fisherman who had only just seen 25 years. He kneeled down, tongue sticking out in a boyish manner, fiddling with the knobs on an old radio. The machine sat idly for a moment

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Keelin Dailey ‘21 | Digital Photography before letting out a burst of static. With slight tuning, the rough static melted into a smooth honeylike voice. “Stella by Starlight” echoed throughout the submarine; the steady vibrato soothed the Captain, his eyes sagged with fatigue. From the hallway Fizz let out a small sigh before dropping into a chair, his legs splayed as he shut his eyes, embracing slumber. Both seamen sat quietly listening to the silky music. The old radio occasionally puffed out bouts of static, as if it grew tired from all the work it endured just to bring the song to life. A deep sleep surrounded the ship as the occupants were lulled back to distant memories long forgotten. 69

Liggett Upper School

Alyssa Jones â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;21 | Watercolor & Ink 70

Sleep

When sleeping, his eyes lay still, free from flutter and virtuosity. His lips are still, protruding and silent, robustly different from his (awaken!) state.

To stay awake I use my might, but still I toss and turn at night. And as I start to drift away… through windows creeps the morning light.

Keri Inge-Marshall ‘19

In wake he is the embodiment of destruction; his eyes breathe fire and his mouth plays tricks. His smile is full of greed and malice, while his manner is belligerent. But here, here, he’s as good as dead. His breathing slows His manner milds. And he looks like a child, still riddled and mystified by simplicity.

Victor Tawansy ‘19

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4800 Meters

Depression: keeps me feeling grey. Obsession: alone as I play. To change, what is there I can do? I hope that this is just a phase. Only aware once coffee brews. Under my eyes is turning blue. A sleep deprived young highschool teen. I don’t want to continue. Living completely off caffeine: an unsustainable routine. When I close my eyes, what I’ve seen; my cruel lit up computer screen.

Possibly, still, even human.

Liggett Upper School 72

GraveMaxMistakes Weigel ‘20 I had an encounter with Death a week ago. He came to my door and politely asked to come inside. I agreed under the condition that he might touch nothing. He agreed, smiling warmly. When he passed me, I looked at him closer. He was near my size but had a bit of a stoop which made him smaller than he truly was without it. He was old, but not in the decaying, pitiful way. Rather, he was old as a kind grandparent might be, with a child sitting on their lap, cooing to them. Only his eyes remained hidden from mine, smothered in shadow by silver hair and a large, featureless hat that matched the subdued black suit he wore. After peering at him, for a moment, I glanced outside. He had come to my home in a large, old car, a Thunderbird being its official name. I knew it to be one because my aging father owned the exact same model, only this one was slathered in white instead of an earthy red, and looked as though it might gallop off if its master had not ordered otherwise. Coming inside, the master had made himself comfortable. He now sat before a series of documents, most but not all with fine print attached, and there was a new addition to his outfit: dark sunglasses which replaced the shadows created by the now-discarded hat. He wore them in spite of the chilling conditions outside. “For your sake,” he said warmly when I asked. “I don’t like frightening away those I work with, no need for that to come between us. I’m nothing if not good-hearted in my dealings and would be deeply disappointed should you remain frightened during the process.” When we began the formal bit he introduced himself not by name, but the job he did. I told him mine, which surprised him. He claimed that my father was due to meet him, not his child. I told him that my father was unable to due to his health, and that he had bequeathed all matters regarding the legal side to me.

The gentleman nodded sagely, a slight frown on his face. “Yes. That will be an inconvenience though. I almost certainly need to have the person who has the appointment to be here, otherwise there might be unforeseen consequences.” He sighed. I told him, again, that all legal matters were delegated to me. I would be just as effective as my father. He apologized; he didn’t intend to offend. “I merely wish for the best understanding between all parties involved.” I accepted his in turn. “Now here,” he said, pushing forward the first sheet. “The necessary documentation. Be certain to treat them all with care. As much as you might in a life-ordeath situation.” I did so. Every box: checked. Every line: written upon when required. When I had a question, he answered slowly and patiently, yet still in a warm manner that did not betray even a hint of mocking. The final paper was different; only two questions remained on an otherwise empty white sheet. When I looked up to the man before me, I asked their meanings. “Well,” he replied, ever smiling. “This one,” tapping the first, “dictates whether or not the soul is compelling itself to either paradise or damnation posthumously. The reader will be forced to sign what they truly deserve, and should anyone else mark it, dire consequences will follow.” He tapped the other. “This requires a simple signature. Your father’s, to be exact.” Again I uttered that all such legal matters were to be delegated to me. Father said as much. When I signed, his face grew disappointed. When I asked him what was the matter, he simply shook his head, slowly shook my hand, and ambled off. After being hit by a car the next day and dying, I asked one question: “Why?” He responded sorrowfully. “Because,” Death whispered, slipping off sunglasses to reveal my own eyes staring at me, “you had control over all legal matters. But you had no claim of anybody’s soul bar your own.”

