Rubicon2016 by Wilbraham & Monson Academy

2016 VOL. II

Wilbraham & monson academy

423 Main Street Wilbraham, MA 01095

Wilbraham & Monson Academy

(413) 596-6811 rubicon@wma.us

Rubicon 2016 EDITORIAL TEAM

SPECIAL THANKS

InDesign Princess Yingwen (Phoebe) Jiang ’16 Artwork Consultant Noah Kantor ’19 Layout Guru Insun (Sunny) Kim ’18 Proofreading Supervisor Junhao (Mark) Xu ’16 Miss Photoshop Muyi (Jennifer) Zhao ’16 Faculty Adviser Heidi Ostendarp

Josh Bain Paul Bloomfield Barbara Conlon Wendy Decker Brian Easler Tim Harrington ’73 Meg Hutcheson Marvina Lowry-Brook Royale McCormack Liz Mitchell-Kelly Marxan Pescetta Deanna Roux Teddy Ryan Bill Wells Sue Wood

COLOPHON The text was composed in 11 point Minion Pro. Photoshop and InDesign were employed in its design. Minuteman Press in Enfield, Connecticut printed 450 copies on 70# uncoated paper stock using a Canon digital press. “Rubicon” is a member of Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

EDITORIAL POLICY In 2016, a panel of faculty judges culled through writing submissions and awarded honorable mentions and first prizes in three categories: poems, academic essays and memoirs. First place entries and honorable mentions appear in this publication. The “Rubicon” staff, which met during the winter season, selected from excellent student artwork, pairing images visually and thematically with pieces of writing. We hope you will enjoy the 2016 issue of “Rubicon”!

COVER Front & Back Cover: Noah Kantor ’19 Front Inside Cover: Yibo (Canna) Zhang ’18 Back Inside Cover: Chenyu (Carney) Wang ’17 1

CONTENTS Memoirs V Gostyah Horosho, a Doma Lutshe

Poems 5

2436

Valentina (Val) MacEachern ’19 The Knot That Binds

Emily Dromgold ’17

The Weight We Carry

Jiaming (Martin) Mao ’17 Love Is Not Gone

Afternoon At the Royal Palace

What Is War?

Reflection

Olivia McCauley ’16

Crayons

Junhao (Mark) Xu ’16

Emily Dromgold ’17

Isaias (Ikas) de Brito Trindade ’17 The Revelation of the Congo

Celina Rivernider ’19

Academic Essays

The Eternal Fate of Tyranny

Colin O’Brien ’16

Emily Dromgold ’17

The Darkness of Imperialism

Colin O’Brien ’16

Celina Rivernider ’19 I Won’t Forget

Anike Tella-Martins ’16

Visual Arts Mixed Media

Charcoal

Hanh Ly ’16

Muyi (Jennifer) Zhao ’16 Photograph

Pencil

Photograph

9 11

Acrylic

SungMin (Steve) Chu ’16 Mixed Media

Photograph

Mixed Media

Photograph

Noah Kantor ’19 17

Photograph

SungMin (Steve) Chu ’16 Photograph

Thy (Kathy) Ton ’16

Rasif Masrur ’17 Charcoal & Pencil

Noah Kantor ’19

Xinyu (Tony) Zhang ’16 Photograph

Noah Kantor ’19

Drew Morrison ’16 Mixed Media

Adam Kugelmass ’19

SungMin (Steve) Chu ’16 Mixed Media

Lee Mina ’17

Wilasinee (Bee) Daloonpet ’16 Mixed Media

Emily Dromgold ’17

Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Oil Painting

Jiaming (Martin) Mao ’17

Adam Kugelmass ’19 Watercolor

Noah Kantor ’19 18

Photograph

Lars Strudwick ’18

Noah Kantor ’19

V Gostyah Horosho, a Doma Lutshe (Visiting is good, but home is better.)

Muyi (Jennifer) Zhao â&#x20AC;&#x2122;16 Mixed Media

ll parents remember the first time they held their children, but very few children can recall the first time they were held by their parents. It was early December in 2003. I was five years old. Those days were the most important of my life. Wandering around the halls of the dimly lit orphanage, I was halted by the sound of voices coming out of a slightly opened door. As I peeked in through the crack, I saw a woman with short black hair dressed in formal attire. Her clothing was peculiar compared to that of my caretakers. She looked fancy and I could tell she was someone important. In the room, a family stood next to her. They were discussing something and I strained to hear. After a while, my foot started falling asleep. As I shifted from one foot to the other she heard my movement. Her eyes flashed to where my peeking eyes were hidden and she discovered me. I had been eavesdropping on their whole conversation and now I feared the sophisticated lady was going to yell at me. To my surprise, she was not mad and instead she introduced herself as Marina. She told me that she worked for an adoption agency that was helping all of the boys and girls just like me to find a place to call home. After I had introduced myself she cut me off to say that a family in America wanted to adopt me. I could not believe it. I would have a new mother named Sharon, a father named Scott, and an older sister named Kelsey. I was ecstatic with the thought of having a family once again but also at the same time I was terrified with the uncertainty of my new life in America. I first met my parents in a tiny room where toys were scattered everywhere, cramped with so much clutter. I was scared and nervous. I could not stop thinking about these people. Would I like them? What would they look like? A woman then

entered the room and what I remember most about her was the welcoming smile on her face. My nerves were calmed once I saw it. Following her was a man who had a grin on his face from ear to ear. He embraced me with his warm strong arms. Immediately I felt safe. He opened his mouth to speak, but words did not come out. What I heard was weird, like nothing I had ever heard before. Whatever it was I could not understand. I opened my mouth to speak, but I could tell they didn’t understand what I was saying. Maybe if I spoke up they would hear me? Whatever I did to try to be clearer these people just did not understand. There were so many things I wanted to express to them. One thought overwhelmed my mind. Why couldn’t they understand me? Observing my incertitude, my parents reached out to Marina to help. She translated everything into Russian for me, “Pivet kak dela” (“Hi, how are you?”). That was what my parents were trying to tell me this whole time. A simple greeting that needed to be translated. Was I really supposed to depend on a translator to recite all of my desires? This future of mine now seemed less certain. Questions streamed from my mind. Where was I going? How would I fit in? Would I be happy? I could not ask my parents any of this. There was so much change in such a small period of time. I did not understand anything going on in my life. Just within the past 24 hours I met people who claimed to be my new parents. How could they be my parents? I was not their blood, and they might not see me as their own. That night it was all I could think about. The next day my parents showed up again and said they were taking me outside of the orphanage. Was that even allowed?

