Skald 2014

SKALD Art and Literary Publication Villa Maria College

COLOPHON

An ancient Scandinavian poet who memorialized the epic deeds of the Vikings with elaborate recitations at court.

The contents of this publication contain evidence of the transformation of Villa Maria College students through the exploration of ideas, processes, diligence, and inquiry that are manifested as expressions of creativity and true self. The mind navigates an untraveled path when guided by education, combined with the chemistry of peers and faculty. The expansion of opportunities results in an explosion of interpretations with seemingly limitless outcomes, unforeseen solutions, and advanced potential for every student. Higher education provides a proverbial safe container within which students are expected to push the limits of expression while testing the tolerances of originality and effectiveness. Imparting new skills and knowledge mutates the thought process to raise individual standards, achieve unexpected heights, and reveal immeasurable possibilities. This 2014 edition of SKALD is a representation of collaborating to exceed preconceived boundaries, and thinking critically and beyond.

Illustrating these concepts in this edition was implemented with the use of a collaborative, complimentary color palette, and a collection of layout solutions that imply organization, containment, and movement.

Bebas Neue typeface was chosen for its foundational and condensed rectangular quality, while Avenir accompanies to add modernism and structure. The type offers a subtle, yet discerning voice while the images and literature remain prominent.

All students may submit literary work and/or artwork completed while

Columbia Scholastic Press Association has awarded Silver Crowns to the 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010 issues and a Gold Crown in 2006.

attending courses. Solicitations are made through classes, print and on-line methods. Final selections are made jointly by the advisors.

STAFF CONCEPT, DESIGN AND PRODUCTION Emma Balk | Junior Carl Hunley | Sophomore Emily Zajac | Junior

Cover Image

PRINT Nathaniel Miller Senior

FACULTY ADVISORS Robert Grizanti | Professor, Graphic Design Joyce Kessel | Professor, English Julie Zack | Professor, Graphic Design

SPECIAL THANKS

Š 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED | PRINTED IN THE USA VILLA MARIA COLLEGE 240 PINE RIDGE ROAD | BUFFALO, NEW YORK 14225 716.896.0700 | villa.edu

Luke Daly | Adjunct, English Kevin Donovan | Director of Enrollment

Management and Marketing Ceil Pawlowski | Director of Student Life

FINE ARTS

LITERATURE

05 Kaycie Lange

03 Natalka Prytula

07 Carl Hunley 08 Denietra Douglas 10 Michelle Hayes

05 Valery Amborski

GRAPHIC DESIGN

11 Jillian Taylor

02 Ali Casarsa

12 Brittney Sikora

09 Andrea Coccitti

13 Grace Gruarin

11 Emily Zajac

05 Aria Yanicki

14 Group Installation*

24 Leah Alles

08 Marc Noworyta

19 Rachel Rising

26 Carl Hunley

ANIMATION

11 Jennifer Basinski 12 Joe Tronolone 17 Kerrykate Abel-Smith PHOTOGRAPHY 20 Elizabeth Mangano

INTERIOR DESIGN

Casey Zangara

16 Joe Carney

23 Victoria Cobel

19 Joe Carney

25 Christopher Sirgey

21 Valerie Kasinski Elizabeth

50 Aria Yanicki

20 Kaycie Lange

28 Leah Alles

08 Kimathi Augustus

31 Holly Langworthy

54 Aria Yanicki

22 Madison Surdej

32 Jessica Puskar

23 Melanie Bruning

37 Natalka Prytula

Burns Hausrath

26 Elizabeth Burns Hausrath

27 Madeline Scheur

33 Bonnie Mack

31 Constance Strother

39 Sarah Hedley

28 Valerie Kasinski

35 Grace Gruarin

34 Kaitlin Lancelloti

41 Lee Terwilliger

29 Sarah Brady

40 Emily Zajac

53 Kimathi Augustus

42 Amandalynn Morton 37 Elena Weis

30 Mercedes Smith

41 Leah Alles

34 Jenna Hallmark Brittney Sikora

41 Patricia Getchell 42 Sarah Brady 43 Rachael Thomas 49 Rachel Thomas 50 Valerie Kasinski 57 Taramarie Mitravich

48 Jessica Puskar

Burns Hausrath

46 Elizabeth Mangano 38 Sarah Hedley *

Caryn Barber Sarah Brady

52 Joe Carney

Melissa Bulmahn

55 Ali Casarsa

Chelsea Dziekan

56 Emma Balk

Jessica Flowers

Allison Kollander

36 Elizabeth

Andrea Coccitti Courtney Ewings Patricia Getchell Elisandra MercadoBalines Kara Mooney Lian Thang Rachael Thomas

49 Victoria Cobel

44 Valerie Kasinski

51 Ruby Medina River

53 Elena Weis

52 Christopher Sirgey

54 Joe Carney

Sierra Sargent

55 Valerie Kasinski 56 Imon Hill-Moore Eric C-DeJesus

HER FATHER’S DAUGHTER Natalka Prytula Sophomore He tiptoes into her room, floorboards creaking

should know that her creepy-ass husband is sneaking into her teenage

beneath his feet. Pretending to be asleep, Lisa

daughter’s room at night to steal her babysitting money?”

watches the entire scene through squinted eyes.

Stopping at the foot of her bed, he stares for a

“Yea, I guess. I mean normally I would, but lately if she’s not at work, she’s

moment and turns to the little, plastic safe on the

in her room. Door locked. Zero access.”

dresser.

“What do you think’s going on?”

In the morning, Lisa stomps down the stairs furious about the night before. She haphazardly

“I’m not sure. Can you come over after school today? My mom’s working

fingers her dark brown hair into a bun, as she

second shift and just in case fat boy’s home, I don’t want to be alone

goes down the steps.

with him.”

“Did you come in my room last night?”

With a giggle, Sasha agrees.

She looks at the pathetic, squatty man sitting

Later that day, the two girls laugh about stuck-up Juanita Tagger tripping

on the couch. A butterball with three hairs on

up the stairs in front of the hot, new kid as Lisa unlocks the side door to her

his head. How could her mother find that---

paint-chipped house.

attractive?

“Did you?” Lisa says, this time with more hatred than annoyance.

“What the….” “Oh, shit. I think you been robbed, girl.”

Lisa and Sasha stand stunned in a nearly empty living room. Computer, T.V., DVD player, gone. Even the stereo that took Lisa almost a year to save up

He stares blankly at an infomercial on the T.V

for, gone. Lisa goes to call her mother at work and sees that the cordless is

and she mumbles something about him being

gone too. Her delicately freckled face begins to turn an agitated shade

an asshole and gets ready for school. On the

of red.

bus she tells her best friend, Sasha, about her stepfather sneaking into her room the night before and how it wasn’t the first time. Sasha stares at Lisa with glossy, green eyes and her mouth open wide enough to see the wad of gum stashed in her cheek.

“That’s so wrong, on so many different levels, Li. What did your mom say when you told her?” she asked.

“I haven’t,” Lisa admitted, staring out the window.

“What? Why not? Don’t you think your mother

“Sash, can I see your cell?”

Before Lisa can finish dialing the number, her stepfather stumbles from the bedroom he shares with her mother, scratching his head like a flea- infested ape. He staggers to the bathroom and doesn’t even bother to close the door. The girls look at each other in disgust as they listen to what could be the longest piss in history.

“What happened to all our stuff?” Lisa yells at him from the hall.

“Stop yapping. I’m going to get it back. I needed a few extra bucks until Friday.”

“A few extra bucks until Friday? Wait until my mother finds out about….”

He cuts her off like a drunk making a U-turn.

“Your fucking mother knows, you little bitch. Look, I don’t need to hear this shit right now. I got a fucking headache. Why don’t you go make me some coffee or something?”

“Why don’t you---go fuck yourself!”

Lisa and Sasha climb the attic stairs where Lisa’s room is. This was her space, the one place where she could get away from everything. At least it was, until her mother got remarried shortly after her father died. Everything happened so fast. Her dad passed away from a massive heart attack and four months later her mom was getting married to Captain Douche Bag. He had always made Lisa uncomfortable, but her mother seemed happy and she didn’t want to ruin that for her. But things had changed. Lisa’s mother didn’t seem happy anymore. She was becoming more and more withdrawn

< POSTER Ali Casarsa Freshman

and spent most of her time in her bedroom, with him. Her once shapely frame wasting away along with her grace.