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India Brooks â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | In the Meantime | Gouache 73

Liggett Upper School

Constantinople Keri Inge-Marshall â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19

i. construction a silken scarlet fabric hung to dry, colored by holly berries and smelling of sour tartar and lemongrass its weaving by nimble fingers on golden spinning looms one by one, each woman in sync rosy cheeks grazing the sunlight with simple hymns and gathering circles sewing until their fingers grew numb and their glinting thread grew strained.

India Brooks â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Mask Off | Mixed Media

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ii. attire there was a red hat stationed amongst a head of wild curls the color of passion masked under chubby smiles and playful giggles brighter than the others, burning like hot crimson amongst burning coals soon becoming a statement of fury ruby and striking, like blood along a sword, slipping into leather handles the stitching a bit frayed, nipping around the rim in small irregular patterns. the topping with a smidge of smut and dirt, tampered in cobblestone streets. iii. Separation the cloth smelling of smoke and desperation, reeking of dilapidation and loneliness, underneath meters of ash and a head of wild curls 75

Liggett Upper School

7/26/2012 Katriel Tolin ‘19

My mom was sick that morning. She never gets sick; as she corralled my siblings and me to the front door with a red, peeling nose and tissue in hand, I could sense her distress. She called out, “have a good day munchkins,” closing the door as we piled into my aunt’s car. “Good morning, angels!” My aunt grinned as she waited for us to get in our seats. We were already late for school. My cousin, Zion, began to brag about the donut his mom bought him before they came to pick us up. Through the mess of crumbs falling out of his mouth he asked his mom to turn on the radio. She landed on 102.7, gospel. Zion seemed satisfied with this choice and continued with excitement about his jelly-filled donut. My younger sister seemed more interested in the mess on his face than the story of his donut. As we pulled out of my driveway I gazed through the window and listened to the radio, not paying attention to the repetitive call-andresponse lyrics, rather focusing on the sounds of the instruments. The badum-tish of the drums, the toot-toot of the saxophone, the doo— BREAKING NEWS: a 17-year old black man has been killed in an act authorities are saying was self-defense. Sources say a Florida teen was shot by a man who saw him suspiciously walking through his neighborhood with his hood on. We will update as we receive more information. —wop of the horns. I looked around the car to see if anyone else heard what I did. Zion was still babbling through shallow, mouth-filled breaths, and my sister was barely listening to him. My brother sat silent in the front seat reading a book. No one seemed to notice. The radio returned to gospel music, and I went back to gazing out the window. If no one else was concerned, then I had no cause either. My aunt began to hum along to Kirk Franklin’s “I Smile.” The soft croon of her mmmm-mmmm eased my apprehension as I focused on the familiar scenery of my daily commute. I noticed a bird had made its nest in the E of a Walgreens sign on the intersection outside of my subdivision. It didn’t seem to mind the needles sticking out of the dent in each letter or the red light casting— UPDATE: we now have audio from the dispatch call made by George Zimmerman. In the call Zimmerman identifies a black male in his late teens and continues to follow 76

him despite the dispatcher advising against it. After following the teen Zimmerman got in an altercation with him, resulting in him shooting the unarmed teen. When we come back we will reveal that audio. —a ray that cut through the February fog. Another glance around the car. Still; my brother had his nose in a book, and the littles had lost their morning buzz and were quietly entertaining themselves. It was a dollhouse: frozen in time with static energy and smiles painted on each of their faces, oblivious to the chaotic world outside the glass windows. All oblivious except for me—and my aunt.

