ENDANGERED Species silent voices XXXVII woodward academy literary arts magazine
Silent Voices Woodward Academy 2017
en·dan·gered spe·cies noun a species of animal or plant that is seriously at risk of extinction. 16,306 species are listed by the International Union for the Conservation of Nature as endangered. Each species becomes endangered in different ways – loss of habitat, overhunting, disease, climate change – but a common thread throughout each endangerment is human interaction and influence. Still, we could not be less concerned. We think we are above it all. That, as humans, we are so intellectually superior that we are untouchable, immortal, and immune from the the disease spread by our touch. When in reality, we too must be infected to infect others. We have caused almost as much ruin to ourselves and the most precious and malleable of our kind, our youth, as we have to the species we have threatened or wiped out. As humans, we have constructed a society that endangers the American Teen, killing our youth’s confidence, sense of self, passion, and will to carry on, expecting so little, yet so much. But as teens, we may not even know we are on the edge of losing ourselves, impacted by everything, noticing nothing. In this edition, we raise awareness about the American Teen, an endangered species on the brink of obsolescence, caged and held captive by societal expectations and limitations. Disconnected from what truly makes us teenagers: the wonder of life, finding ourselves on our terms, leaving our hearts to people and places for the first time, dreaming we can make a difference in the world, and genuinely believing we can realize those dreams. At the beginning of our path towards fulfillment, society stops us in our tracks by determining our intellect with standardized tests, calculating our self-worth by the number of likes we get on Instagram, stripping away creativity and abstract thinking for regurgitation of information, and creating unrealistic, heavily photoshopped perceptions of the perfect human to compare us to. Our leaders talk about progress and pushing towards the future, but with a species so stunted in its growth, on the edge of desolation, we can never be allowed to evolve any further. Through six chapters, we discover the factors of the American Teen that are endangered by modern society and their level of endangerment in hopes that you can help us change the outcome. The survival of our youth and the future of the human race depends on it. We are worth saving.
species list
PAINT habitat
species name
environment
08-09
Paint by Benjamin Woolcott ‘17
Fish-Bone by Benjamin Woolcott ‘17
10-11
Ballerina by Daisy Dow ‘18
Libernation by Corinne Cochran ‘18
12-13
Vellichor by Leila Agbogu ‘17
Staircase by Corinne Cochran ‘18
14-15
Tick Tick by Anna Kathryn Hodges ‘19
Imprinted by Colleen Gramlich ‘17 old man by S. (Marco) Moreno ‘17 apple and slice by S. (Marco) Moreno ‘17
Health habitat
species name
environment
18-19
Self Care by Kassandra Eylina ‘17
Alex and Kaya by Alex Slaughter ‘17 Look Inside by Cameron Carmen ‘17
20-21
Mike and Ikes by Marcus Lin ‘17
Hiding by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
22-23
Absinthe by Sam Seidel ‘17
Emersyn by Alex Slaughter ‘18
24-25
I am the One by Evan Strat
the final stretch by Alex Slaughter ‘18
26-27
Deep Breaths by Kassandra Eyinla ‘17
Girl by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
Home habitat
species name
environment
30-31
the bowl by Marcus Lin ‘17 Home by Kamau Robinson ‘17
32-33
A Love Letter to my Mom by Erin Harris ‘17
Subjects by Mahala Broad ‘19
34-35
Prelude by Anandi Bien-Aime ‘20
Sea of Knowledge by Alex Kostychen ‘17 untitled by Annalyn Smith ‘18
36-39
Oh, God by Marissa Ander ‘17
Obsured Vision by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17 Pipes by Corinne Cochran ‘19
40-41
Excerpts from The Holocaust Series by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
Relationships habitat
species name
environment
44-45
It took 24 Days by Alex Potts ‘18 summer daze by Kassandra Eyinla ‘17
Jude by Alex Slaughter ‘18
46-47
The Funny Thing About a Phoenix by Sari Bircoll ‘17
Emerge by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
48-49
Opia by Leila Agbogu ‘17
Innocence by Alex Kostychen ‘17
50-51
Suitcase by Benjamin Woolcott ‘17
During the Lull by Mahala Broad ‘19
52-53
You Should Have Been There by Caroline Culver ‘17
If You’re Not Growing, You’re Dying by Molly Echols ‘17 Ribbon, Limelight, Reef by Benjamin Woolcott ‘17
Identity habitat
species name
environment
60-61
The Line by Erin Edwards ‘17
Dead End by Colleen Gramlich ‘17
62-63
Endangered Species by Kamau Robinson ‘17
Man in the Forest by Alex Slaughter ‘17
64-65
The Luau by Erin Edwards ‘17
Back by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
66-67
Just be Happy by Sam Seidel ‘17 A Facade of Yours by Alisha Chranya ‘19
Rix by S. (Marc0) Moreno ‘17 Tower by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
68-69
Just Brown by Erin Edwards ‘17
Dinner is served by Alex Kostychen ‘17
70-71
Like A Woman by Erin Harris ‘17
Before by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
Hope habitat
species name
environment
74-75
Our President by Srinidhi Panchapakesan ‘18
Justice for Who? by Alanna Pearson ‘18
76-77
When a Candle Flickers by Sari Bircoll ‘17
untitled by S. (Marco) Moreno ‘17
78-79
No grand cermony or fireworks by Erin Edwards ‘17
Who is History? What does she want from us? by Cameron Carmen ‘17
ARTISTRY
level of endangerment: vulnerable
While the craft employs technique and talent, artistry in its purest form is a practice that does not demand perfect formulas or equations, but an untamed urge to create for the sake of expression. Artists express themselves by hurling the words they cannot not say, the pain they long to forget but cannot shake, and the feelings they cannot communicate onto a canvas. But viewers of the art tap into their own deep-seated emotions to empathize with each piece, interpreting it as if it were made for them, by them. Now, everything is calculated. Anything not related to STEM is now considered useless by many in the federal government who propose legislation to cut funding for the arts in public schools and eliminate the National Endowment for the Arts and the National Endowment for the Humanities. Right now, teen artists are being told to take a seat at the kitchen table, drop their paintbrushes and charcoal, get serious, and look at the “big picture:” higher paying technical jobs are the only careers that will prevent them from falling into the black hole of poverty, a darkness people are easily sucked into, but almost never escape. Nothing but technology and innovation will propel the United States forward in the global market and the human race into the future. But what future, what world, does any teenager want to live in without music or movies? Without the secret, sappy love poems written at night when you’re smiling so hard you just can’t fall asleep? Without favorite beaten-up, dog-eared books that you take off the shelf from time to time to look at teardrop stains blurring certain words and reminisce on how you felt when you first read it? We’d rather go extinct and have power-hungry corporate robots assume our place, which will eventually happen if we continue on the path we are now. In this section, we explore what art should be – the untainted beauty and effusion of the artist – what it shouldn’t – a definite shape with a specific form molded and cropped by society – and the inevitable loss of art as the world continues to prioritize robotization and perfection over creativity and beautiful mistakes.
Paint scientific name: aliquam natural habitat: my canvas
An ocean of white lies before me, Confined in corners. Poised in the air a brush waits, To break the surface. A stroke left and swipe right, The landscape fractures. Broken. Created. Colours explode forth in unison, Blue, green, yellow. Knives divide the land in arcs, Canyons appear. Mountain ranges of gold erupt, Shimmering showers. Blooming. Exploding. The brush rests as the knives sleep, The work finished. A new world never before seen, Lies before me. I step back and view, My masterpiece. Strange. Beautiful. Mine. by Benjamin Woollcott ‘17
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Artistry
Fish Bone, acrylic painting by Benjamin Woollcott ‘17 Silent Voices
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Artistry
atin print n, silver gel Libernatio ‘18 e Cochran by Corinn
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Artistry
The Ballerina scientific name: et ballerina natural habitat: the stage
One by one they cross the stage, Some call it beauty, but it’s an expression of rage. Built up pain and relentless blisters, Seem to punish the union brothers and sisters Who forfeit their minds to a so-called lover of the arts. Only a few will discover The sacrifice made by those who succumb To the life of a dancer whose feet turn numb, Under pressure from a dictation of art That won’t cede power for fear, in part, That a tradition will crumble. But it will be the dawn Of a time when artists are artists, and no longer pawns. by Daisy Dow ‘18
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Artistry
Vellichor scientific name: vellichor natural habitat: bookshop
The strange wistfulness of used bookshops. The scent of dark wood and coffee beans waft up my nose, and crimson argyle socks surround my toes. The shelves have dents, but that’s okay, Because the books are decorated in the exact same way. Through the expertly crafted mustaches and collegiate tweed sport coats, I make a home amongst the old Timey signs and rootbeer floats. Nestled in a corner, I open an adventure, Hypnotized by the warm antique lure. I begin to travel, lay waste to earthly fees, we explore the world, me and my story, my story and me. The margins are painted with words with lost meaning, My eyes gazing over them is suddenly wrong-seeming. Cool brown wicker lights droop from the ceiling, larking and lightning the way for me, onto my next journey. by Leila Agbogu ‘17
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Artistry
Staircase, silver gelatin print by Corinne Cochran ‘18
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Artistry
Tick Tick scientific name: tick tick natural habitat: the clock
my watch is only a machine, a powerless device— created by a human mind, crafted by human hands. and yet its very soul follows me— as if it could steal the place of my own shadow— my aching thirst for certainty and mastery of life comes to consume me until i become trapped inside my own mind, only able to hear the monotonous tick, tick of time. by Anna Kathryn Hodges ‘19
Imprinted, 35 mm analogue camera silver gelatine print by Colleen Gramlich ‘17 Silent Voices
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Artistry
older man, 18 x 24 charchoal pencil and white pencil; apple and slice, 11 x 19 graphite sketches by S. (Marco) Moreno ‘17
Artistry
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Health
level of endangerment: near threatened
Our bodies are vessels, vehicles we maneuver throughout our lives to get from one place to another. Sitting in the driver’s seat, some of us are able to travel safely and quickly with ease, one hand on the steering wheel, the other searching for lipgloss in the glove compartment. Some of us don’t have to focus. Some of us don’t have to try. Some of us know they will get where they’re supposed to go. For the rest of us, our vehicles work a bit differently, but no mechanic seems to know exactly why or how to fix them. Some days we are able to drive around just fine, our mental and physical health not affecting our daily lives. Some days we relapse and are caught in a tailspin, leaving a wreckage of cars behind us which honk and holler, but we have no control. Some days we drive through the endless pitch black tunnel that is our minds, with little to no light up ahead. Yet, our GPS still tells us to keep driving as normal. To exhaust our engines trying to get to a light that seems miles down the road. They throw doctors, psychiatrists and piles of pills to keep our engines going for a little while, but we don’t even feel like we’re moving. We stay in neutral, unable to feel anything good or bad, helplessly pounding on the accelerator but getting nowhere. More than anything, we wish to get out of the car and take a real step forward in our mental and physical health, realizing that the industry charged with tuning up our bodies focuses on treatments that improve their fiscal bottom line. Never on a cure that will fix our maladies permanently. In this section, we discover how our bodies, the carriers that harbor our most precious cargo -- our hearts, minds and souls -- are not our own. They are affected both internally, by predetermined condition, and externally, by those who wish to take advantage of us.
