Rubicon 2018-2019 by Wilbraham & Monson Academy

Rubicon Vol. 5

2 0 19

Wilbraham & Monson Academy

Rubicon

2019

Editor Ruoyi “Suki” Liu ’19 Deputy Editors Muwei “Katharine” Xu ’20 Yinqi “Sherry” Yang ’20 Adviser Heidi Ostendarp

Editorial Policy

In 2019, a panel of faculty judges culled through writing submissions and awarded honorable mentions and first prizes in three categories: poems, memoirs, and short stories. First place entries and honorable mentions appear in this publication. The “Rubicon” staff, which met during the winter season, selected artwork from the Student Art Contest. Wilbraham & Monson students in Grades 8 - 12 and postgraduate students are eligible to submit their work to the writing contest and to the art contest. The “Rubicon” staff reserves the right to edit minor errors and to return submissions to the author for requested corrections. Authors and artists retain copyright of printed submissions but grant “Rubicon” the right to use selected submissions as deemed by the editorial staff to be most appropriate in the publishing of the magazine.

Special Thanks Josh Bain Paul Bloomfield Kristen Casey Kiayani Douglas Brian Easler Tim Harrington ’73

Russ Held Amy Mathison Marxan Pescetta Bill Rosenbeck Sue Wood

Colophon

The text was composed in 11 point Minion Pro. Adobe CC 2018 was employed in its design. Starburst Printing & Graphics, Inc. in Holliston, Massachusetts printed 400 copies on 80# coated paper stock using HP Indigo 5600 equipment. “Rubicon” is a member of Columbia Scholastic Press Association.

Mission

The mission of “Rubicon” is to publish excellent artwork and writing from as wide a swath of the student body as possible.

Cover

Ruoyi “Suki” Liu ’19 An Obsolete Book, Book and Wire

Haowen “Justin” Wang ’19 Swan, Ceramic

Editorial Team

I always dream back to the afternoon classroom, the quiet, neat, and clean one. I used to take a nap, mildly placing my head into my arms, not deeply, but putting my head on one side, facing myself to the window. Sunshine crept in, gently and warmly. I don’t mind a bit of brightness, for warmth can appease my breath. I close my eyes, listening to this afternoon symphony: Wind caresses plants on the windowsill, with leaves whirring; Pen point dances on the paper, rustling; Friends gather together in the corner, whispering their secrets. Now I stand there, look at the sleeping young girl, like a haunting ghost. Her eyelashes are trembling, with a slight smile on her face. It must be a sweet dream, who knows?

Yuke “Heidi” Wu ’19

Rubicon Wilbraham & Monson Academy 423 Main Street Wilbraham, MA 01095 413.596.6811