I had been isolated in that grimy, yellowish-brown building for the past six months. Finally I was leaving. We entered a cab that was bound to take me to some place I had never been before. This was my second time in a car. The first time was when I was initially heading to the orphanage. We drove straight into Moscow. I had never seen a city in my five years of existence. The city was bouncing with loud sounds of engines roaring and people chatting. I could smell the fumes from the bumper-tobumper traffic. The city was so foreign to me. There were people everywhere. It reminded me of the zoo that I had once seen in a flyer at the orphanage. Like animals, they were all rummaging through the crowd to get to a destination. I wanted to know who they were and where they were going. Like a typical kid, I bombarded my parents with questions. What is this? What is that? The city was rich with what appeared to be gold on the buildings. All of the buildings had bulbs on top of them, which reminded me of onions I had earlier that day for lunch. When I looked around Moscow, one word came to mind, krasivaya (beautiful). I lived in Russia for five years and I never ventured out to see the mystical city that reminded me of a palace. Returning me to the orphanage with my newly found knowledge, my parents dropped me off at the front entrance. Before they left, I was given several bags of toys to keep me company. I had never owned any toys. I had to always share everything with the other orphans. I felt a sense of freedom with my own toys. I could finally call something mine. Watching my parents pull out of the driveway, I was overcome with emotions. I longed to be able to leave with my parents. As I entered the

Adam Kugelmass ’19 Photograph

orphanage, I was stopped by a caretaker. With one glance of my new items she confiscated them. She told me to share with the rest of the orphans, but those toys were mine. They were given to only me. I didn’t understand why I had to share. It was not a gift to any of the other kids. My parents gave me toys and I was not able to keep them. I finally had something to call mine and it was snatched from

me. Was that going to happen with my new parents too? Several weeks passed. On December 9, 2003, I was finally leaving the orphanage for good. My parents came to pick me up, but before I could go, the orphanage requested that I return the clothes I had on because they did not belong to me. I didn’t understand. Why did they need them back? They 7

had a whole room filled with clothes, and I could not keep any of them. Thankfully, my parents had clothing for me to wear, and it would be my own ... brand new jeans, a clean white shirt, a red winter jacket, and black hat and gloves to match. At that moment I felt as if I were rich. From the orphanage we took a taxi to the airport. This was the first time I had seen an airport. I couldn’t believe that I was leaving Russia with strangers, people who I could barely understand. They hardly knew me but had decided to add me to their family. I really had only two options, stay at the orphanage or leave. Life cannot be any worse with the MacEacherns than at the orphanage. I chose to leave. The airport was a city itself. Inside, there were stores everywhere that sold everything you could imagine. There were clothing stores, food stores and toy stores. People were rushing from left to right. It was packed with many people and was hard to get to our plane. We boarded the plane. Once at my seat I observed the people around me. The man who stood in front of my seat was swaying back and forth. In his hand, he held a cup of golden liquid. I wondered what he was drinking and if it was something I would like. When he quickly sat down, it caused his cup to tip behind him. The cup was empty and the drink was all on me. It smelt like a skunk sprayed me. I was swimming in the scent of it. There was no other clothing for me to change into. For the 10 hour and 30 minute plane ride I had to sit with the stench. How was I going to get past customs smelling like a skunk? They would think my parents did not wash me. Would I be taken away from them?

We finally arrived at the John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York. After sitting for 10 hours on the plane, I was stiff. It felt good to stand. I was one step closer to my new life. The scent of skunk had left my clothes. I was able to go through customs without being questioned. One more hurdle passed. Walking through the airport in New York was not much different than the one in Russia. I almost did not believe I was in America. Even the outside looked similar to Russia. They both had snow everywhere, the signs looked similar except for the language of the words on them. For a split second I thought we never left. Outside there was a limo waiting for us. I sat between both of my parents. Their hands held mine as we left the airport to my new life. When I looked out the back window, I noticed in the distance the lights of New York City. I turned to my new family and said a big giant “spasiba” (“thank you”).

Valentina (Val) MacEachern ’19

Daniel Qin-Dong â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17 Watercolor

2436 Ring no truth Tell no lie Numbers dictate Right or wrong Achieving dreams Untitled song Judge the living Tell the dead Scribbled not in black but red A future falls in Numbered days Counted failures Corrected ways Sprinting to a raging blaze My time is up Emily Dromgold â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17

fall right on your buckle.” The Windsor knot was complex. My first knot was too big. The length of the back exceeded that of the front. The tiny piece of tie made me look funny. I tried again. This time, the tie reached my thighs. I finally tore the tie off my neck and threw it on the chair. But my father picked it up. He had a beautiful triangular knot on the collar with the tip of the tie right on his buckle. “Don’t be frustrated. Try again.” He put the tie back around my neck, untied his perfect knot and broke down the steps. Slowly and gently he tied his own knot. I stared at his movements and my hands started moving through the same steps. With my two hands, I created a perfect Windsor knot, just as good as my father’s. He knelt and pulled my knot further up. While I could hardly breathe, the tight feeling on my neck made me comfortable. “Confucius said in Analects: ‘Be mindful of the li (etiquette). One must not be ashamed for wearing shabby clothes, but one shall for not wearing them properly.’ Make sure to have your tie at the right length and pull your knot all the way up.” He patted my shoulder and said, “Check yourself in the mirror, what a nice young man.” Looking into the mirror, I saw myself dressed impeccably. My father’s recognition made me even more excited. Yet, the beauty of these clothes made me feel I should remain calm. So I did not, or at least I thought I did not, show much excitement. I pretended to be indifferent about my great achievement because a man would never be surprised about being able to tie a simple knot. I followed everything my father did. I held the door for others;

efore I turned 12, I had never worn formal clothes. My knowledge of such things came from my father. Every weekend, he would iron his own white shirts. The popping sound of the water vapor always drew me close even when I was lying on the sofa upstairs. The first time I heard the sound, I ran downstairs to see what he was doing. He was ironing a white shirt slowly and gently. Wrinkles on the shirt disappeared magically with the iron passing over it. I stared at my father’s movements, from collar to cuff, until he finished and put the iron away. I stuck out my tiny finger and touched the shirt. It was warm and smooth and I imagined myself as a man who wore this shirt with a perfectly knotted tie. Over winter vacation when I was 11, I got my first chance to dress up properly. I traveled with my parents on a cruise. Formal dress code was required at dinner. The first night on the cruise, my father and I dressed up together. Standing in front of a mirror in the room, I examined myself in a white shirt and khaki trousers, feeling proud. My father taught me how to tie a Windsor knot: “First, pull your tie like this. Don’t make it too long or too short,” he demonstrated. “The tip of your tie should

SungMin (Steve) Chu ’16 Oil Painting

The Knot That Binds

I smiled and said, “Thank you” to the waiter who poured water for me; I sliced my steak into smaller pieces than I usually did. Every move exemplified perfect etiquette. A photographer took a picture of my mother and me. My hair was curled up because of sweat, but I raised my chin up and smiled proudly. Even when I finished dinner and returned to our cabin, I did not want to change. My passion for formal dressing did not last long. By the time I was a sophomore in a boarding school in the U.S., I could easily tie a Windsor knot, but I was no longer interested in becoming a gentleman. Dressing up everyday was a habit, rather than an opportunity to shine. By repeating the same process over and over, I was able to get dressed with my eyes closed. Even worse, everyone around me dressed the same way. And in winter, which is particularly long and cold in New England, it was a pain to get up early enough to dress and make it to class on time. Not only did I become tired of dressing up, but I also lost interest in learning. When I first arrived at the boarding school, studying at an American high school fascinated me. I would debate over a math problem for 20 minutes, even if the teacher would explain it the next day. Yet the passion ended soon after I made highest honor roll my first trimester. Before that, I had no clear understanding of my academic ability at an American high school, nor did my parents. When my parents realized a GPA of 4.0 was reachable for me, the bar was fixed even higher. And I set my own bar high as well. I started to care only about my grades, and I wasted no time on things that did not boost my grades. When someone asked me a math problem, my

typical reply was: “It won’t be on the test, so why do you ask?” One day, my father texted me to send him a selfie in dress code, “I want to see if you dress properly.” So the next morning, I dressed up as usual. I took a photo in front of the mirror. The person in the picture was well dressed. He had his Windsor knot a perfect triangle and the tie at the right length—the tip on the buckle. Hurrying down to the dining hall, I held the door for a girl behind me. I smiled and said, “Thank you” to the server who made me an omelet. I stepped to a table and sat down. Although time was tight, I cut the omelet in small pieces before I ate. Then a sudden realization struck me: I was doing everything I used to think that men did. It was not only the appearance that my father cared about; the li was what my father wanted me to understand. So again I pulled the knot up tightly. Jiaming (Martin) Mao ’17

Wilasinee (Bee) Daloonpet ’16 Mixed Media 12

The Weight We Carry There is something comforting In the familiar bitterness of Cheap coffee. And the cracked vinyl Of the booth Where we sit staring Quietly, Peacefully. Fingers grace fingers And the backs of necks, Lips to foreheads And the tops of hands.