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Isabelle Brusilow ‘19 | The Result of Others’ Suffering | Goachue As the radio moved between details of the shooting and gospel songs, I caught her gaze in the rear view mirror. Her eyes seemed to match my shock, their softness replaced by a laserfocused stare. When she noticed me watching her, she pressed her lips into a sympathy smile, but her eyes remained hard. My hands began to gather moisture; I couldn’t look outside. The winding drive sent me spiraling down a dark street of Sanford, Florida. I walked home from the gas station. I had my hood up. I had Skittles in my pocket. I had been murdered. As my aunt pulled into the driveway of my school, I wanted nothing more than to escape

that car. To not hear the sounds of the radio or see my aunt’s knuckles tightening around the steering wheel. I wanted to be lost in the words of a book or blissfully wiping donut crumbs off my face. I was left to imagine the energy of the other cars sitting in that line—anxious parents worried about the lives of their children, children not yet understanding that they should be worried about their lives. “He’s just a kid! It’s not fair!” My aunt shouted in a fit of frustration. “He was just a kid. They can’t do that. It’s not fair!” Everyone looked up with a jolt. “You need to know that I love each of you. The world is cruel and may seem against you, but I love you.” She unlocked the car doors as she pulled up to the front of the school. My cousin and siblings murmured a quick, “I love you too,” and shuffled out the car. I waited. My aunt turned around to offer me a soft smile. “I love you Kamea.” I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just nodded and grabbed my backpack. Walking into school, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to escape. The principal who greeted kids at the doors everyday was particularly chipper that morning, but he shared the same revealing eyes as my aunt. In class, one of my peers asked my teacher if they heard about what happened. The room erupted into a discussion of the shooting that puzzled us all. My 6th grade class became a chorus: “why,” “how,” “what can we do.” For weeks the story wouldn’t leave me. My dad brought it up a few days later. He took it as the opportunity to give a second iteration of the “hands on the dashboard” talk that every black family is familiar with. It was on television, the newspapers my dad left in our bathroom, supermarket registers peppered with his face. Over the next few years more faces would show up in the same places. Tamir Rice, 2014. Eric Garner, 2014. Michael Brown, 2014. Sandra Bland, 2015. Freddie Grey, 2015. Philando Castile, 2016. Terence Crutcher. Samuel DuBose. Wendell Allen. John Crawford. Yvette Smith. Gary Hatcher. Me? I’m one year older now than he was when he was murdered, and I still can’t get that morning out of my head. Every time a name is added to that list, I am back in that car ride. I feel the stuffy air and my chest gets heavy when I picture my aunt’s eyes. His story was the first I could identify myself with; his name became my own. Trayvon Martin, 2012.

Katriel Tolin â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Elisha | Digital Photography

A care

less young

ful old

Liggett Upper School

asleep lady fell

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Katriel Tolin â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Shanta | Digital Photography

last

time for the

first in love

Anna McCauley â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;22

Liggett Upper School

Sure, We Can Talk About School Sophia Filipof ‘21

Hey. No, I am not a jock. No, not Einstein. No, I am a regular teenager just like you. No, not a prodigy. No, not a concert pianist No, not a star basketball player. No, not the fastest or smartest person in the world. No, I am not dead from all the work I have to do. Yes, a regular teen.

Astana Gaffney ‘20 | Collage

Oh? So that’s how you get such good grades. Your superior teachers, huh? A real intellectual, huh? Grades way up high? Let me guess, you’re good at sports too? Oh, so you’ve gone on fancy field trips? That fun?

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Oh, so you’ve paid that tuition bill? No, I don’t know how you can get That expensive? into Princeton. No, I didn’t buy this at Gucci. I Oh, so you’ve had lunch served to bought it at The Gap. you every day at school? That nice? Thank you. I like your shirt too. I don’t know if anyone knows Yeah, it’s an awful amount of whether or not a genius went money. to our school. Thanks for sympathizing. No, I don’t spend my weekends No, I don’t know how you can get doing homework. into Harvard.

