Pages 2018–19 Anthology

2018–19 ANTHOLOGY

An Arts, Literacy, and Writing Program for High School Students

2018–19 ANTHOLOGY

An Arts, Literacy, and Writing Program for High School Students Wexner Center for the Arts The Ohio State University Columbus, Ohio

SUPPORT FOR PAGES

WEXNER CENTER FOUNDATION BOARD OF TRUSTEES Leslie H. Wexner CHAIR

Michael V. Drake, MD VICE CHAIR

Bill Lambert PRESIDENT

David M. Aronowitz Lisa M. Barton Jeni Britton Bauer Shelley Bird David J. Campisi Brenda J. Drake Adam R. Flatto Russell Gertmenian Michael Glimcher

Brett Kaufman Elizabeth P. Kessler C. Robert Kidder Nancy Kramer Mark D. Kvamme Ronald A. Pizzuti Joyce Shenk Alex Shumate Abigail S. Wexner Sue Zazon EX OFFICIO Peter L. Hahn Bruce A. McPheron Bruce A. Soll Mark E. Vannatta

SUPPORT FOR ARTS ACCESS

GENERAL OPERATING SUPPORT

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Director’s Acknowledgments

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JOHANNA BURTON

Introduction 6 DIONNE CUSTER EDWARDS

Artists-in-Residence 8 Schools, Students, and Teachers

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Open Mic Reading and Reception

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Media Arts Experience

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HALE COUNTY THIS MORNING, THIS EVENING BY RAMELL ROSS

Performing Arts Experience

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SÉANCERS BY JAAMIL OLAWALE KOSOKO

Visual Arts Experience

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MICKALENE THOMAS: I CAN’T SEE YOU WITHOUT ME

Visual Artwork

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DIRECTOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS One of the striking things about the Wexner Center for the Arts that I’ve appreciated from afar—as an educator, as a curator, and as a longtime fan—is its visionary approach to presenting contemporary art across the disciplines.

The institution’s 30-year legacy of inviting diverse audiences to encounter a spectrum of risk-taking programming across its stages, screens, and galleries (a good deal of it developed by artists working in residence) looms large in the wider worlds of art and academia.

Stepping into the role of the center’s director, I’ve had the gratifying experience of seeing just how deeply the center’s mission is realized in all its efforts—and crucially, in classrooms across the community. For nearly 15 years now, the center’s Pages program has measurably developed the writing, literacy, and critical thinking skills of students across central Ohio by introducing them to visual art, film, music, theater, and dance at the Wex, and by expertly guiding them to express those encounters in the words and images you’ll find in this beautifully designed anthology. The course has offered access to these opportunities within the region regardless of residence, income, or background: Pages is free of charge to participating schools and students, with transportation covered by subsidies. And the arts experiences carefully selected by the center’s curators engage with cultural issues that students face daily, with this year’s trio of

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celebrated artists addressing topics of race, gender, identity, and social equity in a way that’s uniquely nuanced, personal, and even visceral.

Presenting programs of this scale and complexity requires the sustained partnership and philanthropic vision of a variety of funders year in and year out. I offer my deep appreciation to the American Electric Power Foundation, Ingram-White Castle Foundation, Ohio Arts Council, and Martha Holden Jennings Foundation for their support of Pages in 2018–19; to Cardinal Health Foundation and Huntington Bank for grants that help provide access to the arts at the Wex; and to Greater Columbus Arts Council, Ohio Arts Council, The Columbus Foundation, and Nationwide Foundation for their generous operating support. I also want to take this opportunity to recognize Dionne Custer Edwards, the center’s educator and manager of school partnerships, for both conceiving of Pages and developing it into the thriving, resonant program that it is today. Pages embodies the center’s core mission by bringing contemporary art, community, and pegagogy together in such a vibrant, compelling fashion.

Johanna Burton DIRECTOR

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INTRODUCTION It Takes Practice to Wonder As we wrap up our Pages 2018–19 program, I am left thinking about being with curious high school students in the beginning of the year and asking alongside them, “Who are we and what are we doing here?” Here, meaning together, and for me, completing the 14th year of Pages: a program dedicated to changing the way we think about, teach, and practice writing, all with a commitment to deep collaboration with students and teachers, and with contemporary art and artists at the Wexner Center.

In a recent report from the National Assessment of Educational Progress, only one-quarter of students are performing at grade level in writing. With that in mind, it’s worth reflecting on how little time many students get to practice that critical skill, ask questions of content, and fully immerse themselves in the process. From the outset, Pages has been designed to encourage that immersion by bringing students from central Ohio to encounter visual art, a film, and a performance at the Wex, and then reflect on those experiences through writing and discussion.

To help us flesh out our musings, this year’s participating educators partnered with visual artist April Sunami; filmmaker and mixed-media artist Bobby T Luck; and writer and performing artist Alexis Wilson. Engaging in hands-on learning with these artists-in-residence shaped our ideas as we tried on new ways of thinking and writing about challenging topics, and eventually developed the carefully situated learning that accompanied Pages students throughout the program year.

We began the year with our educators’ annual summer retreat, then moved quickly into introducing students to the exhibition Mickalene Thomas: I Can’t See You Without Me. Thomas’s stunning paintings invited us into intimate spaces to explore the body and identity. Similarly, director RaMell Ross,

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through his Academy Award–nominated film Hale County This Morning, This Evening, also visually ruminated on humanity in all its complexity. His moving images taught us to slow down and notice things: light, rhythm, breathing, the beautiful ordinary. Jaamil Olawale Kosoko’s performance Seáncers poignantly asked us to consider how we make space for ourselves to exist, to grieve, and to live, with dignity.

Pages calls for us to stretch the boundaries of a typical high school classroom, to carve out room to acknowledge vulnerability and identity—qualities not often richly discussed out loud in the learning space. To prepare for these sophisticated learning contexts, students and teachers have to trust each other.

And cultivating that trust in the classroom takes time, flexibility, and talented educators-in-residence like Renee Arnold, Jess Haney, Stacey O’Reilly, Sarah Patterson, Alissa Scowden, and Mindy Staley.

None of this programming is possible without funders who believe in the work we do in Pages. I am so grateful for new and sustained commitments and contributions. Additionally, I offer a huge thank you for the comprehensive support of all of my colleagues here at the Wex, including our new Director Johanna Burton. We are in good company with Johanna, as she too is an educator: a practitioner of asking thoughtful questions, looking longer, thinking more, and making room for creative practice. I look forward to her partnership. And finally, a special thank you goes to my fellow practitioners in our education department, led by Director of Education Shelly Casto.

Students, I see you. Congratulations on this year’s collection of work. Enjoy!

Dionne Custer Edwards EDUCATOR AND MANAGER OF SCHOOL PARTNERSHIPS

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ARTISTS-IN-RESIDENCE Bobby T Luck is a visual artist and education activist based in Columbus who works in film, multimedia collage, and installation. After relocating to Columbus from Philadelphia, he jump-started the Free Skool for Humans initiative, cofounded MINT Collective, and taught collage and film theory workshops across the country. He recently completed the Cart Pushers studio residency with a solo exhibition and is currently editing a series of videos on psychological association, memory loss, and creation. His recent work Bethel, created with the support of the Wexner Center’s Film/Video Studio program, screened at the Wex throughout April 2019.

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April Sunami is a visual artist who primarily focuses on mixed-media painting and installation. She earned her MA in art history from Ohio University and her BA from Ohio State. Her work has been widely exhibited in galleries and museums including the Columbus Museum of Art, National Afro-American Museum & Cultural Center, and the Southern Ohio Museum, and she was selected to create an installation as part of the 2012 Columbus Art Pop-Up Project, a partnership between the Greater Columbus Arts Council and the Capital Crossroads Special Improvement District. Sunami is married to writer and philosopher Christopher Sunami. They both live in Columbus and parent two bright and imaginative kids.

Alexis Wilson is a professional dancer, choreographer, actor, and author currently based in Columbus. Born to a family involved in the arts (her mother was a prima ballerina and her father a celebrated choreographer), she earned a BFA in drama from Carnegie Mellon University and developed her dancing career in New York City. After retiring from dancing, she acted in commercials, TV, and film; became a casting associate; and went on to produce and direct numerous theatrical productions. Wilson completed her memoir Not So Black and White in 2012 and is adapting the work into a one-woman show and screenplay, and she’s also working on a book of nonfiction with her daughters while mentoring other writers.

Both she and her husband Byron Stripling (Columbus Jazz Orchestra) are active in the local arts community.

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PAGES 2018–19 SCHOOLS, STUDENTS, AND TEACHERS Big Walnut High School TEACHER: STACEY O’REILLY

Sofia Bello Samantha Cox Allison Dible Jacob Glidden Zachary Grieser Jack Hemingway Willem Hoyles Elizabeth Judy Kiersten Judy Vanessa Lang Isabella Maloche Loudon Nicholson Connor Staschiak Cody Swim Riley Tapper Brianna Towery

Franklin Heights High School TEACHER: SARAH PATTERSON

Ali Ali Jacob Allen Ibrahim “Ab” Attia Brianna Bates Simone Beneker Amber Biehl James Caldwell Adrianna Cancel Holly Coy April Donovan Abel Grajales Vazquez Madison Hall Christa Hockingberry Shayne Howell Ashlyn Lewis Makaiah McGaughy Jerry McGhee

Sydney McGlothlin Lones Miller Kaye’Ann Muetzel Adam Norton Dominic Rose Artrell Saunders Makayla Siders Randy Spraw James Taylor Kimberlynn Worrell

Reynoldsburg High School, Encore Academy TEACHER: ALISSA SCOWDEN

Andrew Beck Kaya Boone DeAjanay Brown Elizabeth Cabrera Jeremiah “JT” Chandler Maryellen “Rosie” Davis Noll Delaughder Adelaide Dunlap Destiny Fuller Sauren Hatchett-Graham Nevaeh Held Lauryn Hendrix Chabriel “Shay” Hoover Nevaeh Johnson Janai McLaughlin Jordyn Miller Grace Moorman Gianni Prince Jada Respress Dionte Roddy Ireyana Seymour-Williams Miracle Smythe Jennifer Vazquez Lopez Baileigh Wolfe

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West Liberty-Salem High School TEACHERS: RENEE ARNOLD, JESS HANEY

Autumn Brown Mearic Campbell Devon Clark Cade Clerico Hailee Davis Hailey Duncan Lauren Fowler Cheyenne Gluckle Jamie Gluckle Bexley Harrigan Kaylee Harrison Maria Henderson Savannah Irick Addy Johnson Lindsey Kimball Jillian Kirkham Tyler Motzko Olivia Neer Sarah Painter Avalon Roberts Hunter Smith Cayden Whitman Kienna Whitman Naomi Williams Olivia “Oli” Williams Victoria Wilson Zane Woodruff

Whitehall-Yearling High School TEACHER: MINDY STALEY

Aiden Alba Kobe Barwick Miguel Bawuah Taron Biles-Walker Anasjia Briley Destiny Calderon Blake Aniyah Cameron Lucas Castro-Miranda Jordan Charles Mekayla Collins Deosha Craine Holly Cramer Justice Daniels

Israel Dave Makayla Deem Mario Delacruz Lujan Harmony Dickens Alexis Estave Adonay Estifanos Melat Eyowas Josiah Fisher Edward “Eddie” Gambel Eyerusalem Geda Austin Thomas Gills Wilmer Gutierrez Quadell Hale Hakeem Hunt A’Niyah Jones Dami Juarez Vazquez Allen Lee Debra Leffler James Lehew Savannah Lenigar Jacob Martin Antonio Martinez Samantha Martinez Riley Maxstead Rori Maxstead Termir Mosley-Allen Ahrin Muhammad Jayden Nanthavong Diego Pablo Madison Perry Dia’Moni Pirtle Jacqueline Ponce Torresilla Angela Pulido Lillian Salinas Nancy Leticia Sarmiento Morales Paola Saucedo Mihretab Sende Da’Quan Shephard Abigail Smith Marlon Turcios Kameron Vallair Tony Waderker Lyndon White Damien Wood

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TEACHERS AND TEACHING ARTISTS

“Pages was a way for me to express myself in a way I didn’t know I could.”

