Rubicon 2016-2017

rubicon Vol.3

2017 WILBRAHAM & MONSON ACADEMY

Wilbraham & Monson Academy 423 Main Street Wilbraham, MA 01095 Photograph Wendy Decker

(413) 596-6811 rubicon@wma.us

ALEA IACTA EST In 49 BC, Roman General and would-be Emperor Julius Caesar marched south from Gaul (present-day France) toward Rome with his 13th Legion. As he and his soldiers marched into present-day Italy, they paused at a narrow river that was barely more than a creek. It was the Rubicon: the northern outer boundary of Rome proper. Caesar knew that to lead his troops across that river would be tantamount to treason against the Roman Republic. According to an actual bystander at the river crossing, Caesar said aloud, “alea iacta est” (The die is cast). From that moment, there was no turning back.

Over time, the phrase “crossing the Rubicon” has come to mean that point where there is no turning back: the point of no return. To the person crossing his or her own Rubicon, it is that point where all you can do is your best and all you can say is “what happens, happens.”

For decades at Wilbraham Academy, crossing the creek that cuts across campus by way of the Senior Bridge was forbidden to underclassmen. Any underclassman caught (especially any freshman!) was at the mercy of the seniors. Given the risky nature of crossing

the creek, it soon earned the name “Rubicon.” To this day, the name fits because every morning all the upper school students cross the Rubicon on their way to class, and at that point, all they can do is their best.

The name Rubicon has developed a special meaning for student writers and artists at the Academy. Beginning in 1955 and most years since that day, the students of Wilbraham Academy and later Wilbraham & Monson Academy have published a literary magazine called “The Rubicon,” which presents and preserves the best work done by students over the course of the year. For these students, drawing or painting a work of art, or writing a poem or a short story and submitting it to be judged is surely “crossing the Rubicon.” The writers and artists whose work is published in these pages—as well as those students whose work was not accepted for publication this year—have each taken a very big risk. We recognize that and we thank all of you for your wonderful submissions. It is the sincere hope of the Rubicon staff that you enjoy the marvelous student work in this year’s magazine.

Tim Harrington ’73

R U B I C O N 201 7 EDITORIAL TEAM Editor Insun “Sunny” Kim ’18 Messenger of the Gods Wongeun “Allen” Park ’18 Goddess of Necessity Lin “Linda” Gong ’18 Goddess of Wisdom Yewon “Jamie” Lee ’20 Faculty Adviser Heidi Ostendarp

COLOPHON The text was composed in 11 point Minion Pro. Photoshop and InDesign were employed in its design. Starburst Printing & Graphics in Holliston, Massachusetts printed 450 copies on 70 # uncoated paper stock using Konica 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.

• To become a student-run publication.

SPECIAL THANKS Josh Bain Paul Bloomfield Kristen Casey Barbara Conlon Wendy Decker Brian Easler Dean Guarino Tim Harrington ’73

Russ Held Donald Kelly Marvina Lowry-Brook Sommer Mahoney ’11 Liz Mitchell-Kelly ’04 Marxan Pescetta Bill Rosenbeck Sue Wood

EDITORIAL POLICY In 2017, a panel of faculty judges culled through writing submissions and awarded honorable mentions and first prizes in four categories: poems, academic essays, memoirs, and short stories. First place entries and honorable mentions appear in this publication.

In addition, Editor “Sunny” Kim ’18 also selected pieces from those submitted by students in the Creative Writing Workshop. The “Rubicon” staff, which met during the winter season, selected from excellent student artwork, pairing images visually and thematically with pieces of writing.

COVER Front & Back Cover: Insun “Sunny” Kim ’18

CONTENTS

POEMS

STORIES As Simple as Goodbye

Emma Kindblom ’17 March Third

Julia Diderich ’17 Broccoliam

Rhys Kulig ’17

24 41 49

CREATIVE NONFICTION Sometime in August

Emily Dromgold ’17 Non-Formulaic

Jiaming “Martin” Mao ’17 A Powerful Christmas Song

Nicolas Dubois ’18 When the Candle Burns Out

Korynna Rankin ’18 The Goverment is Hiding the Aliens

Dylan Lattell ’17

05 13 18 28 34

PROSE POEM Blind

Erika Convery ’19

Paper Houses

Emily Dromgold ’17 You Never Get Old

Chenyu “Carney” Wang ’17 Love Can Be Deceiving

Lauren Poole ’17 Switch

Lauren Foley ’17 Holy Shards of Prayer

Emily Dromgold ’17 Hurricane Matthew

Morah Palmer ’17 Ode to a Quaking Aspen Tree

Emma Kindblom ’17 Indescribable

Lauren Foley ’17 Ode to Fire and Water

Dylan Lattell ’17 Prōcēdere

Anthony Arnieri ’18

15 16 22 37 38 44 46 51 59 66

ACADEMIC ESSAYS 32

The Fall of Women

Isaias “Ikas” de Brito Trindade ’17 True Justice

Emily Dromgold ’17 Madonna of the Rose & Thorn

Julianne Schmidt ’17

07 53 61

VISUAL ARTS Photograph

Wendy Decker Photograph

Meng Hsin “Maggie” Hsiao ’17 Charcoal and acrylic

Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Painting

Yi Shi ’17 Photograph

Peter Labbe ’17 Photograph

Peter Labbe ’17 Pen

Mina Lee ’17 Pen

Mina Lee ’17 Pen

Mina Lee ’17 Photograph

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

Yirui “Elaine” Dong ’18 Photograph

Margarita “Margo” Demkina ’20 Pencil

Paula Fuentes ’18 Photograph

Noah Kantor ’19

00 04 08 12 15 17 18 19 20 23 24 26 28 32

Mixed media 35

Marthé Cable ’17 Photograph 36

Yewon “Jamie” Lee ’20 Photograph 38

Meng Hsin “Maggie” Hsaio ’17 Color pencil 40

Yi Shi ’17 Photograph 45

Shixing “Cherry” Wang ’21 Drawing 46

Yi Shi ’17 Cardboard and adhesive 48

Mina Lee ’17 Drawing 51

Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Mixed media 52

Mina Lee ’17 Silkscreen on paper 55

Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Photograph 59

Peter Labbe ’17 Drawing 60

Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Photograph 62

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph 66

Yewon “Jamie” Lee ’20

Sometime in August Loving is living in the present. Loving is being happy. Loving is the best thing I can be in this world.

H

in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows or why creativity isn’t stressed in schools. And although she probably doesn’t see much through her eyes anymore, she helps me push my thoughts away for moments and see only her and her happiness. And for a few seconds each morning, all I feel is her simple joy of belly rubs and the present.

umans are not destined to find a defining moment where they discover who they are.

My dog knows that.

Meng Hsin “Maggie” Hsiao ’17 Photograph

Before April 16thEven though many people see a fourteen pound senior waddling around on hard wood floors and plopping down on a burgundy patterned rug, I see cataract beacons of the present. Every morning when I trudge down the stairs, she’s laying under the kitchen table waiting for me to give her the same morning belly rub. She doesn’t bother to worry about who will be the next president, why JK Rowling had to kill Snape

In many ways, it’s my favorite time of the day.

After April 16thThe place under my chair at the kitchen table is empty, hardwood floors untouched by little paws.

I like my coffee strong and after noon with

5

And perhaps by doing such a small yet life changing thing, giving love, perhaps Prin shared the key to everything.

sugar and light creamer. In the morning I do my best to do as she taught me and only think of jasmine and green as I sip my tea and conjure memories of giving belly rubs in the morning.

Loving is living in the present. Loving is being happy. Loving is the best thing I can be in this world.

I learn to smile afterwards.

Sometime in AugustThe world is more beautiful than it has been in a while. Wild flowers burst with pink and red by a stream. Dew clings to my sneakers and socks. The air is humid.

This white house with its brown fence is somewhere I’ve never been. Still, suddenly I find myself with a small white dog pulling me around the yard showing me hideout places above streams and sunlight through this wild garden untouched.

Early JulyIt’s five after one. The clock ticks, pink striped beach towels are drying outside.