Self Care scientific name: curam sui natural habitat: the body
Sometimes I forget how many time i’ve picked myself off the floor, Smudged makeup, hair disheveled and a lock on the door. The times i’ve washed away running eyeliner, and put myself to bed, Even though I Wake up the next morning full of nothing but dread. How many times i’ve said no to something detrimental, Even with their inspecting eyes feeling judgemental. With my hands shaking and my stomach full of doubt, I’ve decided my self-destructive tendencies are all played out. Every time I do something out of love i write down because I should. I’ll remember the number of times i’ve said yes to something good, and how many times I’ve tended to my own heartbreaks and made peace with my own anger without trying to escape. if i was taking care of a body that was not mine, i’d believe i was doing everything i could and that ultimately I’d be fine. by Kassandra Eyinla ‘17
Alex and Kaya, 35 mm silver gelatin print by Alex Slaughter ‘18
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Health
Look Inside, 3D design by Cameron Carmen ‘17
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Health
Mike and Ikes scientific name: mike and ikes natural habitat: my brain
First the little yellow one Second two of the round tan ones Third the skinny red one Fourth the big blue one Fifth the skinny white one repeat daily. First the tolerating one Second the silencing one Third the flattening one Fourth the numbing one Fifth the sleeping one repeat daily. First, function loss Second, voice loss Third, thought loss Fourth, feeling loss Fifth, vitality loss repeat. repeat. repeat.
by Marcus Lin ‘17
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Health
Hiding, ortho over palladium on tissue paper by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
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Health
Absinthe
scientific name: absinthius natural habitat: a party
You just want to go home. The thumping and bumping of the music pounds in your ears. You look around the crowded room for your friends. The same friends that left you alone with that guy. That same guy who’s off sucking face with the girl with the duck tattoo on her shoulder. You look down at your hands and they start to slightly shake. Not enough to become obvious but enough for you to notice. Suddenly the room becomes darker and darker and all you can see are the fading shapes of the people dancing. You hear screams and laughter that become deafening. You start to sway. Bouncing from one foot to the next. All of your limbs become loose and they feel like odd appendages unnecessarily hanging around. Your whole body feels as heavy as his truck. Soon everything you see morphs into each other. The red solo cup in your hand suddenly holds a goldfish that you had when you were seven. He swims around and looks up at you. He opens up his fishy mouth and starts yelling at you, except it’s not a fish’s voice. It’s your mother’s. You feel psychotic. But you only had two sips. The dark whiskey that they offered tasted weird but then again, you had never had whiskey. Colors start to fade in and out as if your eyes became kaleidoscopes. Bright reds and yellows dance around the room as the goldfish continues to nag to you about college. But the song changes. You hear the first three notes and instantly recognize the song. It’s your favorite. You start dancing around, jumping up and down, holding strangers closely as if they were family and singing at the top of your lungs. The music escalates and it gets to your favorite part of the song. You open your eyes as wide as you can and gather a group of people you have never spoken to before. You love them and have always loved them and always will. They mean the world to you. You
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raise their hands and start jumping. The floor shakes and you begin to see people’s auras and vibrant signals. The boy who was really smart gives off a purple vibe as he does lines off of the girl who is the class president. Her aura reads bright pink and slowly becomes a dark red. You search around the room between the vomit that smells like daisies and the toilet that has become a portal to a new world, you wonder. Has this room always been so close to the beach? You step outside and feel the ocean breeze wisp past your hair. You feel like a beautiful sea creature. The sand between your toes hugs your skin and cheers a little “hi!”. The shells next to you call you over. You pick them up and press them against your face. Only to realize they are not shells, they are shards of glass from the beer bottles. You are not on the beach; you are in the middle of a town home in Chicago. You step back into the room and realize you hallucinated. Panic. Your hands begin to shake again. Sweat beads down your forehead and he holds you. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks you. You shrug and begin to cry. The goldfish is still in the cup now dancing around and bringing up all of your failures. You crouch down to the floor trying to regain your sanity. This isn’t like you. You don’t lose control like this. Through the window you see the mask. A white mask like the one in “Scream”. The person behind the mask taping the window with a knife. They know what you did. They know what you did. They’ve always known. It was an accident but you did it. It was all your fault. It is all of your fault. “You are never going to get into a good college” the fish repeats over and over again in her voice. Panic all over again. He tells you to calm down, that you need to chill. He gave a little something extra to you so you could take off the edge. Only now all you could see was the edge, the edge of the cliff where you have to jump off of. by Sam Seidel ‘17
Emersyn, 35mm silver gelatin print by Alex Slaughter Silent Voices
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Health
I Am the One scientific name: ego sum unus natural habitat: blood
I am the one with no eyes The one who no one sees But everyone knows. I am the one who comes from behind The one who brings ruins That no one can save. I am the one who brings despair The one who messes things up At all the wrong times. I am the one who never leaves The one who overstayed his welcome But no one knows. I am the diabetes The one that no one can remove But everyone tries. by Evan Strat ‘17
The final stretch, iPhone 4 by Alex Slaughter ‘18
Deep Breaths scientific name: inspirant natural habitat: lungs
My psychologist told me to take deep breaths whenever I feel unsettled, like a tsunami tide was whirling inside me. In through the nose, and out through the mouth. It is not even 8 am. but I’m already breathing deeply. In through the nose, and out through the mouth, counting each breath like it’s my last. I just woke from a dream where you touched everyone but me and it was far too close to reality. It got me thinking about you so early in the morning and how much I want you and yet how much I don’t. My self-destructive habits multiply metaphorically sending me spiraling away from you and i can’t pretend that i don’t want you in that kind of war in the everything kind of way and i’m sick of all things unrequited i’m so sick
by Kassandra Eyinla ‘17
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Health
Girl, 16 x 20 Silver Gelatin Print by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
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Health
Home
level of endangerment: threatened
A home is a habitat for the human. Since the origination of our species, we have found the basic items from Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs -- food, water, warmth, rest, and shelter -- within our homes. Without these baseline needs, we can’t to strive for love, belongingness, esteem, or self-actualization, most of which many homes also provide or contribute to. Our homes are meant to provide a sense of security. As we enter the front door and slam the cruelties and judgements of the world out, then proceed to kick off our shoes and follow the engrossing smell of our mother’s homemade soup to the kitchen table. A sense of identity, as we explore the history, hardships, and traits of our people, who once inhabited our homes or homelands. A sense of love, as we nestle into the couch alongside a loved one and sit there together, exchanging energy, wisdom, secret family recipes, the worst and best parts of ourselves that we wouldn’t dare share with anyone who wasn’t forced to love us by the bond of blood. But now we have compounded and confined this gargantuan, amorphous interpretation of home into four expensive glass walls, shiny, bright, and easily shattered, broken by actions beyond our control: separation, greed, divorce, and death. Someone always moves forward while another gets left behind, perhaps at the expense of the other, yet home is supposed to be the place that binds us all. In this section, we see just how easy our homes, the brick walls sealed with mortar that we believed would withstand any storm, can fall to pieces with one slight blow.