—Riley Tapper

From top: Maria Joranko (far left), Jess Haney (left), Sarah Patterson (left), Mindy Staley (left), Stacey O’Reilly (above)

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“Pages is like looking through a window, seeing your own reflection superimposed onto someone else’s, and knowing you’re not alone.”

—Sofia Bello

From top: Alissa Scowden (center), Renee Arnold (center)

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OPEN MIC READING AND RECEPTION The 2018–19 program year of Pages culminated with a festive open mic reading and reception held at the Wexner Center.

Participating students celebrated the completion of the program and the release of this commemorative, limited-run anthology by sharing their work with peers, friends, and family.

“Pages is like an escape from your world and a portal to another.”

—April Donovan

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“Pages…allowed me a safe space to express myself and talk about difficult topics with my peers. I’m incredibly grateful.”

—Sarah Painter

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Behind the Wall ANGELA PULIDO

The commotion grows louder and louder.

The hole in the wall unveils.

Behind the door you discover the truth behind the cover.

I’ve worked so hard NEVAEH JOHNSON

I’ve worked so hard I’ve worked so hard to be at this point The point where I don’t get a whiff of cherrywood and break down in tears The point where I don’t hear your name and yearn for a glimpse of you The point where I look in the mirror and love what I see Not because of your words that butter me up, only so I can be melted by the angry text messages My phone is now just a phone Not a place that houses all of the hatred you have for me Not all of my excuses for loving you wrapped up with a bow of “he didn’t mean it, he loves me” A scale is just a scale Those numbers on it don’t define me I step on without hearing your judging in my ear “I love you, so I’m looking out for you” A shower is once again a shower Not a place I run to so nobody can hear the tears pouring out of my soulless eyes The eyes that you shaped Glistening with the tears from the night before As I walk to the class where I distract myself from the hate The living hate I’ve worked so hard to find myself I’ve worked so hard

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Project Reflection SARAH PAINTER

I really enjoyed this project. I feel like it was a positive and creative way to incorporate our own selves into the subject of identity that we’ve been focusing on for so long. I enjoyed studying identity and relating it to myself. As a midwestern white female, I’m not incredibly diverse, and at times I’ve felt as if I didn’t really have much of a history. For me it was women’s rights, and that’s the only thing I felt strongly about. However, exploring identity throughout this school year has been incredibly eye-opening and rewarding to me.

Going back to the first “creative session” we had with April Sunami when we put together the collage about who we were, I felt like I wasn’t completely sure of who I was and it was hard for me to come up with the words that described me. However, going and seeing the exhibit by Mickalene Thomas began to really open my eyes. It was intriguing to be able to see how we can perceive, and therefore represent, the people in our lives so differently. It also showed me that who we are goes much deeper than what’s on the surface. My biggest takeaway was that we all deserve to be represented and to have our stories shared.

I continued to take those things with me as I looked at art and the world in general. I was mesmerized by Hale County This Morning, This Evening by RaMell Ross. The film was beautiful, but more importantly, it showed how the little, everyday moments of our lives are so vital to the people we become.

We get so caught up in the big picture of who we are, but we’re so much more than that. We’re all the little moments and memories that make up the days of our lives.

Finally, the more plays we studied, and the more we talked about identity, the more I was able to relate to the topic. Over time, I was able to become more aware of my identity and who I am as a person. I’m quirky, a little too serious, love to serve others, and feel most myself when I’m able to help someone else. I love to read and write and experience moments, whether that means traveling or just talking to my friends. I’m finding that I have a history that’s made me the person I am today, and I’m more than just a face. I’m more than just a woman. I’m someone whose story is worth being heard.

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Books AUSTIN THOMAS GILLS

Imagination BOOKS ARE MY LIFE Intelligence is the key Knowledge is the goal

Who We Are ZANE WOODRUFF

They say we look the same My brother And I But It’s not just that we look the same It’s that We are the same Movements Sounds Feelings You’d think we were Twins But no Just the best of friends and Sometimes siblings I am My brother And he is me We love the other though We hardly speak in full sentences To each other

He knows what I want What I need I know his heart And his insecurities I would follow him to the end of the earth And he will protect me Always Never apart Have we been Never apart Or shall we be For long One without the other Would make us incomplete

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Not Alright JESS HANEY, WEST LIBERTY-SALEM TEACHER

For all the saviors why we got so many victims at hand?

For all the martyrs can we remedy this broken land?

Who are the winners when the losers are the common man?

And how do we get to alright?

Chorus: Alright, alright, come on baby, alright.

A school on lockdown lights off, ready-made.

Dunno if this is a drill or the day.

Ain’t no answer for the gun in his hand.

Predisposed or did we just miss the signs, alright?

How can we say it’s alright?

Chorus No hallelujah, no more prayers can we make.

No wait for tomorrow, too many lives are at stake.

How can we sit with so much blood on their hands?

The path we forge, get up, we gotta make it alright.

Chorus For all these saviors...

For all the martyrs...

Who are the winners?

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Pages Reflection GIANNI PRINCE

Pages is a really amazing program. It helps open the minds of creative kids who are just stuck and need that little push. I’m so glad that I got to be a part of this program.

The exhibition and performance that we saw were something different, something that I’d never seen before. They made me open my eyes and see that there are different things out there and different people. They showed me that people have a different way of expressing themselves than just the normal way.

The whole idea is that this program made me open my eyes. It made me step outside my bubble and explore new things. This really helped improve my writing as well. Believe it not, I have better ideas than I did before. I’m more creative. I’m expressing myself more than just the normal way.

I’m so happy that I got to be a part of this experience, and I recommend it to anybody who can be a part of it. It’ll really help them in their creative mind if they are stuck. It opens a new door, and a new life, in my opinion.

The people who worked with us were amazing as well. They helped me open up more and be more creative. This program gets a 10/10 from me.

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Anxiety in my mind NEVAEH JOHNSON

Anxiety in my mind I can’t breathe It’s 3 am and I can’t breathe It’s cold, I shiver It’s dark so I’m sightless I can’t breathe The lump growing in my throat Faster and faster I try to speak but I choke up as the devil pulls his noose tighter around my sinful neck The demon in the corner laughing at something I can’t control I try to scream as a tear runs out of a body housing nothing Not even a soul I hate when this happens When everything blacks out The sounds of the voices getting louder as every minute passes I see depression walk in faster than normal Maybe he’s visiting He’s not here to stay But he is He’ll be here for the next three weeks He’s the cousin nobody wanted to show up to the function The function is my mind Yet it’s barely functioning They’re whispering again They don’t stop They don’t stop until my eyes close and I slowly slip into darkness Darkness so dark that I’m sightless

MEDIA ARTS EXPERIENCE

RaMell Ross Hale County This Morning, This Evening

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MEDIA ARTS EXPERIENCE RaMell Ross

Hale County This Morning, This Evening Artist-in-Residence: Bobby T Luck

“My goal is to create an experience of the historic South, the experience of the centrality of the black experience, the experience of [people’s] lives.”

—RaMell Ross

The innovative documentary Hale County This Morning, This Evening (2018) offers an intimate look at its subjects as they move about their lives in the enduringly oppressive and historically complex American South. A photographer as well as a filmmaker, Ross places us at the center of this Alabama community, daring the viewer to be still, keep looking, see new things, and appreciate the beauty and details of the everyday. Screened as part of our annual Unorthodocs series, the film won a US Documentary Special Jury Award for Creative Vision at the 2018 Sundance Film Festival.

While visiting the Wex, director RaMell Ross took time to interact with Pages students after they watched his film, fielding varied questions about his use of light and perspective, his planning of the project, and his unique approach to storytelling.

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When We Were Young RILEY TAPPER

Remember when we were young?

When we barely had a care in the world?

When we could be anything or do anything in our minds.

We were the unstoppable team.

They couldn’t bring us down if they tried.

We were warriors, princes and princesses, forest animals.

Anything we could imagine.

Until we grew up.

Reality hit us like a concrete block tied to our feet, dragging us down.

Deeper into the ocean of reality, Deeper and deeper until our imagination was gone.

We no longer see the backyard as a forest.

Castle, War zone, Under the sea.

We now look and see green grass.

A small hill, Scented flowers.

A soft summer breeze, We used to see much more.

We are prisoners to our own minds.

We see your little brother play the games we used to play.

Being a prince, Hero, An exotic animal.

We think of him as a child.

Making wondrous worlds never to be real.

We used to be like that.

Now we are cold.

Unimaginative.

Bland.

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How did we become this way?

When I had to move away?

When we knew we’d never see each other again?

When our very childhood crumbled beneath our feet?

When we heard the news of me leaving?

Not saying enough goodbyes?

Foolishly thinking that you and I would see each other again.

I remember when we were young.

When we were brave.

Now we are shy.

Trapped in our minds.

Am I not pretty enough?

Does this make me look fat?

Did I study enough for school?

Do I really have to go?

I never asked myself this when I was young.

It was always, When is Luke coming over?

Is that a rabbit in my backyard?

I wonder what game we’ll play today?

Should I wear my tiara today?

I watch as my sister stopped having those thoughts, Now they are slowly fading as mine did.

I guess that’s what growing up is.

Being fearless and young then becoming scared and meek.

The world tears us apart.

Tears our childhood joys away from us.

We discriminate against the ones who act as children.

Instead we should look at them with wonder We should strive to be like them.

They remember what it’s truly like to be a kid.

When life was simple.

When a yard was a forest, Castle, War zone, Under the sea.

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Untitled A’NIYAH JONES

I am from where the birds chirp repeatedly I am from where people aren’t treated equally By this I mean cops don’t treat blacks how they treat whites I’m from a family who loves fashion Lots of gold and silver accessories Every room you go into feels like it has a meaning Bathroom has bright lights Dining room has many painted portraits Paintings of flowers or fruits The living room has big mirrors Mirrors make you reflect how parallel the other side is...

How your life is on both sides

No Where No Where DAMIEN WOOD

What is a hood?

A hood is what has made you into yourself.

Who you surround yourself with.

Where you grew up, the ups, the downs.

But what is my hood?

I belong to no hood, I am not defined by the fates of my town.

By the fates of my friends or family.

I create my own destiny.

I write my own legacy.

I define myself.

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When the Sun Goes Down ANONYMOUS

Everyone knows the sun must go down, Because the day goes faster than we think; We don’t realize how little time we have Until the sun goes down.

The sun goes down, and we’re filled with regret.

We think of all the things we should have said And should have done When the day was still around.

When the sun goes down, we try not to cry.

We turn away; no one must see our misery.

But we still remember our time with the day.

And when the sun goes down, our lives go on, And the day still has a place in our hearts.

I wish I could’ve spent more time with the day, Before it wasn’t around.

Because I wasn’t ready For the sun to go down.

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15 Years JILL KIRKHAM

Three years young A child screaming at window’s glass Blaming her mother for things out of her control Self-doubt begins to take root in a mind too young to understand Grandfather takes place of father, a role he never wanted to have to play Seven and a half years A new face, a brother to call her own Family ties grow stronger Her smile is half as bright as it used to be then A cancelled wedding ruins that happiness She stays strong for her mom At the age of eleven there’s another man She grows tired of these games Maybe this one is different, though Her hopes are answered the day her mother walks down the aisle Shortly after the adoption forms are signed This new man is her dad in every way By the age of sixteen she’s two brothers stronger She’s the brightest her family has seen her Her grades are great; she loves to participate November 13, 2016 Her world is devastated; her grandfather has passed away She misses a week of school; the world hasn’t stopped Her “Best Buddy” is gone; she feels betrayed Nothing is alright One day before her eighteenth birthday The man who left her comes walking up “I didn’t expect to see you...What can I even say?”