“I hate him!” >>

“She’s sleeping.”

“Don’t be an asshole all your life. I need to talk to her.”

Without saying another word he slams the door. Seconds later Lisa’s mother emerges from the cigarette smoke- filled room. A trail of mascara runs down her face and her bottom lip is bleeding. >>

“Hey, sweetie. What’s up? Did you need something?”

“Relax, girl. Fuck him. Don’t let that jerk get

She clutches her fuzzy, blue robe, barely able to make eye contact with her

to you.”

daughter. Immediately, Lisa notices her face.

“That’s easy for you to say. You don’t have to live

“What the hell happened?”

with him. You don’t have to come home to your shit missing and him creepin’ in your room

“It’s nothing sweetie,” she says in a trembling whisper, closing the door

at night.”

behind her. “Did you need something?”

“Let’s just chill and listen to some music. Forget

“Did he hit you? I swear to God, if he fucking hit you…”

about this shit for a little while.”

Sasha cracks a White Owl. Discards its entrails and rolls a blunt. She lights it and takes a deep pull before she passes it to Lisa.

A couple of hours later, Lisa walks Sasha to the side door and tells her she’ll talk to her in the morning. She goes to the kitchen hoping to find her mother at the table. Nothing. She crosses back through the living room and peeks out the

“Sweetie, calm down”, her mother begs above her whisper. I don’t want him to hear you! Please, sweetie just lower your voice.”

“Ma, are you serious? You’re going to let that piece of shit put his hands on you?” Lisa implores, tears streaming down her face.

“Please—.”

“You and Dad always told me never to let any guy disrespect me. Ever. You guys always said I was worth more than that,” Lisa said in between tears.

window. She sees her mother’s beat-up Jeep

“Let’s talk about this later,” her mother begged, reaching for the

Cherokee in the driveway. Lisa stops and looks

bedroom door.

down the hall that leads to her mother’s room.

Butterflies begin to form in her stomach as she

“Look at me! Lisa screamed, grabbing her bony shoulders. “So are you.

slowly moves toward the shut door. She gently

Dad would’ve never made you cry like this,” giving her mother a little shake.

turns the knob. It’s locked. With unassuming fists

“He would’ve never hit you!”

she starts to pound on the door.

“Ma. Hello! Open the door. Ma, open the door!”

Her stepfather pokes his head, carefully, out the door.

“What do you want?”

For a split second Lisa’s mother smiles thinking of her husband.

“You are your father’s daughter,” she says before snapping back to reality and continues her plea.

“Sweetie, please. It’s not what you think. He doesn’t know what he’s doing when he’s messed up. It’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean to hurt me. It’s just sometimes I get him so mad and I try not to but-- I don’t know what

“Not you! Where’s my mother?” Her voice cracks

to do…”

with frustration.

She starts to sob uncontrollably, sliding slowly to the floor. The only thing Lisa can do is follow suit and hold her mother. She rocks her gently, cradling her as if she were the child, until she falls asleep.

Lisa stares at her mother. She notices her glowing complexion has been replaced by broken capillaries and liver spots. She remembers her vibrant personality that had now, been diluted by him. It was all him. Everything fucked up in her life had something to do with him.

In that moment, Lisa swears on her father’s grave that she will get rid of her stepfather. Some way, somehow.

TICK TOCK Valery Amborski Senior Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 11:55 pm. I am sitting in the red leather armchair in the living room of my apartment, waiting for the clock to strike midnight. The room is dark, save for the dim glow coming from the desk lamp on the wooden folding table positioned to my left. The bookshelves on an adjacent wall are coated in a thin layer of dust as a result of neglect. A dying plant stands in a vase too big for its roots in one corner. Most of its leaves are shriveled up and brown. A dark green throw rug lies beneath the worn, tattered loafers I wear on my feet. A small, plastic clock hangs to the left of the door.

Tick.

With a half full rock glass of whiskey in one hand, and my handgun in the other, I sit silently. Still. Waiting. Waiting for her to walk through that door. My fingers flex over the grip of the handgun. They are growing impatient.

Tock.

The blinds cover the two windows behind me, except for the

DRAWING Kaycie Lange

slivers of moonlight that slip through the cracks. My armchair

Freshman

is turned to face the entrance of the apartment directly. The events of the past few days play through my memory on a never ending loop. There isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a doubt in my mind that this is the right thing to do. >>

DIGITAL RENDERING Aria Yanicki

Junior

Tock.

Why is this happening to me? There must have been some kind of miscalculation upstairs.

As the blinds continue to writhe behind me, I extend my arm to reunite my hand and my drink. I take a sip, and as the cool liquid runs down the back of my throat, my worst >> Tick.

It seems as though the second hand is mocking me, taking a year to travel between each notch.

The clock face is laughing at me, getting immense satisfaction out of my own misfortune.

It cackles at me, all around me. The sound fills the room, the sound waves bouncing off the walls until they are gone. He doesn’t know what I’ve been through. He doesn’t know what she’s done to me. He doesn’t understand. I need to do this.

Tock.

Each notch brings me one step closer to ultimate closure. The ice cubes in my whiskey rattle against the glass, fighting for space within its overpopulated boundaries. They are melting too quickly. The sweat from my drink drips down my fingers like candle wax. I set the glass down on the table next to me, slowly, so as not to disturb the silence, so as not to disturb the ice cubes, so as not to disturb the clock.

Tick.

It’s 11:56. Getting closer to revenge. Everything will be better this way. She will never expect this, never see it coming. As soon as she walks through that door, with her stupid smile and her awful laugh. I don’t know I ever could have loved her. She deserves this for everything she has done to me.

Tock.

My mind races as the memories of everything she did to me play on fast forward in my brain, over and over again. Over and over. Her dress, her heels, her necklace, her earrings, her lipstick, her laugh. His jacket, his shoes, his tie, his mustache, his pants. Over and over. Again and again.

Tick.

11:57. Three minutes until I can finally end this.

The blinds appear to be moving in the room behind me. A quiet clatter comes from the windows. Each slat scrolls in procession, colliding with the next in line, crashing against the windowpane. It grows louder each time. Louder and louder. Louder and louder.

nightmare manifests itself before me. There he is. Through the bottom of the glass, he stands in the corner beside the door. He has his back turned towards me and appears to be fixing his necktie. I choke on an ice cube as it attempts to squeeze its way down my esophagus.

Tick.

11:58. Perturbed, I slam my now empty rock glass on the wooden table and ready my gun. I look around in the almost complete darkness.

He has vanished. He must have heard me put down my glass and hid somewhere around the corner. That was my fault. With that sort of carelessness I am going to foil my entire plan.

How did he get in here? Is he in here?

Tock.

11:59. The clock seemingly moves faster now, although it is still fueling my restlessness.

One minute left. One minute until she walks, unsuspecting, through that doorway. One minute until I settle this for good. Forever. The blinds clatter, clatter. The clock laughs. The whiskey is gone. The silence is comforting. I hear a key turn in the doorknob. She is home.

It is time.

Tick.

Midnight. The key turns and the door opens in the kitchen, the next room over. Her heels click and clack against the linoleum floor, louder and louder. She drops her heavy purse inside the front door with a deep thud. Her keys crash against the counter top and suddenly I no longer hear the sound from her heels. She must have taken them off.

She appears in the doorway. Red dress, gold earrings, dark lipstick, bare feet. This is it.

Her eyes scan the room for a few moments adjusting to the darkness. When she notices the red leather armchair and the shotgun she opens her mouth as though to speak, but swallows her thoughts instead. There are no words on her tongue, not this time. She starts towards me. At that moment, I assuredly raise my weapon and place the cold metal against the warm skin of my temples. As soon as we make eye contact, I mouth the words, “I love you,” and pull the trigger.

The door. The clock. The whiskey. The blinds.

The silence.

Tick. Tock.

> PAINTING Carl Hunley Sophomore

DIGITAL RENDERING Marc Noworyta

Junior

WATERCOLOR RENDERING Kimathi Augustus

Sophomore

DRAWING Denietra Douglas

Junior

POSTER Andrea Coccitti

Freshman

PRINT

Michelle Hayes Senior

A FAĂ&#x2021;ADE Jennifer Basinski Freshman

A façade.