rubicon@wma.us

Tectonic Poem

That’s not Water Short Story

Celina Rivernider ’19

John Wilson ’19

11 06 Boy creative nonfiction Zeyi “Jackson” Yan ’19

Cont

Mushin and the Muse creative

Tiflis creative

nonfiction Celina Rivernider ’19

nonfiction Rusudan “Ruska” Mumladze ’19

Professor Wang creative

A Glance at an Afternoon Classroom Poem

nonfiction Yuke “Heidi” Wu ’19

Yuke “Heidi” Wu ’19

ents 31 22 Learning to See creative nonfiction An Tien Nguyen ’20

Ascend To the Sphinx creative nonfiction Celina Rivernider ’19

11 12 18

Tranquility Tianqi “Wernich” Li ’20

Haze Noah Kantor ’19

Lines & Faces Zheng “Richard” Xie ’20

An Tien Nguyen ’20 Photograph

Ink

Photograph

Watercolor

Manjusaka Zilan “Lanney” Jing ’23

Watercolor and Color Pencil

Glory Wonsick “Robert” Oh ’19

07 22

30 32

Swan Haowen “Justin” Wang ’19 Ceramic

Pastel

Remorse wonsick “Robert” oh ’19

Jingting “Gina” Xie ’20 ink

Photograph

Luminescence Noah Kantor ’19

Photograph

The Lavender Corner of Hoi An An Tien Nguyen ’20

Visual Arts

after a piece by Jamaica Kincaid

don’t go out unless you are told you can do eep yourself clean and neat while in so; don’t talk back to your mom even if you make sure you are presentschool; m are angry — she knows what is right for you; able; make yourself yours some friends don’t take subways by yourself because it or you will be lonely; don’t do make so many is dangerous; but my friends do that all the friends that you are distracted from school; dist time; this is how you can ask someone for be aware of your behavior; look other people behav help; this is how you reject someone you in the eyes when talking talkin to them; be a good don’t want to boy and make help; this is your parents you mean to say that you how you are proud; don’t don’t want to be the person that supposed to break windows your parents are proud of? brush your with your slingteeth; this shot; be aware of is how you are supposed to comb your hair; the mud on your shoes; don’t play in the dirt s this is how you make yourself look good and like some wild children; don’t stay inside all chi make your parents proud; this is how you do day and read like a nerd; don’t buy food that a workout to make yourself look strong; this people sell on the th streets — you might get is how you clean up so you don’t stink; when sick; don’t smoke smok pot or anything like that; you wash make sure to use shower cream don’t speak to sstrangers because they might and shampoo; don’t play with your toys at be trying to sell sel you illegal stuff; every day the dinner table; don’t play with your food; come home di directly after school and don’t this is how you ride a bike; this is how you put yourself in i any danger; during weekends

Wonsick “Robert” Oh ’19 Glory, Watercolor and Color Pencil

Zilan “Lanney” Jing ’23 Manjusaka, Watercolor

ride a bike with your friends; this is how you ride a bike in front of girls; don’t cry even when you want to — people will laugh at you; don’t hide your feelings because people want to help you; don’t laugh too loudly because that is childish; don’t cry even if you want to because that makes you weak; this is how you become a tough man and make your parents proud; this is how you talk to new people; this is how you talk to people you don’t like; this is how you talk to people you hate; this is how you talk to people you like a lot; don’t spend your money shopping for clothes — that’s what girls do; this is what you do when somebody is harsh on you; this is what you do when you want to be harsh on someone; this is how you ask a girl out; this is how you ask a girl that you really like out; this is how you love a girl, and if you don’t love her anymore, you can always dump her; and if she cries, say you are sorry and you will be fine; this is how you make your point; keep in mind what is expected of you; be responsible for your own actions and know your own mind; you should grow up p to be the man that people look ok up to; but what if I don’t know if I can; you u mean to say that you don’t want to be the person rson that your parents are proud of? Zeyi “Jackson” Yan ’19

MUSHIN MUSE AND THE

M USHIN IS THE TEMPLE WITH THREE DOORS . . . I TS LONE RESIDENT IS MY MUSE , A BEING OF FIRE AND GOLD WHO ONLY ACCEPTS OFFERINGS OF BLOOD , SWEAT , AND TEARS .

ushin. It’s the Japanese word for “no mind,” used in karate to describe when a technique becomes effortless. It transcends physical pain and mental stress, creating a blissful connection between mind and body. Mushin is a temple with three doors: karate, rugby, and powerlifting. Its lone resident is my muse, a being of fire and gold who only accepts offerings of blood, sweat, and tears. The process is simple. I’m brought into mushin through technical perfection, then present my grueling efforts to my muse, and she offers me poetry. I begin the final stage of my third degree black belt test with a bow, and jump into a fighting stance with a yell. My front foot

faces forward, my back foot sideways, shoulder-width apart. My hands are even with my temples, my arms in a V-shape to protect my ribs. I must be perfect or I’ll be dismissed immediately. I’ve finished hundreds of pushups, my arms shake in agony. I pivot forward, whirl my arms into a block and . . . I enter mushin. This is a martial art. The pain drifts away, I breathe in sync with my strikes. I am spinning, striking; my muse ignites power in the twist of my spine as I end with a finishing kick, my foot puncturing the air– My foot slams into the frozen ground, my cleat spikes dig in. I am the first female member of the boys’ varsity rugby team, but I am far from the first rugby player to tackle. I crouch, creating leverage. I pick my head up, straightening my back, ensuring I hit with my shoulder. My teammate runs into me, I wrap my arms around his legs and . . . impact. His momentum is greater than all my weight and it slams me down. I see a flicker of gold painted on my muse’s skin as I roll away. I push myself off the ground, grinding grit from the field into my palms. I brush it off– Wiping the sweat off my palms, I inhale sharply and crouch. I grip the cold bar in front of my feet, and the clank of weights hitting each other fades. I lock eyes with myself in the mirror. My mother’s manicured nail pokes between my shoulder blades: “Pinch here.” She deadlifts twice what I can, but our technique is identical. My feet are shoulder width apart, toes pointing forward. I tighten my core. “Explode!” she shouts. The burning in my legs is fire that fuels me; I am

power; I see my muse in the reflection of my eyes in fire and gold, within mushin. I curl my lip and, instead of snarling, I release the energy in my lungs in one breath. I slam the bar back down. I shake out my sore hands– Staring at the page before me, I work out the cramp in my fingers. I pick up the pen again, and write the one word I cannot escape at the top of the page. Priestess. I mutter, “Who is Priestess?” She’s powerful, she’s gold, she reflects fire . . .” In return for all of my offerings in the mushin temple, my muse grants me a poem. Sparks shoot off my fingernails as the pen glides with the words: My body is my home, She says slipping from behind the altar. She lights candles with the rage in her shoulders, her neck, her head, her eyes, her skin, reflecting their glow solid gold. You thought you could pay rent, She whispers. She is the only light in the room as the candles choke. But this is a temple. My inspiration fizzles and I sigh, setting my alarm for the gym tomorrow. My muse requires another offering of burning muscles. I’ll find her again in the haze of no mind. After all, I know where to find the temple mushin, and I am ready to sacrifice perfection to its fiery, golden priestess. Celina Rivernider ’19