the bowl scientific name: crater natural habitat: the dinner table
I look at the once wholesome bowl. So run down and cracked, It’s falling apart. Mom across from me, her eyes used to be so bright. Now she’s fading. Dad sits to my left, his voice used to be so warm. Now he’s cold. Absolutely nothing between us except the table and the silence. My spoon clanks against the bowl, Briefly ringing and shattering the silence. I look back to my once full bowl. Now it’s fading. Now it’s cold. Now it’s silent. So run down and cracked, We’re falling apart. by Marcus Lin ‘17
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Home
Home
scientific name: domum natural habitat: home
They say home is where the heart is, my soul is departed from physical things, so I find solace when I dream. I have my dollar and my dream, But it seems my team fiends for things seen on the screen motivated by schemes for green. But trust me, I fully understand, because we all got big plans. On the road to riches tryin’ to be that big man. Took me awhile to realize that’s not what’s important. Y’all should stay woke, so could you please stop snoring? My story’s kind of boring but I’m trying to help you. Give you knowledge for the future so that you can help too. I’ve seen the bigger picture, so my thoughts stay moving quicker. Don’t you worry about the money because it’s love that makes you richer. But now that’s just a 4 letter word, ain’t that a shame? Because if you believe in love, people label you a lame. But tell me what you gain from calling other people names. do you try to hurt others cause you’re the one that’s feelin’ pain? Damn. Well I’m sorry if that’s the way you live, making others feel small because it makes you feel big. Talkin behind my back, you’ll never say it to my face. You should know who you are, and this is your fall from grace. So fall back in place, Before I say names. Put me on the bench, because I’m sick of playin’ games. I’ll just do me and you just do you, I’m about go home. That’s where you should be headed too. by Kamau Robinson ‘17 Silent Voices
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Home
A Love Letter to My Mom scientific name: amor autem a litterae meum natural habitat: senior year
I know I brag, and tease you saying I only have a couple more months in my childhood house. Soon, I’ll be off to college, into grad school, maybe I’ll even find a spouse. But no matter what I say, or how much crap I give you. I neglect to tell you the sad, real, sobering truth. I’m not ready for college, and It’s not because I’m dumb. It’s because even though I’ll only be 15 minutes away, I’ll feel across the world because of the distance between us. For the longest time, we were breakfast buddies, Grey’s Anatomy gobblers, and silly sisters. But now for the first time we’ll be apart. I know you’ll be fine without me we’ve been prepping for this moment. Where we step on campus, decorate my dorm room, and try to cry for less than 15 minutes. But honestly, I think I’ll be the one coming home at least twice a week to check on how you’re doing, of course for your personal health but also to make sure you’re still there. I’m not ready to make my own breakfast and wake myself up, most of all I’m not ready to get up in the morning and not say “bye mom I’ll see you when I get home.” Maybe this is temporary. Afterall it’s only December. And maybe by May I’ll be sprinting across the stage, my diploma in hand, having completely forgotten what homesickness is. But for now, I’m still afraid, and want to stay in my little nest. And when I leave you have to promise you won’t put my room up for rent.
by Erin Harris ‘17
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Home
Subjects, Iphone 5se by Mahala Broad ‘19
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Home
untitled, mixed media by Annalyn Smith ‘18
Sea of Knowledge, mixed media by Alex Kostychen ‘17
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Home
Prelude scientific name: in nomine patris natural habitat: paper and pen
A tit for a tit, and tat for a tapping, it’s transitive, therefore an equal reaction So money for drugs, Or pills for napping, Your soul for five minutes, Though the pain is everlasting And bring up crises, And events for the masking, But everyone is ok, So do not keep asking And so I shall sit As time will keep passing, For one sacred answer, My knowledge is grasping But because I don’t understand I’ll keep choking and gasping, On the poisonous airs, That are constantly clashing
Reform myself To a part of the system, Just like my cousins, And brothers and sisters So keep The invisible shackles there, In the form of labels, And shiny blonde hair And make it easy To always stay, Though underneath the talk, Is rot and decay And make it hard For me to leave, Because you must have EVERYTHING, If you wish to achieve But regardless of you I’ll say I’m alive, No walking dead here, Nor the brainwashed 85
Until someone Shall open up my eyes, And breath in my lungs, The cure for the lies
So go ahead And give the fools their guns, In a form that is amorphous, But the result is just one
But until then I’ll keep choking away, Minding my words, And scripting what I say
So blood will end their premature legacy Tears shed when they met their end, And I don’t know about the rest of the world But I shall be eternal on paper and pen. by Anandi Bien-Aime ‘20
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Home
Oh, God scientific name: o deus natural habitat: dreams
“This house is living because of all these creatures haunting it.�
Oh, God. This torment I have to endure. I can still hear the screaming and the scratching in my head. Louder and louder and-So many scars from broke windows and bottles. Every night, I wake in a cold sweat. The scars burning like fire on my skin. But there is a way. A way to take back what was stolen from me‌ Circles. I am going in circles inside this house. It is messing with my head. I open one door and find myself in another room. I close the door behind me, look around and turn back to the door. When I open the door, the hallway is different. It is a completely different hallway with different furniture, light fixtures, and paintings. I am going to go insane in this place. I keep feeling like I am seeing things. The ghosts of people walking the halls. Blood splatters on the wall that just end up being shadows from the lights. Echoes of painful and terrified screams. Breaking glass and scratching on wood. The only thing that is the same about each room is a painting. A painting of a giant red bird in a world of fire. There are so many details it almost seems like the painting is real. That those birds and the fire are stuck. Stuck in time inside the frame. I never wanted to come back to this place, but was forced to because of a letter I received earlier this morning. It told me to return here, find a certain painting and send it to the return address. Whoever wrote this letter also said to me that if I send the painting, all of my torment will end. My scars will be just a distant memory. I will have my life back. What was stolen from me will be returned. I could not refuse. I had to come back, get that painting, and get my life back. I could not live any longer with this torment. The screams and scratches I hear every day. The nightmares I have every night. I had to get rid of them. That is why I returned to the place where my life ended. Where my whole world was taken from me. The screaming and scratching I hear in this house are the same sounds I hear every day. The things I see on the walls, around the corners are the same things I see in my sleep. These things I am hearing and seeing are what have been haunting me for so long. I just need to find that painting. I wish it was the painting of the giant red bird in the world of fire. I could take the painting, find a way out of this house, and send the painting to the address. Then all of this will be over. But, no. The painting I am searching for is not of the red birds. The rough sketch of the painting that came with the letter is of a door with long scratches on it and ghostly, screaming faces all over the walls. Why can I not find this painting? I have already been in this house for what feels like forever! I find myself in a living room lit by moonlight shining through the large window. There does not seem to be anything important in here and I turn back to the door. I open and look around the moonlit kitchen. I walk over to the window to see rain pattering against the glass. I try smashing the window with a pan, but it does no good. These windows cannot be broke. I step back from the window as thunder cracks and lightning strikes outside. As the lightning hits, I think I see a figure standing outside. A figure of a woman with gray hair, dressed in a long white dress. Her eyes dark as the midnight sky. I must be going insane. This house is playing tricks on my mind. I have no idea how, but it is. This house is living because of all these creatures haunting it. These creatures that were once living humans. Those living humans who once my parents. My mother. My father. Only my brother and I escaped. There were also creatures of those who were humans that lived and died in this house before my family. All gone. The cause of my torment in my thoughts and my dreams. I shake my head. I need to get them out of my mind. I need to find that painting and get out of here. I open a different door into a different hallway with more paintings, including the red bird painting. I slowly walk down the hallway, glancing at every painting, shadow, and candle. At the very end of the hallway, one corner is shrouded in darkness, but i can just make out the edges of a frame. I grab a Silent Voices
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candle from the wall and walk over to the corner, lighting it up. My scared frown that I have had on this whole time turns to a grin. It is the painting I have been searching for. I put the candle back and grab the painting from the wall. I gasp as I almost fall backwards from the sheer weight of the golden frame. I slowly find my balance and carry the painting over the small table under a window. I set it on the mahogany wood upside down and remove the metal pieces holding the painting in the frame. I give another smile as I pull the thin canvas out and roll it up. I stop and look around for something to tie around the canvas tube in order to keep it shut. I remember my hair and reach up, feeling the ribbon holding my hair up. I undo the ribbon, ignoring my hair falling in front of my face, and tie the red silk around the canvas. As I finish tightening the last knot, I hear a distant crash. I jump and look behind me, but don’t see anything there. I grab the rolled up painting and walk down the hall and peek around the corner. There is nothing down the next hallway except for more windows and another door. I walk around the corner and down the short hallway. I reach for the doorknob, but stop when I hear scratching. It is right on the other side of the wood. I step back and stare at the door, when I hear scratching. The scratching ends quickly as it started. I can’t go through that door. Whatever is on the other side is most definitely still there. What if it is that giant red bird from the painting I keep seeing. With all of the crazy things that I have seen or heard in this house, having a living, walking giant red bird wouldn’t be surprising. Or what if it is my mom and dad. I remember my mom was scratching at a door the day everything changed. My parents had gotten trapped inside the library when it caught fire. My older brother had held me back from the room as the flames grew behind the door. The only sound from that was my mom’s nails scratching on the wood and her and my dad’s screams of pain echoing through the house. When their screams and the scratching stopped, everything was silent except for the fire and my brother’s crying. My cries were silent. When more pain and sadness crept through the house that night, all of my cries were silent. If that scratching is my mother, why would she be trying to hurt me? We had the best relationship. I loved her and she loved me. We had our flights, but nothing as serious as her wanting to hurt me after her death. It can’t be her. I also know that I have to open that door. I have had a gut feelings that the only way out of this house is to continue through it. No going back, just forward. My hands shake as I reach for the doorknob once more. I turn it and slowly pull the door open. There is nothing on the other side, except for a bedroom. I step through warily aware that there might be something hiding in a shadow or even under the bed. I drop to my knees, but don’t find anything under the bed. I bring a candle into every shadow, but there is nothing hiding. I relax a little, knowing that there is nothing in this room. I leave the door open behind me and walk over to the desk. I open the drawers, finding papers, notebooks, feathers and ink. In the last drawer, I lift up a notebook and find a key. I pick it up, thinking it may be able to help me later on. I put it into my coat pocket and look around, not finding anything else to look through. I glance back at the door and see that it has been shut. I truly remember leaving it open. When did it close? And why did I not see or hear it closing? I quickly walk over to the door and swing it open, revealing a room that is most definitely not the hallway. I walk through the doorway and over to the golden phonograph. There is no record in it, neither is there one on the table. I walk away from the phonograph and over to the fire place. I stare at the painting above it. It Silent Voices