A fake.

Fake smile.

Fake laugh.

DRAWING

The eyes,

Jillian Taylor Junior

giving you away, telling people that you are anything but fine.

The lips, the tongue, the box voice, this is what I am.

Working together with the brain, telling people we are fine.

The brain, it lies, wishing that I would tell the truth.

The truth, people ask.

The brain says go, the heart says stop.

Or is it the other way?

What is the truth?

The truth is I have no name, Might as well With how much I am forgotten.

Might as well Have no face, no feelings, no senses, no name, no life.

PACKAGING Emily Zajac

Junior

LEFT BEHIND Joe Tronolone Junior

I arrive at my aunt’s house with my sister and mother, Unloading our bags and untying our shoes.

I enter the kitchen and smell her lasagna As we say our hellos and greet one another.

It penetrates my nostrils My hunger is awoken.

I search for the bread While others rearrange the utensils.

Cousins arrive bearing offerings with grace And more screaming children, too.

My aunt accepts their donations with care And one by one helps them find their rightful place.

I hear the sound of kids playing As more family members rush in.

My grandma lays out the napkins and nametags, The chaos is finally fading.

Now we are ready to eat.

The children are gathered and the wine is poured.

But as everyone finds their place at the table There still remains one empty seat.

He used to be my movie buddy, Someone I could talk to all the time.

Now he stays locked in his prison upstairs, Like a criminal guilty of some crime.

He’s lost more than his wife and the place he called home, He’s lost his purpose, his reason to be.

Family members scoff as they realize who’s missing, I just shake my head in pity.

I miss his Cosby impressions and his intuitive mind.

I miss his stories, his smile, his laugh.

But most of all I miss a time when our family felt whole, When there weren’t so many people leaving us behind.

PRINT Brittney Sikora | Senior

PRINT Grace Gruarin

Sophomore

COLOR THEORY INSTALLATION

Bailey Avenue

Caryn Barber Sophomore Sarah Brady Sophomore Melissa Bulmahn Freshman Andrea Coccitti Freshman Chelsea Dziekan Freshman

Courtney Ewings Freshman Jessica Flowers Freshman Patricia Getchell Freshman Elisandra Mercado-Balines Freshman Kara Mooney Freshman Lian Thang Freshman Rachael Thomas Freshman

PHOTOGRAPH SERIES Joe Carney Sophomore

me to different choices, different options (I personally think it all had something to do with too many late night readings of ON THE ROAD). My

WE DEFY AUGURY Kerrykate Abel-Smith Senior

entire youth was spent between CCD and Hebrew School; to this day I still don’t know how my parents pulled this off. At the time this simply wasn’t done; it was before Vatican II and technically we could have gotten into a lot of trouble … even NOW you would catch hell for it …. I mean, I never took communion or was confirmed in the Catholic Church (thank god,) but

“Losing too is still ours; and even forgetting /still has a shape in the kingdom of transformation.”

Jejune. Kafkaesque. Rilke. And fabulous.

I have lived long enough to absorb such ideas, such visions of minutiae, or oppositely, grandeur, but I still have no idea how my brain works.

I keep such things as tissue flowers from weddings long dissolved by divorce, a copy of Desiderata within viewing distance at all times, burdened with books, coffee, cigarettes. My limbic system is clogged with sequins, and memories, and blackouts that are unreachable, the faces of people I may have never known, and song lyrics which may or may not come to fruition.

I have never known anything for sure, except that one Day, I shall transform permanently into a Being I cannot see, into a world I do not know, cannot comprehend, and the only thing I can take with me is the artistry, the Divinity, the creationist excitement that vibrates the existence of my soul.

This Day, due to my ailments, this Plague, this will come sooner than I would like. The doctors have told me to prepare. I’m not quite sure how to do that.

My name is Kenneth Edward Francis Rubenstein, I am a victim of AIDS, and this year, I will share that victimization with approximately 275,000 other people. I’ve been told it’s best not to think about it …but considering the fact that I’m half-blind and half-gone already, it tends to occupy my thoughts.

Mostly I just try to remind myself I’ve got Liz Taylor fighting on my side, no matter how big her hair gets.

Dad was Jewish, Mom was Catholic, and apparently I was the one who had to pay for it. I still don’t understand why they couldn’t just stick with one religion. It was laughable at times; I think I remember genuflecting in front of Rabbi Zuckerman once, and they had to pick him up off the floor. That may have been the first time my parents may have seen the error of their choice. Of course, there was the time I called my sister meshugge when she was going up for Communion…

At least I think that happened…

So I endured a life of religious instruction, Sunday suppers, and unsuccessful tryouts for just about every sports team that my upstate New York high school had. My personal relief came when I auditioned for GUYS AND DOLLS in the spring of 1970. I didn’t land a lead role, but I was cast in the ensemble, and it was here that I discovered how much I loved to dance – I even had a featured solo! “Gene Kelly!!” they said. “Fred Astaire!!” It was wonderful to find something that made me feel like my actual self; instead of trotting down the eternal search path for God, or G-d, or Yahweh – it depends on the day of the week and who you’re speaking to, I guess.

Yarmulke, rosary, matzoh, the vigils … it’s all the same to me. But being on stage and moving and feeling grounded for the first time … that’s funny, isn’t it? I had to move to feel grounded.

Well, like any good gay boy dancer, the move to feel grounded included a move to New York City … oh … did I fail to mention the “gay” part? Well, I figured you would just KNOW, I mean … you’re sitting next to pictures of Warhol and Charles Nelson Reilly … what, do you need a further clue?

A kick line with cue cards to spell it out for you? Ha! Anyway … so off to New York I go, summer of 1974, and I get a job at the Duplex and start auditioning for shows, for revues, for anything … anything where I can dance. Yeah. You can guess where I ended up. But we all have to start somewhere, right?

If nothing else, we must have our sense of humor, n’est-ce pas? Or at least a healthy dose of sarcasm?

I have to say, in a way, I feel blessed. I have lasted a lot longer than most of my friends. Most of them were gone by 1990. I used to keep a list, but there were too many to count, and my own memory began to fail me. I do know (or at least I think I know) that at one point, I kept meticulous records.

I loved to write. I am pretty sure I was a neat freak, although you certainly can’t tell from the looks of things around here now … Dear God ….If I had the strength I would slap the housecleaner … And the night nurse, I really don’t care too much for her either … Hell, why don’t I just slap everybody?

OK, apparently I am going off on a tangent, so I will try to redirect.

My name has always been a source of discussion, of interest, because I am half-Jewish (the better half) and half-Catholic. Seriously – do you know any Jews with a “fake” confirmation name? Joe and Judy Rubinstein, my parents, bless their insane hearts, gave it to me when I was born. They thought what they were doing was “ahead of their time” and “exposing”

I started meeting people at the Trucks after my bar shifts, and that led me to my 5 year “run” at the Mineshaft. It was an absolutely glorious time to be gay in the City, at least that’s how I felt. It became even more glorious when they opened Studio 54 … I would love to tell you more about my time there, but Sweetheart … I just don’t remember it. I remember the lights. I remember coke. I remember Liza…

You know … come to think of it, that’s probably the memory EVERYONE has of 54.

But it’s also where I met my angel, My Harold.

I actually called him Angel because I didn’t like his name. I was pretty full of myself at the time, but I was also in my late 20’s and gorgeous, so he didn’t seem to mind. >>

But here I am and I am trying to make peace with all this. I am trying to forgive the ignorance and the demonization of my friends that I have survived (at least for now). I don’t think this city, this country, this world, has truly realized what happened, what is being lost. I >>

have raged, I have hated, I have cried. And I have bled and wept and

Harold was 10 years older than me and had

what the fuck all this means … what purpose do these painful and

plenty of money, so if there was something to see or do in NYC, we saw it and we did it.

Bathhouses, Broadway, the Bowery … we were EVERYWHERE! We had more fun than most

wondered and stared out at the sky through my window, wondering horrible deaths serve… why so many, so fast… my questions are endless and without response…

But then I remember a song from my childhood. Jewish, not

people, I can promise you that!

Catholic (Jews are better with music – we have Streisand, right?).

And then, when it seemed that the party was

parents. The translation is something like this:

reaching a fevered pitch, people started to get sick. Then, they started to die. It all happened so fast, it was like living in a horrific nightmarish blur.