Forty-five minutes they talked Forty-five minutes he lied and disgraced the people she loved Once again he turned his back and walked away from her Everything she had built up finally breaks free It’s been fifteen years and I never needed you anyway

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Untitled KAYLA DEEM

Hmmm...

Thoughts opened, closed A mind full of emotions Crowded And suggestions so The mind of a fifteen-year-old Undecided, worried a little Girl striving to keep Less of what she To keep everything and trying Earns and deserves Not to fall apart and Sometimes more More to come. Grown and Than what she has already Growing she is way Earned into some Different than an average one Thing more beautiful to Become inside and  Out, there is a storm no one  Can mimic, see, or Remake

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WARNING! DIA’MONI PIRTLE

In my hood there are people who don’t really care about your feelings.

It’s a place called A1!

It’s on the North Side, they tell you the truth even if it will hurt your feelings.

I had a lot of friends there, and a lot of people who didn’t like me.

There were fights that happened every day, but no one paid them any mind because that’s just what happened on a daily basis.

If you don’t want to be told the truth don’t go out there.

You probably hear this a lot but there were a lot of guns out there, they were doing things they didn’t have no business doing.

People out there were always ducking and running from the cops.

Don’t go there talking stuff if you can’t back yourself up!!

So I’m telling you in my hood you will get hurt!!

“I didn’t think I would enjoy [Hale County] as much as I did. Documentaries usually are very boring to me, but the ability to talk about it before with classmates and then the guy who made it [RaMell Ross] afterward made the whole experience amazing.”

—Victoria Wilson

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Came from Nothing DA’QUAN SHEPHARD

Bro, In my hood Where it’s good Tryin’ make everything right Every time I wake up I see roaches They only crawl out at night Where I grew up Go and steal them cars In the hood where I grew up from, Man that ish was hard I didn’t ever have nothin’, man Get up out my lane These opps, they wanna hate These opps, they are so lame I’m tryin’ make a damn way Me and my gang yeah we scru scru Get up out my face Ain’t no problem where I come from I’m tryin’ to make a way & Tell all my real n be safe

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Scars Don’t Go Away EDDIE GAMBEL

Money is everything.

Because I don’t like being broke.

Being broke leads to being stuck, not having a choice.

I don’t like being broke, I don’t like not having choices.

When I was seven years old, my dad kicked me out.

From that point, I grasped onto the lessons my uncle taught me about fixing things, about paying bills, about making choices.

I don’t like being broke, I don’t like being at school.

It doesn’t make sense to listen to these directions from teachers.

No one realizes how much I’ve figured out on my own.

I’ve already learned more about life than they’ll ever know.

I don’t like not having choices. I know what is right for me.

Scars have been the teacher.

I’ll choose my own family.

I’ll live on the hill in peace and quiet.

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Untitled ANONYMOUS

In my hood I feel safe It’s a hoodie made out of some soft fabric I couldn’t care to name My hood keeps my head warm and my thoughts enclosed I keep everything to myself And I mind my own business In my hood I am quiet Too nervous to speak In my hood my peers don’t know me like friends do I don’t know if they really care to know me They don’t know my opinions or my outlook on life They probably don’t know how I’m feeling My peers don’t know I’m scared to read this out loud In my hood my thoughts are mine

“I absolutely loved Hale County. As I was watching it, I felt very drawn to it, and it reminded me of my dad’s side of the family living in the South Side of Chicago, which brought much happiness. I also loved that it captured...raw stories.”

—Hailee Davis

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Untitled JOSIAH FISHER

Failure, never satisfied, on my grind, regret turns into happiness, happiness comes from being focused on success, success comes from hard work, hard work comes from being mentally strong, mentally strong comes from within you, you. are. success.

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Abstract Personification Assignment ANDREW BECK

Once upon a time there was a family. This family had a red recliner in their living room. To the family, it was just an ordinary recliner. Just a chair they bought to put in their living room. Little did they know, this chair was so much more.

The chair’s name was Chairles. One day while the family was gone, he turned to his friend, Tabletha, who was the family’s end table in their living room and said, “Hey, Tabletha.”

“Hey, Chairles,” she responded.

Chairles looked down and saw a magazine opened to a page with some pictures of recliners on it. “Do you know why they have this magazine open to a page with other chairs on it?” Chairles asked Tabletha.

Before Tabletha could answer, Bulby, the family’s lamp, yelled out, “You’re probably getting replaced!” Chairles didn’t like Bulby. He was always mean to Chairles for no reason.

“Don’t listen to Bulby. He’s just trying to scare you,” Tabletha reassured Chairles.

“Are you sure? They could be trying to replace me,” Chairles asked Tabletha.

“I’m sure. I don’t see why they would need a new chair,” Tabletha said.

They heard the family open the door of the house, so all went completely still and didn’t move.

A few days later while the family was gone, Chairles was really worried he was going to get replaced. “Tabletha,” Chairles whispered so Bulby wouldn’t hear.

“What?” Tabletha whispered in response.

“They still have this catalogue with chairs open and they have been looking at it every night. I think they might replace me,” Chairles said, worried.

“You’re just letting it get to your head, Chairles. If anything, they are just getting a new chair and keeping you also,” Tabletha reassured Chairles.

“Are you sure?” Chairles asked.

“Yes, I’m sure. Why would they replace a perfectly good chair like you,” Tabletha responded. They heard the family come in the door so they quickly quieted themselves.

About a week later the family came home with a big box. Chairles was very confused and he didn’t know what was in the box. The family just set it in the living room and then left again.

“What do you guys think is in the box?” Bulby asked Chairles and Tabletha.

“I’m not sure, but whatever it is, it’s pretty big,” Tabletha said.

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Chairles was very worried. “It looks like it’s about the same size as me,” Chairles said nervously.

“I think it might be another recliner!” Bulby said to scare Chairles.

“We don’t know for sure if it’s even a chair, and if it is a chair, they probably got it so they could have an extra chair,” Tabletha said, trying to comfort Chairles.

They heard footsteps in the kitchen. The family was back. They went quiet so the family didn’t hear them. The man of the family pulled out a pocket knife to open the box. He started to cut down the box to reveal it was another recliner. Chairles was scared.

“Alright, let’s move the old recliner,” the man of the family said. They moved Chairles over to the kitchen and put the new recliner in his spot. “Perfect fit!” the man of the family exclaimed. He picked up Chairles again and went towards the door. He took Chairles outside and put him on the curb.

“Oh no!” Chairles said to himself.

A few hours later it got dark. All Chairles could see was blackness. All he heard were crickets and the buzz of a broken street lamp. He was scared so he just closed his eyes and tried to relax. All of a sudden, he heard something coming towards him. He opened his eyes and saw headlights. It was a van. It slowed down next to Chairles.

A man got out and started inspecting Chairles. “It looks like a pretty nice chair,” the man said to someone in the car.

Another man walked around the car. “Let’s put it in the back, then.”

They picked up Chairles and put him in the back. Chairles didn’t even know what to think anymore.

It felt like they were driving for hours. Chairles felt every little bump the car hit. Eventually they came to a stop. It was daylight now. The men opened up the back and grabbed Chairles. They started taking him toward their house.

It was a one-floor house with two bedrooms. The guys carried him inside to the living room. It was really nice inside. They set Chairles down.

One of the guys said, “My wife is going to love this chair.”

“It is pretty nice. I should probably head out and get home, though. Tell me if she likes it,” the other guy answered. A few minutes after the other man left, a woman walked in. “Do you like the chair I found?” the man asked.

“Oh, I love it! It goes perfectly with the living room!” the woman said.

Chairles felt happy. This new house was his new home. Chairles was going to be there a long time.

“I believe that [Pages] taught me to have an open mind. There were many times that I was put out of my comfort zone and I had to take a deep breath to refocus myself. It was a growing experience for me and I think it was one that, though I may not have known or wanted, I needed.”

—Brianna Bates

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Delusional ADELAIDE DUNLAP

You think that what you know right now is all there could ever be.

How could there be more? I thought I had the world pretty much figured out by this point, up until I started to see the new color.

I didn’t think it could be real at first. Perhaps a glimpse of light caught in my eye, giving me a second of unknown beauty. But soon, it started appearing everywhere. On walls, on faces, even in the sky, carefully painted throughout the corners of the earth. I felt as though suddenly a new world had opened up to me, allowing me to wrap myself in the indescribable. But when I asked others about it, all I got were stares.

It wasn’t just that only I could see it; it was that others thought I was delusional for even expressing the idea that maybe this world expands beyond their own eyes. The disgust others felt for me when I mentioned its beauty ate at my stomach like nothing else had. I felt isolated in this new world I had found myself in. Was this the price to be the only one who can see something’s true beauty? When you can no longer share its beauty, is it still beautiful?

I learned to hate the color. I hated the beautifully painted prison I had found my mind locked in. I pretended as if the color weren’t there, wishing one day I’d forget I even saw it in the first place.

It almost worked, until one day someone approached me, telling me they woke up and saw a new color, asking me if I saw it, too.

The anger I developed for the world that I had been unfortunately caught in manifested into hatred. I called them delusional and continued walking. It was then I had realized why others treated me the same so long ago.

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Untitled ALLEN LEE

Sometimes I feel shy Sometimes I want to cry But I don’t know why I wear my hood To keep me safe To get away from the evil place I wear my hood To hide my face To ignore all the hate

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Love in All Forms ELIZABETH CABRERA

Hot, hazy, and heavy. Whichever way you put it in your mind, think of these words. It’s always been hot in Mexico. It can make you feel like you’re suffocating but sometimes it encases you in an embrace. The air is rich and smooth. The heat of the weather and food rolls and stays with you wherever you are. You’re walking in the busy street market; the ground’s dirt lifts up and down from your shoes. The produce and street food stands fill your senses with curiosity. You could buy fresh cheese to eat at home with steaming hot tortillas and beans you can get just around the corner.

People of all ages are there, smelling the delightful greasy food, suddenly famished despite eating breakfast half an hour ago.

“Are you hungry?” my mom asks me.

“No,” I respond to her while passing food stands. “Not right now, anyway.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, OK, let’s go eat.”

The aroma of the food just changes your nose’s mind faster than the speed of light, I swear. Coming here on the weekends is bound to make your mind foggy with the desire to buy every item you see. If your belt is tight, and your feet are aching, you’re doing it right.

My parents experienced it all. Their faint memories of childhood and having very little in the world, working until their backs broke. They met in a hazy and heavy love, shared what they had, and married hastily. My dad worked away from home, and my mom raised her sons with sticks and stones.

They got through it all with gold on their shoulders, love in their hearts, and passion for life. I only hope to be half as brave as them.

The first food I ever wanted in the womb was a green chili pepper. I was born in the midst of my family moving to America. No one knew I was to exist. The first sign was when my mom had a strange urge to bite a bright green chili pepper in the grocery store. It was in Columbus, where my family lived in a dingy apartment with no warm blankets in the winter. She wanted two of the peppers to control this uncontrollable hunger, but my dad said no, so she let them be. Not eating them made my mom experience pain in her lower

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abdomen, and the next morning she was nauseous and dizzy. She was never dizzy in her past pregnancies, so I was more than a handful before I was even the size of a pea. I was the worst birth to her, and every time she brings it up I say, “I’m sorry!” I truly am sorry, but I’m also thankful she chose to have me run around in her life during a stressful time.