SungMin (Steve) Chu ’16 Mixed Media

Morning light falls sacredly Through faded blinds, Just as the time I first saw her, The very lines That enveloped her, And followed them To their source.

Drew Morrison ’16 Mixed Media

My sweet, solemn asphodel, My silent companion rests, Sipping from the stained, Porcelain glass. Colin O’Brien ’16 Xinyu (Tony) Zhang ’16 Mixed Media 13

Afternoon at the Royal Palace Eyes squinting in the light Of the setting sun, Skin ripe with perspiration, I began to love the heat But not the Palace. It was too beautiful, Too holy.

Subjects destined to be ruled By pale-faced kings, And toil from the earth A handsome profit Until the day of the final lash. When the sun at last set Over the Great Empires, A vast shadow was forged, Of a terrible beauty, The chain too heavy to be cast, Yet soon forgotten.

Too far from the earth Where life flourished In the arid, dusty streets. Where bicycles, cars, And callused feet passed Ceaselessly over the order-less, Unlined pavement.

Until I, laying comfortably In my crystal palace, watched The ancient walls begin to shard.

But I, keeper of the Palace, And captive of birthright fate, Was the heir to a lofty throne.

Cold steel upon my chest, The immense weight of guilt.

My cradle once balanced Upon the backs of those Born to a darker complexion,

Siem Reap, 2015 Colin Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien â&#x20AC;&#x2122;16

Rasif Masrur â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17 Photograph

What Is War?

the kids are at war with themselves the kids are at war with themselves

because somewhere out there someone is learning that caring about people doesn’t always work and sometimes hurts especially when they care for one who cares for another

sometimes it’s hard to tell until they’re dead or trapped inside their own head look at the boy afraid to cry look at the girl who would rather die than spend another second pretending to be someone else

pick a side pick wisely or they’ll pick your hope out until you go insane try to stay in your right mind don’t be a burden but we’re all tragedies simply to be pitied or to make a pretty picture but never sick but never scared

taking medications trying to save nations or maybe just themselves maybe they’re just trying to forget the friends who left and the ones who never really loved them books line the shelves preaching about self care to get the sad teens out of the poor adults’ hair but the kids are still at war with themselves but the kids are still at war with themselves

war is bombs and fire that’s what they say what do you think? take your time and let them die

because somewhere out there there is a girl crying alone on the floor waiting for a cure to the war inside

because the kids are always at war with themselves the kids are always at war with themselves send out your battalion. Celina Rivernider ’19

because somewhere out there she is learning that her love is just a trophy and nothing more 16

SungMin (Steve) Chu â&#x20AC;&#x2122;16 Charcoal & Pencil

Reflection Reflection

Reflection Silky strides on a translucent glassy surface

Lars Strudwick ’18 Photograph

a copy shadow marred mirror Unclear on clear One world as a representation shown only, by light Ripples but stays Olivia McCauley ’16

Love Is Not Gone O n t h a t d a y, I d i s c o v e r e d t w o s i m p l e t r u t h s . T h e f i r s t w a s t h a t n o matter how kind I am, there are some people who do not care as much about me as I care about them. The second was that it was still w o r t h i t t o b e k i n d a n y w a y.

ast winter was bitterly cold. It was the kind of cold that hurt as soon as you stepped outside; the kind of cold that numbed your fingers and toes no matter what you wore. Despite the cold it was sunny, but the sun didn’t give off any warmth. It just reflected off the snow in harsh white. My house always smelled like the candles my mom lit around the holidays, and hints of wood smoke from my aunts and uncles’ houses across the street, and my grandparents’ next door. As usual, I was sick for a few days that winter, so I stayed home from school while my parents went to work. I don’t remember when my grandpa went to the hospital. I only remember my mom coming home from work very briefly and then leaving again to go to Mary Lane

Hospital. My dad would stay home with me, and we didn’t talk about why there was an empty place at our table. My mom would come home smelling like the chemical sweetness of hospital soap that made my stomach turn. Not attending school for most of that week was a blessing and a curse. I was able to totally isolate myself in my room and think, but once I was alone in my mind it took me a long time to get out. I had settled into a routine. Wake up, eat breakfast as I watched my mom leave for the hospital, then my dad for work for only a half day; my dad would come home, eat dinner, and then my mom would come home. When she came home, she would give me a hug, and she would be smiling. 20

Hanh Ly ’16 Charcoal

I could tell she didn’t feel like smiling. But I don’t think even she knew exactly how she felt. My grandpa was starting to forget things, and he couldn’t speak very well anymore. All of this happened within a few days. I knew he was sick before, but he always pulled through. It never worsened this badly, this fast. My mom was spending more time at the hospital, leaving earlier and coming home later. I closed myself off in my room and tried to distract myself with drawing. My hands would be covered in iridescent gray graphite, and there would be eraser shavings all over my bed, but I still couldn’t calm my mind. The thoughts that I had, I do not have words to describe. I simply had a crushing sensation in my chest, and dark thoughts

swirled around my head vaguely, too fast for me to identify. I didn’t tell any of my friends when they texted me after they got home from school. I didn’t want them to say something like, “I’m sorry,” or maybe I wanted to keep one small part of my world as if nothing had happened. Then, one night, I lost what little hope I had for my grandpa getting better. My dad answered a phone call, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying because we were across the house from each other. For a few minutes after he hung up, it was quiet and I waited. Then he called me downstairs. I knew what he was going to say before he said it; there were tears in his eyes. He told me there wasn’t anything the doctors could do for my grandpa 21

dad said something to me that I don’t remember; just like that, my grandpa had passed away. I expected my food to go tasteless, or the room to start spinning, or something dramatic to happen. But everything stayed the same, even though nothing really was. My mom came home from the hospital earlier than the other days, and she and my dad watched TV together. It was almost a normal weekend, except it was a Wednesday and nobody felt normal. I couldn’t actually cry, I didn’t even tell my friends, I just sat up in my room and listened to music. I tried to focus on the lyrics instead of what I was thinking. Later in the day, just as dusk began to fall, I walked out of the house. I was only wearing jeans, snow boots, and a sweatshirt, even though it was freezing and the snow was so deep it went over my boots. I walked into the woods that surrounded all of the houses on our street, my legs and hands stinging. I followed a ghost of a trail and stopped just at the edge of the trees. I could see my grandparents’ house. It looked the same as it always had. Nothing had collapsed, the lights were still on in the living room, the small gardens still sat under lumps of snow. I thought I would cry then, because all of the details felt shoved into my face. But instead, I just observed. The calling hours were the hardest time for me. I was in the receiving line with my grandma, mom, aunts, uncles, and my little cousin. I had no idea what to do. My dad had explained to me what would be happening beforehand, but I was just not well suited for that sort of situation. Of course, if I couldn’t handle it, I was allowed to leave. But somehow I stayed. Some people I knew very well, some were just