I recall some conversation about how we know we exist and my best friend’s laughter intertwining with my own.

For years, I pondered what to do with my life. I sat with books in hand pausing to think about my life’s purpose. Struggling to decide in my thirteen, fourteen, sixteen year old mind. Journalist, musician, teacher, scientist. You can do all of these things. What will you do? You love piano. You love writing. You love animals. You love learning.

He runs for adventure, rolls in the grass, and finally decides to sit right on my lap. His brown eyes speak a message familiar to me from before she left.

I couldn’t hear this message alone but with a little help, I am whole again.

All the while, Prin waited for her belly rub each morning, poked me with her nose for cookies and dreaded going on walks but ran home for treats. Such simple things.

I remember, how without saying anything, she would say everything.

Late JulyPrin had many skills: Eating so fast she forgot to choke, decorating the floor with dog food, hiding her Greenie bones in plain sight.

And now, so does Max. So do we.

However, her best skill was love. Loving.

Emily Dromgold ’17 6

The Fall

of

Women

What caused gender inequality?

T

he oppression of women is often attributed to nature, divine will, or some other plan that is supposed to lead to a greater good. However, any analysis of the development of society shows that there was never such a plan. The oppression of women was an accident—and like most accidents, it was a mistake. History shows that women have not always had an inferior position in relation to man. The gender inequality that has long plagued our societies is a side effect of the combination of the biological differences between males and females and the developments that occurred in human societies. Eventually, this oppressive system was passed down to our cultures, and these values inevitably ensure the preservation of gender inequality in the modern world. The origin of the gender inequality that our patriarchal cultures inherited is in developmental stages of human societies, where the biological

differences between the sexes enabled men to have an advantage over women.

Contrary to popular belief, the status of women in society has not always been secondary to men. We can observe cases of equal status of women in relation to men before the development of agricultural societies. In her review of the argument of the Marxist philosopher Friedrich Engels, the writer Sharon Smith—who is one of the leading writers for the International Socialist Review—confirms this by explaining that it can be seen in the modern world through the study of primitive societies. For instance, the Iroquois Confederacy was not patriarchal because women controlled the food supply. Food is essential for any activity performed by males (i.e. hunting, war, and administration). Thus, Iroquois women were able to have some influence in society. They could, for example, “prevent a war party which lacked their approval by not giving 7

Danial Qin-Dong ’17 Charcoal and acrylic

the supplies of dried corn” that “the warriors required” (Smith 9). In fact, this claim is reinforced by a 1982 study by the scholars Ronald Stover and Christine Hope that was published in the world-renowned social research journal, Social Forces. Stover and Hope analyzed the relation between monotheistic beliefs and gender status and found that societies such as the Iroquois––without a “high god” and with a “hunting subsistence pattern”––fit the profile of communities with “the least gender inequality” (Stover 342).

Even though women had a better status in primitive societies, they have never been in a superior position to men, regardless of time and region (Jackson 29). After the development of agricultural communities, gender inequality becomes the norm in human societies. For this reason, we can conclude that there must have been transformations in the Neolithic stage that established gender inequality in human societies.

During the development of agriculture, the biological differences between the sexes started to play a role that led to the inferior position of women in society. Although males are on average stronger than females, the only absolute and universal difference between males and females is in terms of reproductive functions. With the creation of agricultural surplus and private property came the division of labor. This division of labor also happened along gender lines because of the biological differences between men and women and the need to

produce more. This need for surplus created a demand for labor. “Thus,” Smith writes, “unlike hunter-gatherer societies, which sought to limit the number of offsprings, agricultural societies sought to maximize women’s reproductive potential” (11).

Similarly, the physical advantage that men have in relation to women enabled them to play a central role in activities such as hunting, fishing, farming, and fighting. These activities “were more likely to award men superior” status in society, while women’s reproductive role led to more time within the household (Jackson 44). Eventually, these trends resulted in gender inequality.

Monogamy was necessary to ensure the wife’s fidelity and a man’s paternity of his children. Thus, our conception of marriage emerged. Because men had a superior position within the household, with the rise of private property, the inheritance of assets shifted from the female to the male lineage––to ensure that property went to his children or relatives and not only to hers (Smith 15). These factors caused the complete dependence of women on men, and thus, the reduction of women’s roles to servile ones. As time progressed, this oppressive system was absorbed into our cultures.

The cultural and religious practices that today preserve the inferior status of women were handed down to our societies from earlier ones. After thousands of years of patriarchal culture, it would be impossible to identify every single patriarchal practice.

9

However, we can use as examples some notorious practices of today that happen across different regions of the world, practices such as the dowry, primogeniture, and patrilocality. A well-known tradition that leads to the economic exclusion of women is patrilineality. Under this system, names and property are passed to the next generation through male descendants. As stated by Friedrich Engels, the creation of patrilineality was “the world’s historical defeat of the female sex” (Smith 15). Engels’ statement is correct because patrilineality seems to be the most universal of these practices––existing in most cultures at some point in history.

Patrilineality necessarily leads to a promale bias because of the desire to maintain property within a family. It also leads to the economic dependence of women on their husbands. A famous example of the dangers of patrilineality is the marital history of King Henry VIII of England. His desire to have a son to ensure the line of succession to the throne subsequently led to his evaluation of his wives lives according to their perceived capacity to produce such an heir. Furthermore, religion is another part of culture that drives gender inequality.

Influenced by the societies in which they emerged, many major religions adopted practices that preserved and increased gender inequality. All three major monotheistic faiths––Judaism, Christianity, and Islam––not only instruct women on their subordinate role but also prevent them

from assuming leadership positions in the clergy. Confucianism and Hinduism are not exceptions; they also perpetuate gender inequality by encouraging a preference for sons, patrilocality, and patrilineality (Jayachandran 13). In fact, the findings of Stover and Hopes’ study “provide strong support for the argument that there is a positive relationship between the existence of monotheistic beliefs and gender inequality” (346).

This evidence suggests that religions are one of the leading causes of gender inequality in the modern world. However, these beliefs have been influenced by societal norms that preceded their existence, and these values lead to practices that must be reformed.

The inequality between genders that has harmed our societies for millennia was an accident that resulted from the combination of some of the main historical trends and the biological differences between men and women. The excuse to ensure the preservation of this offensive system has been the false assumption that women’s nature makes them submissive, vain, and incapable of any activity beyond the household. First, no human being should be reduced to such broad generalization––we cannot encapsulate half of humankind into restrictive parameters of identity. Second, these traits in women are only a result of the oppressive systems in which they find themselves. For thousands of years, our societies and their institutions have been training women to adopt submissive, dependent, and passive 10

roles. If we made our sisters entirely dependent on their husbands, as the 19th-century philosopher John Stuart Mill said, “it would be a miracle if the objective of being attractive to men had not become the polar star of feminine education and formation of character” (9). In fact, these (and many other) factors of women’s education are confirmed in accounts from girls in Lesotho, Jordan, Iceland, and the United Kingdom (BBC).

Tradition should never be an excuse for oppression. We have seen similar cruelties in times and places where it was said that the nature of black people made them subjects to white people, or even when serfs were subservient to feudal lords, or plebeians to patricians. In short, this is not new to humanity.

Being born to a particular caste, social class, race, or gender should not determine what a human being can or cannot be or do. Any cultural practice that preserves the oppression of human beings should be overthrown because in their essence, these practices are a hazard to the law of nature. What gives us the right to contest their legitimacy, and act in agreement with freedom and equality?

Some disagree with this fight for justice. In response, we as a society must look in the mirror and reevaluate our values. Then, we should take a better look at the subjection of women, and recognize in its clamor the hypocrisy that we cannot see in the mirror.

Isaias “Ikas” de Brito Trindade ’17

Works Cited Engels, Frederick. Origins of the Family, Private Property, and the State. Lawrence and Wishart, 1942.

Jackson, Robert Max. “Chapter 2. Analyzing the Persistence of Gender Inequality: How to Think about the Origins of Gender Inequality.” Down So Long…: The Puzzling Persistence of Gender Inequality. New York University Classes.

Sociology of Sex and Gender. New York University. Accessed 4 Feb. 2016.