I was given everything when my parents had little to give. We moved into a real home soon after, and they filled it with anything they could get their hands on. My brothers worked hard in school and at work to help them. My oldest brother went through a dark time at the beginning of it all. He was an alcoholic, got into trouble with the police, and had anger issues. He would start to fume smoke at the smallest of things. His mind was like fire; a drop of alcohol made it spread wildly to his family, his friends, and to himself. He felt like an outsider and uncomfortable being at home. My mom talked to me about him back then: “He just didn’t like being home, and felt isolated so he would drink to not feel the way he felt.” The move took the most out of him, I believe. Feeling like you don’t belong, trying so hard to get the emotions out, but having it all backfire. I feel the same way now, if I’m being honest.

It’s almost like he experienced most of the pain in place of me. We were born twenty-one years apart, born the same month, both have curly hair, and both felt unloved. Eventually, he found the love of his life and is the happiest person I have ever met.

Thinking about the culture I grew up with feels like catching up with an old friend at times. The reminiscing about things we’ve done as a family, the familiar warmth of their voices, and most of all, the awkwardness. Other times, I just want to bask in the feeling of comfort and love I have for it. The shine I hold in my heart for my family and country is more everlasting than the sun. The colors of Mexico’s aura and its boldness inspire the need to stop wearing black every day. The blue hue of the sky combined with the deep sea green will trickle salty tears down your cheeks. Frida Kahlo has this quote I love that goes, “Nada es absoluto. Todo cambia, todo se mueve, todo gira, todo vuela y desaparece.” (“Nothing is absolute. Everything changes, every-

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thing moves, everything revolves, everything flies and goes away.”) Every time I read that, it makes my shoulders relax and my lungs exhale a deep sigh of relief.

It’s a wave of comfort I need anytime I’m stuck in a room of my own thoughts.

Whenever I think of the sacrifices my parents have made, I feel an immense amount of guilt. It’s not a heavy feeling, but rather a pulsating one.

One that rips through my body one vertebra at a time. I’m not remarkable, and I’m doomed to disappoint my parents and family. They’ve done so much for me, and all I’ll ever give them is an embarrassing disgrace of a future. A tight, bubbly sensation arises in my throat when these thoughts cross my mind. A disapproving gaze is permanently burned behind my back by them.

As much as I love them, I’ll forever be intimidated and exhausted to have to prove to them that I can be worth it. In a way, I tell myself, “They didn’t come here, away from their home, for you to be a disappointment.”

They helped shape me into who I am today, and I want to give back to them, except I don’t know how.

Down the hall and away from my room, my parents sleep in separate rooms and have been for a while. As I’m falling asleep, my breathing is slowing down, growing deeper, and I feel safe knowing they’re there. My body and mind sway back and forth, happily knowing I’m myself and about to rest. This one night, I thought about how hostile the night air would be if they knew one little fact about myself. I’m gay, and if I were to tell them, I wouldn’t be able to sleep the same again. The closer you go down the hall, the air would suffocate and harden your lungs each step you take. Parents shouldn’t change their temperature to their children for such a thing. It frustrates me that my culture still would consider me as odd and erratic when I’m being authentic and loving, exactly what my culture is all about. Every love song you listen to has this gritty feel to it, the raw energy of pure and loud affection. It’s a desirable way to think about your partner. Dancing and melting to the sweet melody radiates a warmth between you and them, like a breeze at the beach. Romance graces me the same way it did my parents, soulful and joyous. Passion is in my blood, and I intend to bleed.

PERFORMING ARTS EXPERIENCE

Jaamil Olawale Kosoko Séancers

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PERFORMING ARTS EXPERIENCE Jaamil Olawale Kosoko

Séancers

Artist-in-Residence: Alexis Wilson

“The creative work for me is a catalyst to engage in dialogue and critical conversation. That’s really what I thirst for, to be part of a larger conversation.”

—Jaamil Olawale Kosoko

Devised by multidisciplinary performing artist Jaamil Olawale Kosoko, Séancers is a dynamic theatrical meditation on community and culture, identity and loss.

Incorporating spoken word, ecstatic movement, and provocative costuming, Séancers asks questions about where and how we spend our time, how we are present in the world, and with whom. One of a series of works that have delved deeply into the deaths of his mother, father, and brother, the piece also explores grief, personal transition, and reckoning with the past through its many performative layers. Kosoko has roots in poetry, but the expanse of his practice uses the whole body to reveal, revisit, and restore ideas and identities. Featuring a score by Jeremy Toussaint-Baptiste, the work is rich and inventive, bending words, body, and sound.

Kosoko stayed after Séancers to discuss the issues raised by his performance with Pages students, helping them navigate the work’s challenging subject matter, emotional weight, and provocative exploration of identity.

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Anticipation RANDY SPRAW

Within the darkness of the room the rumble of the speakers the tension rose along with the steam The sense of curiosity from the audience At the edge of their seats Hardly holding onto their fright at the same time Eager to know what will happen next

Letter to Jaamil SHAYNE HOWELL

Dear Jaamil, I saw your one-man play on Wednesday, December 5th, 2018.

Your play was really good. I wasn’t uncomfortable like the preview felt. I found it interesting. I can really relate to you because you said you lost your family in big bunches and groups. I’m 14 years old and I have lost so many people I don’t know how to deal with it. People say it’s gonna get better, but it still never does. I have no idea how you do it. It’s like I don’t know how to express myself. I wanted to actually talk to you, but I would have cried. But stay strong and I will, too.

You’re amazing!!

—Lexi Howell

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lights.

ADRIANNA CANCEL

where are you it’s silent almost. there’s a hum and i know it’s you please tell me please tell me it’s you you’re swirling circling me it’s getting louder. i can feel the buzz the buzz of you in my head. like a hornet’s nest getting pawed at by a soft brown bear i can feel you hear you it’s getting louder like cicadas on a rotting tree

you’re here the lights are flashing blue. purple. red. come. out. you’re in my chest. breathing is getting harder you’re everywhere i turn and in a swift movement you’re gone and all that i’m left with is the burnt sheets and my scattered thoughts

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Trapped CHRISTA HOCKINGBERRY

She’s trapped inside her thoughts, the oxygen getting taken away from her, her head throbbing while she rocks back and forth.

Hands gripping her head to try and make the voices stop, She’s shaking uncontrollably, feeling lightheaded.

Her stomach turning into knots, feeling as if she’s being stabbed over and over.

Thoughts consuming her like a cloud consuming the light, she stays hidden to protect herself from the atrocity waiting to approach her.

Suffocation CHRISTA HOCKINGBERRY

She’s suffocating inside her screams She’s lost in her fears She’s confused by her intentions She’s losing consciousness, feeling dizzy by the streams of tears She’s stuck inside a box and she can’t get out She screams and screams but no one hears her, no one listens She can’t be touched, she’ll freak out She can’t stop thinking, the memories are taunting her

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Untitled MAKAIAH MCGAUGHY

Why is it that we feel we have to fit in? To think that if we look a certain way, people will like us? That if we spend this much on our clothes, we’ll look better than others? That if we don’t buy name brands, we won’t matter? That we must weigh this much to have friends?

We have all these requirements to be acceptable to our society. Why is society like this? Why can’t I be myself and have people love me for me? No, because as soon as we turn around, we get judged by our “friends.” I would rather be myself and see who my real friends are than live with the fact that my friends don’t really like me.

Why can’t we be natural? Wear what we want and not be insecure? To feel like someone will try and say, “You’re fat,” when you’re pure? Pure is better than anything in this world. Why can’t we all just be pure?

“I was startled, intrigued, saddened, relieved, and all sorts of other emotions as they transformed and warped with Jaamil’s movements and emotions. Every moment was a moment of not knowing what was coming next, or even what was happening at that time, and it was both mesmerizing and terrifying.”

—Avalon Roberts

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Left Behind JADA RESPRESS

I’m drawing blanks. I don’t even know what to say about being left behind. I just know what it feels like. My parents have done it. Society has done it. I try to do it to my soul. My image of myself. When I’m anxious, I leave myself. There’s a woman in me crying out for a happy life. A life with no regrets or apologies. But I, on most days, leave her for the overthinking, analytical girl people know. I’m chill on certain things but I take deep issues to heart. That place where I feel whether it be right or wrong to the outside world, it’s just mine. So you may be asking, “why do you run away from that happy girl”; it’s because she is only one way when life is more than one way. She doesn’t think, she just does, and that scares me.

When I’m not thinking, what am I allowing to be around me? What’s in my space?

“Pages is a program for those wishing to delve deeper into the world of imagination and creativity, where the magic of the universe rests at your fingertips, ready to create.”

—Cheyenne Gluckle

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Grief’s Gift GRACE MOORMAN

Once, a woman was walking back from a river toward her village when she came across a man sitting on the side of the road. Recognizing him by his clothes as a friend of her village, she said, “Friend, where have you come from? It is not safe to travel alone right now; it is almost night.”

The stranger replied, “I have come from a town not very far away. I’m the only one of my family left, so I am alone. Would you please grant me company for a while?” The woman agreed, and so the two sat and spoke together well into the evening. When the woman noticed how dark it had gotten, she stood to go, but found that she could not move.

“What is happening?” she exclaimed.

The stranger stood and removed his guise, revealing himself to be Death. “My lady,” he said. “You drowned at the river. I am here to escort you to the afterlife.”

“Lord Death,” the woman said, bowing low. “I would ask that you send someone to comfort my children in my absence. I fear what will happen to them once they find that I am dead.” And so Death promised the woman that he would send someone to help her children, and the two went to the afterlife. After he had escorted her, Death formed the body of a girl out of seawater and brought her to Life’s castle.

“What do you want?” Life asked.

“I need you to give this body some of yourself,” Death said. “I promised a woman to send someone to help her children after her death. None of my attendants are suitable, and I must continue to escort deceased souls to the afterlife.”

Life examined the body and told Death, “Because you made this body, whatever creature comes of it will never truly be one of mine. They will live a half-life as a spirit. Would you put that on them?”

Death bowed his head, ashamed. “I must keep my promise,” he said. So Life breathed into the body, and a young girl opened her eyes and sat up.

Death named the girl Grief, meaning “half-life,” and sent her on her way to the woman’s village in order to help the woman’s children.

Grief arrived at the village and found the woman’s oldest child, a son. The

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boy was crying. He seems sad, Grief thought. I should probably make him feel very happy! So Grief told the boy of all of the wonderful things in the world, and how everything was okay. After about a week of this, Grief began to notice that the boy was ignoring her. Whenever she tried to speak to him, he would simply say, “Nothing is wrong, everything is fine,” and walk off. That can’t be healthy, thought Grief. But there was nothing she could do; the boy simply ignored her every time she tried to speak.

So Grief went off to find the woman’s next child, a daughter. I cannot be so positive this time, Grief thought, maybe then she won’t ignore me. And Grief told the daughter about all of the horrible things in the world, and how terrible it was that the girl’s mother had died. The girl, driven mad with despair, threw herself into the river and drowned.

Death appeared to escort the girl to the afterlife, and when he did he scolded Grief. “You were supposed to help these children!” he said. “Now one of them is blind to this world’s troubles and the other is dead!” He then disappeared, taking the dead girl with him.

Grief sat down on the riverbank. “I have failed in my mission,” she wailed.

“Why couldn’t someone have been sent to help me?” As she sat there, drops of seawater trickled from her eyes and down her face. That’s odd, she thought, but it kind of feels nice.

“Are you alright?”

Grief turned around to see the woman’s third daughter watching her. “No, I am not alright!” Grief said. “I have failed in my purpose. I have messed up your brother by telling him positive things, I have killed your sister by telling her negative things, and I will probably hurt you too by talking about things that are neither good nor bad, so I will just not talk to you at all.”