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Obscured Vision, solarized silver gelatin print by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
is the giant red bird painting. Why is this painting in every room? Why is there so many? Maybe I will never find out. I turn away from the painting and step towards the door on the other side of the room when I feel a whoosh of air hit my back. A second later, I feel burning heat on my legs. I spin around to see the fireplace has lit up. How is that possible? I bend down and stare at the fire, but there is nothing odd about it. I shake my head. I am definitely going insane. I stand back up and turn around, but stop at what I see. My breath catches in my throat and I widen my eyes. My mother is standing by the door, staring down at the wooden floor which is burned below her bare feet. She has a ghostly look to her and the nightgown she was wearing is the same one she wore the night she died. Except, instead of being white and speechless, it is covered in ash and is almost completely burned off. Her skin is not smooth and tan like it used to be, now it is red, bleeding, and burned to the point of it being charred. Blood drips from her broken nails, reminding me even more of the night she died. I stare at her burned hair as my legs carry me over to her. “Mom?” She lifts her head and when I look into her eyes, I know that this is not her. Her eyes are pitch black and when I stare into them, I feel like I am staring into a deep and endless void. There is no emotion in her eyes. Nothing at all. Suddenly her mouth opens impossibly wide and a high pitched scream escaped from her smoke filled mouth. I jump back and cover my ears with my hands. I shut my eyes and straggle over to the wall and crouch down. That sound! Make it stop. “Mom! Please!” A few seconds later, the screaming stops as quickly as it started. I breathe heavily, my ears ringing. I feel pressure on my shoulder and jerk back, lifting my head and opening my eyes. Kneeled next to me, I see my mother. The way I remember her. How she was before she died. The look on her face is of sadness and fear. My eyes water and tears fall down my dirty cheeks. “Mom…” I whisper the name I always called her and a small smile forms on her lips before disappearing. She moves her hand from my shoulder and put it under my elbow, lifting me up so I am standing up again. I look around the room and there is no sign of the ghost of my mother I saw before. I look down at my mother to see her staring at me. “Sweetie, you have to get out of here. Now.” The sound of her sweet voice calms me. I have not heard her voice in years. A tear falls down my face as she puts her hand on my face. She lifts herself up and kisses my cheek, then whispers in my ear. “Get out of here. That ghost of me will be back if you don’t. I love you so much…” I stand there, my eyes close as more of my tears fall to the floor. I take a deep breath and open my eyes to find my mom not there anymore. In her place, lying on the floor, is the painting I dropped when I saw my burned mother. I waste time standing there, just letting the tears falls. I have not cried in so long, but I cannot stop the tears now. It feels like hours by the time I dry my eyes. I sigh as I bend down and pick up the painting, slowly walking to the door. I open the door and stare down the same hallway I came from. I walk down the hallway, turn the corner and open the door. I repeat the process many times before the last door I open leads me back into the foyer. Finally. I found my way out. I walk over to the front door of my old house, and reach to open it when I hear the high pitched screaming from before. I scream out and cover my ears, staring at the ghost. The room begins to shake from the noise, vases and old pictures failing to the floor and breaking. When I start to believe that the screaming won’t stop, my dad runs out from I don’t even know where. I stare at him, everything going in slow motion as he runs. He is just as he was before he died. Handsome, small specks of white hair in his natural brown hair. His deep blue eyes, shining brightly with fear, sadness, and love. The screaming and
“I bend down and stare at the fire, but there is nothing odd about it. I shake my head. I am definitely going insane.”
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shaking stops as the terrifying ghost of my mother sees my dad. My dad looks at me for a moment, fear and love in his eyes. “Dad…” My dad looks at me for a moment, fear and love in his eyes as he wraps his arms around the ghost. “I love you, honey.” My dad’s words hit me hard. Tears fall down my cheeks hearing his voice again. I just watch as my dad pushes forward and him and the ghost fall backwards, disappearing straight through the floor. As they fell, my dad’s image changed. Burned, bleeding skin. Hair completely gone. Peeling and charred skin. The way he looked when he burned in that fire with my mom. I stand there and stare at the spot they were just in. I shake my head, as I pick up the painting once again and turn around. I need to get out of here. I turn the doorknock, but it does not open. It’s locked. I scream out in frustration. “Just let me out!” I don’t even know who I am screaming at. Myself? The house? The terrifying ghost of my mom? The ghost of my dad the way he looked as he died? The ghosts of how I remembered my parents? I stop trying to open the door and lean my head against the wood. I think of other ways I could get out of her, when I remember the key I took from the drawer. I reach into my pocket and feel the cold metal touch my fingers. I grab it and jam it into the lock. It fits! I turn it, unlocking the door and swing it open. The cold night air hits me, but I ignore it and run out. I run down the steps and into the front yard. I breathe in the fresh air for a few seconds, then turn back to the house. The cold, heavy rain soaks me to the bone as I think of all the memories my family and I had here. Both good and bad. My brother and I playing on the porch and in the year. The fake fights my brother and I had over the stupidest things. My parents dancing to their favorite songs after dinner. The wonderful family dinners and holiday celebrations. Then the fire. The death of mom and dad. I shake my head stare at the house for another second before turning away. I walk across the muddy grass and to my awaiting car. As I shut the car door behind me, I ignore the chill the leather seats make on my legs. I start the engine and headlights turn on, lighting up part of the house. I force myself not to look at it, as I spin around and slowly drive away. As I get farther from my house, I look at in the rearview mirror. “The torment this place has caused will hurt me no longer.” I whisper to myself as my old house gets smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror. I glance at the painting sitting in the passenger seat, hoping that my parents will find peace and that my torment and my brother’s torment will end. by Marissa Ander ‘17
Pipes, van dyke over cyanotype by Corinne Cochran ‘18 Silent Voices
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The Holocaust Series scientific name: holocaustum latin natural habitat: history
6,000,000 Six million. People
Leftovers The bodies are everywhere Everyone’s feet drag heavily As though they are walking through a quicksand A quicksand of the decomposed
We try to remember Six million? Incomprehensible
There are no voices The pine needles on the ground Like hair Mounds in the dirt Remnants of skulls The pine cones look at me
Gassed Constantly Six million. Jews Selected for death
The plants are dead Alive This forest is heavy It listens
Six million hearts Six millions brains Sixty million fingers Disintegrated We place stones in remembrance But six million? We can’t Six million. Gone Dead SIX MILLION.
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Return We leave this place triumphant We say goodbye, Zyklon B 184 calories Ash black wood slats
The Sun Is this truly where it happened? There was a thick fog But it is lifting The sun is coming out Shining on the gas chambers The birds are loud and intrusive Stupid birds
But we don’t forget it We hold onto it tight Tighter than anything before
Does the universe not understand what is going on inside?
We fly the path of survivors We smell the humid air of Eretz Yisrael We smell home And we melt
Turn off the damn sun It is not supposed to be here Stop it Stop trying to make me warm I am not supposed to be warm
We are safe But we still hold on
They were not warm They suffered Cold icy glares Icy wind Ice Turn it off Now
by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
How could this have happened where the sun shines? I hear a rooster crowing in the distance There was nothing here No eggs I swear to God Turn it off I’m serious TURN IT OFF
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RElationships level of endangerment: endangered
Love has never been an easy thing. There’s always been awkward hand holding in the tub of movie theatre popcorn, writing “Do you like me? Yes or No” on a sheet of paper and sliding it to your crush across the classroom, and praying to God that you won’t trip over your words when you meet his or her parents for the first time. But it certainly was easier before the internet and social media came into play. Now we are in relationships with our phones, attempting to communicate messy, fuzzy feelings through a piece of cold, hard metal and black glass. We’ve taken “playing games” to the next level, constructing an algorithm of the appropriate amount of time to respond to a text or Snapchat for optimal interest: open the message at exactly double the amount of time it took the other person to open the message, and respond in at least double the amount of time it took the other to respond. You can’t use too many bitmojis or emojis to carry on the conversation, but you also can’t nix them completely, because then you’ll seem like you don’t have a personality or sense of humor. On our social media accounts, we brand ourselves as completely different people. With the right lighting, camera quality, punny caption, and clothes showing off a Kylie Jenner-approved amount of skin, we display the most beautiful, likeable, funny, sexy, and witty versions of ourselves. We put on that same surface level front in our relationships, calculating every joke and flirtatious jab we make at the other to match the images we’ve constructed. It’s hard to make a real connection or find “the one” when we don’t even truly know the person we are posting mushy couple photos with. When we do finally lay rest to our guises and allow ourselves to be authentic and vulnerable with people, that’s a huge deal. It’s scary and amazing to be human with another human. To tell them your deepest fears and share your worst memories. To show them your weird quirks and stay up all night on FaceTime looking at each other and marveling at the other’s smile, saying you’re going to go to bed in five minutes every 15 minutes. To tell them the truth about who you are, what you believe, where you’ve been, and where you want to go. To hear them say they’ll join you on your journey to that place. But that feeling either fades elegantly or is severed violently and unexpectedly. Both hurt. Both make you feel like you made a mistake by dropping the facade. Both make you feel worthless. Both make you attempt to become the person you think the other would want, somehow thinking that it isn’t too late to at least make them regret it. Both make you wonder what you could have done differently. Both make you cling to the future, the only place where you can rebuild you image. But that means it wasn’t love, because if you loved that person, you wouldn’t be able to mend your broken heart by retreating back to social media for validation, posting a #PostBreakup selfie and then methodically scrolling through every like and reassuring comment. Real love is gone. Real human connection is few and far between. In this section, we see the highs and lows of relationships and how we deal with those in comparison to past generations.