Jayachandran, Seema. “The Roots of Gender Inequality in Developing Countries.”

Annual Review of Economics 7.1, 2015, pp. 63-88. Northwestern University.

Accessed 3 Feb. 2016.

Mill, John Stuart. The Subjection of Women.

London. Longmans, Green, Reader & Dyer, 1869. Hardpress Ltd, 2013.

Accessed 13 Feb. 2016.

Smith, Sharon. “Engels and the Origin of Women’s Oppression.” International Socialist Review. Accessed 3 Feb. 2016.

Stover, Ronald G. and Christine A. Hope.

“Monotheism and Gender Status: A Cross-societal Study.” Social Forces 63.2 1984. pp. 335–348. Accessed Feb. 2016.

“What Stands in the Way of Women Being Equal to Men? BBC News.” YouTube.

BBC, Accessed 3 Feb. 2016.

11

Yi Shi ’17 Painting

Non-Formulaic No longer did I smudge the shading. The graphite scratched into the paper. Shah, shah, shah. Fish sprang out from the tip of the pencil.

Y

awning and stretching, I concluded my drawing session at midnight.

While washing my hands, I noticed that my mom posted a picture of me drawing on social media. The text below read: “A math student in his ‘artist dream.’”

Becoming an artist had been my dream since I was a kid. Chinese painting was my favorite class in kindergarten. When I stepped through the doorway, the fragrance of ink mixed with rice paper, light and sweet, filled my nostrils. Brush dipped into ink. Black pool shrank. Each hair soaked.

The next moment ink crawled along every strand of paper fiber like a thousand fish let loose from the tip of the brush. The next stroke followed, then another one, then another… Things disappeared. Desks.

Teachers. Myself. Nothing existed besides the paper and the brush. By the time I finished, my classmates disappeared as well.

I was good at math, too. Numbers made great sense to me. Everything in math was symmetrical. Everything was organized.

Everything had rules. All that required of me was to follow theses rules, putting boundaries on infinity until one single answer came out.

My artist dream was ruled out from the beginning.

Math turned out to be the only answer in everyone’s eyes, so I stopped making art. I became the perfect student my parents wanted me to be. I woke up, went to school, listened to the lectures, finished my homework, slept, and woke up again. I grew used to this routine, and felt comfortable 13

with it. I did well in school and won prizes.

One day, however, something beyond my calculation happened. My parents decided to send me to the U.S. for high school.

My parents took me to visit schools.

As they drove me to a school for interview, we came across a small hill enclosed in a busy town. On the top located campus, with tall, stony buildings surrounded by woods. I was dressed up in a shirt, a tie and a suit. The collar was so tight I could hardly breathe, so I rolled down the window for some chilly morning mist.

The admissions officer came and led us through different departments: Math Department. English Department. Science Department. Art Department. Entering a classroom, the smell of paint seeped into my nose. I was shocked. Paintings covered wall, ceilings, tables. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. A deer jumping above the cloud, a spaceship flying through the prairie, a blue shark turning its body around skyscrapers, a shoal of fish roaming above the night sky toward the moon right on top of my head. I felt overwhelmed. My father was talking to the admissions officer about how I enjoyed art but all I wanted to do was to push through the door and escape, like a prisoner locked in the dark for too long, afraid of seeing the light. Yet I did not run away.

That room haunted me, even after I was enrolled at another high school the same year. For a while, I could see the fish when I closed my eyes. There were a

thousand of them, stuck by invisible boundaries. One night after lights out, I stared into the bright full moon. I jumped out of my bed and turned the light back on. I pulled out a piece of paper and picked a pencil out of the box. Its smell was sweet but heavy. Usually, I would prefer softer pencils, but I chose H, which, though more brittle, was sharper and stiffer. No longer did I smudge the shading. The graphite scratched into the paper. Shah, shah, shah.

Fish sprang out from the tip of the pencil.

From that night on, I started my drawing session that lasted until today.

When I saw the post my mother wrote, I went through the door to her and said: “Mom, I want to study art.”

Jiaming “Martin” Mao ’17

14

Peter Labbe ’17 Photograph

Paper houses This world of fateful paper houses Each crease planned Dotted lines Cut Blank Shallow weight Several blueprints drafted White walls bleach and blind residents This Does not Work for Water Color Minds

Splashing blues greens reds Plaster walls vanish Beneath glimmering Intricacies Gusts where white walls Cru

mble From ashes

White confetti Veins crack between

Chasms exposed Where pigmented winds Fill gaps Refracting

Mosaic

Eternal White walls crumble where wind flies Emily Dromgold ’17

You Never Get Old You said your left eye was going blind Then I finally realized that you are getting old I’ve never thought about that before You smile a lot, you laugh a lot I’ve never thought you are old How young you are to see you dancing in the living room How young you are to see you watering the backyard I’ve never thought about you already being seventy years old I can still remember the days you took me to the school every morning picking up me every afternoon We ran together to catch the leaving buses We got on the crowded buses day by day How could I think you are getting old?

You look so young, you look so lively You just looked like the person who was waiting in the gate of my kindergarten However, you said your left eye was going blind Now I’ve been thinking about you getting old for the first time How long did I just leave you The same day last year, you could still watch clearly You could read the newspaper without the glasses You could watch the TV without having a rest How can one year change you so deeply?

You eventually get old I want to accept the truth but I’d rather not I miss the the day you took me to the park I miss the day you brought me to the countryside, we climbed up the mountain, we picked the tea leaves from the farm I hope we are staying in that moment forever So you will not be old and you will never be How cruel am I to let you cook on your own?

How cruel am I to go out with my friend every day? without staying at home, with you Time is really ruthless to everyone 16

I can do nothing with it The only thing I can do for you is to stay more with you My dear lovely grandma.

How deeply I wish The year, the month, the day, the hour, the minute, Just at the second You smiled at me at the gate of my kindergarten would become the eternity of you and me You will never be old again Chenyu “Carney” Wang ’17

Peter Labbe ’17 Photograph

A Powerful Christmas Song Singing with my grandfather during that trip added another layer to our physical and emotional bond. Although my Papi does not sing well, the accompaniment of young and old formed one true sound.

T

here was this one song I would sing with my Papi on the island of Martinique. It was a Christmas song, the kind that lifts your spirits and gives a boy, with no clue of how the world works, happiness.

I loved this song—not because of what the lyrics meant. I am not sure if I even understood what they meant at the time.

Looking at photo albums and seeing myself as a happy and smiling boy, I cannot remember a moment in my life that equaled the joy of singing in French with my Papi. I was not aware of my American identity, for in that moment, I was as French as it gets. I remember how happy it made my Papi feel that I was being introduced to my French heritage, and that he was

Petit Papa Noël.

Quand tu descendras du ciel avec des jouets par milliers, n’oublie pas mon petit soulier.

Mais avant de partir, il faudra bien te couvrir.

Dehors tu vas avoir si froid, c’est un peu à cause de moi.

18

“Write about your favorite place in the world,” teachers would ask me in school.

I would reply, “France, because my whole family lives there.”

I did not understand what this meant at the time because France was the only place I ever saw my family. This past summer, I went with my grandparents to a cemetery in Steene, France, where my great-grandfather was a mayor, to pay our respects. Looking at the graves, there was one that I noticed in particular. As I got closer, I saw more and more graves that shared my last name. But we share more that a last name. They are my ancestors; they are a large part of who I am today. I grew up seeing American names and values. Andries. This name is a physical and emotional connection to France and the centuries of history I shared with this country. We said a prayer in remembrance of their lives and their accomplishments, and asked them to watch over us. I realized a part of me is literally in French soil and roots.

But I am an outcast. In America, I am a “Frenchy,” and in France, I am an “Americain.” Amidst a group of French youth “wanna-be” Americans, the only thing I want is to fit in.

As a little boy, I was not affected by 19

Mina Lee ’17 Pen

an influence to what is now a strong French identity. He was happy that even though I was born an American, I would be raised French. So happy, in fact, that this time singing together defines our relationship even today.