We would go out one weekend and see people.

The next weekend you would hear about 4 or 5 more people being sick. And then there were more. Then you would see the KS spots popping out on their faces and the weight loss. Then you would hear they hadn’t been out in a while.

It was called “Ya Min Us Mol” and we were taught to sing it for our

To the right and left, just sand and sand, yellow desert without a path.

A caravan passes, moving silently, Like a dream there, so strange.

The tinkling of bells rises and falls rhythmically.

Camels plodding through a depressing landscape.

Lin Lan Lin Lan,

Then, the funerals.

this is the song of the wanderer,

It was after about our 20th funeral that my Angel

beat the drum

got sick. It was 1986. We didn’t know how much time we had left. We didn’t know it was an epidemic. What we didn’t know the most? The fact that no one paid attention. I mean when it was Nureyev and Freddie Mercury, and Halston, just recently that basketball player, people paid attention. But not then. Not for my Angel. I would watch him waste away for 17 months before he

to carry without a murmur, and march on.

It’s funny, what you remember.

I remember happiness. And lights. And smiles. And beautiful young men, in various stages of drunk, dancing into a frenzy, as if Bacchus himself would show up any minute. Oh, dancing …. I remember dancing. Sunsets, Music. Temple. The Catholics with their rosaries.

finally let go.

And sex, and coke, and joy, and Christopher Street…

I never told him I was positive. I figured he was

I remember a time when I could breathe, when I never questioned

suffering enough.

whether or not I would wake up the next morning. A time without spots and fevers and fear and death and more fear. When life was divine and simple and lovely… no one can take that away from me, no matter how much time I have left. “I am divine, I am simple, I am love”… that’s Maria Callas from that opera Angel loved … and it was in that movie, too... but that is also all of us.

I will soon reach the kingdom of Transformation Rilke talks about, in that quote I shared with you when we first started talking? I’ll let you know how it is, if I can. We’re all going to end up there sooner or later.

I have to rest now. I’m up so late, past my time.

PHOTOGRAPH Joe Carney Sophomore

PAINTING Rachel Rising

Junior

GRANDPA Casey Zangara Sophomore

You were old your skin was wrinkled and you wore glasses big as coke bottles your advice was like no one else’s.

Although I was young, I still listened.

You loved that tractor as if it was another child.

ALZHEIMER’S WINTER

Whenever you used it I tagged along.

Elizabeth Mangano Sophomore

Oh how I loved the sound of the loud horn and listening to the engine rumble while watching the smoke pour out of the stack and fill the air.

snow growing like cotton from bushes bereft of green a bearded bus sitting at the red light, waiting with eyes empty

But getting covered in mud was always the fun part.

Mom would give you hell afterwards “Ah she’s fine,” you would always say.

like an old grandfather standing sentinel at the door of tomorrow he gazes, sternly, forbiddingly, sadly his beard of snow grizzled and fading.

Although mom would always shake her head and roll her eyes, she still listened to you.

Because you were her dad and my grandpa, you always got away with more.

I inch forward, he inches away

Birthdays shared together were always fun

till the light turns green and he recedes into tomorrow, entering the future by looking back Alzheimer’s drawing him slowly away.

frosting getting caught in your glasses and in my hair we would just laugh together and cherish the moment.

But something happened and you went away,

I want to follow

leaving nothing but these memories

but where he’s going is his yesterday, but my tomorrow and I watch as he recedes once full of life and energy, family and youth, now empty and still he recedes bearded and white while the snow keeps falling.

Soon he is buried and I see him no more I pick the cotton from the bushes because I want to remember today and not lose it, buried in the past.

DRAWING Kaycie Lange Junior

< PHOTOGRAPH

Valerie Kasinski Senior

PHOTOGRAPH Elizabeth Burns Hausrath Sophomore

SILVER Victoria Cobel Freshman On the night I was born the full moon rose and hung

WATERCOLOR RENDERINGS Melanie Bruning Sophomore

like a beacon over all, daring the wolves to howl and celebrate my arrival on the day the human savior rose and conquered death itself.

On the night I was born my warrior aunts warded off cheerful night nurses carrying tiny bunny ears, guarding me by the cold, metal bed rails with looks of steely determination to save me from the cruelty of the birthday photos of the future.

On the night I was born I gleefully leapt into a chlorine oasis in my lilac sequined summer dress, splashing about in the reflection of the bright, looming full moon, pretending I was a lonely mermaid with a luminescent platinum tail.

On the night I was born The world was all silver.

< PAINTING

Madison Surdej Junior

Apparel

Poster

EVENT CAMPAIGN Leah Alles Junior

Calendar

THE WEDDING PARTY Christopher Sirgey Senior It was an unusual ceremony. The people involved, however, didn’t seem notice the oddities that would have befuddled an outsider. The air spoke of a silent understanding of everyone in the room. An agreement. It was as if all of them were simultaneously thinking to themselves, “What is happening here is normal.

What is happening here is good.”

The room was saturated with audible tension. Yet the only actual sounds were a low mechanical whirring and beeping coupled with occasional footsteps from

better or for worse, in sickness and in health, to love and

beyond the door. Sounds which everyone pointedly ignored. No one spoke.

cherish, from this day forward, until death do you part?”

Although there were few people in attendance, the small room was quite full.

As the preacher uttered those last words, the groom

The groom’s brother stood at his side and the bride’s closest friend at her’s. The

succumbed to a forceful coughing fit, taking strained,

parents of the bride and groom lined the back wall, also unseated. The preacher

shallow breaths between the harsh outbursts. The

was positioned before the couple, between two attendants clothed in white. No

beeping quickened once again and the attendants in

one else was present and no one else

white started forward, only to stop short at a quick glance

was expected.

from the bride. The bride’s father stood up at the back of the room, slowly walked forward, and put his hand on

The groom’s mother had to choke back a startled cry as the preacher began

her shoulder. All eyes were on the groom as his breathing

to speak. “We all know why we’re gathered here today,” he said gravely. The

eased and he opened his mouth to speak.

preacher’s voice cracked as he continued. “Under the circumstances, I think it’s best we get on as quickly as possible.”

“I do.”

The bride reached out to the groom and he grasped her extended hand slowly.

The words were spoken so quietly they could barely be

As if this simple action was some sort of spell, all but three of the guests

heard, even with the people around him straining to hear.

found tears staining their cheeks and dripping down onto the cold, white floor.

A relieved sigh spread throughout the room and all the

The attendants in white remained impassive; eyes still dry and alert, yet now

guests moved closer. The preacher then turned to the

fixed firmly on their feet. The mother of the bride also resisted the urge to cry,

bride and spoke again in a strained voice. “Do you take

keeping her eyes locked on her daughter. The bride shifted slightly, prickling

this man, to have and to hold, for better or for worse, in

under her mother’s stern gaze. She knew her mother didn’t understand and

sickness and in health, to love and cherish, from this day

closed her eyes as the preacher spoke the words she feared the most.

forward, until death do you part?”

“Let any who object to this marriage speak now or forever hold

The bride looked down at the man she loved and smiled

their peace.”

for the first time since the accident, her lips highlighted by her tears, repeated those two words.

Shaking, the bride opened her eyes and met her mother’s stare as her hand tightened around the groom’s. The two women stared at each other for a

“I do.”

painfully long moment as the other guests looked purposefully away, the bride repeating a simple plea in her head. “Please, no. Please, no. Please, no. Please.”

The preacher stood for a moment, staring at the couple with heavy eyes. He found himself unable to speak and

Her mother wanted to tell her to walk away now and save herself the years of

began repeating a familiar mantra in his head.

pain sure to follow. “Don’t let what happened control you,” she’d say. “He was never any good for you anyway. Take the accident as a sign and forget about

“What is happening here is normal. What is happening

him.”

here is good.”

Their mental battle finally ended with a small cough from the groom, startlingly

Lowering his head, the preacher managed to speak one

loud compared to the previous silence. The persistent beeping in the

last time before turning and exiting the room. “By the

background quickened. The bride’s mother stared at her daughter for another

power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and

brief moment before quickly exiting the room. Her husband moved as if to

wife.” >>

follow, but instead sank down to the floor with his face buried in his hands. The groom’s mother gripped her husband tightly, sobbing silently into his shoulder as he stared blankly at the wall. The groomsman and bridesmaid, who had remained mostly composed, began shifting nervously and actively studied the floor.