Tectonic It was a forest growing on the back of a sleeping dragon, who swallowed a warhead when it was young, before its wings budded. Rabbits played in its teeth and made their homes. Flowers grew beneath its eyes, houses settled by its feet, and people shaved away paths. I remember you used to hike there. You didn’t know about the radioactive air. By the time the dragon woke you were long gone: six feet under, with uranium in your trachea.

Tianqi “Wernich” Li ’20 Tranquility, Photograph

Sparks in the dragon’s neurons opened its eyes, and ignited the warhead waiting. Everything went nuclear before I could even visit your grave. The rabbits were already in its jaws, and when it rose the houses were lost in landslides, flower petals fell in the ashes. I still don’t remember the fallout. I’m solitary, deep underground now, rationing sunlight from dented cans. The music playing in the bunker is your voice. I scrape the rust off the speakers and survive.

Celina Rivernider ’19

7LÁLV

Noah Kantor ’19 Haze, Photograph

e step out of the soviet age Lada and take a quick walk up the street in my beloved Old Town. Bumps on the road bounce back and forth beneath my soles. Bull horns watch us from the displays of box-sized shops as we turn left at the church surrounded by tiled fences. We slide past the fretwork on the doors of a warm cafe that serves my favorite ЦК lemonade and skip up narrow stairs that wrap around a family hotel. I can’t see where the next step lands but I don’t need to; I know the path by heart. We stop at the top of block stairs, breathing heavily in the evening sun. And I love this city. I know these seven-hundred-and-something kilometers up and down and sideways. Our nursery rhymes are written on the sidewalks of the City of Warmth. Wind hums century-old lullabies that embellish our mothers’ lips. Sunlight ricochets off golden tops of the proud church and pierces right through my heart. Rays bounce off the

Eternal glass bridge and flow into the emerald river. My head is pounding from delight. Flashy torn apartment buildings fit well with the rare greens and occasional engineering miracles in form of the Ministry of Justice, or as we call it: the Mushroom Building. God, how I love this city. The humid breeze reminds me it’s still August and I have time yet to enjoy familiar corners and abandoned rooftops. I sit down at the edge of a block and lean against the rails. Tall grass circles the space around us. If king Nebuchadnezzar had built Garden of Eden, this is what it would look like. The blushing sun hides behind the School of the Future and paints the sky in reds and pinks. I can see the skinny tower looking down at the city from the Pure mountain. I wonder how many times I’ve watched it go from green to blue to red at night as I stared through the open doors of my balcony. And memories come crashing into my conscious as the reds of the view start to blur and twist. I can see the chunk of the park where the three of us sat on my sixteenth birthday in the rainy dark, slurping damp noodles from a funky shop down the street; I can point to the restaurant where my dad likes the pumpkin soup and always talks to the owner who wears the same blue plaid shirt every time; I can see the rich Caucasian

mountains circling the city like a fortress as if protecting it from what may come. Cherries bathe in onyx wine and I know I’ll miss my dad’s occasional deafening poetry recitals. Fluidity of traffic turns into a motley stream underneath us. Colors merge and now I’m watching the artist mix paints on her palette as streets and houses disappear. I know this blindness well and have come to love what I can find in it.

Rusudan “Ruska” Mumladze ’19

That’s Not Water “He’s dead,” I said. “He’s dead.”

my wife would never understand. I saw boot prints leading away from my house and heard car wheels screeching. So I did what any sensible man in my position would do, I got on top of her . . . Let’s start at the beginning. I’m getting ahead of myself.

here was an unfamiliar car parked in my driveway. I skid into the driveway, jumped out of my car, and as I ran to the backyard a loud noise cracked through the sky. I saw her sprawled out face down on a sun tanning chair under the sweltering summer sun by the shimmering crystal clear pool. The chair was soaked as if she had just gotten out of the pool, but she couldn’t swim. It seeped through the fabric of the chair, ran down the legs, and pooled at the bottom of all four, glistening in the sun. I ran over to her and was relieved when I rolled her over to find that she was not my wife. When her husband found out he would be devastated, and