I return to those moments with my grandfather on the porch, in the snorkeling boat, and on his lap. This was different than any other moment we spent together; it was special. It was a time of great communion and complicity. My Papi’s affection was always expressed with a “bonjour” and “bonne nuit” kiss on the check, and many hugs in between. Not acknowledging your family members in the beginning and end of the day was considered rude per French standards. Without these simple words and warm gestures, we were simply humans without connection. Singing with my grandfather during that trip added another layer to our physical and emotional bond. Although my Papi does not sing well, the accompaniment of young and old formed one true sound. Most likely an awful sound, but true. Today, whenever I ask him about those moments, it is as if our relationship had deepened.

France has always been a home away from home for me. Over the years, it has been associated with the joys of arriving in June and the heartbreak of leaving in August.

It acts as a safe haven where I can express my culture, language, sense of humor, and emotions.

Mina Lee ’17 Pen

this cultural identity struggle because I was indifferent. I was not defined by nationality. As I matured, this indifference could no longer be ignored because I was forced to identify as one or the other. Then came shame. I became ashamed of my French culture, especially my language. “Shhh. Be quiet. Speak in English,” I would say as my parents spoke to me in French at school or when I was with Americans in public. “Dad! Don’t kiss me on the cheek.” During my preteen years, I identified as an American not because of the dismissal of the French “me” but because of the growing importance of the American “me.” I was alone. My whole support system, my rock was in France. Of course, I had my parents and siblings, but they too were undergoing “Americanization.”

“American me” outweighed “French me.”

Of course, I was an alien in France, too. I was always introduced by my cousins or grandparents as “L’Americain”–the American. In these moments, I had no choice but to embody the associated “McDonald’s” American stereotypes. The same French stereotypes were pinned on me. Since I am French, I must eat frogs and escargots, say “Oui-oui,” and be rude and arrogant toward

Americans. It seemed impossible to me how the mix of McDonald’s and escargots can go together.

As I matured, my view toward this identity crisis changed. I began to view myself as French as I understood who I was as a boy.

(I, for some reason, am reminded of a photograph of me as a boy in Martinique. I imagine that same boy pictured in America rather than in France. He seems awfully different.)

I finally understood the reason behind visiting France every summer. I finally understood how precious it was discovering who I truly was. That, and the fact that I could not go without Camembert, Boursin, Comté, Caprice des Dieux, Chaussée aux Moines, etc. (There are 365 types of French cheese, one for every day of the year.)

The realization of my “Frenchness” began when I sang to Santa Claus with my Papi, but continues even today as I learn more and more about my culture. Above all, I realized how it was better to be different rather than to be conformist. Being French was never something used with the intent to be different, but instead to keep growing as Nicolas rather than “French Nick” and “American Nick.” I believe I was given an outstanding opportunity to speak two languages and identify with two cultures.

I ask myself everyday if these two people can coexist. I am flooded by the memories of my mother telling us not to speak French and not to act suspicious when we reach customs in America in 20

fear of getting our French identification stripped. It is ironic that a place of cultural crossroads named “Customs” has always been associated with the sacrifice of my French customs, the French part of me.

When I was eight years old, I attended the parade in Paris, which is the staple of French culture. It is an annual celebration of France’s military on Bastille Day, commemorating the beginning of the French Revolution. Flags were flying, blots of blue, white, and red. (Fitting, isn’t it, that America and France share national colors?)

Crowds of Parisians and tourists swarmed the Champs Élysées hoping to take part in this special event. Suddenly, the skies above were illuminated, like fireworks on the Fourth of July, in “Bleu, Blanc, Rouge” from the fighter jets. The President was followed by those who served their country, marching with pride and honor. I felt so inspired by this exhibition of power and strength, especially when both my Grandpère and my uncle once walked the Champs in uniform, the ultimate French honor. Who knows?

Maybe one day I will walk the Champs and this time I will be able to view the spectacle as a Frenchman rather than a tourist.

But I have lost a part of me; physically through the passing my grandmother, and emotionally through the recent terrorist attacks in France. Never did I think my country and its people would be under attack. Never did I think so many hateful acts could be committed in the country I

love. These tragedies made me realize how emotionally connected I was to this country.

Whenever my grandparents come to America it is like a French oasis. Their presence invites me to speak, act, and think French, as if I were back in France. When I was ten, they came for Christmas. We went to Church, had a Christmas Eve feast, and sat in the living room with tea and chocolate. After eating, we decided to put our camcorder videos on the TV from our time in Martinique, the previous time we were all together to celebrate Christmas.

I reminisced about the palm tree beaches and the loud, crowded stadium filled with Martinicans passionately watching a cockfight. As I sat next to Papi on the couch, we were both brought back to our time in Martinique as we watched ourselves, years back, singing Petit Papa Noël. Moments later I kissed him “goodnight” and we went to bed. The following morning we could not get the tune out of our heads.

Nicolas Dubois ’18

21

Love Can Be Deceiving I love the way you look at the world, The way of hope and promise.

You make me feel safe.

You make me laugh.

You make me feel like I can be myself And that everything will be okay.

You inspire me to be my best self Life with you is perfect.

That’s the funny thing about love Sometimes the person changes, Everything is different.

The person you fell in love with Breaks your heart And you question everything.

Lauren Poole ’17

22

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

Yirui “Elaine” Dong ’18 Photograph

As Simple as Goodbye

24

S

he lay in bed with her cat tucked under her right arm and her blanket wrapped around the rest of her. Staring at the ceiling, her eyes drifted over its imperfections, divots and stains from this and that. She could feel it coming, so she sat up to greet it like an old friend. Turning her head to the right to face it, she said: “Hello again.”

“Oh, how I've missed you.”

A disgruntled look came over her face, which was met by one of amusement.

“Silly girl, you thought you had gotten rid of me.”

“No. Well, kind of. Yes.” “I thought you were brighter than that” “I am.”

“Then why am I here?”

“Because I felt you were close.”

“So now you're inviting me places?”

“No, just here.”

“Explain.”

“Maybe.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because you're not worth it.”

“ME?! UNWORTHY?! Now I know for a fact that you're stupid.”

“No.” “Have you lost the entirety of your vocabulary? One word answers please you now, don't they?! “Yes, no, maybe. You think you're funny, you no good excuse for a human being!”

“No, I think I've figured you out.”

“Then why am I still here??”

“I wanted to say goodbye.”

“Excuse me?”

“Goodbye. Has no one ever invited you in for one last time to say goodbye?”

“No.” “Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything. I’ve said what I needed to. You can leave as you wish, but I’m tired and going to bed.”

She laid back down and nestled into her blankets with her cat. It was still sitting at the side of her bed, though not as heavy as it had been. As she drifted off to sleep, she could feel it slowly dissipating, leaving her for good. I was elated that something which had caused her so much pain and suffering now ceased to exist.

Aubrey couldn't tell you much about herself, but as I watch her from up here, I can.

Her strawberry blonde hair flows down her back, bouncing as she walks. Freckles are scattered across her cheekbones, and her blue green eyes dart around a room seemingly taking everything in. She stands tall and strong, and because of this you would never guess that her world crashes in around her quite frequently. It could start with a math class, a test in particular, after which people seem to ignore her for the rest of the day, or maybe she just doesn't look approachable Then it would move on to a practice where nothing seems to go right, and end with homework where the stress of 25

Margarita “Margo” Demkina ’20 Photograph

to it. She greeted it. I knew she was frustrated that she could not shake this thing that had loaded itself on to her for the past five years of her life. After watching this for so long, never did I imagine that it would be as simple as saying goodbye. I watched her sleep peacefully that night, without fits or tears, and I knew she was once again my carefree little girl.

everything pours down upon her. She showers and hides under her covers to get rid of the day; but then she remembers the reason why they lost three weeks ago was because of her, and that her math grade dropped ten points because of the test she took. She losses it. Yes, it is not exactly, but basically, something like the sequence of those events that occur putting Aubrey into a downward spiral.

I have watched this occurrence and listened to these conversations that Aubrey has had for the past five years of her life. She had been such a carefree kid, and when it found her, there was nothing I could do. I hoped, and that was really all I was allowed to do.