Yeah. Uh-huh. Work. Uh-Huh. Yeah. Running. Uh-huh. Awards. Yeah. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Work. No, I didn’t major in calculus as a Freshman. Yeah, some of us study a lot. Some of us don’t study enough. This isn’t some charade. This is my life.

modeled after Diane Burns’ poem “Sure, You Can Ask Me a Personal Question”

Astana Gaffney ‘20 81

Liggett Upper School

Summer of ‘67 William Higbie ‘19

The light strum of a guitar made the world soften while we lay in the shade of a hot July afternoon. My friend Simon hummed along softly to the rhythm. You could feel a cool breeze on the island coming from the Canadian shore across the river. It was July 1967, and this patch of green had been filled for weeks with optimistic youth. I was savoring it all; in less than a month, I would head to my first year of college, leaving Detroit and these lazy days behind. What I didn’t know was that in less than twenty-four hours this place with so much life would suddenly be empty, its music and laughter preemptively silenced. At five, we rolled up our blankets and I headed

Trey Holmes ‘19 | Acrylic

to my job at Johnny’s Barber Shop for the last appointment of the day. As I was cleaning off my trimmers, my six o’clock customer walked in. He had a confused look on his face as we made eye contact. “Where’s Johnny?” “He’s at the neighborhood council meeting,” I replied. “But I’m Ray, Johnny’s son.” He lit up. “Well damn, look at you! You’ve grown up quite a bit since I saw you last.” “Are you and my dad friends?” “Oh yeah, we go way back. We grew up on the same street together, used to get in all kinds of trouble. But enough of that. Let’s get on with the trim. I gotta look good tonight.” I guided him over to the chair. “So what’s going on tonight?” “My friends are welcoming me home. Just got back from Vietnam. I’m gonna cut loose a little and

I was in a deep sleep when my dad shook me awake. “Rise and shine champ, we’ve got three appointments before noon.” “Dad, it’s Sunday morning. Who gets a haircut on Sunday morning?” “We do! Come on, and get dressed.” It was a beautiful sunny day. There were a few folks on their weekly walk to church in their dress clothes. Dad was happily telling me again about the time he met Charles Mingus. But, as we arrived at the barber shop, I heard someone shout from across the street, “The war is on!” Thinking that was just a late night reveler, we entered the

The crowd was livid; I could see frustration and anger in their eyes. It was no secret that the police and City Hall were no friends of this neighborhood. I hoped people wouldn’t get carried away and start something bad.

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reacquaint myself with the old neighborhood.” I started cleaning up his sides. “Where’s the party happenin’?” “At a blind pig down on 12th and Clairmont,” My friend Jeremiah burst through the door. “Ray!” he shouted. “Just one news story—that’s all he got! One small story! All these hippies lounging down on Belle Isle, like there’s not a problem in the world, yet Danny dies at the hands of a bunch of racist teenagers—” I glared at him, “Jeremiah, we knew this might be how it got reported, but can we talk about it later?” I nodded at the man in my chair. “I’ve got a customer right now.” Jeremiah glanced down. “Oh, right. Sorry.” The veteran addressed us both. “Boys, our nation is moving toward two societies, one black, one white—separate and unequal. But that can’t deter you. It didn’t stop Johnny. Look what he’s done with this place! It’s become the community center of the neighborhood.” He was right. My dad had done something special with the old place. Kids came here after school to do their homework while listening to dad give them lessons about life that were only half heard yet still somehow sunk in. If my dad trusted you enough you might even score a small loan from him, interest-free, since the banks had been screwing us over with ridiculous interest rates. Jeremiah turned to my dad’s massive record collection and, over the buzz of my trimmer, began flipping through the LPs. He picked out a Charles Mingus, my dad’s favorite, and flipped it on the record player just as I finished the trim. The veteran said, “Your dad’s an amazing man, don’t you forget that.” He paid, gave me a 70¢ tip and left. That was a perfect way to start the night. We locked up the shop and headed out for some fun.