The preacher looked at the couple in front of him, rattled by the mother’s sudden departure, and spoke with obvious effort to the groom, pausing between each short phrase. “Do you take this woman, to have and to hold, for

PHOTOGRAPH Elizabeth Burns Hausrath >> The other guests also turned away, following the preacher through the door, and leaving the newlywed couple behind. The bridesmaid was first, with the groom’s brother holding a comforting hand on her shoulder. Next were the groom’s parents, the mother’s sobs no longer silent as they exited.

Finally, the bride’s father left her side, tightening his grip on her shoulder before removing his hand and seeking out his wife. The attendants in white remained standing over the groom.

The bride, still smiling and sobbing, knelt down next to her husband and gently kissed him on the forehead. She felt his hand tighten around her’s and laid her head onto his chest. The beeping began to slow. As her head sank and rose with each shallow breath he took, she found herself repeating the words, “I love you,” in a desperate whisper. In those last moments, she thought she heard him whisper it too. ******* The preacher was still standing outside the room when the attendants exited, nodding to him as they passed. He had been trying to make some sense of what happened, and more importantly, why it happened. He found himself unable to do so.

Perhaps he should take a sabbatical, he thought.

Spend some time away from the world and just think things through.

He turned away and began to make his way down the hall before feeling compelled to turn back. He took the door handle nervously and opened the door just widely enough to look in. He saw the bride and groom lying in each other’s arms, her in her bridal gown, and him in the hospital gown. She was no longer smiling as she wept, his hand fallen from her grasp. The only remaining sound was a soft whisper, too faint for the preacher to make out. The absence of the persistent beeping was deafening.

Yes, he thought. He would take a sabbatical. He stood in the doorway wiping his tears away with his cassock before entering the room to deliver last rites. He needed to spend some time away from the world to think things through.

POSTER Carl Hunley

Sophomore

Sophomore

PRINT

Madeline Scheur Senior

> PAINTING Sarah Brady Junior

PACKAGING

PAINTING

Leah Alles | Junior

Valerie Kasinski Senior

PAINTING Mercedes Smith

Sophomore

DETAILS OF LOSS Holly Langworthy Sophomore I met John in the winter of 1984 in Chicago. He always stood taller than everyone else and always wore a smile. For five weeks we trained together, through what some would say was hell on earth.

It wasn’t until our final days that we were given the opportunity to talk. As luck would have it, we became instant friends. Our ease with one another came naturally, instantly. I learned he came from a wealthy family, a line of surgeons to be exact. He had no siblings and his parents were direct descendants of some sort of royal family. John was supposed to follow next in line to medical school, something that was bought and paid for, courtesy of his father.

He told me the day of his high school graduation, as valedictorian, it took all he had to tear up the speech he was supposed to give; instead he spoke directly from his heart to his father. He stood on that stage with a lump in his throat. “I am not a Doctor, I am who I am as I have always been. You’ll finally see who I am when I leave. So goodbye and good luck – I’m joining the Navy.”

Walking off the stage he approached his father.

With furious eyes and a heated face his father only

INTERIOR DESIGN Constance Strother

spoke a few words, “I’m proud that you have come

Senior

to this decision. You’ll make a fine military doctor.”

John didn’t respond, he knew after all this time his father still could not see who he was.

I saw John’s eyes, they were like an open wound

work, skipping duty watches, but the strangest thing was he wouldn’t talk to me.

to his soul, and he was still hurting. This was the

The day his parents were scheduled to arrive, John called me, asking if he could

first time he didn’t smile, he looked lost. I told him

stop by my barracks when I got off night watch.

he was the better person and he silently gave me a hug. As we continued to talk, I opened my truths

March 6, 1995, the morning was cool with mist filled air and an overwhelming uneasy

to him, his smile came back and we laughed until

feel. My world shattered. I stopped for coffee, two caramel cappuccinos and two

lights out.

bagels, breakfast of champions, John always said. I opened my door to see John sitting on my bunk holding his duty shotgun. With his eyes focused intently on me,

The next day we got our orders. We said

he smiled his biggest smile and pulled the trigger. I can remember going through

our goodbyes, promised to write and if the

every emotion known to man within a split second, and still to this day I can smell

opportunity came, we would see each other

the powder, as if it has been burnt into my senses.

again. Two weeks later I was just getting used to not seeing his smile, and then there he was. He

It wasn’t until three days later that I found the letter. He wrote, “I am not a doctor,

came creeping up behind the bird I was fixing,

I am who I am. You will see me for who I am when I leave, so goodbye and good

with his luminous smile and a quick joke; it was

luck.” The rest of what he wrote was for my eyes only. It was then I knew what he had

as if we were never apart. In case you haven’t

always meant, all his life he could never be himself, except with me, and it still wasn’t

guessed, John did not become a medical officer,

enough to keep him going.

he became a mechanic. I asked what he told his father, he said, “Oh nothing. He still thinks I’m in

When I took that letter to his father he threw it in my face. As I was leaving John’s

medical school.” I left it at that and we fixed that

mother asked me only one question, “did he smile?” I smiled and then she knew

bird together. We enjoyed every minute of our

what I knew. We didn’t do enough for him; we had to live with that but because of

new opportunity.

his smile, he knew we tried.

Six months passed and our first family day was

Every year on March 6 I remember John for his smile. Unfortunately I also relive

coming up. As the day grew closer, I noticed John

those last few moments of his life. As time goes on, it doesn’t get easier, but it keeps

acting differently, weird even. He was late for

me going.

EVENT BRANDING

Jessica Puskar Junior

RESTORATIONS

Original to Outrageous

BUSINESS IDENTITY

Bonnie Mack Junior

MARKER AND COLORED PENCIL RENDERING

PRINT Brittney Sikora

Kaitlin Lancellotti Junior

Senior

> DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPH Grace Gruarin Sophomore

PAINTING

Jenna Hallmark Sophomore

VISIONARY Natalka Prytula Sophomore The world has never been quite clear to you.

Once bold colors bleed together, a diluted pool of rainbows.

Memorizing every moment, you trace the silhouette of your daughterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face in your mind, never to relinquish the images or your faith.

Tears of frustration escape through dark brown eyes, unsure of whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s to come.

Your strength lies within you.

Your strength is who you are.

The mother.

PHOTOGRAPH

Elena Weis Junior

The lover.

The friend.

The person who inspires me.

The person who is much more than her sight.

< PHOTOGRAPH SERIES

Elizabeth Burns Hausrath Sophomore

PHOTOGRAPH SERIES Sarah Hedley Freshman

MULTIMODAL ANALYSIS OF “MARCH ‘79” Sarah Hedley Freshman “March ‘79”, by Tomas Transtromer, does not vary much in rhythm. I read it very simply and straight forward. Even the one line, punctuated

“Tired” instead of “I am tired” gives the sense of personal frustration and

with exclamation, reads subdued. The poem

the need to be abrupt. There is a longing in the tone. “The wild things have

itself is very calm tonally, which goes along with

no words” gives a sense of longing and frustration that relates to the

the content. A quiet longing, a calm rhythm.

first line.

The sound of the poem is just as subdued.

Transtromer uses very soft words. The imagistic

“The unwritten pages stretch out in every direction!” is the only line that

words are very soft in sound: snow, tracks, deer,

carries any metaphor. Transtromer is trying to convey the unpredictable,

hooves. The sound, imagery, and meaning are

yet set pattern to the wilderness around him. “The wild things have no

very tightly connected.

words” they have meaning in “language”, but not an artificial language the way humans attempt to relate to one another. Pages, perhaps as pages

The imagery is primarily visual. Phrases such as

of a book, where you might find poetry written, are an enormously human

“snow covered island”, “unwritten pages” that

element. He is relating something human, the pages, to the nature of the

“stretch out in every direction”, and “tracks of

wild, to being unwritten. The ideas exist in nature, but are not formalized as

deer’s hooves in the snow” create immediate

they are in human society.

and vivid images in my mind. I relate this poem to a walk in the woods, and the two main

I connected with the poem instantly, as I have some of the same strong

components of that experience are sight and

feelings about human beings too often trying to elevate themselves above

sound. Tactile imagery in this case would be

nature and wilderness and becoming, to that end, empty and meaningless.

more abstract and remove the reader from the

The first piece of imagery is the snow-covered island. I immediately thought

intention. Transtromer uses visuals and ideas to

of the ocean and water. Though water is not sentient, it has a language, a

express his meaning.

pattern, a rhythm all its own. This connects and lends itself well with poetry and art itself.