I could not persuade it or her, nor could I physically put a stop to it. I knew everything would turn out fine, because people like me are aware of others’ fates before they are.

Aubrey would get past this, but to endure the struggle of not being able to help was almost unbearable. What made it worse was that it progressively deteriorated, and just when it looked like she had parted ways with her converser, it would come out of nowhere and push her back into place, not allowing her to leave. She seemed to consistently end up in her own Tartarus, which contained monsters, demons, people, words, the fear of not being good enough, and numerical equations. This is where I saw Aubrey go after fighting for months at a time, but those days may undoubtedly be over now.

What I just witnessed was the most insanely wonderful miracle. Aubrey talked

Emma Kindblom ’17

27

Paula Fuentes ’18 Pencil

WHEN THE CANDLE BURNS OUT

28

My heart still seeks to be repaired.

A repair of pain that will never come.

I

turn my head as I hear the creak of our old door open. It is my dad carrying a small box in one hand, and Amaranth and Amaryllis flowers in the other.

“Hi Daddy,” I say, as he kisses me on the head.

It is evening; dinner is set and ready.

The lights are dimmed and candle light illuminates the table. Candle light dinners used to be my mom’s favorite, but we only did it on certain occasions. I used to yearn for nights lit only by candles, and that night was one of those nights. That night we celebrated my mom’s birthday. My dad handed my mom the flowers and the small box saying, “Happy birthday, love.”

In the old Polish vase, my dad replaced the old wilted flowers with the new, which were placed in the center of our worn kitchen table as they always were. The flowers, whose life had already been cut short, would not be long lived. The flowers that brought color to our little outdated kitchen. Those flowers I would soon never see replaced again, in that old Polish vase.

When I was growing up, birthdays were one of the biggest celebrations in my

family. I remember these moments clearly.

These nights used to pass by as if I were in some kind of trance and was looking in from the windows of our average American home. The sound of love and laughter filled the air and still rings in my ears. This was my celebration of birthdays growing up. My mother used to love birthdays so much we used to celebrate half-birthdays.

“You are so special that even turning six and a half is important,” she repeatedly said.

When a birthday rolled around, no matter whose it was, it was celebrated grandly.

Being the little girl in the family, I used to get so jealous of my older brother when it was his turn to receive all the attention and gifts on his birthday, but my mom used to sneak me a present when no one else was looking.

“Kory, come here, don’t worry I got you something, too,” she would say.

I was too young to understand how much these moments really meant. Being so loved by your family, I never understood that the candle at dinner would eventually burn out. It could not last forever. My mom was burning out. My mom would not last forever. My mom…

29

No one lasts forever. Everyone knows that. I was fortunate to receive a warning about my mom’s time burning out like the wick of a candle. My mind still wanders back to the warning of her death. Not many people get a warning. Death, this seemingly obsolete term that takes away the things one holds dear. Not many people watch their loved ones slowly fade away at such a young age. But some people do. I was one of those people.

You can tell when a person you love is dying. Every little thing about that loved one starts to have a more sunken and sullen demeanor to them. On that birthday, we already knew that my mother was dying.

You could not tell how sick she really was yet how the cancer affected her. The only indicator of her sickness was her lack of hair. I never did understand what it meant to put the clipper to her head that one night. The courage my mom had to undergo chemo and beat the cancer. I never truly understood, until I figured out what my hair means to me, and what it means to lose a crucial part of who you are.

My mom never did lose that love for a good celebration, whether it was a birthday or not. Until the end, she always cherished when a group of people gathered. So when the night came to shave her head, of course it was a celebration in my sixyear-old eyes. All of my mom’s five older brothers, sister, and parents were there, including my brother, my father, and me. It was just another party. Just like a birthday.

That night all twelve of us managed to squeeze into our little kitchen.

Everyone was gathered around my mom.

The clippers rested besides her on the grey plastic laminate countertop.

“Are you ready?” my grandmother asked my mom.

My mother responded with a quick “yes.” She was not ready. I recognize this now. The floor creaked as someone walked over, picked up the clippers, and turned them on. As the loud noise blocked out the rest of the talking, they were passed to me.

“I don’t understand,” I said because how could a six-year-old understand?

The adults were supposed to shave my mother’s head. Not me.

“It’s okay Kory. It’ll be fun,” my mom said to me as I reluctantly took the clippers.

As I clutched them, my hand shook from the power of the blades. I was scared that I would do something wrong. That I might mess up somehow, and ruin this moment. I was cautious as I brought them to the top of her head, slowly placing them down. Once the clippers rested on her head, my hand was guided by others backwards, as I watched her hair fall to the floor.

I did not shave her whole head.

Everyone in our cramped, stuffy kitchen took turns. It was what my mom wanted.

Just like a half-birthday, the shaving of her head turned into a celebration with everyone to share this crucial moment. The reality that she was really sick. Of course at the time 30

I comprehended none of this. I was six.

It was fun. Just like my mom said it would be. Fun because that is how we made this sad moment be. No matter how frightened she was and how nervous I was clutching the clippers, it was a celebration.

Today when I look back, I remember this day just like another birthday. The gathering of loved ones, laughter, and joy. My mom made even a sad turning point in her life full of happiness. When I look back now, the loud buzzing sound that filled our jampacked kitchen was a moment of sadness.

But I will always see it as joyful because that’s how good my mother was at turning any event in our family into a grand occasion.

As the years passed, and the cancer took a year’s vacation before it came back worse than before, I continued to take birthdays and family celebrations for granted. I thought that they would last forever. I was wrong.

I was eight when the day finally came.

The day when I could no longer call out “mom” and there would be a response.

I did not feel the way my brother felt, as if the world had come to an end. Yes, I was sad. I didn’t have a mom like all the other little girls. But I was only as sad as a little eight-year old girl could be with no real idea of what had been taken from her. An eight-year-old girl who had no clue how death changed more than having an empty seat at the dinner table.

I was lucky to receive a warning about my mom’s death. I was not lucky enough to

receive a warning about the loss of my cherished family celebrations. Birthdays and celebrations have never been the same. Today, I cannot even imagine a more awful pain than I had the following birthday. That day there was no candle lit dinner. There were no new flowers in the old Polish vase. There was no sneaking of presents. There was no mom.

That birthday there was no longer that same joy, the joy my mom brought.

That day I realized that joy would never come back. I remember this clearly. The toll of death finally hit me. My heart broke, and only rarely will a person experience the true pain of a broken heart.

My heart still seeks to be repaired. A repair of pain that will never come. I have accepted this pain now almost ten years later.

I live with it every day, and every day gets a little easier, but every now and then, that little eight-year-old girl who felt her heart break that one day still screams out for her mom, who was missing on that first birthday.

Korynna Rankin ’18

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Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

B L I N D

I

see color not by eye but by idea. Color is not simply an adjective or a description. Color is expressive of vice or beauty and indicative of peril or security. The lust of red is symbolic of danger. The softness of yellow is significant of gentleness and protection. The deepness of blue is known for the calm of serenity. The concept of color is unique in that it defies the length to which any other description can reach.

I have seen color. I remember it in the muddle of my youngest memories, as I led myself through childhood clumsily atop feet unsure of themselves. And now, though I lead myself through the dark without guidance, my strides have never been more certain.

I wonder in what way one would delineate darkness? In what way would one define the dusky, shadowed world that is the absence of light? In what way would one identify light, the nimble strands of white that traverse the glass of a windowpane, the fragments that create reflection?

Brightness and darkness are as the sun and the shade. There sits the cream of a pearl in the murk of dusk, the blaze of a fire round the chalk of coal. When the reflection of white is inverted, blackness is its reciprocal.

A mirror distorts and reverses; a reflection reveals the opposition of its host. Blackness is white, dawn is nightfall, and fire is coal. I have come to the realization that we are all but imitations of ourselves; in truth we see only our reflections, or at least the majority of us do.

It is a privilege to be gifted with sight.

Somber as would be the exclusion of color do the privileged stand ill-minded and ignorant. They are ashen-faced in the air of contradiction, arrogant above the countenance of those they transcend.