“Okay,” the little girl said. “But if you don’t talk, could you listen to me?”

Grief nodded slowly. The girl sat down and began to talk about all of her troubles, how no one took her seriously since her mother had died, how she felt like she would overflow with anger and sadness, but still felt empty at the

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same time. She spoke about how it hurt that her brother had gone crazy and would constantly tell her that she was being silly for feeling bad, and how she felt that her older sister had abandoned her through suicide.

Grief listened to the girl for hours. After the girl finished, Grief said, “I am sorry about all that has happened to you. I wish there was something I could do.” The little girl nodded. She then noticed the streaks of seawater on Grief ’s cheeks.

“What are those?” the girl asked.

“Hm? Oh, I’m made of seawater,” Grief explained. “When I got frustrated, the water started pouring down my face.”

“It looks cool,” the girl said.

“If you say so,” Grief said. “It made me feel a bit better...” Suddenly, she got an idea. “Hey,” she said, standing up. “What if I gave you the ability to have water pour out of your eyes, too? Then they could help you feel better!”

“Okay,” the girl said. “But I’d feel pretty bad if I was the only person who could feel better just by having water come out of my eyes. Could you do that for everyone else, too?”

“Sure!” Grief said. “After I help you out, I don’t really have anything to do.” So Grief took off the tiniest shaving of her watery skin and spread it around the girl’s eyes. Water almost immediately began trickling down. “How do you feel?” Grief asked.

“Hmm...better,” the girl said. “Not good, but not as horrible as before.

What do you call this? Making-water-fall-from-your-eyes is kind of a long name.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” Grief thought for a bit. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “What do you want to call it?”

The girl thought. “I think I shall call it ‘crying’,” she announced. “Because it started happening to you when you cried out for help.”

Grief left the girl to spread the gift of crying to the rest of humanity. And her gift has been used to comfort many people throughout history.

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Life and Death JAMES CALDWELL

Death. A time we all feel Death. The time we don’t conceal our feeling Death. When we let it all out Whether it be anger or tears that cause a drought in our eyes Death. Affects us all Death. Is the only thing promised in life Death. Is an end to the millisecond that is our life compared to the universe It affects each of us in our own way, whether it be drama, poetry, or sadness till the pain goes away Death. Is the one thing we all can look forward to Death. It happens every day Death. The thing we’re scared of But shouldn’t be ’cause it only causes more pain No matter what it will happen you can’t escape it will always be there in every way Death.

Life.

Life. It’s why we shouldn’t be afraid Life. It is promised to happen Life. Go and make a name Life. Don’t be ashamed Life. Live it how you want ‘cause life is short so you have to make the most of it Make a name for yourself be remembered And if you’re remembered you never die Life and death. Are just a figment of our imagination Life and death. Are both promised Life and death. One is nothing without the other, without death our lives would be meaningless But without life there would be no death, so be remembered and spread your name Have no shame in your life and your death Death.

Life.

Death.

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Untitled DOMINIC ROSE

Death the loss of a soul and body of an organism the fact that misery and agony follow the disconsolation that reaches to the point of another Death Death the confinement of emotions that overflow in one the reckoning of someone’s life the feeling of being trapped and lost in the dark the misplacement or exhaustion by doing nothing but standing still Death the disconsolation that overwhelms my soul the agony and suffering that follows after the pain the struggle follows like everlasting footprints in the snow the misleading misery that can be hidden but never goes away Death will bring the gap that makes you feel lonely beyond measure

Untitled DOMINIC ROSE

Lonesome Overwhelming Strain Spiteful

Untitled DOMINIC ROSE

The Death of one is a defeat All I feel right now is me getting beat The Death may be nothing Or it may be something But to me, I’m just getting the heat

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Untitled HOLLY COY

I’m a murderer.

I killed the girl that I used to be.

The girl that used to smile all the time.

The girl that used to have a lot of friends.

I used to see her in the mirror.

Now she is dead.

Her eyes are a darker color.

And she rarely smiles.

And she doesn’t believe the compliments she receives because she believes That they are just trying to make her feel better.

I am a murderer.

I killed The girl I used to be.

“The performance was my favorite. I say this because it opens this side of you. Like it makes you think of things in your life differently. It also makes you think and question things that happen or how you could handle things.”

—Holly Coy

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You’re a joke NEVAEH JOHNSON

You’re a joke You’re a joke But one of the jokes people force themselves to find funny You overreact like the aggravating drama queen you are But wait You’re not reacting enough They’re staring at you Wishing you weren’t here They know They know about the nights you spend drowning in your own tears Struggling to breathe in the little bit of humanity you have left You need to step on one more time Just one more time and it’ll say you’re lighter But you’re not lighter Your failures weigh you down more than any food can Just skip a couple meals and you’ll be perfect Perfect They say you’re perfect but they’re lying They say you’re beautiful but they’re lying They say you sparkle and glitter in the darkness bringing them the only source of joy they have left But they’re lying They’re always lying, right?

They don’t love you They hate you They hate you more than you hate yourself Cut a little deeper It’ll make you forget the failure staring back at you But you can’t Because you’re a coward A coward So you laugh You laugh with the mask of joy covering the longing to be gone You laugh at jokes that aren’t funny You laugh at yourself You’re a joke

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All for Nothing GRACE MOORMAN

“Okaaaaaayyyyy...” Haley said, frantically turning the staff around in her hands. She peered through the small crystal ball that topped the staff toward Kyle. “How do I do this again?”

“How should I know?” Kyle yelled back. Another blast hit the door he was leaning against, and he bounced forward, then quickly shuffled back to brace it again. “But whatever you’re supposed to do, could you figure it out and do it quickly?”

“I’m trying! I’m trying!” Haley whined. She was panicking, turning the staff over and looking at it from every angle. And all the while the large fountain at the center of the room vomited its strange tar-like substance. The liquid was up to her ankles now. Another blast hit the door.

“Okay,” Haley said, brushing her hair out of her face. “I think I’ve got it!”

She pointed the staff at the fountain. “Concesso!” she shouted confidently.

Nothing happened. The tar continued pouring from the fountain.

“I don’t think it worked!” Kyle called.

“Shut up!” Haley shot back, her face turning a light shade of pink. “Unless you want to do this?”

Kyle helpfully shut up.

Haley examined the staff again. “Come on, what’s wrong with you?” she muttered. While looking it over, she noticed a new mark carved into the wood. Her face fell. “Oh no.”

“What’s wrong?” Kyle groaned, pushing harder against the door as another blast shook it. A few cracks began to appear in the door.

“This...isn’t one of our staffs.”

“So…unh...what?”

“So, I can’t use it,” Haley irritably explained. “It won’t respond to my magic.”

“Well, let me try it then!”

“No, you moron, we’ve got the same type of magic; it’ll just fight you, too.

What we need is a sakhet magician,” Haley sighed. She went over to the door and sat down, ignoring the murky black liquid that soaked into her jeans.

“And they’re all dead,” she finished defeatedly.

Kyle looked out the window at the vast army below, so far down that they looked like ants swarming toward the tower. “They’re almost inside. I don’t think I’ll be able to withstand another blast, I’m too tired,” he said.

“What about both of us?” Haley asked, standing up.

“I doubt it,” Kyle sighed. “We’re both way too tired. No one told us

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there’d be an army here that we’d have to defend against.” He punched the wall. “All this way for nothing! We get sent on some stupid quest by some stupid old men who don’t care about anyone but themselves! We’re forced to leave our families! We almost die a gazillion times! And now that we’re finally here, the stupid staff that stupid hag gave us won’t work! And now we’re going to die...” he choked out a sob. “All for nothing....”

Haley went over to him and took his hand. She brushed a tear off his cheek and smiled sadly. They both turned to stare out of the window at the sunset.

“It wasn’t all for nothing,” she said matter-of-factly. “The garden was nice.”

They heard the sound of the cannon reloading just outside the door. They turned to look at each other, eyes full of tears. Haley made a noise somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “It’s Mum’s birthday today,” she said. “I just remembered. We were going to take her to the fire-ruby caverns this year.

She’d always wanted to go.”

A loud boom! sounded from the end of the long hallway outside. Kyle suddenly gripped Haley into a tight hug. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” she choked back, squeezing him closer.

The door caved in on itself, and a blinding white light flooded the room.

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Atlas ADELAIDE DUNLAP

Being left behind by someone you love isn’t a feeling of hate or anger, but rather a feeling of emptiness. As if you are Atlas, trying to hold your world in its orbit as the relentless force of space tears it from your grip. But you are no Atlas and they are so much more than a world to you. Your world is thrown out of orbit and before you can reach out, you are greeted by nothing but distant stares and space. You’re left alone in this vacuum, wondering if it had always been this cold. You had not realized how warm your planet had kept your soul and you can’t help but wonder if you did the same for them. Did they pull themselves out of orbit? Or just allow themselves to slip from your hands, not even noticing your cries to call them back? Do they feel the cold too? You allow yourself to float along with moon rocks and space debris, hoping you’ll find another planet to hold on your shoulders. But nothing quite rests so perfectly anymore and your back now aches from the sudden absence of weight. So you continue floating, stargazing, and thinking about how you want to go home. But you don’t know where they are anymore.

“This performance felt odd especially since I was in the front row. I think that it was a good thing. I learned through this that some art will make you feel uncomfortable. Paying attention to certain details was crucial, so it made me not want to take my eyes off the stage. Like Mickalene [Thomas’s] exhibit, I felt like I was able to be more mature. The best thing about it was that I felt really included in the performance.”

—Miracle Smythe

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The Unseen Within HAILEY DUNCAN

my life feels mediocre at best my body can’t keep up with my strong-willed ways

the hard realization of i simply can’t do what i wish i could

this old identity i have not left behind but yet i’ve had to adapt to a new persona in which I am not backed into a corner and forced into a way of living that i did not ask for

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Recipe for Haunted Scones ELIZABETH CABRERA

INGREDIENTS 2 cups of powdered ghosts of past pro bakers ½ cup of frightful singing in C-minor 2 tablespoons of ectoplasm ¼ cup of crystalized widow’s tears 1 tablespoon of resurrection dust 1 teaspoon of a salted wound 1 stick of the COLD HARD TRUTH (cubed) 1½ cup of fresh or frozen angry spherical spirits (recently murdered :/) 1 large eye of a famous Gothic poet (ex. Poe or Shelley) 1 teaspoon cool jazz guy essence ½ teaspoon of a stolen potion from a witch (the farther away the better) 1 drop of poison (optional) 1 medium-sized torn page of a Goosebumps book (shredded) 1 cup of liquified moonlight (blood or regular is fine) SPECIAL EQUIPMENT 1 large cauldron 1 Ouija board 1 Blockbuster Video VHS tape 1 sanitized monkey’s paw in case of EMERGENCY (and mixing) INSTRUCTIONS STEP 1: Preheat your chimney to fire level 4.

STEP 2: Lay down Ouija board on table (summoning is optional) and place a large cauldron on top.

STEP 3: Sift in the powdered ghosts (be mindful of the screams), crystalized widow’s tears, salted wound, and resurrection dust.

STEP 4: Take the frightful singing in C-minor and throw that in the air and EMBRACE it. While doing so, mix the ingredients with the unused monkey’s paw.

STEP 5: Use the ectoplasm to make a drawing on top of the ingredients. It can be any drawing you want, this is to harden up any edges on the scones for ensured hauntedness. Make it a quality drawing so the ingredients look and feel nice.

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STEP 6: Gently place in the cubed COLD HARD TRUTH and mix it into the mixture until they are smaller than the size of M&Ms. STEP 7: Roll in your choice of fresh or frozen angry spherical spirits and make sure they’re covered in the mixture because they tend to shake with rage.

STEP 8: Add in your cool jazz guy essence, potion, poison (if desired), shredded Goosebumps page, and the cup of liquified moonlight.