shop and prepared for our appointments. Mr. Virnel Linwood entered promptly at 9 o’clock. Mr. Linwood was a graying, 68-year-old man, a retired high school teacher and a fellow who loved spending time in the barbershop with my dad. “How’s it going, Ray? Enjoying your summer?” “Yes Mr. Linwood,” I said. “Can’t think of a better place to spend it.” I winked. He shook his head, “You might dislike this place now, but trust me: as you get older, places like this become more important to us, because it’s where we began.” “Virnel, you’ll have to try harder than that for a discount,” my dad joked. “Anyways. Y’all hear about the raid last night?” We both shook our heads. “What raid?” “Yeah, the fuzz arrested about 80 people from a blind pig on 12th and Clairmont. And folks are pissed. It’s been about three hours since they were taken away. Crowds are gathering.” He padded his knee. “I feel trouble in my bones.” I rushed out the door before my dad could say anything; I had to make sure Jeremiah wasn’t unleashing his anger about Danny’s death on the cops. As I sprinted the four blocks to 12th street, my eyes began to sting; I could hear chanting from down the street. I rounded the corner and saw a bunch of police officers with masks and shields. They were far outnumbered by people from the neighborhood. The crowd was livid; I could see the frustration and anger in their eyes. It was no secret that the police and City Hall were no friends of this neighborhood. I just hoped people wouldn’t get carried away and start something bad. I scanned the crowd for Jeremiah but saw no sign of him. Desperate, I dove straight into the massing crowd to find him. “F*** the police!” The crowd shouted. “Let’s start another Newark!” 83

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People were pushing and shoving. I couldn’t walk a straight line, but I needed to get through the horde of people. “Everyone! Please stay calm!” a man wearing a suit and tie shouted from the roof of a car. I hopped on the bumper of another car to look for Jeremiah. I scanned the crowd. There he was—shouting directly at a cop. I rushed over. “Your brutality is the cause of all this,” he was yelling. “You’re the reason my cousin is dead! No one’s ever held accountable. But that changes now.” As Jeremiah pulled back his fist, the cop drew his baton. I yanked him away in the nick of time. “Jeremiah, what are you doing?” I pulled him away from the police line. “You’re gonna get yourself killed.” “Man, I’m sick of this. We can barely walk the streets anymore without being hassled!” He glared back at the police as he spoke to me. I dragged Jeremiah back to the barbershop where my dad was just finishing Mr. Linwood’s haircut. “Where’d you run off to, boy?” he demanded as we stumbled in the door. “To keep Jeremiah from getting his a** kicked by the cops.” Dad shot him a stern glance. “Jeremiah, what the hell you thinking?! You know you’ll never win that battle.” “But Mr. Johnson, you didn’t see what we did. It’s ugly out there. Those cops are pigs!” “Dad, it is getting pretty rowdy out there. I think we should lock up for the day.” Mr. Linwood spoke up. “Maybe you better play it safe today, John.” “Alright, alright. Ray, put the cash tray back in the safe.” I walked the money to the back room and turned the heavy latch on the old safe— just as I heard shouts and glass breaking out on the street. As I closed the door and spun the combination, I grabbed and loaded Dad’s twelve gauge shotgun. The gun was heavier than I remembered. Last time we used it I was fourteen and Dad had taken me rabbit shooting north of the city. I walked back into the shop with the gun. “Now wait a minute Ray. What the hell are you doing with that?!” “Dad, this could get serious. I think we should hang here and make sure nothing

happens to the shop.” Jeremiah nodded his approval. Mr. Linwood stood up, “Alright Johnny, thanks for the trim. I should go now. But stay out of trouble.” “See you later, Virnel.” The three of us locked up shop and sat quietly talking, listening to the growing racket. A few hours passed. Dad was in the back cleaning his tools; Jeremiah was bopping his head to some music. It was just after 12 noon, without a cloud in the sky. Suddenly, I heard a plate glass window shatter in the shop next door. Fear shot down my spine. Are looters coming for us? People started to sprint past our storefront, cheering. My dad came sprinting from the back. “They got into Mr. Cole’s store.” “What should we do?” asked Jeremiah. “The last thing we want is to get caught up in this mess. Better just stay put and make sure there’s no trouble here,” Dad said. Jeremiah and I looked at each other, frozen. A dozen feet away was a completely different world, only a pane of glass separating us from our own people destroying our neighborhood. I understood why they were mad, but I didn’t understand why they were inflicting damage on a place that was their own. I watched my friend Miro run past laughing, a color TV in his arms. I felt sick to my stomach. This community, which I grew up so happily in, might never be the same. My dad said he would sit up front keeping watch and told us to go to the back room and rest. It looked like we wouldn’t be going anywhere for the rest of the day. As I lowered the slatted blinds, I saw a red glow in the sky. It was not the sunset. The world seemed crazy. I sat in the corner of the shop, clenching the shotgun, ready for anything, my whole body tense. To take our minds off what was happening, Jeremiah and I talked... at first about what was going on, then reminiscing about the past four years of high school. As we spoke, my muscles slowly relaxed. It was even kind of nice. The street also quieted down, and I began