Senseless. They are foolish if they claim themselves above the subsistence of others.

To know another is to understand what makes each of us equal. But I do not assess another’s nature by their looks. The perception one gains from a glance of their eyes is deceiving. I learn nothing from seeing the flush of one’s skin, the way of one’s manner. By the tones of one’s voice I learn their intuitions. By the touch of one’s hand I feel the gentleness of their humanity, or the harshness of their malice.

Our senses give us life, give us feeling, give us us. I have learned thoroughly, and through these senses have grown to interpret this world by my own unique perception of it.

And I live with only four.

Erika Convery ’19

33

The Government is Hiding the Aliens

“H

istory has it all wrong.

The government has been lying to us. The world is actually not spherical. The world is round, but it’s round like a bowl.

If Earth were flat, the ocean would just spill, and the continents would fall into space for eternity, forever alphabet soup. If the oceans were no more, everyone would see what the government is hiding under the waters. There’s a reason only five percent of the ocean is explored. The depths of the ocean are being hidden from the public.

Giant squids are just aliens in disguise.

The aliens must be closely monitored by the government at all times. It was discovered that they had a giant spoon, and they were planning to scoop out the water and reveal the secrets of the ocean, but their plan backfired in Antarctica, and the ice broke their spoon. Antarctica is a boring place to be, and the only reason scientists travel there is to study the alien remains.

The government is under a lot of pressure right now. The ice caps are melting and it has been confirmed that the aliens have yet another spoon to scoop out the water with.

The aliens are trying to expose the government’s underwater project facilities, and the government sees this as a threat. The aliens are actually human friendly, but the government has made them out to be monsters.”

If it were the societal norm to teach our children these seemingly ridiculous ideas, they wouldn’t question what their parents – the people in their lives that they trust with their hearts – had told them was factual. To those children, any other ideas that challenged their belief system would sound moronic, rebellious, and offensive.

These children haven’t been shown any evidence to prove what they’ve learned, but they trust what they hear from an authoritative figure. It is without a doubt that during their adolescence, some of the children would begin to question what they’ve learned throughout their childhoods. The stories that they had believed for so long weren’t adding up chronologically, scientifically, or morally. The stories that they had believed contradicted the stories that other people believed. These stories were not believable and a realization set in that there was no need to believe in the questionably made-up tales that they were told, so they challenge their parents’ beliefs, their culture’s beliefs, and they become outcasts.

These maturing people, without the need to believe in the theories of other people, don’t have a theory that they need to believe. These people are atheists.

Dylan Lattell ’17 34

Marthé Cable ’17 Mixed media

Yewon “Jamie” Lee ’20 Photograph

The Switch The light switch was always within reach But the light was off It was hard to see Everything seemed Normal Fine Happy Peaceful Nothing was quite crystal clear I got used to it The darkness The secrets The false reality of it all An illusion One day the light switched on Everything was turned upside down A messy reality Once hiding in the dark That is what it was like with you The side I never wanted to see Was hiding Right in front of me Every good memory gone Shocked by the truth Of your evil Lauren Foley ’17

Holy Shards

of

Prayer

Question When they tell you no Or don’t understand you Volatile flaming rage rising in your chest Broken shards of you swept into trashcans of their abyss Take them back Take back the stain glass beauty of your thoughts Faith you hold for something original

By You Original Holy Connections Dreams of reality on paper

Meng Hsin “Maggie” Hsiao ’17 Photograph

Pray For someone reads them Somewhere And dreams alongside you Someone understands you

38

And when you look into their eyes filled with color Warm smile Or pondering intrigue They follow your religion of Originality These stain glass souls take back the broken shards they swept into trashcans of their abyss And build a cathedral of connections and ideas

Crystal clear chaos

Beauty of knowing

Exquisite inflections You A stain glass prayer Answered Emily Dromgold ’17

39

Yi Shi ’17 Color pencil

March Third That was also the day I proposed to her, that was the day she made me even happier than I already was. We would get married on March third, because that’s our day.

“S

he was reading a book when I first saw her. The book was French: La Bicyclette bleue. I was just passing by with my dog walking next to me. I think I walked the same round (I usually walk one or two times) maybe ten or eleven times before I was brave enough to talk to her. The first thing I asked was why she was reading the book in French, she answered with a question: ‘Why do you walk your dog without a leash?’

She gave me her number and told me

to text her when I understood. A few days later I texted her. She asked me to explain, and I did: you see, I walked my dog without putting him on a leash because I know he can walk without one; she read the book in French because she knew she could read it without having any problems. We started texting, first once a week, but a month or so later we texted every day. Of course I asked her why she just gave me her number, me, a guy that at the time she did not know. The answer she gave me was: ‘ A guy who walks 41

eleven times the same round before he is able to talk to me, is probably no stalker or worse.’

I kept on asking her out over and over again, but she always said no. Then finally on March third she said yes, and when she did, I was so happy. I took her out to this restaurant called, Le petit Paris, because she told me she always wanted to go to France. I bought her eleven roses, one for every round I walked. It made her smile.

That night we bonded like we never did before over text. She told me about her past, about her love for dogs and about her time at her university. She told me she didn’t have a lot of friends yet, but that she wasn’t going to pretend to be someone else to get them. She amazed me with her wisdom, she taught me things without even knowing it. I could feel myself getting smarter just by being around her. She asked me about my life, my past and about my dog. I answered every question she asked with an honest answer. I wasn’t dumb enough to lie to such a smart girl as she was; she would see right through me.

After dessert we went for a walk through the park where we had met.

We sat down on the bench, where she sat that day, and talked some more. It was one of the best nights of my life.

The restaurant and the roses became a tradition. Every year on March third I would take her out for dinner and buy her eleven roses.

At the time we started dating we were just kids. She was seventeen and I was

twenty, but mentally she was way older then me. I always told people who would claim to be wise, and were at the same time in their twenties, that they were wrong, that no person could be wise at such a young age, but she proved me wrong. She could talk about things as if she had seen everything already, almost as if she had been around for over a hundred years.”

I stop talking because I can feel the tears burning. I look up, in order to keep my tears in my eyes, but it doesn’t help.

“She was always so good to others, she was so cheerful, so full of life, even at the time she became sick. She would still always be patient, helpful and polite, mostly to make things easier for others. At the same time she was a hard and strong woman. She was the kind of woman who would tell you not to cry about every little thing, but she could immediately see when you needed a hug.

She may have started her time at college without any good friends, but when I look around today, I can see that times have changed. She is not anymore that lonely girl from the past. She is a woman who was and will always be loved and treasured.”

I stop for a moment and look around.

Everyone is wearing black clothes and one colorful accessory; that’s what she wanted.

Another tear escapes my eye.

“I wanted to take her to France so badly, but I couldn’t. First I couldn’t afford it and then she physically couldn’t go. So I took 42

Paris to her. A few months ago I sneaked into her hospital room. I had a small statue of the Eiffel tower put on a table and I decorated the room with lights, I bought a baguette and some croissants. I spread the rose petals of eleven roses out on the floor and on her sheets, I made her coffee, one spoon sugar and some milk, just the way she liked it.

That day I even tried escargots for the first time; I wouldn’t recommend it, but for her I would try anything. When she woke up. I saw that smile I love so much. She said something in French, probably good morning, although I hope that was what she said, because that was my reaction.

That was also the day I proposed to her, that was the day she made me even happier than I already was. We would get married on March third, because that’s our day.

I am so deeply in love with this woman.

She is the love of my life and nothing and no one will ever be able to change that.

She told me to try to move on, but how can I, how will I ever? I will never.”

As soon as I stop talking my eyes fill up with tears and I walk down the three steps, and take my seat next to her mom. She takes my hand and looks at me with her eyes red with tears. She gives me a small smile and then turns back to see the next speaker. I follow her steps, but when I want to turn back and listen to the one who follows me.

I can only see a black space, no one there except for me. And when I open my eyes I am suddenly somewhere else. I am lying

in my bed with the love of my life in my strong, hairy arms. She snores a bit. A tear of happiness escapes my eyes when I kiss her on her cheek. Before I go back to sleep, I check my nightstand one more time.