STEP 9: Fold everything in and DON’T overwork your concoction; it can decide to no longer work for you and quit.

STEP 10: Once it’s just combined, put it on a dusted work surface of your powdered ghosts from earlier. Punch the concoction until it looks like it contains a good amount of hauntedness. If it looks a little too weak, use your monkey’s paw and ask for a second chance, but ONLY if the paw looks VITAL. STEP 11: Shape the concoction into a rectangle and slice it in half vertically, then horizontally, and then into scalene triangles or any shape your cursed soul tells you.

Separate your haunted creatures apart and gently place them onto your regular pirate’s treasure map–lined baking sheet.

STEP 12: Place the sheet in the chimney for 20–22 minutes. Use your eyes and see if they are golden and then use your nose to smell its creepy scent (this is alright unless you added the poison; be cautious of the fumes).

STEP 13: Place your precious haunted scones on a cooling rack and let them rest; they’ve had a hard time being created. To cool them off more if you’re impatient or need to poison someone quickly: fan them using the Blockbuster Video VHS tape. These tapes are so cursed that anything they come in contact with will get chilled to the bone.

STEP 14: Add anything you’d like on top for decoration to tempt the person you’re trying to poison, or just to impress and tempt yourself. Put them on any floral plate you want and remember to clean your work room or else any runaway crumbs from the scones will come and haunt you until you do. Otherwise, you can eat them once they are cooled.

OPTIONAL STEP 15: Take one (unpoisoned) scone from your yield and put it on any grave from a deceased loved one to hang out with them for an hour. They’ll appreciate it even more if you use their favorite combination of flavors. Enjoy a scone and an hour with your favorite soul.

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Sister, I’m Sorry NAOMI WILLIAMS

I was 15 when I realized that PTSD was for more than war zones I sat in a church Hoping that therapists earned spell books and magic potions with their college degrees Doctors gave my sister an elixir for when things were too much for her to handle and for when things weren’t too much for her to handle I guess it makes it hard to tell the difference I guess I’m sorry that we grew up in the same house but had different childhoods I guess I want her to know that I wish things were different And that I’m selfish for not believing her when she told me things were heavier than normal Holding a defensive stance over the Food Water and Shelter of her darkness Calling everything in its radius “OK” Stretching her lungs with every unbelieved plea A restless explanation that went unheard Some justification for her life of nails on a chalkboard A chance at denial There came a day when the dull booms of fictitious fear became a reality My mother and brother sharing the grief of it all with me like we did our DNA But when I told my sister about the sound of bullets that called themselves home in my head she believed me When I told her my tears burned holes in my cheeks from erosion she handed me the soil and seeds needed to grow from them Without you I’d still be hollow And yes, I believe in God Because I believe in you, And what is more holy than love?

VISUAL ARTS EXPERIENCE

Mickalene Thomas I Can’t See You Without Me

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VISUAL ARTS EXPERIENCE Mickalene Thomas

I Can’t See You Without Me Artist-in-Residence: April Sunami

“I’m so interested in this idea of being seen and seeing yourself, and how that relationship is developed. We all want to be validated and recognized in some way.”

—Mickalene Thomas

Organized by the Wexner Center, the exhibition Mickalene Thomas: I Can’t See You Without Me showcased the work of celebrated multidisciplinary artist Mickalene Thomas and her resonant dialogue with identity, desire, and the historically fraught relationship between artist and muse. The expansive body of work on view included many of the artist’s large-scale, rhinestone-encrusted paintings as well as collages, sculptures, immersive installations, and a new video supported by a Wexner Center Artist Residency Award. With their intricate detail, beautiful compositions, and frank authenticity, Thomas’s works explored the artist’s complex relationships with four female models or muses, including herself.

Pages students especially enjoyed the interactive installation in gallery D that offered a sitting-room style arrangement of carpet, furniture, and books selected by Thomas and her partner Racquel Chevremont to prompt discussion of feminism, African American history, and positive self-representation.

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Untitled KAYE’ANN MUETZEL

I realized, while walking through the Wexner Center and seeing Mickalene Thomas’s artwork, that identity is not about what others think, tell, or say that you are, but what you know about yourself (whether or not someone accepts you). This is my experience as a freshman girl in high school...

I am biracial.

I am female.

My hair is always a mess. It’s thick, curly, blonde, and always frizzy.

My skin tone is not what you might imagine of a biracial stereotype. I don’t have a caramel complexion, and my blonde hair is very light, In fact, I’m not even as dark as most “white” kids that surround me day to day at school.

Being physically different from a stereotype makes being a teenager a bit harder.

Most kids say the color of my skin defines my race, the ethnicity and history that’s in me, and to them, it therefore tells me which groups of people I fit in with.

They say how the messiness of my hair seems to be forced, and often ask if I have albinism.

Their comments used to put me down, but now I just roll my eyes and walk away.

Mickalene Thomas’s artwork brings history and the 21st century together in depicting women and racial empowerment.

She has shown people who are open-minded and understanding that being different is beautiful, and that race doesn’t define your personality but does play a big role in shaping you. And for those who don’t know, “I can’t see you without me.”

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The Pages Program Is Amazing!

APRIL DONOVAN

I loved looking at all of the paintings that Mickalene Thomas had created. Just looking at them made me want to touch them. They had a texture that most paintings don’t have, and they had gems placed around, bedazzling them. Then in each of the rooms with the paintings, there was a small place that represented where she took the pictures that she based her paintings on. My favorite part of the exhibition was the gallery about her mom. You could tell by just looking at the paintings that she loved her mom. There was a video of her mom and it was amazing to watch. I enjoyed looking at what she spent so much time on. It was definitely worth going to.

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Broken Mirrors SARAH PAINTER

When I look in a mirror I don’t see who I am Only a reflection of who I should be But What if?

I could just shatter that image And recreate myself In the shards

The Wild within Her SARAH PAINTER

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Is This Happy LAUREN FOWLER

You open the bottle Place your personality on your tongue A man-made product Small and easy to swallow Gulp as it slides down your throat And you swear you hear Locks sliding into place A different kind of cage One disguised as salvation Yet you’re trapped just the same They promised control But it was not given to you Rather a tiny object That now drives your life There was no consent Yet you signed the papers Foolishly hoping Your mind would stop shouting And you got what you wished for There isn’t a whisper left

“Mickalene Thomas’s works inspired and encouraged me…to be bold and informed. As a queer woman of color, she showed me how crucial representation is for minorities.”

—Autumn Brown

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The Monster under My Bed JERRY MCGHEE

I feel free at school, or used to Every day It used to continue Still does And I try to run but I can’t run from myself Not yet Not without people dIsapprovIng Losing Everything in me Losing me Forever But it’s worth it, right?

That’s what they told me The monsters Under my bed They told me it’s worth it To run To hide And to hurt Forever on, on and on They say it’s OK to hurt, to feel To burn To run from my problems They told me if I run, it’ll feel better But I know it won’t Not for those who care for me Not for my family Friends They say it’ll be OK To run If I had run, if I am to run I will lose, they win, but if I don’t, it fights And it’s tiring, to always fight So, why is running so bad?

High school That’s my problem. Let’s fix it Oh wait...

I can’t They will win, again What do I do then?

89 I can’t run, can’t hide, can’t lose I must win, I must fight but If I fight, I lose If I lose, I’ll be hated Unwanted, unloved Love Interesting word choice Those who know, who really know Love holds and breaks It’s fragile But can’t beat everything Not me, not the monsters I see the monsters in the hall At home I see the monsters in my room, my classes Everywhere I go, they follow I see them in the mirror They don’t leave They don’t stop They keep going until there is no more left Until I have to play With what isn’t meant to be played with Most fear death Others pray for it Where I stand Will tell time and my history Where I stand, I am the monster The monster must be gone. The poor child I follow Is being abused by himself Beaten and tormented I am my own monster My fear And only I Can fix it However I need However I choose I will fix it And end it But not yet I’m not tired yet But if I ask for help I can kill the monster The monster under my bed

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Self-Hate KIERSTEN JUDY

Dear Self, I know you think that you are not worth very much of anything You hate yourself a lot of the time And it seems like every day you cry You hate the way you look, the way you feel, the way you are Body image is a major threat to your self-esteem Mirrors are the enemy They show every part of yourself that you try to hide No need to swallow your pride There is no pride inside Every day at school standing in choir there is a full-length mirror on the wall and all you can do... is stare You compare yourself to everyone around you You feel so fat and ugly You hate what you see You hate the person that you have begun to be Since you were about thirteen you have had many insecurities that have grown in number throughout the years Sadly for you and many other people there are no cures Self-hate has to change within yourself Nobody can change how you see you You have many thoughts that need to change Self-hate has brought you to a terrible place And I really hope that sometime soon you will have a different mind space

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Dilapidation KIMBERLYNN WORRELL

my heart beats to the rhythm of nostalgia like a steady drum longing, wishing, hoping for what could have been their foolish words will linger in my lonely mind for years to come I sit and wonder why after so long my everlasting hiraeth trembles like a sobbing baby time and time again shooting stars and peter pan glide past my window off to a neverland that I constantly dream of but where I will never be welcome as somber as the last remaining fish in the sea as lost as a lonesome star dimming in the sky searching for a home I let your words mold my delicate heart and what once was gold begins to rust

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You See, I See BRIANNA TOWERY

Walking down a rocky road, my eyes catch a dark figure standing between a fork in the pathway. Body freezing, my legs refuse to move and you look back at my petrified form. Blood rushed from my face, my body wanting to collapse to the ground then and there.

“Is something wrong?”

I can’t think, I can’t move, words cannot leave my mouth no matter how much I try to form them. The figure is still looking, almost as if it were a predator scoping out its prey.

“Is something there?”

My breathing gets heavier, the realization hitting me like a ton of bricks as I stand there staring at this menacing figure that is hindering my ability to speak. You can’t see it. Your eyes don’t share the perspective mine have. To you, the only thing your eyes can see is a patch of dying grass that lies between two paths. There is nothing there that petrifies and mortifies you like it does me.

“I...I…” The words stumble out of my mouth.

It is useless. You would never be able to understand my world, the world that I was brought into the day I came out of the womb.

You should never be brought into that world. I’m not the one who could be put into danger without knowing it, not knowing what was happening.

That is one advantage of seeing what others cannot. At least I know I’m in danger.

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“This exhibit was the most impactful for me, especially when…trying to discover oneself.

It held a lot of importance to me as I am trying to understand my sexuality, and what that is supposed to look like versus what everyone portrays it as.”

—Brianna Towery

Confrontation JORDYN MILLER

Confrontation is the scariest thing a person can go through. There are different types of confrontation. There are the confrontations among friends, who end up saying sorry before they can even finish the conversation. The confrontation between a parent and a child. There are confrontations filled with love and forgiveness.

But there are confrontations where there is not love and forgiveness, but only hatred and lies. A person who leaves regret and sadness on their partner’s body when she asks, “Why?” A person who belittles their significant other and undermines their intelligence because they wanted to know if they can fix themselves. You wonder if people like to argue and to yell at others. You wonder if the parent who neglects their child does not sit there alone at night.

We as people know that confrontation is scary but a huge part of our lives. Some people do it without a second thought. They speak with such sorrow in their voices. The sorrow powers them.

The hollow shell of sorrow powers all hate. We wish people would change for the better. You wish for the confrontation to stop. But then you remember, you have confrontation with yourself about how your tummy sticks out, and how your smile is not perfect; how you see yourself is your own confrontation.

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Where do you glow from here?