The poem is primarily written in past tense, ruminating on an experience. There is one odd

When I thought of water, I thought of one of my favorite films, “The Man

confusion of time in the line, “I come across

Who Fell to Earth” about an alien that travels to Earth in search of water to

tracks”. In my opinion this implies more present

save his dying, drought-ridden planet. The film uses two pieces of music

tense. I am unsure of what that choice of words

from Gustav Holst’s “The Planet Suite”-- “Venus, The Bringer of Peace” is

means for the poem as a whole. In the beginning

calm, delicate, and emotionally moving. The piece also has to it a sense of

of the poem, Transtromer writes “Tired of

longing, which is a sense I got from the poem.

everyone who comes with words”; generally one

would think to start with “I am tired”. I do not

Reading the poem made me feel as I do when I go for a walk alone in the

believe he is attempting to distance the speaker

wilderness, as the poet describes. In the quieting of the human condition,

from the personal experience as he uses “I”

there is a longing to be one of “the wild things”. The bird that sings, the

throughout the rest of the poem. I personally

deer that feeds, the tree that grows, the stream that flows. But there is

prefer that it starts this way as it gives as greater

contradiction and conflict. The bird that sings desires not to be but the bird

sense of frustration. Starting the poem with the

that sings. Our comprehension of the wild things, that longing to be more

exact point of being tired.

or less of what we are is one of the most human traits.

The syntax is very plain and matter of fact, relating heavily with the idea of language. No fancy phrasing or roundabout wording, simply related. There is not much to pull apart from syntax in “March ‘79”, except from what was previously stated. The most powerful lines are the short, abrupt statements. Transtomer uses a combination of simple abrupt lines with longer descriptive ones. This is effective for meaning and imagery.

The tone is frustrated, conflicted between the natural and the artifice of human life. As I mentioned with diction, starting the poem with

ZINE Emily Zajac

Junior

ENDER Lee Terwilliger Senior

It’s right, but it’s wrong You fight to be strong It’s not like before It’s soft and it’s warm You feel it inside It eats you alive It’s under your skin It’s under your ribs So deep in your chest So weak and depressed You search for a way To get through your day...

With pills in your blood To wash her away

PAINTING

Patricia Getchell Freshman

COMPOUND TYPOGRAPHY Leah Alles

Junior

MAGICK Amandalynn Morton Junior It had been awhile, quite awhile, since I had gone to the place my family calls the cottage. It sits on the banks of Lake Erie, its white outer panels dirty from days spent being beaten by the damp winds coming up off the water. It rests well off the main road, down a hill with just a clumsy stone driveway to lead you to it. The cottage belonged, and still does, to my aunt and uncle. They have made it their summer retreat for years now, disappearing for long weekends to fish and water ski. The well extended family has always been welcome to join them, and we often have. It was a meeting ground for late night parties filled with bonfires and sparklers, for barbeques and sticky S’mores.

Upon arrival, nothing seemed to have changed. You parked on the lawn, out of the way, in a line with the others who had already arrived. Unloading a few bags containing things like swimsuits, towels and snacks, you’re greeted by various family members who heard you come down from the road by the unmistakable grinding of stones beneath car tires. Smiling faces, hugs, kisses. Everyone acted as if they hadn’t seen you in ages, which just might have been true for me. I stopped going to the cottage around the end of high school when life became too busy. Once work and college started, my days were always filled with tasks that could not be put off, so my appearance there must have seemed rare. That was all right with me. I mean, “absence makes the heart grown fonder”, right? Besides, between you and me, I never really was the outdoor activities type.

I don’t like fishing, I refused to go swimming in that murky water and forget water skiing. There was only ever one reason I came down to the cottage as a kid and that was the very same reason that had drawn me back so many years later. There was a creek that ran through the trees that separates the land owned by my aunt and uncle from the road and from the land owned by the neighboring cottages. This creek is where my cousins and I would always play. This simple, trickle of icy water and all that surrounded it were our escape into a world filled with magick. This magick is what I hoped to find by returning to this place, this cottage on the lake. So I helped to unpack as quickly as everyone would allow before I disappeared from sight, around the back of the building and down a set of old, cement steps. That’s all it took, and you were there.

PAINTING Sarah Brady

Sophomore

The creek cut the land in half, closed in on both

light, now barely a ray could squeeze through the leaves. I soon found my

sides by a set of hills. Down there was always

path cut off entirely and was forced to back track until I found a spot where

like being in another world. Just coming down

I could climb up the hill that banked the stream. Up there, technically no

from the steps left you with this feeling, like you

longer on the property owned by my aunt and uncle, but by the owners of

stepped from one dimension to another. The

the other cottages, you could look down at the stream.

cottage blocked most of the afternoon sun,

leaving a golden glow like soft down feathers to

What once seemed so grand and full of adventure now just looked, well,

light your way. You stepped over a small pond

like a stream. Disappointment slowly grew within my heart. Yes, it was all

that cut away from the rest of the stream into

still beautiful. The land itself was full of color and life. Nature had taken

a small, still pool and you would find yourself

back the things my cousins and I had damaged as kids, carelessly romping

in a sort of natural fort. There the trees always

about. This in itself was beautiful too. Even the sounds were the same.

grew small with thin, wispy branches. For years

You could hear the soft trickle of water as it worked its way over rocks and

vines had taken hold of these branches and bent

under overgrown tree roots. The birds still sang their little songs overhead,

them to form a roof that grew just tall enough

the frogs seeming to call back from their home within the mud along the

for my ten year-old self to stand under with ease,

banks. This was all a part of a beauty I didn’t notice as a kid, but it was not

though now I had to hunch over slightly. It had

what I had come looking for that day. I had come looking for a different

felt so wide and open under there when I was

kind of magick. The kind that renders a dead tree into a mighty dragon and

young. The ground which had been barren of

a dome made by tree branches into a castle. This magick, it was clear, was

plant life due to a lack of sun and the constant

gone. Lost to me as an adult, but still creating a terrible longing in a heart

stomping of wet sneakers was now covered with

that refused to grow old. Maybe I can no longer find mythical beasts within

tiny leaved plants. No one had been down there

the landscapes of my childhood, but I can still find them within myself.

in years, I could tell. There had even once been

Sometimes they are hidden beneath the problems that come with the adult

a path that could be taken instead of the cement

world, but they are still there, and those magickle places that created the

stairs to get down or up from this level. A path

worlds of my childhood play can bring them back, even if only in memory.

that cut through the trees, up the side of the hill, where it would spit you back out into daylight.

That path had long since grown over and not even my ten year-old self could have fit through the new plant life that had taken back what once belonged to it. Wanting to see more, I left that little hideaway to step over the stream itself. I knew it often receded in the later months of the summer, but even so I had found it much easier to cross these days. It didn’t seem as wide.

Taking another path that had long since been worn by human feet, I decided I would walk along the stream, heading deeper into the trees away from the bustle at the cottage. It was early in the afternoon, a time of day which would have seemed hot, but down there among the trees it was pleasantly cool. I noted that hadn’t changed.

I walked slowly, carefully. With each delicate step along the water’s edge, I could hear the soft kur-plop of small green frogs escaping into the stream ahead of me. I remembered chasing these frogs as kids, filling buckets with them.

We’d always let them go, of course, after we showed our mothers how many we had caught.

Again I noted how plant life had grown where once it was easy to move. Young trees had come to grow closer to the stream than I could remember, making the continued movement through the underbrush more and more difficult as I went along. Even the growth of branches over my head seemed to have thickened. Once, where sun used to come through in dappling

PAINTING

Rachael Thomas

Freshman

PHOTOGRAPH SERIES Valerie Kasinski

Senior

The doctor softened his tone. “I don’t think you understand. Your child ...”

I interrupted him. “I understand perfectly well. You don’t think there’s any hope for him. I was born a preemie and they expected me to die, too – but here I am. God spared me when I was expected to die, so don’t you sit there like you’re God and tell me there’s no chance for my child!”