Jiaming (Martin) Mao ’17 Pencil

anymore. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be, and the diseases in his body and mind had finally caught up to him. I did cry then, but it was out of shock more than anything else. I don’t remember the next two days after that. They went by painfully slowly and all too fast at the same time. One morning, I was eating breakfast and my mom’s phone rang. She answered it and listened for a little bit, then said she was coming. She kept repeating that, kept saying she was coming right away and to wait for her, her voice getting more strained with every word. She turned and said something to my dad after she hung up, then my

familiar, others were total strangers who treated me like family, nonetheless. It made me feel sick. I knew these people were genuinely concerned and wanted to support my family, but the things they said to me were repetitive and useless. I was told to “give it time,” to “hang in there.” Time? How long? How was time going to fix that someone who was such a big part of my family was gone? Sometimes people even told me he wasn’t really gone. I wanted to slap them. I’ve never felt that angry at someone with good intentions, but it was so idiotic—his coffin was right behind them. I know they meant the whole idea of his legacy in his family or whatever, but at that moment his “legacy” was tearful and dressed in black. I just stood there politely: I shook people’s hands and shook my head when my dad asked me if I needed a break. I was afraid if I stopped and let myself think about what was going on, I would break down. Eventually those thoughts found their way into my head. This time, however, they weren’t vague; they were loud and clear. I didn’t show what I was feeling. I didn’t let myself cry, I didn’t want to in front of all those people. All of the apologies for my loss and the pointless comforts merged together in my head. All together, one thought louder than the rest reverberated through me when I finally allowed myself to look at the wooden coffin: “You’re never going to see him again.” It was strange how it wasn’t in first person. It was as if I divided into two parts, one that was trying to tear me to pieces, and another desperately trying to keep me together. That night, I finally did break down. It was the hardest I had ever cried in my life, to the point that it’s still painful to think about now. It felt like my whole body hurt, like I couldn’t stop until I shattered.

The funeral was a blur. It was one of the coldest days of the year, and between that and trying not to cry loudly, I was having trouble breathing. There was a ceremony in the funeral home, and once they sang a gospel hymn, I started crying and could not stop until after the funeral was over. Since my grandpa was a World War II veteran, they fired off guns before they buried him. The funeral itself was simple but beautiful. It was beautiful because of the people who attended. My family loves each other so much that the in-laws on my dad’s side get along with my cousin’s wife from my mom’s side. That’s the true testimonial to my grandfather. I realized that, as the folded-up American flag was handed to my grandmother. Strangely, this comfort made the whole ordeal more painful. It hurt to have someone I love taken away from me, but it was almost worse to watch so many more people I love in so much pain. After the funeral, there was a banquet lunch at a restaurant. I did pull myself together for a couple of hours, and I could smile when I held my baby cousin. But once we left there, once I was alone in my room again, I curled up in a ball on my bed and cried. On that day, I discovered two simple truths. The first was that no matter how kind I am, there are some people who do not care as much about me as I care about them. The second was that it was still worth it to be kind anyway. As I saw my family together, I could see the effects my grandfather had made on the people around him. I knew then that sometimes you aren’t around to see the proof of your greatest deeds. But it is still worth it, anyway. Celina Rivernider ’19 23

I WON’T

FORGET

Through s even-year-ol d eyes, anyt hi ng was possi bl e. O ne day I w anted t o m ake perfum e. A row of purpl e iris es lined a garden i n m y backyard.

Emily Dromgold ’17 Photograph

and her laugh matched her gentle features. She wore subtle red lipstick. Innocence is bliss. I had just begun piano lessons and would play songs for Eka. I’d slide a chair next to the standup piano and bang out some tune about monkeys. It had a fast melody and was probably my favorite piece at the time. Her clapping and encouraging words made me feel like the next Bach. I didn’t know what a crescendo was or what dynamics meant but it didn’t matter. “I remember one song from when I was your age!” “You do?” I loved to play outside and I loved a good adventure. I’d take an armful of stuffed animals with me to explore. Eka would help give them voices. Dogs and cats would dot the yard by the time I

remember being taught how to draw a heart when I was three or four. I loved coloring in the shape with glitter and markers. My unsteady hands would draw two sides with much contentment as I thought about all my friends and family. Eka was my babysitter since I was two, but she was old enough to be my grandma. Her real name was Erika, but I couldn’t pronounce it and instead called her Eka. I’d stand at the front door and press my nose against the glass in anticipation of her arrival. I’d have to stand on my toes to see out the window. As soon as I saw her black car pull up the driveway, I’d run out to meet her without wearing shoes. She wasn’t a fast walker so I’d bounce in circles around her until we’d reach the front door. Eka had greying hair and pale skin. She had a slight Swiss accent and spoke in soft tones. Her light blue eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled 25

reached my favorite tree. It grew by the sidewalk between my neighbor’s house and my own. I didn’t know if it belonged to my family or my neighbor but I decided that its ownership would be split in half. The tree changed appearances depending on the season. In the fall, it sprouted fuzzy buds along sweeping branches. I’d take a bud in my hand and pinch it between my fingers. I’d spin it in circles and then split the side open, revealing green leaves the color of lima beans. Digging through the layers of green, I’d finally reach a center filled with magenta petals. The tree never bloomed pink flowers so the buds’ interiors remained a mystery. “I want to make perfume! We can use the flowers back there!” “Alright Emmy, just don’t take all the petals from one flower. Take a couple from here and there.” Through seven-year-old eyes, anything was possible. One day I wanted to make perfume. A row of purple irises lined a garden in my backyard. I picked bright purple petals from each iris. Eka followed with an empty water bottle in hand. I kept running up and down the length of the garden grabbing petals to add to the bottle. We poured in water. After a few minutes, the mixture turned a rich purple. The garden had no flower petals left but with a little help I made perfume. The idea I had envisioned became reality. “How’s school, Emmy?” “It’s good!” “Who are you friends with again?” “Emma and Taylor and-” “Oh, I remember them now!” We’d get takeout from Boston Market, which I called Boston Chicken. I’d eat chicken and mashed

potatoes swimming in gravy. I’d move my corn around the plate to make it look like I ate some. I struggled to read Roman numerals on the clock, VII. Eka would drink tea with lemon. Eka looked puzzled as she held the cards in her hand, “How do you play this again?” “You played this last time you came over!” All of us laughed. We figured it was old age. Eka would tell stories before bedtime each night she came to my house when I was a child. I had a strange fascination with misbehaving children. I’d sit in bed propped up by pillows and wait for another story. The star of our tales was Steve. He lied, broke into his neighbor’s house and went to jail. At the end, he always managed to apologize. Every day with Eka had a happy ending. Memory is skewed. “Hi Eka!” “Hi Emmy! How old are you now?” “I’m twelve now. How are you?” “Wow! You’re growing up so fast! How is school going?” “It’s great.” “What grade are you in?” “I’m in seventh grade. Hey, we’re excited to see you next weekend! Can you believe it’s almost Christmas?” “Wow! Oooh, I’m so excited…How old are you again?” Every few months, Ron and Leslie (family friends) would invite my family over for dinner. They also invited Eka because she had babysat their son, Tyler, when he was a child. Leslie would place water glasses painted with spots on her table. She’d serve beef stew or meatloaf decorated with fresh

mom was lost. There is nothing I can do. I cannot bring Eka’s memory back. I can only try to sustain my own. Eka’s warm heart may be the same as before but she is hollow. We were two halves of a heart and I am the only side left. My love for Eka will not change. In fact, it will continue to grow as it colors in the missing half of my heart. I won’t forget.