Earlier that week, I woke up and rolled over to kiss my wife good morning, but she wasn’t there. The sweet smell of maple syrup and bacon drifted into the room like a soft blanket. “Honey,” I yelled, “What are you cooking for me? You know pancakes and bacon are bad for my heart.” “You know I wouldn’t do that to you, it’s the heart healthy brand,” she replied. 15

I gathered the energy to pick myself up out of bed and got dressed. I walked into the kitchen and pecked a kiss on my wife’s cheek. “Good morning sweetheart! How’d you sleep last night?” I asked. “Not too good, you were snoring like a freight train,” she said in a joking tone. “Yeah sure. Did I tell you last night that I wouldn’t be home till late or maybe not at all? We caught a new case and, they think this one is gonna be big. I might get that promotion I’ve been working so hard for, so we can put a down payment on that house we were looking at, and get out of this dump,” I said as I sat down for the lavish meal my wife had prepared for me. “I know money has been tight around here, but you shouldn’t put that much pressure on yourself,” she said as she put the pancakes on my plate. Her voice was a little scratchy and she usually wasn’t up this early. “Why are you up so early?” I asked. She replied in a scratchy voice, “I couldn’t sleep last night. I think I’m gonna take today off of work, and rest. I might go shopping so write down what you want, and don’t forget the cleaning lady is still coming today.” I turned on the TV to see what information the rest of the world had

available about my case. The news was just as boring and depressing as ever, but what was particularly intriguing was when the anchor said, “Breaking News, an elderly community was targeted yesterday afternoon by explosives. Authorities still haven’t commented on the number of casualties, or if this is terrorist related.” I had already received that information late yesterday afternoon, so I pressed a button on the remote and the TV screen became void of light. Once I had finished shoveling my breakfast into my mouth, I kissed my wife goodbye. “That’s my cue,” I said. “It’s a real shame this shit keeps happening, but it’s damn good job security,” I said trying to lighten the mood. She nodded, and I walked outside to feel the morning rays on my black suit. When I got to my car, I turned on the radio and scanned through the stations looking for the only one without the ads and depressing news stories. This was my time: to decompress, to be alone, void of distractions and people—my ten minutes. This was my meditation, my relaxation, my break, from the world, the chaos, the calamities, and the terrorism. I drive on autopilot, not stressing about anyone or anything. 16

When I pulled into the parking garage I grabbed my boring business bag, opened the door of my normal car, and walked into my state of the art normal office building in my normal business suit. Almost everything was normal, but something was off today. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was definitely wrong. I scanned my government badge and walked under the colossal letters in yellow, “F.B.I.” I took the elevator up to the 23rd floor, and I waltzed past the terrorist profiling sign, into our pod, then to my office. I sat down and got my desk organized, but before I could open my first case for the day, I was startled by the team leader rounding up the employees, standing on a desk in the middle of the pod. “. . . Hands on deck today, ladies and gentlemen. As you might have heard on the news this morning, there was a drone attack on an elderly community, a third home was attacked today. All private elderly communities.” I could hear from the back of the small crowd that had formed around my boss. “All we have been able to gather so far is that our suspect is a twenty-five-year-old male named Thomas Fries from Oregon. Let’s get to work!” he exclaimed. “Wait, I almost forgot. JJ, you will be the lead

profiler on this case. Any and all information you gather should be immediately brought to the attention of the lead profiler, JJ Wilson.” This was my time to shine, my time to be the leader and prove myself worthy of this position. I had been waiting for this all my career. “Alright everyone,” I yelled, as I jumped up onto the desk. “Let’s get this show on the road,” I demanded. “We are gonna run this one a bit differently! I’m gonna break you into small teams and assign you part of his life to focus on.” I raised my hands as if I was a gym teacher making teams for a dodgeball tournament. “Team one, you are working on financials. If he bought a cookie from a lemonade stand on the side of the highway, I wanna know about it!” I commanded. They turned around and got to work. “Team two,” I shouted, “You work on family and friends. Find out what would make him do this – I need a motive, people.” They too turned and got right to work. “Team three,” I exclaimed, “You’re working technology. We need to know the radius of control on this drone, and if we can take it over.” They walked over to their computers and started typing. “Group Four,” I said, the smallest one, 17

Zheng “Richard” Xie ’20 Lines & Faces, Ink

so we can gather as much information as we can.” This terrorist seems especially skilled in technology and explosive engineering. We didn’t get out of the office much, if at all, because we were the brains of the operation, processing the information that was brought to us by field agents. But what we needed was to be in the field. This would allow us to experience the destruction that he created. This act seemed to have no emotional tie, because it didn’t seem as though he was at the scenes. When I arrived on at the scene of the third attack it was horrendous. The building had huge craters. I was approached by the lead ground agent. “What do we got?” I inquired. “Looks like three drones struck from different sides. What are you doing out here dressed like that?” he questioned. “My job!” I snapped back as I walked away from him to take a look at the damage. I wondered how a drone could hold enough explosives to do this much damage. As I was searching the rubble, I heard a faint humming, the humming of drone rotors. I reached for my sidearm, but was careful not to whip it out too fast. As I raised my head I saw a drone.