I think we both knew it. Later I would realize that nothing could erase this night, could take it away. It had affected everyone—for blocks, for miles. And how you experienced it depended mostly on the color of your skin, which also defined your perspective. But now I was eye-to-eye with a national guardsman, in so many ways like me except in the one that seemed to matter most right now: our skin. Lives seemed to pass as we stared at each other until a sharp voice commanded from behind. “Let ‘em go, we’ve swept the street. There’s no sniper.” As they walked away a news crew was rushing in, TV lights replacing the guns. A reporter began to ask questions, but I was still trying to find my balance. As distance grew between us, the young guardsmen turned back one last time. We made eye contact, and I saw his lips mouth I’m sorry. I wanted to say something… that I somehow understood… but my lips just couldn’t move. The wounds we all experienced that summer would take some time to heal. But through that came a kind of wisdom which, years later, would help Detroiters of all races and places in society be more open to the challenge of understanding each other. In my years since finishing college, now back as a taxpaying resident, I watched how employers had begun to treat workers better and how political leaders more inclusively governed the city. Yes, some folks turned and fled to the suburbs, but others took a hard look at themselves and their neighbors as they began to build a different and better Detroit.

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to forget the strangeness of the situation. My dad had fallen asleep in the back, and Jeremiah had closed his eyes too. But I wasn’t tired. My mind raced ahead to college, to leaving Detroit. The water in a glass on a table next to me began vibrating, a vibration that then moved to my legs. Something was moving down the street. Something heavy and rumbling. I crept toward the window, shotgun glued to my hands. As I parted the blinds, I froze: rolling up the street was a massive Army tank, its turret turning as if looking for a target. Abruptly, it stopped right in front of the shop. Did they see me? Why was it pointed right at us? I heard a man’s voice. “There’s a sniper in that barbershop! Take cover.” “Where? Where? I don’t see him!” cried another. “Hold your fire!” National Guard troops on the street were lifting M16 rifles to their shoulders and shouting at each other. There was confusion. “Come out of that shop, hands in the air!” someone commanded. I was trembling, my feet stuck to the floor. Then I though about what my dad had always told me: Perceptions precede relationships. If I wanted to change the perception of those guardsmen on the street, I needed to build a relationship with them. So I put down my dad’s shotgun, opened the front door, and slowly walked into the glare of spotlights. Tears of fear ran down my face. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot. I’m just protecting my dad’s barbershop. We’ve got other people in here.” Before I knew it, I was pushed to the ground, hard boots pressing against my shoulders, the barrel of a rifle grazing my head. “Don’t move! Who else is in there?” a voice above me demanded. “My dad and a friend,” I stuttered. “That’s all.” Another voice laughed. “Maybe we should cut his throat and blow out his brains?” I was yanked up by the arms and wheeled around to face my captor. Staring him straight in the eyes, I found myself looking at a kid just a year or two older than me. And he seemed just as scared. This moment was as strange to him as it was for me, yet here we were: on either side of a clash that should never have happened.

Liggett Upper School

A Different Ending Astana Gaffney ‘20

sometimes I’ll read a book and when I get to the end I hate it so I go back and re-read the ending over and over again in hopes the ending will somehow change the letters will bleed together, creating new sentences forging a reality I dreamt up in my head but I know that won’t happen there is no other ending but this one I could make up a different ending but deep down I know that the true ending is this one the one written down in small printed letters no matter how much I don’t like it no matter how hard I try, I cannot change it a part of me wants to cast it aside but the other part of me wants to learn to love it wants to not simply accept it but welcome it with open arms and sometimes it takes longer to do so sometimes a few hours, days or even years but it is always loved in the end

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India Brooks â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;19 | Lil Wayne | Ink & Graphite