peppers. Dessert would be topped with creamy vanilla ice cream and raspberry sauce. Ron and Leslie moved away but my family was able to visit them for dinner. Eka wasn’t able to make the trek to Rhode Island. “Can I say hi?” “Sure.” Leslie passed me the phone after she gave Eka her remarks. I walked into their living room with deep oak lining the fireplace. “Hi Eka!” “Hi Emmy!” Her voice was so carefree it practically had no weight. “How are you?” I forced a cheery tone. “I’m doing well. I’m grateful for my good health.” My chest tightened. “Hey, do you remember Steve…The boy who would be in all the stories you’d tell me when I was little?” “Ahhh… No.” My eyes burned. “Well, can I tell you a story then?” I tried to swallow. “Okay, Emmy.” I’d thought about this for a long time. I wanted to give something back. Eka liked the story, but she probably didn’t remember the first sentence. The last time I saw Eka was her 81st birthday party. It may have been her 82nd. Eka’s daughter arranged a small party for her at an Italian restaurant in Longmeadow. I stopped by after a tennis match. I made it just in time for cake. A fruit-filled piece was passed to Eka first. She looked at me and smiled. Her eyes were glazed but her joyful personality hadn’t changed. At the end of our visit, my mom said goodbye to Eka after I gave her a hug. Eka’s expression wavered as her memory of my

Emily Dromgold ’17

Mina Lee ’17 Acrylic

cra yons

The worst possible Dilemma Is a broken crayon.

Some say one grows wiser As the years pass by. Is there no lesson to be learned From the wonder in a child’s eyes?

Staying within the lines Constricts creativity Never did look better.

The world becomes A beautiful realm Full of endless possibilities.

Perception is brighter. There is only Potential.

Dragons may fly somewhere Adventure is limitless Imagination cannot be controlled.

Positivity remains Untouched Safe within the heart.

One can visit a million regions Without taking A single step.

Forgiveness solves Conflict Laughter erases.

Evil lives in stories Or movies Good will always win.

The Spirit of a child Can be restless and wild. But happiness should never be A dream only a child chases.

Mysteries do not disappoint Or cease to exist As lessons are always learned.

Emily Dromgold ’17

there a military camp lost in a wilderness like a needle in a bundle of hay—cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and death—death skulking in the air, in the water, in the bush. They must have been dying like flies here” (Conrad 6). Here, Conrad suggests that nineteen hundred years ago London was once what Africa was in the nineteenth century—uncivilized and undeveloped. The once-existent cultural and civilizational darkness in the refined empire is almost equated to the same darkness inherent in the Congo that Marlow faces. However, as the story progresses, darkness comes to symbolize the negative effects of imperialism. At the Lower Station, Marlow sees the enslaved native workers who are described as “black shadows of disease and starvation” (Conrad 20) and becomes disturbed by the image. When he finally reaches the Central Station, Marlow remarks that “never, never before, did this land, this river, this jungle, the very arch of this blazing sky, appear to [him] so hopeless and so dark, so impenetrable to human thought, so pitiless to human weakness” (Conrad 69). Marlow’s views of the Congo, of Africa, and of imperialism have completely changed at this point. He recognizes the moral danger of being in this “heart of darkness” and feels hopeless. The contrast between the diction of “blazing” and “dark” resembles the theme

he experience of living under imperialism can be horrifying and daunting for both the oppressors and the oppressed—that is, if they manage to survive imperialism at all. In Heart of Darkness, Joseph Conrad describes Marlow’s and Mr. Kurtz’s ethical challenges in the late nineteenth century in the Congo, then a Belgian territory. In The Poisonwood Bible, Barbara Kingsolver depicts the Prices’ troubling experience in the latter part of the twentieth century in the Congo. While both Conrad and Kingsolver utilize the theme of darkness and suggest to a certain extent the moral deterioration that exists in Africa, Conrad implies that Africa inspires such darkness while Kingsolver faults imperialism for it. Moreover, both authors portray the power of primitive nature as a warning to the Westerners’ involvement in the African society, and Conrad and Kingsolver caution against the practice of imperialism. In Heart of Darkness, Conrad suggests that the darkness refers to the inherent evil in humanity and is incited by the conditions of Africa. Darkness is initially representative of savagery. On a boat at the mouth of the River Thames, Marlow comments on the situation in London before the British Empire flourished: “But darkness was here yesterday … No Falernian wine here, no going ashore. Here and 30

Adam Kugelmass ’19 Photograph

The Darkness of Imperialism

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

the Kwilu River even with the knowledge that a girl “got killed and eaten by a crocodile” (Kingsolver 81) in that very river. By the end of the story, Nathan forcefully baptizes the villagers’ children in the river—where the children die after the boat is turned over by a crocodile. Nathan himself is then pursued and set on fire by the furious villagers. Kingsolver suggests that Westerners’ failure to recognize the cultural and religious differences leads to the suffering of the oppressed as evidenced by the villagers’ demises. However, a symbolic warning appears much earlier on in the text, when Nathan’s demonstration garden does not bear fruit. Trying to justify the plants without fruit, Nathan tells Leah, “African bugs, Leah. Creatures fashioned by God for the purpose of serving African plants … How would it know what to do with a Kentucky Wonder bean?” (Kingsolver 80). It is, once again, ironic that Nathan tries to explain the phenomenon by Christianity but does not recognize that he, like the Kentucky Wonder bean, is also a foreign individual that does not fit into the indigenous community. The resentment of the villagers toward Christianity is most apparent when Tata Ndu interrupts Nathan’s preaching and holds a vote to determine whether Jesus should be the village’s God: “Jesus Christ lost, eleven to fifty-six” (Kingsolver 334). The defeat of Jesus, and thereby of Nathan, sends a clear message that the villagers would rather worship their own gods and keep Western missionaries like Nathan away from their spiritual beliefs. In this sense, Westerners are portrayed as the catalyst of the locals’ distress and misfortune in the Congo. Moreover, both Conrad and Kingsolver portray nature as fearsome to warn the society of its

of light versus dark. By this point, darkness refers to not only the lack of advancement but also the moral decay within the Company and the Congo. When Mr. Kurtz is on the edge of dying, Marlow describes “the barren darkness of [Mr. Kurtz’s] heart” (Conrad 85). Here, Conrad suggests that Mr. Kurtz’s sanity has been consumed by the darkness in the process of working for the Company. Africa, in turn, is represented as the carrier of this darkness that deteriorates humankind’s morality. While Kingsolver also alludes to the darkness of Africa, she proposes that Westerners brought the darkness into Africa as a result of their ignorance and unwillingness to accept the local culture. For instance, when Nathan notices that the native people do not care about physical defects, he comments, “They are living in darkness. Broken in body and soul, and don’t even see how they could be healed” (Conrad 53). What Nathan fails to take into consideration, however, is that he is the outsider who neither understands nor respects the local culture. Instead, he sees Christianity as the only way to lead Africa out of its darkness—exposing his arrogance and ignorance. It is ironic that even though the indigenous community would be harmonious without Westerners’ intervention, Nathan faults the natives for the chaos in the village. By describing the misfortune of the locals as a result of Nathan Price’s ignorance, Kingsolver argues that the darkness of Africa is caused by the imperialism itself. Through the experience of Nathan Price, Kingsolver argues that Westerners fail to take local culture and opinions into consideration when attempting to preach Christianity. For instance, Nathan insists on baptizing the children in