This one was different from the explosive ones that created this disaster. It was a recon drone. I stared right into the camera of the drone, lined up my shot, and fired several times. The drone tried to evade the bullets, but I hit the motherboard and it plummeted from the sky. I knew that the one controlling the recon drone was the drone bomber, and now he knew I was in charge. We gathered our information, but this guy was good. It took us several days to gather basic information on him. Because I was team leader on this investigation, I spent all my time at the office, with very minimal sleep, day in and day out. This terrorist was also a hacker, pinging his signal all over the world. He obviously had skill. It’s just a damn shame he didn’t use it for good. I was attempting to put this puzzle together in my office with information trickling in here and there, nothing groundbreaking, but we were getting closer to his location. We had gathered that he was very close to every attack, within 250 yards. I needed a break, so I left the office for a ride around the block. I left, turned on the music, and drove around the town in the late morning sun.

was about to sit down, the phone rang. There were just a few people in the office sifting through all the information we had gathered. This phone call was especially weird because it was 1:00 in the afternoon on a Sunday. “Hello?” “Hello JJ,” responded the caller in a warped, but low pitched voice. “It’s nice to finally hear from you.” “Who is this?” I inquired. “And how did you get this number?” “That’s not important,” said the caller. “However, what is important is for you to let me free these poor people of their pain.” That’s when I knew exactly who it was, and signaled to one of the few working agents to trace the call. I kept him talking and pretended to not know what he was talking about. “What people are you talking about?” I asked trying to act as normal as possible as my hands shook. “Those suffering with no way to end their pain,” he said. “Who is this again?” I asked to try to keep him on the line. “Never mind that. You should be more worried about your wife at home cleaning,” he said. “Don’t you dare lay a finger on her. If you do I will . . .” I screamed in rage.

Just as I returned to the office and 20

“Don’t worry I’m just hovering around. I’ll just wait for you to start the show,” he said, his voice still scrambled. With that the phone line went dead and the agent that was tracing the call shook his head. We hadn’t gotten a trace on his call, but I knew exactly where he was. I dashed down the stairs into the parking garage and raced home, my heart pounding. There was an unfamiliar car parked in my driveway. I skid into the driveway, jumped out of the car and as I ran to the backyard a loud noise cracked through the sky. I saw her sprawled out face down on a lawn chair under the sweltering summer sun by the shimmering crystal clear pool. The chair was soaked as if she had just gotten out of the pool, but she couldn’t swim. It seeped through the fabric of the chair, ran down the legs, and pooled at the bottom of all four, glistening in the sun. I ran over to her and was relieved when I rolled her over to find that she was not my wife. When her husband found out he would be devastated, and my wife would never understand. I saw boot prints leading away from my house and heard car wheels screeching. So I did what any sensible man in my position

would do. I got on top of her and tried to stop the bleeding, but it was too late. The cleaning lady was dead. I followed the footprints with my gun drawn. As I rounded the corner, I put several rounds through the rear window. The car kept barreling down the road, but then it hit a telephone pole. I ran over to the car, with my sidearm still drawn, and looked inside to find a dead terrorist. As I was still processing this, my wife’s car pulled up behind the wreck and my wife, a nurse, jumped out of the car. “He’s dead,” I said. “He’s dead.”

John Wilson ’19

Dat Tien Nguyen Photograph

my current self, only to see how much I have grown from this stranger in the photo. “Get up before I grab the broom!” was the first sentence I remember hearing on the day we took that picture. The sun was not up yet, but there my mom was, glaring at me with her fiery eyes. All my protests were in vain. It was a Saturday in July, which meant religious ceremony. We had to get up at four to catch the coach to Tam Dao (Three Mountains) at five. So, I got up and did my morning routine to the rooster’s crowing. Both of my younger sisters were also awake, but barely. The youngest one is the

ooking at this photograph of a carefree 9-year-old child, untainted by the pressure and filth of life, I cannot believe I was once him. Surrounded by friends, he smiled as if nothing bad would ever happen to him, as if the world around him would never shatter, and he would be its center forever. Within a few months, he would be gasping for air, drowning in a foreign ocean of challenges. His transition into me would be an arduous and unsteady path. Still, in this picture, he was enjoying himself in his blue Buddhist uniform, having a wonderful time. I reminisce and recollect