The box with a diamond ring is still in my drawer, hopefully not for any longer. I mean, what is the worst thing that can happen…

Julia Diderich ’17

43

H u r r i c a n e M att h e w a sonnet in the style of Pablo Neruda

Your devastation began as a light breeze whispering in my ear You let me know that you were present However, you never exposed the nature of this presence You just supplied soothing words that enticed me like a light breeze Then I was gradually swept away by your brisk breeze Allowing it to take over me, cradle me, even claim me almost But not just yet, the nature of your presence was still unknown Until you revealed your true nature that fateful day All at once, the winds picked up at alarming rates Any & all things around me began to rise and fly into your chaos I was left helpless and scared, forced to wait until the storm was over Then in a matter of minutes, each felt like an eternity, It was all over & everything crashed down with one loud thud And all I could do was think of how I had allowed this storm to sneak its way into my life

Morah Palmer ’17

44

Shixing “Cherry” Wang ’21 Photograph

Yi Shi ’17 Drawing

Quaking and shimmering you dance with the wind.

Your beautiful greens have morphed into stunning silvers.

There is no quake, or shimmer, no silver, or glimmer.

The blues peak through the gaps you leave, but it only adds to your mesmerizing nature.

And then he stops, your dance ceases.

You lie still, and wait.

For him to come sprinting back.

He always does.

From not so far away I hear your partner rushing back to you.

Running over the tops like a mad man.

Two gorgeous leaps over the clearings and he’s back.

In the fall it hurts him to watch you leave.

In the winter all he does is cry.

In the spring he flies with angst.

In summer his joyful rustle leads your dance.

You are back.

Reunited in a rustley embrace.

And you resume, because a dance is simply unsuccessful without your partner.

And with that you begin the vicious cycle all over again.

Quaking and shimmering your beautiful endless dance continues.

Emma Kindblom ’17

47

Mina Lee ’17 Cardboard and adhesive

Broccoliam

B

roccoliam soared through the air with the elegance of four swans.

He brought the ball into the hoop with such force the backboard shattered into a million billion pieces.

“That was a good game, but it didn’t make me any more at ease,” said Broccoliam.

“Trust me, giving a speech isn’t that bad”, said Rhubarbara in an attempt to be reassuring.

“Whom do you think you are? Trying to comfort the most important man on earth Broccoliam,” he said with the inflated ego of Chevy Chase in the 80s.

“I just thought that-“ she was cut off abruptly.

“Enough jibber jabber. We must make haste!” said Broccoliam.

He sped to the event in his Honda Civic.

“Stupid Rhubarbara. All her trying to be a good friend has made me late,” said Broccoliam.

“What?” asked Rhubarbara from the backseat of the Honda Civic.

“When did you get here?” asked Broccoliam in shock.

“I’ve been in this Honda Civic the whole time” she said.

“No I don’t think-“ said Broccoliam before he slammed on the brakes. “Hey, get off the road!. Do you know who I am? I am Broccoliam and I’m on my way to accept

49

an award from the mayor himself. I am getting that award because I am the greatest man alive!” he yelled out the window.

“Here are your notecards,” said Rhubarbara, trying to get Broccoliam’s mind off of the blind man crossing the road.

“You think I need notecards? How dare you pity me! I have climbed Mount Olympus and slapped the Gods in the face. Now you sit here and offer me these notecards!” He yelled as he grabbed the cards from her hand. He threw them out the window of his Honda Civic. “That will teach you for trying to pity the all mighty-“ Broccoliam was cut short by the car slamming into the side of the building.

“We’re here. Wait, I don’t have a speech prepared, what am I going to do?” he asked.

“We can go grab your cards. You threw them like two blocks away,” said Rhubarbara.

“It’s so crazy it just might work,” he said.

“Come, Rhubarbara, lets go and find my notecards” They walked to where Broccoliam had thrown the cards, but they were nowhere to be found. “My precious cards. What happened to them? I placed them here, but they’ve vanished.

Rhubarbara, I told you to watch them for me. Where were you?” he asked.

“You threw them out the window of a moving car. Maybe the wind blew them away,” she explained.

“That doesn’t sound like me or wind” he said. Nevertheless, I still have to give a speech that will inspire the world,” he said.

“Well, your only real option left

is to improvise,” said Rhubarbara.

“Ah yes, improvising. The commoner’s form of public speaking. Come, Rhubarbara, to destiny!” he said.

Broccoliam stood behind the mayor watching him give a speech. The crowd was the biggest Broccoliam ever seen and to make it worse it was being broadcast on live television at 8pm central after Jeopardy.

He would truly have the whole nation’s eyes on him. He could barely make out what the mayor was saying his heart was beating so loudly. Then the mayor stepped to the side.

Broccoliam walked up to the podium and was met with a sea of flashing lights. He was immobile with pure terror. He let out a blood-curdling scream before he dove into the crowd. He pulled his basketball off of his belt and slam dunked right on a person, then another and another. Their heads exploded like piñatas. Piñatas full of brains. Everyone evacuated as fast as they could, but that didn’t calm Broccoliam’s fit of plagiaristic rage. He ran at the nearest wall and slam-dunked his way through.

The news helicopters were above him shining down on him. He ran across the street and leapt to the nearest building. He started climbing. He climbed and climbed until before knew it he was at the top. The whole city lay there below him. The helicopters circled around him closer and closer, their lights still shining in his face.

Then with a sudden realization he said, “Hey, public speaking isn’t that bad.”

Rhys Kulig ’17 50

I n d e s cr i b a b l e Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Drawing

I tried to open up To write everything down Everything that I felt Every emotion Complicated Incomprehensible Written Re-written Erased The blank paper The emptiness Its erased mistakes Its future potential That explained it all All the feelings I tried to put into words

Lauren Foley ’17 51

True Justice The truth claimed by each individual became the guidelines for what they believed was just. However, with conflicting views, both could not be correct.

T

ruth and justice are theoretically concrete. Depicted as concepts which transcend the flaws of humanity, truth and justice mold and manipulate societies throughout history. However, just as concrete wears on sidewalks and deteriorates over time, truth and justice are similarly flawed when shaped by human hands.

The History of the Medieval World written by Susan Wise Baur, Destiny Disrupted written by Tamim Ansary, and Judgement at Nuremburg directed by Stanley Kramer, together reveal that truth is derived from perspective and is manipulated to create justice throughout history. While truth and justice are not absolute at all times in humanity’s collective story, the distorted versions of justice show that one definition of true

justice exists and rules over the world today.

Wise Bauer’s depictions of Christianity and the use of God to justify the actions of people in power parallel with Ansary’s examples of how Islam impacts society’s ideas of truth and justice. Kramer uses characterization to demonstrate how perspective and persuasive argument change the idea of justice by creating various forms of truth in the testaments presented during the trial. Kramer’s piece represents the conflict between spiritual beliefs, human ambition and the idea of morality which is seen throughout the film as well as in the histories of Christianity and Islam demonstrated by Wise Bauer and Ansary.

The theme of justified war based on religion and manipulated truth is common

Mina Lee ’17 Mixed media

53

throughout humanity’s story. Wise Bauer’s depiction of the Battle of Lechfeld is one example of war and leadership being justified by God. Wise Bauer writes, “While still on the battlefield, his soldiers hailed him as the God-appointed head of the Christian World. His victory over the heathen Magyars had convinced them that divine favor rested on Otto above all other men; the bloody defeat of the enemy had proved, beyond all doubt, the righteousness of Otto’s rule” (542). In this excerpt, Wise Bauer demonstrates how religion has justified both Otto’s rule and the war against the Magyars.

It is not as important to understand who the Magyars are in this example as it is to understand that Otto’s power justified by God has made Otto’s decisions and the “bloody defeat” acceptable and right. To the soldiers, truth meant that their leader was “God-appointed” and that their victory was a justification of his right to rule.