JADA RESPRESS

I’ve always wanted to lie on a roof and gaze at the stars. I close my eyes and dream that I’m there floating. I’m just a big ball of hot gas lighting up what’s around me. Then again, who has the time to just sit when there’s so much to be doing. The stars are lucky that their main purpose in life is to just float and shine. If only humans mentally were the same way. To make our sole purpose for living to just float and shine, not have any cares, worries, deadlines, or bills.

One day I will float as the stars do, with no cares. Make art and just live. My life will have purpose and meaning. While I want no cares, I also want to make a difference and shine in that way as a star.

When songwriters talk about shining, they refer to lighting up the world. I just want to light up this world with hope, peace, love, and harmony. So maybe I don’t have to dream to be a star, I am one.

Not a superstar who is in front of lights, people, etc. Someone who floats to gain peace for specific times in life. I also shine, my voice is unique and distinct. I want to make something of myself. Show compassion on the heart. Love all who I encounter. If I can make those things my priority, then the light in me will glow brighter and more vibrant than the day before.

“I loved all of the different textures used on the canvas. It seemed so real and beautiful. All I could think of was that this was ‘real life,’ nothing superficial or fake per se, but raw and naked art that portrayed real people.”

—Hailee Davis

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will you build a throne of lies expecting people to bow before you?

AUTUMN B.

wake up to the blaring alarm brush your teeth and pick an outfit to impress your peers and coworkers grab a mask to complete the ensemble because at this point faking is simply a part of the morning routine they ask you the same questions to which you reply with the required answer in order to keep your reputation of having your life in order this isn’t a game of yahtzee but let’s roll the dice to see what side of ourselves we show and don’t forget that whatever the dice produce determine the outcomes of the game that is your life i like to think i’m made of stardust that the universe is a part of me dust to dust ashes to ashes doesn’t that mean i am mother nature in a strange way? we are all plants some are tall and strong like old oak trees that weathered the storm and others are colorful and blooming resembling the roses that burst when spring comes

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so why would you think that you, a purple iris which needs tons of water to survive, could live like a cactus? you can only survive as someone else for so long before your soul will need to return to its roots we all dream of flying as high as an eagle but if you were such a strong bird would you show off your wings? or would you walk around on your feet trying to be a chicken? release your legs from the chains that have limited your beautiful soul! do not waste your existence in a birdcage when you hold the key to freedom in your palm fear not, my young traveler of showing your true colors in a world of muddled gray this world is in need of a rainbow! this is a warning for if you decide to build your house of cards, it will not be long before it tumbles

on down

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Ferocious SHAY HOOVER

She’s a black woman So love her, But not because she’s a black woman Love her, because she’s an intellect Love her, Not because she’s a black woman Love her, because she’s rich In love, skin, and strength Love her, Not because she’s a black woman Love her because she’s a queen and she should be treated as such Love her, Because she’ll fight for you even if you don’t fight for her Love her, Because even through all the struggle, mishaps, and judgment She’ll be by your side Love her, Because she’s beautiful With the finest silk skin of cocoa, bronze, and deep smooth chocolate, it’s too much for your wildest dreams Love her, Not because she’s a black woman, Love her because she is a lion at heart She’s ferocious No one can tame her mane nor can they break her pride And she’ll die before anyone can diminish the fact that she is a black woman, and she has the power to control the world Or so they say, She has the power to make not the world, but humanity as one, great

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The Puppeteer RILEY TAPPER

Black button eyes, Sewn heartless smile.

Makes his puppets dance.

The puppets he never cared about.

The ones he left forgotten, Alone and distraught.

No one listens to the used, Crumpled puppet.

Who warns you about his tricks.

Because he knows how to spin lies, Like a spider with a web.

Lies that create a reality, All too real.

Because, little one, He is the puppeteer.

He knows which string to pull, The invisible strings attached to your heart.

To make you fall in love, Then makes you fall apart.

He knows what he’s doing, But we’ve realized all too late.

Should’ve listened to the puppet.

You have just been played.

You deny what’s happening.

This can’t possibly be real!

Oh, darling, You’ve just been played.

By the famous puppeteer.

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I Am Not the Fool EXCERPT FROM SHORT FILM WRITTEN BY DIONTE RODDY, JANAI MCLAUGHLIN, AND DESTINY FULLER

Scene 4 (starts in the house) Deral: Ay woman, bring me some water right now—I’m thirsty!

Ashley: Yes, sweetie.

Whispers I got yo water…

Smirks then crushes up pill and puts it in water (camera over the shoulder shot) Deral: Now move around, I’m tryna watch 7 Deadly Sins.

Ashley: Can I ask you something?

Deral: What, babe?

Ashley: Why’d you lie to me?

Deral: I never…

Starts choking Ashley: Goodnight, sweetheart.

Kisses Deral on forehead Turns all the lights off

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Remnant Hunter with a Rifle on His Back MEARIC CAMPBELL

Inspired by the Fallout series

Gather round children, ol’ man has a story. C’mon, Stefan, gather round, gather round! I see you hiding out there, Hans. Today’s story is about a man from just after the bombs.

There once was a man who rode into Bravo settlement one fine day. He minded his own business without much to say. No one dared to ask him his business for he had a rifle strapped to his back. It was just after sunrise when he rode into that settlement, looking around from the south side. “He’s a raider, loose and running,” came from a slip between their lips. “And he’s here to do some business with a rifle on his back.”

In Bravo settlement lived a raider by the name of Bob Semple. Many people tried to end him, and that many men died. He was a ruthless killer, though only being twenty-four. The gravestones in his honor number one and nineteen more.

Now, our stranger started talking to the townsfolk all around, a remnant bounty hunter wouldn’t be too long in town. He was here to take a raider back, dead or alive. It didn’t really matter if he was after Bob Semple.

It wasn’t long till the message was relayed to Bob Semple, who didn’t worry as the men who tried before were dead. Twenty men tried to take him, twenty made a slip, twenty-one the hunter with a rifle on his back.

That morning had passed so quickly and it was finally time for them to meet. It was twenty past eleven when they strode out onto the street. Townsmen watched from the windows and everyone held their breath as the handsome remnant hunter was about to meet his death. There was twenty feet between them as they met face to face, and the speedy trigger of the hunter is still talked about today. Bob Semple had not fired when a bullet quickly went, with deadly aim the remnant hunter fired from the rifle on his back.

It was over mighty quickly and the town all gathered round, as the body of the raider laid on the dark, damp ground. He might have kept on going if he didn’t make a slip by challenging the hunter with the rifle on his back.

Okay, children, join me next time for storytime. Now run along, I’m sure grandma has some work for you boys to do. Remember, Stefan, watch your step, don’t want to step in the radrat holes.

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An Excerpt from Whispers, Screams, and Silence JT CHANDLER

Whispers. That’s all I heard as I walked into school on this groggy, slow-moving morning. The students were all in their small friend groups, just whispering. As I walked up to my friend, Jax, he looked up at me and seemed to be stifling a laugh. “Have you heard?” he spat out as he started laughing. “Heard what?” I asked, ever so clueless as usual. “Some sophomore just transferred here, and word around the school is that he has HIV!” He nearly screamed in laughter as he used the wall to steady himself. I chuckled slightly, not finding much humor in the statement. But his laugh always made me smile, being that he often wheezed with every jagged breath. “Why aren’t you laughing?” he asked after composing himself. “I just fail to see how it’s so funny that he has a deadly disease,” I said in a serious tone. The bell rang before Jax could say anything else.

He looked rather confused, as if he was pondering the actual thought of what it meant for the new student to have the disease. I hurriedly walked to my class which was on the other side of the building. “Damn,” I whispered to myself, thinking that if I hadn’t listened to Jax’s ridiculous mocking of the student I wouldn’t be late.

I walked into my classroom, sat down, and sighed a long, heavy sigh. “Mr. Stone, how nice of you to finally join us. Take a seat, please,” my professor said as I walked into the room. I took my seat in the back of the dark classroom and laid my head down to take a nap. As I did so I felt the table move ever so slightly and heard the chair next to me move out. I knew that somebody sat down but didn’t bother to check who it was. “Excuse me, young man, who might you be?” my professor seemed to ask in my direction. I slowly lifted my head and began to say something, but the voice of the person who sat down next to me said in a soft, dark voice, “My name is Abraham, but everybody calls me Ace.” I looked up to see a kid who was probably about two years younger than me but somehow much older looking. He seemed to be quite shy, but the large scar across his eyebrow indicated that he had been in more than one fight. Rebel figure, I guess.

Must be the new kid that Jax was talking about.

As soon as the kid caught me looking at him, he looked over and nodded to me. “Hey, my name is Ace. What’s yours?” He asked me quietly so as to not get caught by the teacher.

“I’m Ash. Funny how alike our names are.” I chuckled quietly as the professor went about yelling at another student. Something along the lines of them never doing the homework.

“Wow, he seems to be a real jerk,” Ace whispered to me about two minutes after the professor got finished yelling at the student. “Nah, he’s a big sweetheart,” I said as I sarcastically blew our professor a kiss, which was almost immediately met with a glare and a sharp roll of the eyes. Ace laughed and smiled then went back to his work as I fell asleep.

“He seems cool enough,” I thought to myself as I drifted off. “I hope his year goes well.”

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Love SAUREN HATCHETT-GRAHAM

Love, you hurt me.

You broke me down until I could not rebuild myself back up.

Love, you’ve been cruel to me.

Love has done unmentionable things to me that I would never do to love.

Although love has hurt me, I continue to want love.

I continue to crave and care for love.

Why should I feel this way?

Why do I want love?

Why must my heart tell me yes, while my brain tells me no?

My brain tells me to protect the heart: “He’s bad for you. He breaks you down and then thinks a cheap apology will fix everything.”

But the damage has already been done.

I do not understand love.

Love makes me feel insane.

Love, you make me feel as if I’m ill, and I can’t bear the pain of getting rid of you, nor keeping you.

Love, I hate the way you lie, but love the way you are.

Spare my feelings, love, and stop loving me.

I cannot escape you, love.

I feel your presence every day.

Love, I cannot deny you, and love, I cannot forget you.

Love, you make me feel whole.

Love, you make me feel happy.

Love, I love you.

Yet you stole a part of me and I don’t think I’ll ever get it back.

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A Missed Opportunity GRACE MOORMAN

Dmitrii took a deep, shuddering breath. The large mercenary at the front gate had hit his chest pretty hard, and now it hurt to breathe. He knew that some, if not all of his ribs were bruised, but he had to keep going. He had a job to do. His fist tightened around the hilt of his sword as he silently edged down the corridor, finally reaching the throne room. He peered through a crack between the large double doors. The royal family was tied up by a large fireplace at the back of the room. The King and Queen appeared to be unconscious, with their heads slumped on top of each other. The young Prince was facing the fireplace, so Dmitrii couldn’t see his face, but the sound of his crying echoed throughout the room.

Dmitrii breathed a sigh of relief. They were alive. But where was the Princess? Where were their captors? He could only see two men guarding the royal family. He took a steadying breath and pushed open the door, running straight at the guard on the left. The startled guard didn’t even have time to move before Dmitrii disarmed him and hit him over the head. The second guard was dealt with just as easily. Dmitrii dodged a sloppily aimed slash of the guard’s sword and hit him in the face with his elbow. The guard fell back, blood spurting from his broken nose. Dmitrii hit the guard over the head with the hilt of his sword, knocking the guard unconscious. Dmitrii sheathed his sword and began untying the royal family.

The Queen began to stir. “Who...who are you?” she breathed.

Dmitrii hesitated. “My name is Ian,” he said at last. “I’m here to help you escape. Where is your daughter?”

“Th-they took her,” the Queen said, straining to remember. “They first tortured my husband, then me, and then they took her.”

“Do you know where they took her?” Dmitrii asked patiently. The Queen shook her head.

Inwardly, Dmitrii groaned. This was going to take longer than he’d thought. Sunset was fast approaching, and then the royal family would be executed. Outwardly, he smiled at the Queen.