smug-looking toddler in the center. Standing in a small tree, the other one, whose face is hidden by the branch, could creep out those viewing the picture at first glance. By four thirty, we were all dressed and ready to go. We left the house and met our neighbors, who would be joining us on this pilgrimage. First, we joined uncle Son, the woodworker next door, and his kids, Nhim and Cu. He and his wife were doing well for their family at the time, but their fights were always the loudest. Cu is the boy on the far right on the photo. He was my best friend. Despite his lighter skin, he was our fastest runner and fiercest fighter. Kids with white skin were usually the richest and softest. The two of us were famous for our raids on local starfruit trees and escapes from Tumi, the scary mutt. Cu was not very good at school but still had all the coolest toys. Cu and I were young boys, without a single care in the world. The only thing that mattered to us at the time was school, what we were going to play once we got home, and who could run the fastest. Sometimes, the question whether those were the happiest days of my life or the most ignorant pops up, to which the ultimate conclusion is neither, but simply the most innocent. His sister, Nhim, was only five years old at the time, so we did not allow her to play with us much. She was the closest person to a princess in our group. A slight scratch would send her running, crying all the way to Uncle Son, who later would be waiting for Cu with his bamboo rod at their

door. She is the small girl in pink. The next family to join us was aunt Linhâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. She owned a street-food stand on Hoang Hoa Tham Street, which provided enough for her and her only daughter, Tuyet. Her Bun Moc (meatball noodle soup) was the best in town. In the photo, Tuyet is the tallest and prettiest girl, whose smile charmed me even back in elementary school. Growing up without a father made her tough, capable of taking care of herself at a very young age. She was way more mature than any of us, always knowing what we should and should not do. Once, I had been inside her room, which was very simple. It was on the second floor, preceded by the bathroom. It was as small as a minivan, consisting only of a small wardrobe, a mattress she used as a bed, and a stack of calendars she used to count the day until her father would be released from prison. I was oblivious to that fact that her dad was a drug dealer. My innocence led to being insensitive to her about this subject. I did not understand her sadness every time I complained about my dad being mean. I was not mature enough to see the jealousy behind it. Standing next to Tuyet in the photo is Ha, the skinny, dark girl. Our group marched to the small alley where her home stood. One could tell from the rusty metal gate that their family was poor. Their entire complex was approximately twice the size of Tuyetâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s room, but a family of five had to live there. Their kitchen, bedroom, living room,

and bathroom were the same room. The wall was not painted, showing the cracked and peeling bricks. A wooden shaft divided the small room into two floors, making a makeshift bunk bed. Her drunk father, probably blacked out at his construction site, was not home that night. Ha was fond of these religious trips since they meant a few days she did not have to work. Every morning, at four oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock, she would have to go with Ms. Quynh, her mother, to the market and sell vegetables. Her tiny shoulders were toughened by the daily four kilometers trip with a giant yoke. She was overworked and underfed, yet content. She believed the suffering was from her bad karma, and as long as she was a good person, her life would improve. She yearned for a better life, where she would have the time and money to read and learn all she could. She embodied the average Vietnamese situation: poor and underdeveloped, but resilient. Personally, I did not enjoy her company. She often smelled sour and looked like one of the street urchins. I lacked the maturity needed for sympathy. I regret not realizing the strength - physical and mental - of this young woman until very recently. With everyone assembled, we got on the coach. The children slept the entire two-hour trip, drooling with their mouths open, while the adults were busy chatting with their acquaintances. By seven thirty, we reached our destination, Van Son Meditation Temple. Up a hill to the left of the parking lot was the

assembly hall. In front of the hall was a large yard. The yard had lines of gravel dividing it up into squares. It was an unspoken rule between us that one could not step onto these lines. Walking across the yard to the left was the dining hall and bathroom. To accommodate hundreds of worshippers, the facilities were quite large and modern. The ceremony would begin at eight, so the kids had some down time. We met up with other kids, ran up and down the hill, chased each other, and played hide and seek. After the bell tolled, everyone gathered at the hall to pray. The day consisted of praying, eating lunch in prayer, noon nap in prayer, more praying, and listening to a religious lecture, which was not very appealing to us. The majority of the attendees were from the poor strata. Small farmers and low-wage blue collar workers came in droves, their outfits ragged, skin tanned and callous. Vietnam was poor, and so was her people. My compatriots, who in legend originated from the same womb of Au Co, were struggling in poverty and suffering. I did not understand that fact and merely saw these events as fun field trips with my friends. The seven of us played and played, only stopping temporarily when the adults scolded us. I saw and pursued only the fun in things, never stopping to care about the suffering and poverty around us or consider the deeper meaning. And so the rest of the day went with games and laughter. We took the photo when the ceremonies were done, as we packed up and got ready to