Darkness, Africans are enslaved to perform physical labor for the Company and in The Poisonwood Bible, the villagers of Kilanga are disturbed by Nathan’s preaching and the children of the village die because of Nathan’s unwillingness to respect the local culture and beliefs. Through their theme of darkness and portrayal of the fearsome nature, Conrad and Kingsolver argue that imperialism is harmful to African society and that the cultural divide between African and Western cultures leads to chaos and conflicts in the community. Both authors indicate that Africa is unfit for colonialism and imperialism from the Westerners and that it is best to respect its indigenous culture. While imperialism in its traditional sense no longer exists, the act of enforcing one country’s political, economic, and military power on another still does. For instance, the United States’ intervention in Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan can be seen as imperialism. Aren’t we doing the same thing that Belgium was doing to the Congo a century ago? Is it time to recognize the harm and cease such practices?

danger. When describing the Congo River, Marlow comments, “Going up that river was like travelling back to the earliest beginnings of the world, when vegetation rioted on the earth and the big trees were kings. An empty stream, a great silence, an impenetrable forest. The air was warm, thick, heavy, sluggish” (Conrad 41). Here, the Congo River is described as a representation of time—the further down the river, the more ancient it feels to Marlow. Through the use of repressive diction, Conrad portrays the natural world as undeveloped and chaotic. Similarly, in The Poisonwood Bible, Kingsolver describes the power of nature through the mouth of Tata Kuvudundu. Enraged by the idea of Leah participating in the hunt, Tutu Kuvudundu “swore his prophecy that the animals and all of nature were rising up against us” (Kingsolver 354). And rise up it did—people were finding snakes everywhere. Even though it becomes clear later that it is Tutu Kuvudundu who arranges green mambas throughout the village and especially near the Prices, Ruth May’s dramatic death seems to confirm the idea that humankind should be fearful of the nature and its beings. The overwhelming pressure of the primeval nature resembles that of Africa—dark, dangerous, and frightening. While Conrad and Kingsolver seem to hold different opinions on the true sufferers of imperialism in Africa, they both suggest that a certain extent of moral deterioration exists in Africa. Conrad indicates that Western merchants are morally challenged in the Congo, and Kingsolver suggests that Western missionaries do not fit into the African society. In both books, however, the indigenous people are harmed to a certain degree: in Heart of

Junhao (Mark) Xu ’16

Works Cited Conrad, Joseph, and J. H. Stape. Heart of Darkness London: Penguin, 2007. Print. Kingsolver, Barbara. The Poisonwood Bible: A Novel New York: HarperPerennial, 1999. Print.

The Eternal Fate of Tyranny

President John Mahama described, these were the “lost decades of Africa.” During this period, in lands far south of Rome, many Caesars have been seen in states newly born. The similarity with the story of Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah makes it hard to deny that Julius Caesar is “Shakespeare’s African play.” Under a black star, Shakespeare’s tale was translated into an African context; and that is clear because of the similarities that the life of the Osagyefo has with the story Julius Caesar. Osagyefo means “redeemer” in the Akan language, and it was the nickname that the people attributed to Nkrumah. Kwame Nkrumah led the Gold Coast through the struggle for independence from British colonial rule. In 1957, when the nation became independent, he became the first prime minister and later the first president of the Republic of Ghana. The first similarity between Julius Caesar and Nkrumah involves Nkrumah’s release from prison. There was a crowd cheering while he was being released, and people considered him “God’s gift to the oppressed.” Resembling Rome’s, the streets of Accra were full of ceremonies, and that day was like a holiday “to rejoice in [Nkrumah’s] triumph” (CCTV

he African continent has seen the tragedy of Julius Caesar reenacted many times during the second half of the twentieth century. Outside of the theaters of the African cities, many conspirators have slain tyrants in the name of freedom, and heroes have fallen because of the malice of men. Many saviors have risen, to later grow mischievous and drown in an ocean of egoism. Africa’s post-independence years were characterized by military coups, presidential assassinations, civil wars, and a Marxist-Leninist wave that established single-party states all over the continent— from Ethiopia in the North, to Angola in the South. Some countries like Angola, Mozambique and Tanzania were founded on those socialist values. Contrastingly, countries like Ghana and Kenya were founded on democratic values. Thus, similar to those in Ancient Rome, tyrannical actions were perceived as a danger to the foundation of the country’s political ideology. All these misfortunes that afflicted the continent are somewhat interconnected. For example, the establishment of a single-party state may lead to a coup, which in its turn may lead to a civil war. These events occurred from the late 1960s to the early 1990s—and as Ghana’s 35

Africa). This episode resembled the beginning of Julius Caesar, and one can say that the release from prison is the first scene of the “tragedy of Kwame Nkrumah.” Starting here, we find other similarities between the two stories. An interesting aspect of the conspiracy is that Caesar is killed because his ambition poses a threat to fundamental republican values of Rome. During the dialogues among Cassius, Casca and Brutus, we can observe how they see Caesar’s ambition as a threat to the Republic. During his speech, Brutus makes it clear to the plebeians that Caesar’s existence is a menace to theirs, when he says: “Had you rather Caesar were living, and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead, to live all free man?” (3.2.2224). After the assassination of Caesar, the first words shouted were “Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead!” (3.1.78); with these words, the conspirators paint a vivid picture, in which Caesar is a tyrant and thus an antagonist to Rome’s noblest values. This accusation is based on the biased perspectives of the conspirators, and that is the reason why we cannot hastily consider it to be the truth. It can be argued that Caesar does not consistently present tyrannical behavior throughout the play. His repeated refusal of the crown is the most notable moment in which he shows non-tyrannical behavior, and even Anthony—during his speech in the Forum—uses that as an example to contradict the conspirators, by saying: “You all did see that on the Lupercal / I thrice presented him a kingly crown, / Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?” (3.2.97-99) Similar to Caesar, Nkrumah was seen as a threat to the fundamental political values of the Republic of Ghana. However, Caesar has yet to become tyrant,

while Nkrumah became a tyrant during his time in power. Nkrumah was the Osagyefo—the redeemer— but throughout his presidency he became a dictator and, as a consequence, a threat to the Republic that he helped to create. That happened when Ghana —following the tendency of African states—was declared a single-party state in 1964; and through the parliament, Nkrumah became the president for life of both the nation and the party. Likewise, Nkrumah’s regime proved to be authoritarian when the parliament passed the Preventive Detention Act. This legislation granted Nkrumah the power to arrest anyone he deemed a threat without a trial. Suleimana Yeremia, a former detainee of the Nkrumah era, asked: “Do you think a one-party state is good for democracy? … If it wasn’t democracy, they should’ve left [Ghanaians] with the colonial masters” (CCTV Africa). In a similar way, the Ghanaian journalist Kwasi Pratt Jr. asked, “How can the person who led us through the struggle for the right to elect our own leaders, become a dictator?” (CCTV Africa). That shows the paradox at the eyes of the Ghanaian people. The same man that led them to freedom was returning them to captivity. Undoubtedly, Nkrumah became the greatest danger to the values of the Republic of Ghana, and his dictatorial ways eventually led to the army and the police seizing power in a coup on February of 1966. Nkrumah is very similar to Caesar in this matter, but there is an introspective similarity that should also be addressed. Through the eyes of Brutus, we notice that Caesar is seen in two different ways: in a positive way—as a friend—and in a negative way—as a 36