“Do not worry, your Majesty,” he said. “I will find her. While I am searching, the castle guards are camped just outside the gates. There shouldn’t be anyone in your way. Can you get your husband and son out of the castle?”

Slowly, the Queen nodded. Dmitrii helped her wake up the King and calm down the Prince. As they walked out of the throne room, the Queen took Dmitrii’s hand.

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“Please, Ian,” she said, “bring my daughter back safely.”

Dmitrii nodded. “I will. I promise you.”

The Queen nodded. “Thank you,” she said, then turned to follow her husband and son.

Now alone in the throne room, Dmitrii doused the fire, then knelt down in the center of the room. He closed his eyes and turned his head from side to side. He just needed a small sound to lead him in the right direction.

Slowly, he began to walk around the perimeter of the room, listening for something, anything, that would give him a clue as to where the princess was.

There! Dmitrii’s eyes flew open. That shout sounded like the Princess!

The sound had come from the direction of a large floor-to-ceiling tapestry.

He lifted up the tapestry and wasn’t surprised to find a door behind it. He opened the door to reveal a flight of stairs. He listened intently. The faint sound of shouting was coming from the top of the stairs. He ran up the stairs, taking them two or three at a time. He was going so fast and paying so little attention to where he was going that he almost ran into another door at the top of the stairs. The door was slightly ajar, and Dmitrii peered inside the crack. Inside the room was Princess Iona, tied to a chair, facing the room’s only window. Dmitrii could only see her right side. Her eye was black and blood dripped down from her nose. Dmitrii allowed himself a moment to admire her. She was just as beautiful now as at their last meeting. Iona was staring out the window, completely ignoring her interrogator—a man with a horrible scar down his face—who was pacing back and forth in front of the door Dmitrii was behind.

“Do you take me for a fool?” the man was saying. “Where is it?” Iona said nothing and continued to stare straight ahead of her. The scarred man grabbed her by her shoulders and violently turned her to face him. “Answer me!” he spat in her face. Iona remained stubbornly silent.

Smack!

Dmitrii winced in sympathy as a red welt began to swell on Iona’s cheek.

Iona slumped forward, and the man went back to pacing, this time in front of the window. Iona brought her head up and shook her hair out of her face.

Suddenly she stopped. She had noticed Dmitrii, whom she knew as Ian, peering through the open door. She began to break into a smile, but quickly stopped herself and regained her blank expression just as the man stepped in front of her again.

“I’m beginning to lose my patience,” he said. “And I’m running out of people to ask. So, since you so stubbornly refuse to answer my questions, I guess

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we’ll just have to see whether or not we can get your little brother to tell me what I want.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Iona said. “Do you honestly believe a child as young as he is would be trusted with such an important secret?”

“No, I don’t,” the scarred man said, going back to pacing in front of the window. “But I do know that if you don’t start answering my questions, then I’ll be forced to ask your brother. And when he doesn’t tell me what I want to know, I will kill him.”

Iona’s eyes widened in fear. She looked at Dmitrii, her terrified eyes asking him for reassurance of her family’s safety. Dmitrii nodded slightly, and she relaxed. “I have nothing to say to you,” she announced. “I will not, and will never, give you what you want.”

“Your brother will die,” the scarred man reminded her.

Iona hesitated slightly. She glanced at Dmitrii. “Very well then,” she said.

“You do understand?” the scarred man said slowly. “I…will... kill...him.”

“Yes…I...understand,” Iona said, mimicking his slow speech. “You’d better go and fetch him if you’re planning to interrogate him before the execution at sunset.”

The scarred man headed out of the room, angrily muttering to himself.

Dmitrii quickly squeezed himself into the space between the door and the wall. As the man disappeared down the stairs, Dmitrii rushed into the room and cut Iona free from her bonds. “It took you long enough!” she hissed, rubbing her sore wrists.

“My apologies, your highness,” Dmitrii said, bowing low and wincing at the pain in his ribs. “I had some trouble with the guards at the front gate.”

Iona gripped his arm. “My family,” she said. “Are they safe?”

Dmitrii nodded. “Shaken up a bit, but alive.” Iona breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now, we must get you out of here.”

He went over to the window and looked out. It was a long way down. He pulled out his grappling hook and aimed it at a window across from the tower they were in. He tugged on it a couple of times to make sure it was secure.

From the throne room, the scarred man’s enraged yell could be heard. Dmitrii wrapped his arm around Iona’s waist. “Pardon me, Princess, but desperate times and all.” Iona wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and he jumped out the window. They hurtled toward the tower wall. As soon as the ground was within a safe distance, Dmitrii let go of the rope, and they fell to the ground.

Iona was up in an instant, but Dmitrii lay on the ground, groaning in pain.

“Are you alright?” Iona asked. Dmitrii shook his head, unable to say anything other than “Ow!” Iona glanced uncertainly at the window they had

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jumped from, then at the gates, where she could see the large encampment of guards. “They’re over there, right?” she asked. Dmitrii nodded. “Alright, then.”

She lifted him off of the ground and supported him as they made their way to the throng of guards. As soon as they passed through the gates, several guards ran up to them and took Dmitrii off of Iona’s shoulders. “Make sure he gets proper medical attention,” she called after them. That was all the Dmitrii remembered before he passed out.

When he awoke, he was lying in a room in the castle. He sat up and was relieved to find he didn’t feel any pain. The door to the room opened, and Princess Iona walked in. “Oh!’ she said upon seeing him standing up. “I was hoping you would wake up soon, Ian.” She took his hand. “Come on, Father will be happy to meet you!” Dmitrii let her lead him through the maze of halls into the throne room, where the King and Queen were deep in conversation with the palace guards. “Father,” Iona said, interrupting them. “This is Ian. He’s the man who saved our lives a week ago.”

“A week ago?” Dmitrii echoed. “I slept for that long?”

“Yes,” the King said. “And you deserved it, young man. I owe you a great debt. What would you like as a reward?” Surprised, Dmitrii glanced at Iona, who rolled her eyes. The King took this to mean that Dmitrii, or “Ian,” wanted Iona’s hand in marriage. “Ahem! Well, I’m sure we can find something else that will suit you, without my having to give away my only daughter.” Dmitrii turned pink.

“Father!” Iona scolded. “Ian looked to me because I was the one who enlisted him to help us. I suspected that we would be kidnapped soon, and so I acted accordingly. I hired Ian and promised him five pounds of solid gold bars for his troubles. That is why you turned to me, right?” she added, turning to Dmitrii.

He desperately wanted to tell her no, to say that he did want to marry her, that she was the most wonderful person he had ever met in his entire life and he would give up ten thousand pounds of gold just to stay by her side forever.

But he was a nobody from nowhere, and she was a princess. So instead, he simply bowed and said, “Yes, Your Highness.” For a moment, he imagined a flicker of disappointment on Iona’s face, but she turned to her father with a smile.

“See?” she said. “Now let’s pay him and send him on his way.”

“Very well, then,” the King said with obvious relief.

Dmitrii soon left with the promised gold. But despite the added weight in his bag, he felt empty. “Goodbye, Iona,” he said, taking one last look at the castle. He then turned and walked off into the woods. Iona watched him go from her window. A few tears fell onto the windowsill as he disappeared from view.

Why couldn’t he have said no, she thought.

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Untitled DEAJANAY BROWN

Art makes me feel free. It allows me to express my emotions in movement or painting.

It allows me to tell my story, my past, and the struggles I have endured. It allows me to let go and move forward by putting my feelings in one piece of art or several. It allows others to step into my journey and experience what I’ve gone through on a whole other level.

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Beyond the Surface IREYANA SEYMOUR-WILLIAMS

When you look at a person what do you see?

The thick, crimson red stain smudged on a toddler’s happy face?

What about a former childhood playground, one last time, through the rearview window of an old moving van?

Do you smell the fresh cinnamon rolls from the small shop across the street?

The grass being cut every morning, right before breakfast?

Can you hear the sirens and red lights blaring, while being rushed to the hospital for the seventh time this month?

Or the sound of breaking glass and screaming, heart pumping, blood boiling...

Until one day, there’s nothing but unwelcome silence.

How about the taste of cherry-flavored bubble gum, bought with hard-earned babysitting money?

No? Exactly.

You can’t feel the pain of a family breaking apart at the seams.

Or the blood from another person’s hard-fought scars.

You only know what you see, what’s on the surface.

There’s so much more than that.

VISUAL ARTWORK

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VISUAL ARTWORK

“[Pages] made me fall in love with visual art and everything it represents.”

—Nevaeh Johnson

As the creative process is a focal point for the Pages program, we engage with numerous forms of art throughout the program year. Frequently, the work of students in Pages happens somewhere between their own English Language Arts classrooms and various spaces beyond those classrooms. Accordingly, the visual art in this section borrows from the sentiment (and sometimes the materials) of the art room or studio, while leveraging the abilities of the students, the willing support of the teachers, and the practices of our artists-in-residence.

What’s on display here does not always follow the traditions and techniques of students training in the fine arts. In every case, however, these pieces demonstrate—and take full advantage of—the Pages process of engaged, interdisciplinary thinking and making.

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Part of me

DEVON CLARK

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Untitled

MAKAYLA SIDERS

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Good Day

SAMANTHA COX

Untitled

SYDNEY MCGLOTHLIN

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Rick

VANESSA LANG

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Enough about Me BRIANNA TOWERY

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Look At Me Now VANESSA LANG

Untitled

AB ATTIA

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My Eyes Are Up Here VANESSA LANG

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This is what talent looks like...

AMBER BIEHL

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Untitled

ARTRELL SAUNDERS

Janet

SAMANTHA COX

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Complex

AUTUMN B.

Tyler Joseph

LINDSEY KIMBALL

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Untitled

LONES MILLER

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Untitled

JACOB ALLEN

her gaze

OLI WILLIAMS

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You Lied

OLIVIA NEER

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Nature

HAILEE DAVIS

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Felix

VANESSA LANG

Inhale, Exhale ALLISON DIBLE

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The spider & the ant SIMONE BENEKER

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The spider & the ant SIMONE BENEKER

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Danny Phantom JAMIE GLUCKLE

Untitled

VICTORIA WILSON

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Untitled

MADISON HALL

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Untitled

ADAM NORTON

Ace

SAMANTHA COX

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The Mind And Its Hidden Dangers BELLA MALOCHE AND VANESSA LANG

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Untitled

SOFI BELLO AND BRIANNA TOWERY

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Puppies Aren’t for Profit

SAMANTHA COX AND ALLISON DIBLE

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© The Ohio State University Wexner Center for the Arts Individual projects © the authors Pages 2018–19 visual, media, and performing arts experience photos; artist-inresidence and teacher photos; and 2017–18 open mic photos: Katie Spengler Gentry.

Classroom photos (pp. 8, 118, 120): Dionne Custer Edwards.

PROJECT STAFF

Dionne Custer Edwards, Educator and Manager, School Partnerships Brandon Ballog, Acting Director, Creative Services Joshua Leavitt, Graduate Associate, Marketing/Communications Kendall Markley, Graphic Designer, Creative Services Ryan Shafer, Publications Editor, Marketing/Communications Hannah Stephenson, Editor Miriam Nordine and Ebony Bailey, Education Interns Lyndsay Sweet, Graphic Design Intern, Creative Services EDUCATION DEPARTMENT STAFF

Shelly Casto, Director of Education Dionne Custer Edwards, Educator and Manager of School Partnerships Jo Anne Jenkins, Educational Purchasing Assistant Maria Joranko, Education Programs Coordinator Tracie McCambridge, Manager of Gallery Teaching and Engagement Alana Ryder, Manager, University and Public Programs Anne Peterson, Graduate Associate