But in the delivery room, I wondered what chances my baby really had.

DANDELION JOY

When he finally came, Roger’s face turned white and my heart just stopped.

The room became a beehive of activity. A crash cart was brought in. I

Elizabeth Mangano Sophomore

became aware of the hospital intercom, paging one doctor after another to

It felt like my heart was being torn out, a searing

But they wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. Roger squeezed my hand tightly.

room four. Then it dawned on me – we were room four! I cried. I screamed.

pain that ripped through my abdomen. I sank to my knees as the world spun crazily around me.

“Karen, he was blue. When he came out, he was blue. He was blue,

From a distance I heard my husband’s anguished

Karen, blue.”

cry. The doctor was silent. So was my son, my blond-haired boy forever stilled. I couldn’t

It was four months before I could hold my baby. He had eight surgeries

breathe, couldn’t imagine life without him. The

in the first six months alone; I lost count somewhere after that. Medical

room spun and everything went black.

emergencies and hospital rooms became normal, and we homeschooled him because of his medical needs. Somewhere between ten and twelve

The memorial service was held Sunday night

years old we hit a sort of normal, with Nathan only a grade level behind

in a packed house. The church’s sanctuary,

other kids his age. His closest friends were the pastor’s son and a steady

normally seating one hundred fifty with about

stream of stray dogs, usually no more than two or three at a time. He had

fifty present on a Sunday evening, was filled with

to be called out of the pool when his lips and fingertips turned blue, and

more than four hundred, with people even sitting

during the winter Roger and I routinely checked for frostbite when he was

on the floor. Roger and I felt very specifically

outside, but he was otherwise a normal kid. Skinned knees and bicycles

that we were supposed to rejoice in Nathan’s

became ATV’s and driving the tractor. Eventually his voice deepened and

“homegoing” to heaven and celebrate his

his still-rail-thin frame towered over me.

nineteen years. But in spite of the overheated room, a kernel of ice formed in my heart as I

The Christmas he turned nineteen he spent several days in the hospital

gazed at his lifeless form. I knew the doctors had

– his heart had weakened, a time bomb silently ticking, counting down

all expected him to die long ago, but that didn’t

the remaining seconds. But we had no idea how few they were. One mild

lessen the pain, the constant ache that took my

February day he was riding his sister’s old bike around the yard, his knees

breath away.

sticking out crazily around the little hot pink frame, singing at the top of his lungs. He told his friend he felt sick and came inside, grabbed his chest,

“Something’s … um, I’m going to get the doctor.

and fell on the couch. And he died, just like that. Nothing we did, not the

Stay right here.”

CPR we had used before, not the paramedics’ oxygen, not the portable defibrillator they used, brought him back.

I shivered on the cold metal table, the ultrasound gel on my rounded abdomen making me even

Time heals all, they say. Now I often wonder what idiot came up with that!

colder. What was wrong with my baby?

After three months, the kernel of ice in my heart had frozen me over. It froze my thoughts, my words, my smile, and my hope. I forgot ordinary things,

The doctor gave us the news like he was talking

like signing a check or stopping for bread on the way home or which way

about the weather: “His heart isn’t formed

to turn to go to work. I forgot bigger things, too – I forgot our anniversary.

properly … congenital defect … five percent

So did Roger. I forgot to get the oil changed in the car. I forgot work

chance of survival … mental deficiency ….

assignments and house keys, and I left things in odd places, like the phone

defective mitral valve …. he probably won’t

in the freezer or the newspaper in the pantry. I lost business cards and

survive the birthing process. You should consider

phone numbers and debit cards, and sometimes just wandered from room

abortion. If he does survive, he will need lifelong

to room in a daze. I tried to tell a friend how I felt, but gave up – the words

medical care, probably in an institution, for

just wouldn’t come. Why bother? Talking wouldn’t bring Nathan back or

however long he lives.”

make me forget how much his absence hurt.

Something sunk in then. “Abortion?” I jumped

Summer came, full of sunshine and warm breezes, ice tea and picnics – and

to my feet. Roger squeezed my hand as I spoke

long empty days, and it was still winter in my heart. I cried myself to sleep

for both of us. “There will be no abortion. You’re

more times than I could count, so often that it disgusted my husband. I took

talking about my child!”

to crying with my head underneath my pillow, my soul buffeted by storms of despair and pain and anguish. Then Roger came in one day after five minutes on the tractor. I thought he ran out of gas, but he shook his head.

“I just can’t do it,” he said.

I studied him, but couldn’t figure out what he was talking about. “Do what?

Mow the yard?”

He took me by the arm and drew me to the window. “I just can’t cut them down, Karen.”

The backyard was carpeted with vivid yellow blooms: a bumper crop of dandelions. Nathan’s favorite flower. And just like that, he was there again, a seven-year-old cutie admiring the vivid yellow blossoms that covered the backyard. Wrapped in a quilt despite the warm breeze and summer sun, he was delighted by their bright color.

“What are they, Mommy?”

“They’re called dandelions.” I wrote the word out for him, made it part of our morning lesson. He missed so much school time on the days his oxygen level was low that we did lessons on any good day, even in summer.

He studied the word carefully for a minute. “Dandy-lions,” he carefully pronounced, while I picked a handful and brought them to him in the rocking chair on the porch. “Is that ‘cause they got a beard, like lions?” he asked, fingering the spiky petals.

“It’s a mane, sweetie, that lions have. And I really don’t know where they got their name from.”

Two days later his cries upon awaking brought me running. “What’s wrong, honey?” I asked as panic made my heart race.

“Gone, Mommy! They’re … gone!” he said between gulps.

“What’s gone, sweetie?” I asked him, bewildered.

“The lions. They’re gone, all gone!” he wailed.

I was totally lost. What on earth was he talking about?

“You know, Mommy … the yellow lions with beards. In the yard.”

Then I understood. He was talking about the dandelions, mown down when Roger cut the grass early that morning before going off to work.

“Aw, honey,” I said, stroking his tousled blond hair, “I’m sorry. Daddy didn’t know how you wanted to see them.”

He sniffed, his breath warm on my chest. I could feel his struggling heart through my arm across his back.

“They’ll come up again, Nathan. They always do.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, turning to look out his window at the yard, now bereft of its yellow blooms.

“Just like the sun.” I said firmly. He still didn’t seem convinced. “Hey, this is Mommy. I know these things,” I said with a wink.

Early the next week he was happily ensconced in his perch on the porch rocker, distracted from schoolwork by the dandelions that were beginning to take over the yard again.

Roger held me this time as I sobbed, remembering.

“Thank you,” I whispered, as I turned to gaze out the window at the yellow-blanketed yard.

Christmas was a dismal affair. As if the empty darkness in my heart wasn’t enough, it rained for most of December, turning November’s snow to mud, gray skies smothering the light.

We gathered with the extended family. Nathan’s cousins prepared a moving tribute to the joy that had been my son, but I stood in front of the picture window instead, rain flooding the landscape as sorrow flooded my soul. Sure, I had believed in God, had believed in a purpose and a plan for all of life. But where was the light? My blond-topped light had been snuffed out like a candle.

Days crawled wearily by. Roger and I were talking less and fighting more – but I knew I really wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at God; mad beyond words at an infinite being that decided He needed my son more than I did. So was Roger.

In February, exactly one year after Nathan died, the word “divorce” came out. And it came out in the worst possible way and place: with the family gathered around, in front of Nathan’s adult brother and his kids. Stunned faces stared at us.

No one moved. No one said a word. I finally fled, sobbing, to the one place I felt at home: Nathan’s bedroom. I sprawled shaking across the bed, my tears soaking the yellow quilt his grandma had made for him, in his favorite color, when he turned five. A thousand moments flooded my mind, burned more sharply into my memory by his passing. My eyes roamed around the room, looking at the trinkets and such that marked his 19 years. I was so lost in the memories that I didn’t hear when Roger came in. He sat on the bed, close but not touching me.

“What are we going to do?” he asked softly.

“I don’t know,” I muttered. I sat up and looked at him. “But I know I can’t go on like this.” >>

“I’ll … I’ll try,” I said softly, looking Roger in the eyes. “I’ll try.”