Jude IPhone 4 by Alex Slaughter ‘18
It took 24 days, 17 hours and 23 minutes for me to fall, but, only 2 minutes and 42 words to realize I’d hit the ground.
It took 24 Days scientific name: XXIV diebus tulit eam natural habitat: the past
Before today, and after tomorrow, I will feel the same. I will look into your eyes and see the past and future, but never the present. After today I will go home alone, tomorrow the same. But now you are not alone, and no longer here forever. For I have changed, but my feet stand in place. and you move forward with every stride you take. If you feel the solid earth move, then I have gone too, but if it’s just me moving, then why are you? Distance makes the heart grow fonder, but for every step closer, I feel the same. Maybe since you’re backing up. but already have you moved away? Tomorrow isn’t given, but my thoughts to you stay. Like the earth holds steady, while the soft branches sway. So I’ll live in the past, with everlasting paused time. And my heart shall be yours forever, but you’ll never be mine. by Alex Potts ‘18
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summer daze scientific name: stupet aestas natural habitat: summer time concerts
i can tell when you’re asleep, because the world gets so quiet. i can hear my own breath and see it in my exhales. we’ve been tired lately and it shows, we’ve been melting away with summertime concerts on warm grass and whiskey samples. your eyes are getting baggy, love. you hate waking up but the sun isn’t shining so it’s fine. everything’s alright. it will be, baby. please believe me when i say i’ll try.
by Kassandra Eyinla ‘17
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Silent Voices
e ‘17
i Ben-Ari
nt by Dan
gum pri Emerge,
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The Funny Thing About a Phoenix scientific name: in rem ridiculam circiter phoenix natural habitat: the ashes
When the fire came, it wiped away everything Our whole lives were nothing but empty piles of ash When you left me for the first time, I crumbled like a burning house All of the most important parts of me left I was nothing more than a shadow of myself — a house with just a burnt flame When you left me the second time, I knew better than to crumble I took my flames and doused you in their sea of orange We were both burned in the wreckage When you left me the third time, I had learned already not to fight fire with fire — I had already suffered from too many burns So when the third time came, I had my pale of water ready I listened to the flames sizzle out and rose out of its ashes The funny thing about a Phoenix is that it’s so much more than just a bird It’s a city and it’s music and it’s history So when I rose like the Phoenix, I decided that I’d visit the city and hear the music and study and the history. And I would do it all alone.
by Sari Bircoll ‘17
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Opia
scientific name: tenus natural habitat: NYC Ball Drop
The ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable Let’s start somewhere comfortable, How about the edge of ‘96 up in New York City. we were young, dumb and cold and on the cusp of something grand, Standing under the giant New Year ball, mesmerized by the massive neon numbers in all their beauty. With every chant of the numbers my life flashes before me, I see stories of your pupils As time takes me back and my fave rests inches from yours. 10! The summer of ‘69 when we met at Goldendew Summer Camp And you taught me how to live. 9! That night on the bleach when you asked me; “Do you want to live forever?” And I responded by pointing out to the sea. 8! Fall of ‘75 in the back of your pickup truck where you first showed me you loved me. 7! The winter of ‘79 when I decided I hated you and you snuck into my room and broke your leg climbing my tree. 6! The autumn of ‘82 in your father’s garage where we tore your car to shred and I first saw you cry. 5! Those fire-lit summer nights that taught me forgiveness, and you perspective. 4! The spring of ‘88 when we went hiking up in the mountains And I fed you wildberries while you put flowers in my hair. 3! In the heat of ‘94 when you dropped to one knee and put the light back in my soul. 2! The drive up here from your parent’s house when you never took your eyes off me and I forgot we were on the road. 1! When the confetti dance around us and we smiled, as 11:59 turned to 12 and your cold forehead came to rest on mine. by Leila Agbogu ‘17
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Innocence, mixed media by Alex Kostychen ‘17
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Suitcase scientific name: vidulus natural habitat: the bedroom
In the house he sits by the window while she’s upstairs with her suitcase. He can’t think of where he had gone wrong. He never wanted to hurt her. Against the house hammered the rain while upstairs he hears her call a taxi. Remembering the first time a taxi ever stopped by that old window, he sees that perfect day with no rain. How she looked stepping out; suitcase on the grass and a smile playing on her lips when she saw where she’d gone. At that time, both their worries were gone. Laughing she would watch the taxis of the city and he would watch her. Back at the house by the window next to flowers sat the suitcase happily dry without any rain. But the distant clouds threatened rain. With work or play he was always gone Leaving her with thoughts and a suitcase. Two weeks passed, returning by taxi he saw those eyes in the window. He felt some darkness and saw it in her. Their words rang loud in anger and from her beautiful eyes poured showers of rain. He collapsed next to the window and when he looked up, she was gone. He sat, thinking about how that taxi had brought her with that suitcase. Now he sits where the suitcase used to. Out the door he watches her walk, no, run towards the taxi through the shattering torrent of rain. He could not imagine her gone yet he sees her flee through the window. Now he sits, leaning against that window, wondering where and why she’s gone, comforted, again, by nothing but rain.
by Benjamin Woollcott ‘17 Silent Voices
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During the Lull, IPhone 5se by Mahala Broad ‘19
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Ribbon, Limelight, Reef, acrylic paintings by Benjamin Woolcott ‘17 Silent Voices
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You Should Have Been There scientific name: et ibi debuit institui natural habitat: a shelter
I watched you suffer a cold empty pain. I was your shoulder a shelter in the rain. I sold all my things, to make you happy. I am restless. I don’t sing much anymore, it makes me reckless. I listen to every word you say, I hold you high even when I feel faint. Oh, right now I’m not okay. No, right now I’m not okay. And you should know that. You should notice how I’m feeling You should notice how I’m acting I don’t act like this often, you should know that. After all I gave away You took what you needed Once you felt alive again, You left me bleeding. I would have been there, for you. I would never have done this, to you.
If You Are Not Growing You’re Dying, 600 film black and white polaroid by Molly Echols ‘17
by Caroline Culver ‘17
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Gnossienne scientific name: gnossienne natural habitat: the bedroom
Her raspy voice vocalizing “I know you crave me” seductively.
In the last year of my marriage, I sat in the dark corner, dissolving in his deception. I wondered how she looked and what she wore to make him want her. I thought about her legs and the way she made them effortlessly skim the air, striding closer and closer to him. I was sharing my husband, my muse, my love with the devil in heels. I was defenseless and in distress I had dreams of a dream that she was never here. I shared my life every night with visions of their silhouettes gently colliding into each other. In-front of the mirror I stayed standing touching and grazing my face. As if I was slowing molding and morphing myself into her. I outlined my lips, tracing around the openings of my mouth. I stroked the bridge of my nose up and down as if I was trimming it to look like hers. Every night for five years, I fondled and caressed my body hoping that there would be a moment, that I would evolve into her. I never met her, and she never met me. But in some way I can vividly visualize she.
She had this power over me. She was one of the lucky ones who got his love. It was her blessing, her gift and my curse. The devil in stilettos knew what my husband liked to hear, she would give life to her own words making them sound so irresistible and sexy. The spell she had him under made my life a living hell. I was enraged and inflamed every night when he would boldly stride in our bedroom and innocently lay beside me. Pulling me closer to him and forcing me to flip over. Choked up by my tears of anger and helplessness, I noticed the smell of lust and infidelity. It hazed over me like a cloud and instantly, I was in a trance. Stuck, lost, and wrecked. Our own bedroom became the breeding ground for abuse and fatal love. He became the blues creeping up my left thigh and the grim reaper, creeping up my right. Every day and every night.
by Brianna Moseley ‘17
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The Things We Hide, 35mm black and white print by Molly Echols ‘17
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Can We Talk?