ego of his friend endangers the republic, he must do what is necessary to guarantee the public welfare. The same theme can be found—with certain variance—in the tragedy of Kwame Nkrumah. Through the eyes of history, we see that Nkrumah is remembered in a positive and in a negative way—as a redeemer and as a dictator. The people of Ghana, just like Brutus, deposed Nkrumah for his ambition but did not cease to revere him for his grandeur. We can infer from the question of Kwasi Pratt Jr. that the dictator and the Osagyefo are two different egos of Nkrumah—that, like oil and water, did not blend. After his death in 1972—although he had for years been the dictator in exile—the remains of the father of the nation were returned home. Where a funeral was held, and the flag of Ghana was placed upon his coffin. Nkrumah now rests in a great mausoleum in the capital city of Accra, where the image of the redeemer and the great Pan-African leader shines in a golden statue. The two faces of Kwame Nkrumah now lay in clarity. As aforementioned, the prepotent and egoist Caesar was the alter-ego of the noble Caesar. Likewise, Kwame, the dictator, was an alter-ego of the Osagyefo; and all these different personalities within these leaders might have been a consequence of having a crown on their heads. In his orchard, Brutus asked himself, “He who would be crowned. / How might that change his nature, there’s the question” (2.1.12-14). That is a great question that, like many others, has been left unanswered. At this point, the crooked path that great leaders often follow seems to hold the answer to this question. For the reasons above, Jon Kearney’s statement 37

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

tyrant. Throughout the play, Brutus constantly claims that although he loves Caesar, he “[loves] Rome more” (3.2.22). Since Caesar, the tyrant, is seen as a threat to the Roman people and their values, Brutus had to sacrifice his friend Caesar by murdering the tyrant. Similarly, in the introduction of Julius Caesar written by William and Barbara Rosen, two scholars from the University of Connecticut, this “double–self dilemma” is addressed in a different way, where the friend is Caesar’s private self and the tyrant is his public self: His fault was a kind of ecstasy that the exercise of his office brings upon him. As a private individual he shows many weaknesses; as a public institution he sees himself superior to all ordinary dangers, and believes that his office is a power that must not be opposed. Indeed, Caesar constantly uses his name to speak of his alter ego, the Dictator, and in an early speech to Anthony, in which he reveals distrust of Cassius, he sums up the two views of himself as he unwittingly contrasts two attitudes: the public office that is perfect, and the private individual who is defective. (lxvi-lxvii) This “double-self dilemma” is not only seen in Caesar’s own words, but also through Brutus’s perspective. In the beginning of Act Two, Brutus says: “I know no personal cause to spurn at him, / But for the general” (2.1.11-12). Once again we see the two different forms in which Brutus sees Caesar, and they are also related to the public and the private realms. Brutus says that he personally does not have any reason to betray his friend, but since the alter

Thy (Kathy) Ton ’16 Mixed Media

that Julius Caesar is “Shakespeare’s African play” is evidently true. Nkrumah resembled Caesar starting from his release of prison to how he represented a danger to the republic, and was then presented in two distinct and conflicting ways. Some say that power is addictive, and their alter egos appear to be a side-effect of this treacherous drug. Caesar and Nkrumah were subject to a cult of personality. Both also had “growing feathers plucked” (1.1.75) from their wings, which caused them to fly too high and be consumed by a radiant sun. During Nkrumah’s funeral, another great African leader, Amílcar Cabral, said: “Let no one tell us that Nkrumah died of cancer of the throat, or some other disease. No! Nkrumah has been killed by the cancer of betrayal that we should uproot” (CCTV Africa). A victim of a vile conspiracy, Caesar also died of a cancer of betrayal. It must be said that one similar leader does not prove that Mr. Kearney’s statement is correct. However, the tragedy of Julius Caesar was reproduced multiple times in Africa, with other leaders such as Idi Amin from Uganda, Thomas Sankara from Burkina Fasso, Mobutu Sese Seko from Zaire, Muammar Gaddafi from Libya, and many more. Among the dozens of similar stories found in Africa, Nkrumah’s had the tremendous importance in African history. In a bold prediction, Shakespeare foresaw how this timeless tale would play out “in states unborn and accents yet unknown!” (3.1.112113). Since it was this way during Caesar’s days, as well as in Shakespeare’s, one may conclude that the fate of Nkrumah and Caesar shall forever be the fate of tyranny.

Works Cited CCTV Africa. “Faces Of Africa- Kwame Nkrumah.” Online video clip. YouTube. YouTube, 9 Dec. 2014. Web. 2 April 2015. “Kwame Nkrumah | Biography - President of Ghana.” Encyclopedia Britannica Online. Encyclopedia Britannica, n.d. Web. 02 April 2015. “Kwame Nkrumah.” Contemporary Black Biography 3: (1992): n.pag. Gale, Web. 2 April 2015. Shakespeare, William. Julius Caesar. New York: Signet Classic, 1998. Print.

Isaias (Ikas) de Brito Trindade ’17

The Revelation of the Congo

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

iterary works that give insight to specific perspectives and forms of Western influences on the Belgian Congo include The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver and Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. Both novels focus on the effects of different members of Western powerhouses, England and the United States, invading the Congo under a pretense of moral development and redemption while truly there for personal or economic gain. As the books develop, the characters’ façades begin to fade, and their true intentions are revealed. For three characters in particular, the Congo shines a light on these characters’ flaws. In The Poisonwood Bible, Nathan Price, the patriarch, enters the Congo claiming he wants to bless the people of the village with the word of God when he is truly only there to redeem himself in the eyes of the Lord for his personal failings. In Heart of Darkness, Kurtz originally enters the Congo to civilize the moral wrongdoings of the people there, but during his time there he is revealed to be barbaric in nature and loses himself mentally, which ultimately leads to his demise. In the same novella, Marlow, the narrator, does not murder like Kurtz or wrongly baptize like Nathan, but the weight and spirit of his actions travel with him like an aphotic shadow. Although the literary works by Kingsolver and Conrad differ drastically in time period, plot, and intent, the common setting of the Congo exacerbates the immoral qualities of the three white men who arrive. Marlow does not appear to be considered as cruel as Kurtz or as obstinate as Nathan from Poisonwood, but his journey into the Congo reveals the darkness within him along with his inability to escape it. On Marlow’s journey up the river, his opinion on the natives he

further proves the extent of barbarianism Marlow is willing to forgive. He does not view the heads as a former part of a human. They are not equal to him; therefore, he does not have to feel sympathy. The deeper and longer Marlow is in the Congo, the more the reader sees Marlow’s true morals. His character progression finally leads to the end of the novel, where Marlow is physically free from the chains of the Congo but is never able to escape its psychological darkness, “The offing was barred by a black bank of clouds, and the tranquil waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth flowed somber under an overcast sky—seemed to lead into the heart of an immense darkness” (96). Marlow has left the frame of his storytelling, but he is still in everlasting gloom. This represents the extent of his moral decline that not only the reader realizes but Marlow as well. There is no escaping what he has seen, excused, and done in the name of Kurtz and the Congo. If one was to assume that the Congo made him this way, the fact

encounters is the beginning of his devolution: It was unearthly, and the men were——No, they were not inhuman. Well … that was the worst of it—this suspicion of their not being inhuman. It would slowly come to one. They howled, and leaped, and spun, and made horrid faces; but what thrilled you was just the thought of their humanity —like yours—the thought of your remote kinship with this wild and passionate up roar. Ugly. (Conrad 44) Marlow, a Brit, views the natives as subhuman or, at the very least, unequal. An inability to view the natives as fully human and his complete equals allows him a mental justification of anything that may happen to the natives. An example of this is Marlow’s reaction to seeing the heads on Kurtz’s fence. Marlow is initially disturbed by what he sees, but shortly after, dismisses it as if this sight is a normal occurrence: Now I had suddenly a nearer view, and its first result was to make me throw my head back as if before a blow. … these round knobs were not ornamental but symbolic; they were expressive and puzzling, striking and disturbing … They would have been even more impressive, those heads on the stakes, if their faces had not been turned to the house. … I was not so shocked as you may think. The start back I had given was really nothing but a movement of surprise. (71) Seeing decapitated heads on sticks and referring to an initial reaction as a movement of surprise rather than a movement of shock, horror, or mere disgust