An Tien Nguyen ’20 The Lavender Corner of Hoi An, Photograph me realize how much my country was lagging behind. Being lucky enough to rise through the mud like a lotus, I must be aware of the distress. I must keep on moving forward and continue to grow. I shall carry with me not only my people’s pain and suffering, but also their hopes and dreams and wear them with pride. I shall use this one-and-only chance of being in America to bring back knowledge. I shall dedicate this fortunate life to others. I shall pry these immature eyes open, so I can see the world as what it is. Only then can I truly do whatever is in my power to share the burden of those around me, even just a little bit. An Tien Nguyen ’20

leave. I smiled after a day of non-stop fun. I was too shallow to care about anything important. Rivers of tears were flowing from parents mourning their dead children, yet I was blind. How could I overlook such tragedies, such pain? He kept on smiling like the ignorant child he was. I can no longer look at this photo and see a cute child, without being tortured by the faults of my past. After transferring to a nicer school, I suddenly understood how Ha must have felt: different, scruffy, and disliked. After my dad’s business improved and he distanced himself away from home, I saw myself in Tuyet’s shoes. Witnessing the polar opposite world made

Professor Wang 㟨庁Ⱁ㢴歝 As deep as ocean ゗㋸⇋䀆䂀 As warm as breeze 㫒㧝䅰⮸ₚ With children all over the world 㢴㣥拜⥪㡈 In their memory your soul forever lives

Noah Kantor ’19 Luminescence, Photograph

n the delicate wooden handmade chair, Professor Wang sits with his back straight. He is reading a thick medical book, the small font hard to read at his age, under a subdued linen lamp with a magnifier. He pauses sometimes and flips the thin page over. On his left side lies glasses with a golden edge, an old, thick pair Wang has worn for over ten years. It’s Chinese New Year’s Eve, and the family dinner has finished. The TV keeps playing the national celebrating party. The fireworks outside the window mean the approaching of a new year, but Wang stays in his office while everyone else is gathering in the dining room. He is waiting for the rings of phone calls coming all at once from his students all over the world, like every past year. He drinks some tea from his white porcelain cup. Finally, the phone rings, and Wang puts down his magnifying glass and stands up. “Привет, Romy!” — pure Russian accent. Professor Wang was born in an educated but poor family that lived on calligraphy services and a hardware store. With love and passion for writing, he started to write pieces in middle school. Later on, he published all kinds of pieces in literary magazines: prose, poems, plays, and translations of foreign literature. Because of his family’s condition, Wang applied to public universities. The

institution where he enrolled, at last, was a business college in Shanghai, as a major in international trade. “Yes, I love writing. Putting down words on papers gives me energy; it enlightens my life. Yet when you are choosing a future path, you want to approach a field that can make your country a better one, a competitive one on the stage of this developing world. The other countries are not going to wait for us, and we were the future of China. I am not going to sit in my chair and read literature while other countries are taking over our economic power.” The institution promised Professor Wang a housing fee waiver for his outstanding academic performance, yet they broke the contract after Wang enrolled. Wang joined the Communist Party, which was then protesting against the unfairness. He led the protesting within his college with his writing skills and his editor position in the college student newspaper. “I am not going to throw rocks at the administration office,” laughed Professor Wang. “That is not my style. Words and languages are stronger than a thousand rocks. After four months, everyone in my business college started to protest against the institution. Administration officials had to read countless proposals from furious students. Before the first winter came, I received my official waiver.” After he earned the graduate degree, Wang became an associate professor in one of the best business colleges of China in

Beijing, teaching foreign trade to undergraduates. He had been invited to all parts of China, from Tibet to Hong Kong, for lectures. One time he was giving a lecture to a public college in the South. All the local trade bureaus were closed that day. The entire staff took the day off and squeezed themselves into the small auditorium of the university. The institution gave Professor Wang a small lecture room at the beginning because they could hardly imagine so many people would come. Wang still was too young to be popular. The summer in Southern China was hot and wet with bugs everywhere. Yet people kept crowding into the small room, so the institution moved everyone to the only auditorium. During the 1960s, the relationship between China and the Soviet Union started to break up, which spread as so far as to Eastern Europe. Yet as a professor in international trade, Wang had students from countries all over the world: the Soviet Union, the United States, Korea, Germany, Japan, and Vietnam, to name a few. From then on, Wang stayed in the middle of his students and the university officers. “At the start, I didn’t think it would last for the next twenty years,” Wang said as he shook his head and straightened up his grey wool blazer. “All I have thought was to protect my students. They came all the way from their home and sat here, wanting to learn something from us, China. They were the potential diplomats, our future friends. I