INT. MAIA’S BEDROOM -- NIGHT
scientific name: gnossienne natural habitat: iMessage
MAIA EMERSON, a beautiful, 17-year-old girl with a mane of of curly jet black hair and deep brown skin lies on her bed with her eyes shut. Her hands are folded over midsection like a mummy. She’s wearing earbuds, and hear muffled indie pop music playing. Maia starts fidgeting. She’s obviously worried about something that she’s trying to ignore. Suddenly she can’t take it anymore; she rips the earbuds out and the music blasts out loud. She begins typing a message to AVERY on her phone: “I need you right now.” She hesitates. Her thumb hovers over the “send” button, but she deletes the message. Conflicted, she rubs her temples like she has a headache. INT. AVERY’S BEDROOM -- NIGHT AVERY JONES is 17, tall and lanky, and of medium-brown complexion. He has an air of confidence (borderline arrogance) about him. He’s hunched over his desk, doing math problems out of a textbook, and Asap Rocky is playing from his stereo. His phone on the edge of the desk starts ringing and he immediately lunges for it. After a beat, he rolls his eyes in disappointment; it’s just DION WATERS, his best friend. He picks up. AVERY JONES What’s up man? DION WATERS I don’t like that tone in your voice. AVERY You need something? DION Yeah, I’m hella bored. What’s the move for tonight? AVERY I don’t know. I have so much work to-His phone buzzes, and it’s Maia. He freezes. “Hey stranger” the text reads.
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A faint smirk crosses Avery’s face. AVERY (TO DION) Lemme call you back. He hangs up and stares at the message, unsure of what to say. After a few seconds he types out: “You have no idea how much I mi--” He pauses, then shakes his head, deleting it before finishing the thought. INT. MAIA’S BEDROOM Maia’s eyes are glued to her phone. She’s biting her nails and her brow is furrowed. She seems to be holding her breath. Suddenly, three gray dots pop up on the screen, and she exhales in relief, still staring at her phone. A message appears.” “Wassup?” Maia purses her lips, thinking. She writes: “I’m chillin. You?” She hits send. INT. AVERY’S BEDROOM He reads the text. He seems unsatisfied and slightly frustrated. His reply:
untitled, sculpture by Gibbs Robinson Vessel ‘19
“Same.” INT. MAIA’S BEDROOM Maia is visibly disappointed. She doesn’t bother responding, instead putting her earphones back in and closing her eyes. INT. AVERY’S BEDROOM Avery’s back to doing his homework. He eventually stops to glance at his phone expectantly. Impatient, he picks it up. We see that Maia read his message 5 minutes ago. He sucks his teeth, then rests his forehead on his desk dejectedly. The music swells and the camera pans out. FADE TO BLACK.
by Nija Packer ‘18
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Identity
level of endangerment: critically endangered Confined to a cubicle hedged with two-way mirrors like the ones you’d find in a police station’s interrogation room, we sit and stare at ourselves, unaware of the crowd lining up on the other side to behold and take pictures with the rare beast. A creature coined as both weak and dangerous. Both ugly and exotic. Both useless and entitled. We grow up in captivity being told we are in control of our mind, thoughts, and opinions. That we are the masters of our fates and shape our our own identities. But in reality, we are products of our environment, which requires each one of us to strive for a specific hair texture. A specific gender role. A specific balance between prude and slut. A specific skin color. A specific sexual orientation. A specific religion. A specific norm that society is familiar with and understands so they’re not afraid of it. We do tricks and perform for an audience we cannot even see -- that does not know us, understand us, or relate to who we are or what we can become -- to be rewarded with a scratch behind the ear, a new toy, or food to keep us quiet. We shape shift and contort ourselves, ripping out wads of hair, scratching away skin cells, removing our religious garb, or covering our distracting shoulders to fit into narrow crates they can seal, label, rate, and determine if we’re worth keeping, killing, or shipping off to the next zoo. We pay attention to their judgements. We listen. We jump for joy at their validation and sadly accept and apply their criticisms. They give us ideals to reach for, standards to aspire to, but constantly remind us we are nothing less or more than everything they say we are, and we’re okay with that. In this section, we explore how our harsh, judgmental society impacts our sense of self.
Dead End, 35 mm analogue camera silver gelatin print by Colleen Gramlich ‘17 Silent Voices
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The Line scientific name: lineam natural habitat: tall grasses
“In my mind, I see a line. And over that line, I see green fields and lovely flowers and beautiful white women with their arms stretched out to me over that line, but I can’t seem to get there no-how. I can’t seem to get over that line.” -Harriet Tubman Regardless of where I am in the world, be it the Confederate Country of the rural Georgian boondocks or a pristine metropolis with “liberal scum” to spare, there’s always a line. The line is a lot like God or love or truth. You can’t see it or touch it, but you know it’s there. The idea of it is so heavy, it weighs on your soul, physically and mentally crushing you more than any tangible object ever could. To the right of the line are tall grasses that gleam of emerald, beautiful wildflowers of every fanciful hue and angelic porcelain women, pure of melanin sin. Their bewitching beryl eyes lock with yours as they delight in the nectar of honeysuckle flowers and sweet ambrosia. They don their welcoming, yet simultaneously threatening smiles and bathe their honey locks in pools of potions and pure gold. You remain behind the line and wade in a sea of grass suffering from a systemic drought, each blade as dry, brittle and brown as your curls. The trees to the left of the line bare only the strangest of fruit, dangling from thick ropes and coated with shards of glass that prick your tongue with every taste. It keeps you quiet, but it never keeps you full. The rules of the line are unwritten, but they are as paramount and present as the line itself. You never forget the rules, for they exist in their spiteful stares and disapproving tones of voice. First and foremost, never cross. Know your place. You can be pretty, but only pretty “for a black girl.” You can laugh, but not too loud as to suggest joy otherwise you’re “ratchet.” You can think, but never too hard as to express independent thought because you aren’t allowed to be smarter than them. You can dream, but never too big as to indicate hope. You just sit and wait in the dark, and the outline of your black body seamlessly fades into the night as if you were never there. But when the morning sun peeks over the plain, you remain. You are still living, breathing and enduring. A gleaming smile even spreads across your broken, burnt face, and they shudder in utter disbelief and confusion. They may thrive in Eden with every amenity conceivable, but you are the earth from which they were born and from which they benefit. Your chocolate skin is the soil in which they sow their seeds. Your mahogany legs are the trees from which they pick their juicy fruit. From your scalp, rooted to your exquisite mind, blooms their most beautiful blossoms. You are the rarest, most worthy and most magical of God’s creations. Even when they step on you, pluck your flowers from their roots and leave you to suffocate in the darkness, you continue to grow. You grow so big and tall you no longer see or feel the rigid boundaries of the line. Just warm, warm sunshine and the limitlessness of space. by Erin Edwards ‘17
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Endangered Species scientific name: in periculo gens natural habitat: the world
I’m influential with a pencil Listen to my message Yes, I’m a mess Still trekking through the wreckage
I once had a dream I saw Machiavelli “You can be that change” That’s all he had to tell me
I started making raps Now my rep getting bigger My homies see me walk by They yelling, “that’s that…” nevermind
I can do it through rap I can do it through sports I could be a martyr Have my life cut short
I act real brash Flaunt like I got cash But that’s so outplayed It’s a thing of the past
But that’s not my goal I want to live my life And whichever way I choose I’m going to live right
Now that I got your ear My raps can grow up I can tell you about the streets Where there’s never been love
I could be a role model A voice for children Serve as their foundation Like a base of a building
You see, I’m an endangered species It’s pronounced: Young Black Males If a cop see me with a hoodie He think I’m makin’ crack sales
But you got to stand for something Don’t waste your life The system been done me wrong I’m just trying to make it right
Now I see how it is A race war is what you want Stop killing NIGGAS My word choice is blunt by Kamau Robinson ‘17
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Man in Forest, 35 mm silver gelatin print by Alex Slaughter ‘17
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The Luau
scientific name: luau natural habitat: third grade
Third grade was the worst year of my life. It was my first year at Woodward, and I went from being one of the most popular kids at my old school to being absolutely nothing to no one. I remember the worst day was the last day of school. In primary school, we spent the entire last week doing stupid nonsense like pajama day, meant to nurture our youth. The last day was a school-wide “luau,” where everyone wore their colorful one pieces and plastic grass skirts, ate “exotic” fruits like watermelon and pineapple, and slid down a slip and slide on the grass by the playground. Everyone was so excited, even me. My mom braided my hair the night before so I could have two crinkly pigtails when she took them down the next morning. I donned my favorite pink one piece with diagonal orange and white stripes. We had to wear clothes on top until the end of the day, but I was so excited for everyone to see it. It was the end of the day, and everyone went back to their homerooms to strip down and grab their grass skirts. As soon as I took off my towel, I heard the worst thing that I never expected: my homeroom crush, Wilson, pointing at my legs, which I had never considered to be abnormal until this point, in disgust and crying, “Ew! Look how hairy Erin’s legs are!” Once Wilson noticed, the entire class seemed to notice. I could hear his best friend Tyler confirming Wilson’s observation. My vision went blurry. I wanted to scream and cry at the same time. “No they’re not,” I said and I just kept repeating it. “Yes they are,” they cooed in response, and they just kept repeating it. They likened me to some type of animal. My friend Reagan yelled, “Stop calling her hairy” to try and shut down the subject, but it only caused everyone else in the room to take notice. All 24 beady eyes were on me. I ran to the bathroom, crying. What was wrong with me? After a solid 30 minutes of hyperventilating and questioning my entire existence, Reagan coaxed me out of the bathroom stall. “I didn’t even notice,” she said. “I can’t even tell,” she said. But the damage was done. I was a monster, and I didn’t even realize it. But they all did. They all saw me for what I was before I did, capitalized on my insecurities before I could, and I couldn’t escape it. Defeated and embarrassed, I slipped my pants back on, carefully making sure not even of an inch of my ankle showed. I couldn’t bare someone pointing out what I thought to be the unnatural growth on my legs again, this time in front of the whole grade. So I just sat and watched as Wilson and his friends ripped off their clothes fearlessly, their legs possessing the same hideous hair, and I wondered what was so different about mine and theirs. About me and him. Why was it okay for him, but a crime for me? It hurt my head to think about because it just didn’t make sense, but I went along it. Accepted it. Internalized it, just like I was supposed to. From that point on, whenever I went to my friend’s house down the street or my parents weren’t home, I would steal a razor, something no one had even taught me about, and I would dry shave patches of my legs and arms, forgetting to rinse out the remnants and always being caught. This same memory has followed me for years, and it applies to nearly every aspect of my life. A constant reminder that, for some reason, I will never be the same as my male peers. I will always have to dance a fine line between two extremes to appeal to men, but I shall never satisfy them. I will either be careless or care too much. I will either be too insecure or full of myself. I will either be easy or a trophy. I will either be a slut or prude. The difference between me then and me now is I no longer care about satisfying them. by Erin Edwards ‘17
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Back, selective development with silver gelatin print by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
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just be happy scientific name: iustum est beatus natural habitat: amongst the world
What happens when you finally give in? To your deepest desires, Some may consider sins. You cry and dwell upon your Religious demise. While he stood there and uncovered your disguise. They told you it was the devil that made you Do these things, that make your congregation hate you. You get down on your knees and pray, “May the good Lord save” You are convinced you were born ill. You are told that those you seek comfort from Are the demons within. You have fallen, deeply and madly in love. Just to be shattered and frowned upon From the big guy above. You get backed up, off your knees, Begging people to accept you. Please! For it is he, whom you have always loved. There is no medicine that could ever fix. Your love for that man does not make you a jinx. They tell you that you are sick, Yet you feel fine.