(61). It is evident that Kurtz believes he is superior to the natives, but he does truly want to help develop them. He believes that it is his responsibility. This gives insight as to why he is treated as a god while he is there. However, what he does with that power and influence is despicable. As Marlow states, “Everything belonged to him – but that was a trifle. The thing was to know what he belonged to, how many powers of darkness claimed him for their own” (60). Kurtz’s ownership of the influence and people surrounding him makes him and only him culpable for the consequences of his actions. The Congo cannot be blamed for what happens to Kurtz. According to the novella, he owns the darkness. That not only refers to the evil actions he commits, but also the Congo itself. Kurtz, who is revealed to be half British and half French, is liable for the products of his property, which in the Congo are cruelty and greed. At his death, there is a notion that Kurtz understands this, as his last words are “The horror! The horror!” (86). Before he dies, Kurtz’s life flashes before his eyes, and the reader can infer that, as his life flashes by, he is forced to look at each devilish act he has committed, leading to dark cries of horror. From entering with wishes of civilizing the natives to lining his fence with human heads, the Congo removes the façade, compounds Kurtz’s brutish character, and inevitably leads to a fateful end. Nathan’s downfall is similar to Kurtz’s, as they are both directly responsible for the death of natives, but unlike Kurtz, Nathan remains under this charade of good will that solidifies his end. Nathan’s survivor’s guilt from World War II is the spark that leads him to take his family to the

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

that the novel begins and ends in darkness, after the actual events took place, disproves that theory. The only responsibility the Congo assumes from this ordeal is that of a messenger. Even though he has technically left, the immoral qualities the Congo reveals to him must remain with him forever. Unlike Marlow, whose revelation is focused on his willingness to forgive barbaric actions, Kurtz’s revelation focuses on the barbaric actions. In the same universe, the Congo discloses Kurtz’s physical and mental demise but it is a product of his own malfeasance. Kurtz enters the Congo with the will to hoard all the ivory possible, but the savagery he commits while he is there is entirely of his own desire. When the audience is introduced to Kurtz’s backstory, “He began with the argument that we whites, from the point of development we had arrived at ‘must necessarily appear to them [savages] in the nature of supernatural beings—we approach them with the might as of a deity’ … ‘By the simple exercise of our will we can exert a power for good practically unbounded’”

Congo under the pretense of missionary work. This pretense of the word of the Lord compounded by his stubbornness and disregard for the people around him culminates in his death. To understand Nathan’s actions, we must understand what took place before he set foot in the Congo that made him behave this way. Although it is understandable as to why Nathan would feel this guilt, the way he attempts to rectify his actions is contradictory. “But he would not be back, so far as those boys in Bataan were concerned, and neither would the soldier boy I’d married. He came home with a crescent-shaped scar on his temple, seriously weakend vision in his left eye, and a suspicion of his own cowardice from which he could never recover” (Kingsolver 197). After his ordeal in World War II, Nathan’s survivor’s guilt is justified but the way he tries to make amends for it is completely flawed. For Nathan, this is his original sin, and he spends the remainder of his life, like Adam and Eve, attempting to get back into the garden. He does not care about the Congo or its people, only the redemption his ministry may bring. With this knowledge, the audience can comprehend the reasoning behind Nathan’s actions for the remainder of the novel. For example, when Nathan and his middle daughter, Leah, are attempting to plant Georgian crops in the soil, his disregard for their house lady, Mama Tataba, and her intel on how to successfully plant the crops is an early tell to who Nathan is as a character and what he wants to achieve: My father woke up the next morning with a horrible rash on his hands and arms, presumably wounded by the plant that

bites. … He bellowed when Mother tried to apply the salve. … “Ow! Great God almighty, Orleanna. How did this curse come to me, when it’s God’s own will to cultivate the soil!” … Mama Tataba … She had reshaped our garden overnight into eight neat burial mounds. I fetched my father, who came walking fast as if I’d discovered a viper he meant to behead. … He squinted long and hard with his bad eye, to make out the fix our garden was in. Then the two of us together, without a word passing between us, leveled it out again as flat as the Great Plains. (Kingsolver 40-41) This entire passage is representative of Mama Tataba as the natives, Nathan and his family as the seeds, and Nathan’s mindset and refusal as his eventual downfall. Mama Tataba not only verbally instructs Nathan how to plant the seeds and warns him about the Poisonwood, “the plant that bites,” but she also physically does it for him. This is representative of the Congolese people attempting to inform him of their culture, but in both instances Nathan refuses. When Nathan tries to plant American and Western seeds in Congolese soil as he tries to do with his family, he cannot do so without the Congo physically and socially rejecting him. The Congo in this situation is the omen that reveals an important and tragic quality in Nathan: hubris. He is too headstrong to abide by Mama Tataba’s instructions, and continues to believe he knows best in all things and in all places. He displays here that he does not truly care about the crops, rather that his ideas and attempts to grow the crops in “the Lord’s” name should suffice.

The Congo divulges Nathan’s pride, as displayed by his interactions with Mama Tataba and the Poisonwood, which catalyzes in the deaths of his own child, the natives, and himself. Another example of his pride occurs when Rachel, the oldest daughter, remarks on the likelihood of her father allowing the family to leave the Congo when the opportunity arises, “Father would sooner watch us all perish one by one than listen to anybody but himself ” (169). This connects directly back to the metaphor of the seeds: he cares not about the outcome, in this case the safety of his family, but rather whether he is viewed as “benevolent” in the eyes of his God. By ignoring the pleas of his family, he disregards the counsel of those around him and this inevitably leads to the death of his youngest, Ruth May. This is proven again in his death. He tries to baptize people against their wishes, and when a child dies as a result of this, he is chased by villagers and burned along with the building in which he seeks refuge. He enters the Congo with malicious intentions; therefore, everything he sets out to achieve is doomed to fail. All of Nathan’s actions can be blamed on the events that took place before he set foot in the Congo. The only responsibility the Congo has is revealing it. The Belgian Congo: although it is one place, it similarly, yet individually, affected three different lives. In Conrad’s novella, Heart of Darkness, Marlow and Kurtz lose themselves. Even if Kurtz is the only one who paid the ultimate price, Marlow’s soul is forever lost and he will eternally remain indebted. In Kingsolver’s novel, The Poisonwood Bible, Nathan Price hides behind a falsity of missionary work and helping others, when he truly only wishes to

help himself. Despite all three of these white men entering the Congo with semi-pure intentions, all of their actions lead to death. Kurtz’s leads to the deaths of the natives. Nathan’s leads to the deaths of his daughter, marriage, and a native child. Marlow’s leads to the death of his soul. Anike Tella-Martins ’16

Works Cited Conrad, Joseph, and J. H. Stape. Heart of Darkness. London: Penguin, 2007. Print. Kingsolver, Barbara. The Poisonwood Bible: A Novel. New York: HarperPerennial, 1999. Print.

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

Chenyu (Carney) Wang â&#x20AC;&#x2122;17 Acrylic