can’t let them down. Yet you know, the party was not happy. They suspected the students being spies from their original countries who were here to steal our information. They asked me not to teach anything. ‘Less they know, safer we are.’ That was what they told me.” With the pressure from both sides, Professor Wang kept his commitment and had foreign senior students graduating year after year. One of the phone calls he expects every year is from Romy King, a Russian student in his class of 1964. Wang still keeps their group photo from Romy’s graduation in a wooden photo frame on his writing desk. After that, Wang’s life was like a normal professor’s: doing research, publishing books, and giving lectures until retirement. With love from his family and his students coming back to visit him, everyone thought Wang would enjoy the last years of his life and pass away in peace. No one expected that one day a desperate illness would hit such a gentle and highly respected scholar in his eighties. One day when Wang stared at his granddaughter, he couldn’t remember her name. After a month, his family received the diagnostic report from the hospital. It was Alzheimer’s. Wang was calm. Alzheimer’s didn’t crush him. Instead, it gave him motivation, a motivation to make the most of his life. Wang read books in the morning as usual with a cup of green tea by his side. Sometimes he stood up and strolled to the balcony to enjoy

Jingting “Gina” Xie ’20 Ink

the warmth of morning sunlight. In the afternoon he took a nap like in the good old days. However, he was becoming more active and passionate. Wang had to compete with time and the eraser in his brain that was taking his memory away from him piece by piece. He started to call his students to discuss the latest international news instead of waiting for the phone ring. During weekends, he invited his son and daughter to bring their family over for a meal. If he found it difficult to concentrate, he would sit on the couch with his wife watching TV shows. No matter how hard Wang tried, his memory and his cognition were fading away. When he looked at his beloved family, the faces were becoming unfamiliar. At last, after two years, Wang couldn’t read a single line or recognize a single person. His eyes would only light up when his wife held his hands. It was a chill summer night that Professor Wang passed away, leaving all his beloved family, students, books, and trading theories behind. He was eighty-seven. Around his graveyard lay bouquets from his students. On the marble tombstone is engraved:

㟨庁Ⱁ㢴歝 As deep as ocean ゗㋸⇋䀆䂀 As warm as breeze 㫒㧝䅰⮸ₚ With children all over the world 㢴㣥拜⥪㡈 In their memory your soul forever lives Yuke “Heidi” Wu ’19

ASCEND TO THE SPHINX What is healed, healer trembling at the sight of blood? What is dreamt, dreamer I buried alive? What is—

Oh fortune, bountiful unfound Oh endless road, winding and sweet Oh mountain, imposing shadow Oh creature, ominous and wise

Beyond your charm? Beyond the chasm?

A weary traveler’s song never ends Chorus unyielding, notes taut

Oh Lion’s Mane, overflow of pride Oh Less Permanent, than the Sahara sands

Taught by a man more dust than skin Man more human than I

I, Speechless for your unknown glory I, Surrounded by bones and

Imploring my aching youth To seek the True Elixir

Among fraying feathers Among the breeze of wings unused

Spilling from familiar lips Spread by wind

Why have you become one with the mount? Why have you—

Wonsick “Robert” Oh ’19 Remorse, Pastel

Wind spread by wings Glorious and flightless,

—changed, changing but forever gone? What is left behind but forever present? What is bird outside of cage? What is pride outside of king? What is blood outside of veins? What is word outside of mouth?

Oh Being Above All, grant me your song Tell me why you fused paws to the cliff face— A fortune teller telling who I would find A crystal ball latent, laid to rest in hope A wish, wishing for a second coming

A birth into nonexistence.

A love, loving songbird with viscous vocals A life, living too richly and wholly unfinished A lie, laying to rest what cannot be

Celina Rivernider ’19

Rubicon

2019

Editor Ruoyi “Suki” Liu ’19 Deputy Editors Muwei “Katherine” Xu ’20 Yinqi “Sherry” Yang ’20 Adviser Heidi Ostendarp

Editorial Policy

Special Thanks Josh Bain Paul Bloomfield Kristen Casey Kiayani Douglas Brian Easler Tim Harrington ’73

Russ Held Amy Mathison Marxan Pescetta Bill Rosenbeck Sue Wood

Colophon

Mission

The mission of “Rubicon” is to publish excellent artwork and writing from as wide a swath of the student body as possible.

Cover

Ruoyi “Suki” Liu ’19 An Obsolete Book, Book and Wire

Haowen “Justin” Wang ’19 Swan, Ceramic

Editorial Team

Yuke “Heidi” Wu ’19

Rubicon Vol. 5

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Wilbraham & Monson Academy