Rix, oil painting by S. (Marco) Moreno
No fever, no shivers. “Where shall we dine?” He looks to you with his big brown eyes, Cupping your face, saying “You are all mine” They holler and shriek At you walking down the street
by Sam Seidel 1’7 Silent Voices
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A facade of Yours
scientific name: latitudo autem ante faciem tuam a natural habitat: a mirror
if i held a piece of broken glass up to Your face would You recognize the pain or the hurt on the other side before You realized i was holding a mirror just as broken as You by Alisha Chranya ‘18
Tower, by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
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just brown scientific name: sicut brunneis natural habitat: elementary schools
I was 10 years old when I realized I was not adequate in the eyes of society. My hair did not fall elegantly into loose, tangle-free tresses, but thick, frizzy waves. My complexion did not range from ivory to olive, but copper to burnt toast. My eyes did not sparkle of a mesmerising blue with green flecks or hazel with gold flecks, but brown. Just brown. Everything about me was just brown. It didn’t take long for me to realize “just brown” was just not beautiful. So I straightened my hair every week, each pass causing my curls to straighten, to conform. I tried to trick my mom into letting me get highlights, arguing profusely that Nice ‘N Easy bleach was just a new shampoo I wanted to try out. I drew freckles on my face, methodically pressing my mom’s jet black eyeliner to my cheeks and twisting. I did everything I could to assimilate as seamlessly as possible. Even while I suppressed my true identity and attempted to exemplify all the superficial traits of another, I still felt like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister, who, even cloaked in powdered wigs and pompous ballgowns, could never compare to the beauty of the perfectly pale, blue-eyed blonde. At some point, the stepsister just turns cold. At some point, the stepsister just stops trying. In the sixth grade, I revisited my “just brown” notion. My observation had not changed. Brown still wasn’t the norm or ideal. But it’s what I was. It’s what I am. I’m not the norm or ideal, not even for a brown person. My thighs, to this day, are likened to stringbeans or hotdogs, never thick, juicy Church’s chicken drumsticks. My breasts, like cotton balls, never did grow into bulbous melons my mom said they would be. While most tween girls shifted from Aeropostale to Forever 21, I graduated from Gymboree to Gap Kids, which still fell off of my frame like tender meat off the bone. My hair, which was already loose in texture, became straight at the ends even when it was wet due to the heat damage. I had no choice but to continue straightening it because my fair-skinned, straight-haired mother never knew how to manage hair like mine. To this day, she suggests relaxers to make my life “easier.” As a fully realized “just brown” girl, I kept my expectations low and my insecurities high, because really, who could ever love a girl too brown for white people, but not brown enough for brown people? I didn’t wake up one morning, look and the mirror, and say, “Today, Erin, you’re going to feel beautiful,” but I did start to develop a better image of myself when I saw positive images of people who looked like me in the media. When I saw Amandla Stenberg asking society why we don’t “love black people as much as we love black culture,” or Zendaya rocking her dreadlocks on the Oscars red carpet, I felt pride. Seeing people I admired embracing themselves fully and unapologetically made me want to do the same. Towards the end of 8th grade, I went on YouTube for hours on end after school to watch beautiful black women do their hair. If you opened up my laptop and clicked on Safari, NaturallyCurlyHair.com popped up as my most visited website. I doused my head in coconut oil and Shea Moisture Curl Enhancing Smoothies as I followed tutorials on twist-outs, braid-outs, bantu knots, and flexi-rod sets: hairstyles I didn’t even know existed a few months prior. It was like I opened up a secret universe, and that universe opened up a secret part of myself –– an unfamiliar hunger for authenticity, self-love, and confidence. To all the “just brown” girls out there, I assure you, you are anything but. Just like falling asleep or falling in love with another person, falling in love with yourself happens slowly, and then all at once. Self-love begins onerously, making conscious efforts to affirm yourself, and then effortlessly, subconsciously aware of your black girl magic. I didn’t know I was becoming confident until I was confident. I didn’t know I started loving myself until I loved myself. After a time of what seems like hopeless struggling for answers to questions I wasn’t even asking, something just clicked and I knew. June 21, 2016, my 17th birthday, marked the end of my grieving period. For years I denied my identity. I despised my identity. I bargained with God to fix me. I tried to resurrect myself as an entirely different being. Today, not only do I accept who I am, but I embrace who I am. Looking back, it astounds me how much time I wasted, how many opportunities I missed, and how many people I didn’t approach in fear of rejection all because I didn’t give myself a chance. I didn’t think I deserved a chance. This year alone, I’ve given myself more chances at happiness, friendship, success, and love than I ever have before because I love myself than I ever have before. I’ve learned if you don’t give yourself your best chance, then no one else will, and when you do, you’ll never look back. by Erin Edwards ‘17 Silent Voices
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Dinner is served, mixed media by Alex Kostychen ‘17
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like a woman scientific name: quasi mulier natural habitat: the workplace
I didn’t feel like a woman when I lost my virginity. I was sore, disheveled, and sent home with a slice of pizza and two chicken wings. With a kiss goodbye, I drove my volkswagen away. And did my best to hide my post sex hair from my mom until the next day. No, I didn’t feel like a woman like my grandma said I would. I didn’t feel like I got my purity crushed. I felt pretty damn good. I didn’t feel like one then, and I don’t feel like one now. Maybe I’ll feel like a woman when I get the deed to my first house. Maybe I’ll feel like a woman when I get sexually harassed, In the workplace of all places, but everyone will cover his ass. Maybe I’ll feel like a woman when I meet the president, And he grabs my vagina, giggling that he couldn’t help it. Maybe I’ll feel like a woman when I love fearlessly for the first time, And don’t feel the feminist urge to berate him when he says “yeah, she’s mine.” Maybe I’ll feel like a woman when I get into a college I can’t afford, Or smile lovingly when my two year old spills cereal on the floor. But then again, who knows? What does being a woman even mean? Of course I can’t scratch the surface I’m only seventeen. by Erin Harris ‘17
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Before, silver gelatin print by Dani Ben-Arie ‘17
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Hope
level of endangerment: extinct Hope is believing in the endless possibilities and continuation of life and evolution. Hope is believing things will be different. That we can constantly die and be reborn again as people slightly better than we were yesterday. When we didn’t have anything, we had Hope, but society has abused our Hope to the point where we don’t even recognize its face anymore. We search for it in a crowd, but we can’t seem to find it. We only see endless streaming videos of police brutality and bloodshed. We see corrupt government leaders suggesting paths that do not reflect the better nature of men. We see people who are supposed to be role models relishing in the destruction of our planet, and people in the pursuit of power above all else. We see the good guy, capable of making significant positive change in the world, silenced and pushed to the side. We see our parents crumble before us, admitting they don’t have all the answers, who cry at night when they think about the uncertainty of our futures. Hope says, “Enough is enough,” but feels like an unwanted guest at a dinner party. Hope doesn’t make a scene, doesn’t say goodbye. Hope just exits. Goes home, takes a cold shower, gets into bed, and fades away as fast as it falls asleep. In the morning, we feel the shift. We feel the loss. But we can’t ever put a name to it. Hope is eradicated from our vocabularies. We stop looking for it in the crowd because we are convinced it never existed to begin with. This is the greatest endangerment to the American teenager, who was built upon hope. In this section, we attempt to repopulate Hope by recognizing that we lack it and realizing we must become it.