And I did. I changed my daily prayer, from begging God to either take the pain away or take my life, horrible selfish, bitter prayers, to just one simple line: God, help me to find joy again. >>

I didn’t really notice feeling any different, but one day on the radio a song about being free came on. It dawned on me, then, that God

A sound at the door made me turn. The whole family

didn’t take my son because He needed Nathan more than I, but to

crowded in the doorway, but my oldest son pushed

free Nathan. People had said when Nathan died that he was free

through. He came and stood

now, from the aching and shortness of breath, from the body that

before us.

was too weak to hold all the joy and life that Nathan was. But I didn’t get it then, my own crushing pain a blinding force. I suddenly got it.

“I don’t know, either. But I know this much: Nathan

Out of nowhere I began to thank God through my tears, for Nathan,

wouldn’t want you guys to be this way. He’d cry, and

for his life, for his freedom, for the miracle we had experienced every

he’d tell you to hug and make up.”

day of the nineteen years he was alive, for the special privilege of being his mom. And I could feel my frozen heart starting to melt.

He was right. After a disagreement, a handshake was never enough – only a hug really proved it

As the ground began to thaw, so did I. One sunny day in May, I

to Nathan.

got up and went through my usual morning routine. I was halfway through making the coffee when I caught myself singing. Singing! As

“There is still joy, and Nathan would tell you to go

if I hadn’t a care in the world, as if … as if there was joy in my heart,

find it.” Our son spoke with wisdom beyond his

in my life again. Singing like I had when Nathan was still alive. I let

years. I knew God gave him those words. So Roger

myself continue singing, but stopped in my tracks when I looked out

and I made an agreement that we would stick it out

the window. The yard was covered with dandelions.

together until we found that joy again.

“If we can find joy,” I said bitterly.

“Well, if not, we’ll be together for a long time,” Roger said, a glimmer of his old self returning. That was Roger, always putting the best spin on things, just like Nathan. Nathan, the unshakeable optimist, finding joy in everything – even dandelions.

I remembered once lamenting about the weeds covering our yard, admiring the neatly manicured lawn of the neighbor two doors down.

“But Mom,” Nathan protested, his fifteen-year-old voice cracking, “there’s no joy in his yard.”

“You mean dandelions,” I grinned at him.

“More than that, Mom. His yard is boring … static.

Like those scratchy white sheets at the hospital and the blankets that don’t even keep you warm.”

I remembered all the hospital trips made with his yellow quilt, his distaste for the boring white of the hospital, and how much the vivid yellow always cheered him. Nathan really did find joy in everything – either found it, or made it. Like riding a tiny pink bicycle on a muddy February day.

I gazed at the expective faces of family. They came into Nathan’s room, my granddaughter throwing her arms around my waist.

POSTER Jessica Puskar

Junior

ANCESTRAL MASK Victoria Cobel Freshman

I am the ghost of my animal ancestors.

I am the camouflaged snake among predators.

I am the dirty ice after an extended winter.

I am the breath of spring that follows.

I am the elegant crow, the foreboding raven, and the bloody vulture.

I am the silent one, in your presence, but never discovered.

I am the lost serpent in a lady’s body, hiding my true scales and bones and responding to threats in curt, low hisses.

I am the sparrow, the little sparrow – slight in size, great in capability, always underestimated.

I am the submissive beta wolf.

PAINTING Rachel Thomas

Freshman

I am the powerful lioness.

I am the mountain cat, always prowling, always growling.

I am the mask of the racoon’s eyes.

I am the mask of the human’s intentions.

But still I am a mask.

DIGITAL RENDERING

PAINTING

Valerie Kasinski Senior

Aria Yanicki Junior

THE PAINTER Ruby Medina Rivera Freshman At a young age I realized my father was an artist and a magician.

He pulled his first vanishing act around the time my little sister was born. I was three years old.

My mother’s face was his canvas. He painted her colors of blue, red, purple, black and sometimes yellowish-green.

My grandparents had a big distaste for his work and my mother wasn’t brave enough to share her opinion, but according to the stories, she was pretty displeased with his work also.

One day, a couple of days before my sister was born, I am told he painted his last painting on my mother’s face. My grandfather, drunk as a skunk, drew a gun and five hundred dollars from his back pocket. He said to my father “you have 24 hours to leave this island and if you’re not gone within that time, I will shoot you and your brains splattered across the room probably will be your greatest art work.”

TRIBUTE Christopher Sirgey Senior

CIRCULAR LOGIC

This is a poem for Tom, my father and caretaker.

Sierra Sargent Sophomore

Obsessive cleaner of floors, closets, basements and walls.

I have been digging

I am grateful for everything

For some time now,

you have done to feed me,

Trying to find a reason

clothe me, and give me shelter.

In

I can see the kindness in your heart.

My

I can see you care

Head

Beneath the fatherly mask you wear,

To stop digging,

Leaving me with one question:

But I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t.

Why? Why, when I look into your eyes, do I see the crushing disappointment that haunts me in the night?

Is it because I dared to follow a dream and realized that calculus would not bring me happiness?

Is it because I was not like the other boys, uncaring for sport and competition?

Why? I could never tell you this in person, so I write this poem.

Every time you make a joke about not being my real father, It hurts.

POSTER

Joe Carney Sophomore

WATERCOLOR RENDERING Kimathi Augustus

PHOTOGRAPH

Elena Weis Junior

Freshman

DIGITAL ILLUSTRATION AriaYanicki Junior

PHOTOMONTAGE Joe Carney

Sophomore

A FRIEND Valerie Kasinski

Senior

I received an anonymous vase of flowers

These past couple of years I’ve gained more of an appreciation for the little

today. When I got home my mother told me

things in life. With my college years almost behind me, the future becomes

that the deliveryman called her “Valerie”

more daunting with each passing day. The anxiety that has taken up residence

and presented her with the package. At the

in the pit of my stomach is overthrown by my desire for a purpose.

summit of the package was a miniature card stapled to the cellophane that encapsulated

There’s a part of us, no matter how big or small, that hopes we’ve made

the vase. Pealing open the Paynes grey

some sort of impact during our time here on Earth. All we can do is share the

envelope, my heart puttered with confusion.

happiness that society seeks and put forth the truest versions of ourselves.

I hadn’t been expecting anything in the mail nor had I done anything noteworthy that I

Whether by paying it forward with a kind and empathetic disposition or by

could recall.

simply having an open heart, you can change the course of someone’s day.

Always remember that the small gestures you make throughout your lifetime

As I pulled out the floral patterned card, I

will undoubtedly mean something to someone — like an anonymous vase of

noticed seven lines of words that filled the

flowers.

space. Seven lines of words that together were enough to recharge my deflated motivation.

“Proud of you for all that you have accomplished, who you are, and who you will become. You are a wonderful kind soul and I am blessed everyday to know you.

— A Friend” I must have reread the card ten times trying to decipher who would make time to mail me flowers. Who would spend vital money hoping to make someone’s day a little brighter than the last? I knew it wasn’t some lurking secret admirer trying to woo me into their grasp. These were the words of someone sympathetic. Someone mindful yet respectfully disguised, but most of all — compassionate.

Compassion. What is it exactly? According to Merriam Webster it’s a “sympathetic consciousness of others’ distress together with a desire to alleviate it.” Being compassionate isn’t solely about confiding in another’s hardship nor is it limited to feeling regret for their suffering. I learned that it goes beyond simply “feeling”, to heeding the opportunity for a compassionate action.

POSTER

Ali Casarsa Freshman

THE PHRASE “I AM” Imon Hill-Moore Freshman I am an unwritten Poem who’s first Lines make no sense, A fresh piece of Apple pie with Vanilla ice cream, A book with no Title about a Girl with no name.

I am a sheet of paper Blank and white.

I am the first snowflake Of winter that melts Before hitting the Ground.

I am the new car Smell and the feel Of new leather.

I am the first summer Breeze, The first smile of a baby And the sound of Its first laugh, I am me.

MY BALLOONS Eric C-DeJesus Sophomore Someone once gave me a pack of balloons more balloons than I could ever imagine and their colors varied of blue and white.

Not knowing what to do with them I took them to an open field and set them free.

I watched them drift away straight into a tree and they became stuck.

Still to this day they are there and every time I pass them it’s as if they lurk staring down on me and I cannot stand to look up at them.

PACKAGING

Emma Balk Junior Allison Kollander Junior

PRINT

Taramarie Mitravich Senior