Justice for Who?, acrylic painting by Alanna Pearson ‘18
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Our President scientific name: praeses nostra natural habitat: the United States of America
Our president should not be known for degrading women as no more than mere objects whose sole purpose is to please men. Our president should not mock disabled people, lowering their status in this already prejudiced society. Our president’s right hand man should not defund HIV/AIDS research in order to fund gay conversion therapy. Our president should not demonize an entire ethnicity as criminals and rapists, especially when countless women have accused him of sexual assault, one being a 13 year old girl at the time. Our president should not support a registry or special screening of an entire religion, much less a ban on that same religion; our president should understand the constitutional meaning of freedom of religion. Our president should not stop green card holders from re-entering the country that they live in as if they are undeserving of their home. Our president should not ban refugees from finding a safe place in this country when we have so much and they have only faith to cling on to. Our president should not propose dismantling the entire concept of nativism, somehow forgetting how his ancestors were treated as immigrants of this country when they first came. Our president should not declare his lust for his own daughter. Our president should not instantly attack any person or organization that criticizes him as he will have to deal with that pesky freedom of speech principle that helped to found this country. Our president should understand the oxymoron of “a small loan of a million dollars” and be able to sympathize with the struggle of the working class, even if he has never been in their position. Our president should not have a past filled with deception of innocent workers who simply picked the wrong business partner, serving as a huge loss for them compared to a small dent in his fortune. Our president should not be so deeply unstable that his only way to get his point across is through twitter wars and hand signals. Our president should not be endorsed by the KKK- our president should not refuse to condone an endorsement from an organization founded on prejudice and hatred. Our president should not rely on “alternative facts” because he believes he is above reality, that he knows everything there is to know about the world. Our country should not be so truly blind that we do not realize this is how Hitler’s reign began, this kind of hate is what led to the Holocaust and countless other genocides. Our people should not be so shrouded in their own veil of hate that they forget that the percentage of Muslim ISIS members is as minuscule as the percentage of Christian KKK members. Our country should not be offended when I declare that this man, who has become our president due to a flaw by Srinidhi Panchapakesan ‘18 in a 240 year old system, is no president of mine.
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When a Candle Flickers scientific name: quod non mihi natural habitat: dusk
When a candle flickers When the lights cut out When the whole world pauses I see myself fading My lights are dimming My dreams are disappearing My thoughts are changing Is it really me that I see? I see a stranger in the mirror I see a reflection that isn’t mine I see a girl with duller eyes It can’t be me I used to have such specific dreams I used to have so much hope I used to have love to give Who is that stranger looking at me? I will do as I’m told I will not fight I will be what they want I don’t even remember who I used to be by Sari Bircoll ‘17
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untitled, graphite sketch by S. (Marco) Moreno ‘17
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No grand ceremony or fireworks scientific name: magnificum nulla ceremonia natural habitat: a protest
No grand ceremony or fireworks. Only gunshots on the day police killed 37-year-old Alton Sterling in Louisiana. “Black man shot by white police” headlines flooded my Facebook feed while I attended a journalism summer program at Northwestern University. The last time a police shooting jolted me was after 17-year-old Michael Brown’s death three years prior. I remember crawling into the innermost part of myself and shutting down, my mother cradling me on the kitchen floor as though I was four years old, not fourteen. At least her warmth reminded me I was not alone. After this first encounter with police brutality and the seemingly endless stream of violent videos that followed, I developed a numbness to senseless killings. But this time it was different. Sterling was from Baton Rouge, the place where my mother grew up. The place where my grandfather kept a modest grocery and liquor store to put her and her five siblings through college, not five miles from where Sterling was shot. The place where I spent nearly every Independence Day lighting firecrackers in the field behind my grandparents’ house feeling nothing but free. But the booming sound of bullets boring holes into another’s chest can never mean freedom. On Facebook, I watched Sterling’s blood flow from his brown body. I saw my grandfather, my father, my brother, and myself. I noticed my father had called me and left a message: “Just wanted to let you know I was alright, honey. I love you.” I couldn’t help but think of my father’s warm brown eyes rendered lifeless by a gunshot. I sobbed in the shower, the only place I felt I could mourn unapologetically, until my face was salty and raw. Almost 600 miles separated my family and I, and there were only six other black kids at the program out of eighty-three. I had no one to hold me and tell me it was okay.
Silent Voices
My friends cornered me in the common room, trying to coax out of me why I was upset. I tried to smile so they would not feel coerced into having an uncomfortable conversation about our diverging realities, but it was physically impossible. After a long silence, they whispered to each other, “I think she’s just tired.” They were right. The only thing I could do to alleviate my frustration was write, and I wrote pages and pages in a stream of consciousness far past my bedtime. The next day, I attended my first Black Lives Matter rally in downtown Evanston, Illinois. Wearing all black, I held a handmade poster with the names of recent police brutality victims and chanted “We have pride, but we have fear” along with almost 300 protesters. I interviewed the organizers of the event and other participants. A local online newspaper “The Evanston Now” published my story the next morning. But that wasn’t enough. I took to my black beauty and social justice blog to spread the overwhelming frustration, yet affirmation I felt. I took my therapeutic word vomit from the previous night, posted it on my blog, and shared the post on Facebook. I was met with an overwhelmingly positive response from students and instructors at my program. A quiet Chinese exchange student in my program approached me with tears in his eyes, hugging me and said I inspired him. Complete strangers who saw my post on Facebook commented, direct messaged me, and shared it, saying my words touched them and their loved ones. I will not always have my mother to shield me from the struggles I will face in life, but I’ve found a way to heal through writing. I have developed my own strength and voice. A voice that can comfort and inspire strength within others. With the the guidance and encouragement of my community, I am working towards publishing my writings and making my voice heard. by Erin Edwards ‘17
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Who is History? What Does She Want from Us? 3D sculpture by Cameron Carmen ‘17
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Conclusion When beings from other nations or planets look at the remains of the long extinct American Teen, we don’t want them to say we sat and watched as our fellow man wiped us out. We don’t want them to say we didn’t care. About authenticity, ambition, growing into the most awkward parts of our bodies and emotions, making mistakes and learning from them, falling in and out of love, blaring music in the car on the highway, putting ourselves down and picking ourselves back up time and time again. About what it means to be a teenager. Because we care. We care enough to write these words for you in hope that you’ll understand. That you’ll become aware that we are an endangered species, becoming increasingly rare everyday with every part of ourselves that is manipulated by society. That you’ll have the courage to make a change before it’s too late.
works cited head editors Erin Edwards ‘17 Avni Kulkarni ‘17 staff Anum Ali ‘18 Mahala Broad ‘19 Naomi Censullo ‘20 Mia Green ‘18 Jayden Khatib ‘19 Ama Maiki ‘19 Gaby Pascual ‘17 Alanna Pearson ‘18 Linda Shi ‘18 Peyton Strong ‘18 Jaylen Taylor ‘18 special thanks to Scott Crook, English teacher Andy Cunningham, Visual Arts teacher Lorri Hewett, English teacher Dyan Green, Visual Arts teacher Jennifer Guyette, Bennett, Graphics Account Executive Jane Graham, English teacher student publications adviser Rebekah Goode-Peoples Colophon Silent Voices was produced via Apple computers running Adobe Indesign CC and Adobe Photoshop CC. All body text for prose and poetry was Big Caslon (9 pt) and titles were in Microsoft Tai Lee (17 pt). Divider fonts were in NeoRetroDraw (35 pt). The paper was International Paper Super Smooth 80 lb. The cover was Neenah Classic Stippled 13 pnt. Silent Voices was printed by Bennett Graphics in Tucker, GA. Cover Credits photo taken by Molly Echols ‘17 title: Trapped 35 mm black and white print
editor’s note Silent Voices is a venue for the artists, poets, writers, and any other art-makers at Woodward Academy. It is a place to celebrate creativity and the creation of art and make connections with others while doing so. Students submit their creative efforts to the Silent Voices staff, comprised of their peers, throughout the year. Through a blind critique process, each author’s name is removed from his or her piece and evaluated by at least four readers. The head editors then choose the best pieces that fit the theme. We received over 130 writing submissions, and 33 are included in this issue.Thank you to Woodward Academy for generously funding Silent Voices and providing this issue free of charge to students and teachers in the Upper School. The title, Silent Voices, comes from Tennyson’s poem of the same name. When the dumb Hour, clothed in black, Bring the Dreams about my bed, Call me not so often back, Silent Voices of the dead, Toward the lowland ways behind me, And the sunlight that is gone! Call me rather, silent voices, Forward to the starry track Glimmering up the heights beyond me On, and always on! (1892) This magazine features an Endangered Species catalog, listing additional parts of the American Teen that are endangered in the form of a poem by Sari Bircoll ‘17 entitled “Things I’ve Lost.” The poem, accompanied by visual art pieces, lists objects that are already extinct for the speaker of the poem, but still salvageable for the rest of us if we heed this warning. Feel free to remove the catalog from the magazine, hang it up in a private or public space, and actively raise awareness about these fragments of the American Teen that most of us are at risk of losing and some of us have already lost. Thank you, Avni and Erin
2016 awards NSPA 2016 Magazine Pacemaker Award CSPA 2016 Gold Crown GSPA 2015-2016 Literary Magazine General Excellence Award
organizations Columbia Scholastic Press Association Georgia Scholastic Press Association National Scholastic Press Association National Council of Teachers of English Program to Recognize Excellence in Student Literary Magazine Southern Interscholastic Press Association