This truth created the idea that it was right for the Magyars to be destroyed from the soldiers’ perspective. Whether the Magyars had wronged Otto or his men no longer mattered in this scenario since “God” made this victory right. Law became Otto’s success and dictation manipulated by metaphysical concepts. Law was no longer concrete after it could be written in the name of God. Similarly, in the conflict during the Fourth Khalifa between Ali and Ayesha, the concept of jihad became distorted by conflicting ideas of justice. Ansary writes: Ali tried to raise an army to fight

Ayesha, preaching that this was a jihad [holy war] and that people should rally to defend Islam as they had in the days of yore. But the Muslims were confused, because Ayesha was calling for jihad, too, against Ali. Both sides claimed to be fighting for truth, justice, and the Islamic way, yet each was calling on Muslims to fight other Muslims (62).

This example embodies the paradox of truth and justice created by conflicting perspectives. While truth and justice are theoretically concrete entities, Ali and Ayesha expose the split created by manipulation of these terms. Both individuals believed their cause was right and true. The truth claimed by each individual became the guidelines for what they believed was just.

However, with conflicting views, both could not be correct. The justices they claimed clashed with one another and justice itself became a tool of manipulation instead of an ultimate rule of order over the world. This proves the power of perspective and how various views alter the definition of truth and justice. In Judgment at Nuremburg this theme of manipulating ideas of right and wrong according to a perspective is reinforced during Mr. Peterson’s interrogation.

The German Defense Attorney, Hans Rolfe, suggested that Mr. Peterson’s condition of “feeble mindedness” justified the decision by the German court to sterilize him according to German law at the time. Hans Rolfe uses the truth created by Germany to support the justice system of that period. When Hans Rolfe suggested that Mr. Peterson’s mother 54

of manipulating facts, or truth, to fit the needs of his clients, similarly noted by Wise Baur and Ansary, Mr. Peterson represents a counter argument to justifying actions according to a category of belief [religion, state law, etc]. However, when truth is paired with ambition, justice can further be altered away from a universal justice.

Human ambition drives leaders throughout history to manipulate ideas of truth and justice to create unity and power. Wise Bauer demonstrates how Constantine used the cross to strengthen his power and unify his supporters.

She writes, “All at once Christianity was more than an identity. It was a legal and political constituency-exactly what it had not been when Constantine first decided to march under the banner of the cross” (Wise Bauer 11).

At once, Constantine used the church to fuel his ambition. Ultimately, Constantine altered Christianity by offering the “imprint of imperial power” (11). Constantine’s use of Christianity to reach his goals shows how a truth of religion can be manipulated to create a new rule of law. With the power of one individual, the truth of Christianity defined

by Constantine and his ambitions in turn created a new type of justice. Constantine, 55

Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Silkscreen on paper

suffered from “hereditary feeble mindedness,” Mr. Peterson objected, “My mother, what you say about her… She was a woman, a servant woman who worked hard…and it is not fair what you say…Here…I would like you look at it [her picture]…I would like you to judge. I want you to tell me. Was she feeble minded? My mother!” Mr. Peterson represents universal morality. Hans Rolfe’s argument came from the perspective of German law during the time of Mr. Peterson’s sterilization where mental feebleness became a factor in sterilization. This perspective argues that loyalty to the state over loyalty to overall morality is justifiable and arguably right. Mr. Peterson’s characterization argues a justice which applies to the world. When pleading for the court to look at his mother’s picture, he presents an appeal to absolute justice. He argues through emotion that mental standpoint does not matter when it comes to treatment of human beings. Sterilization becomes a symbol of unjust treatment to human beings regardless of a state’s law. Despite Hans Rolfe’s attempts to manipulate facts to justify the German courts decisions, Mr. Peterson reveals a justice which is beyond the state.

While Hans Rolfe represents the theme

“unwilling to leave any of challenges to his throne alive…sent her ten year old son, his own nephew, to the gallows” (Wise Bauer 11). According to Constantine, killing his nephew was right. This created a type of justice where murdering family members who may threaten one’s power is acceptable and justifiable. Constantine’s desire for unity, one religion creating one unchallenged rule, shows how the mixture of human ambition and spirituality can alter the concept of justice. This appeal of unity is also represented by Akbar’s creation of Din-i Illahi [the “God” religion]. Akbar was intrigued by many religions. From his curiosity, he ultimately “decided every religion had some truth in it and no religion had the whole truth, so he decided to take the best from each…” (Ansary 193). With his ambition to create a unified religion each person could follow, Abkar built a city dedicated to it (Ansary 193). Despite his passion, his religion did not grow popular. However, his efforts demonstrate how the combination of ambition and spirituality have the potential to lead to new ideas of truth and justice.

Akbar’s religion suggests that there was a single God, where “each person’s first obligation was to do no harm to others” and that people should “model themselves on Perfect Lives, of which many examples existed” (Ansary 11). From these perfect lives came an example of justice and this would be the truth of the followers of Akbar’s religion.

Although these models may have been morally right, if they were not, followers

could justify their actions based on the religion. This concept of religious justification creates a vicious cycle in history, and when paired with ambition can grow to be increasingly dangerous. In Judgement at Nuremburg, Friedrich Hofstetter represents an individual attempting to justify their actions under a state. This situation parallels to an individual acting in the name of a religion since it represents following a set of rules which varies from other concrete sets of rules in other states or religions.

In his final statement Hofstetter says, “I have served my country throughout my life. In faithfulness in a pure heart… concept highest in my profession…to sacrifice one’s own sense of justice to the authoritative leader… not to ask whether or not it was justice…to be not guilty.”

Hofstetter’s actions represent his desire to survive and the ambition to be successful in Germany at the time. Hofstetter’s “faith” did what the country considered right. He argued that his actions to sacrifice his own ideas of justice to the state are worthy of being excused in the Nuremburg court. This argument suggests the power of perception and scale of consideration.

According to Germany, Mr. Hoffstetter should be deemed not guilty. However, a universal justice represented by Chief Judge Dan Haywood, rules Hofstetter to be guilty.

The complications of spirituality and human ambition which impact truth and justice depicted by Wise Bauer and Ansary and represented in Judgement 56

at Nuremburg beg the question of how humanity settles on one true, universal justice. While Wise Bauer and Ansary highlight differences of culture, they also highlight similarities between people and societies. The leaders using spirituality and ambition to reach a goal have one desire: spread, strengthen and inspire their beliefs in others to gain power or influence. This common goal creates unity between individuals with ideology which may drastically differ. Furthermore, since their goals match, then a universal justice should be attainable since these individuals and concepts are connected. When taking a closer look at Christianity, Islam, Judaism and many other religions, one may observe sets of similar moral principals embedded within all of them. Constantine, Akbar and many other leaders throughout history use religion to inspire others or gain power. However, they must also use moral guidance to justify their actions and create order. In order to create a society, morals must bind people together. Although occasionally abused, these moral guidelines parallel across societies, across time, to form a universal justice system. B. A. Robinson, an author of a religious tolerance website, reveals that “almost all organized religions, philosophical systems, and secular systems of morality include such an ethic [of the golden rule].

It is normally intended to apply to the entire human race” (1). Robinson shows that religions which tend to divide groups of people hold ideas of universal justice

which bind all of humanity together. Forms of religion are found in every country around the world, and therefore connect all people. In Judgement at Nuremburg, Judge Haywood’s last conversation with Dr. Ernst Janning shows why this universal justice seen in religion is true justice.

Yanning says, “The reason I asked you to come [to the jail]… Those people, those millions of people, I never knew it would come to that. You must believe it.”

Judge Haywood responds, “Herr Janning, it came to that the first time you sentenced a man to death… you knew to be innocent.”

Judge Haywood’s character represents universal justice and by ending the movie with this statement, he represents what universal justice entails. Universal justice transcends the flaws of humanity and represents how humanity is to overcome its flaws. By refusing to condemn the innocent, one fulfills the demands of universal justice. Haywood’s statement suggests this justice begins with seeing the similarities between cultures, religions, and societies and acting under the law each person shares regardless of ethnicity, religion or culture. Haywood shows that no matter how truth and justice can be redefined through ambition, spirituality or the laws of a state, true justice does not forgive adhering to these recreated ideas of justice if they punish the innocent. True justice rules all.

In conclusion, Wise Bauer, Ansary and Judgement at Nuremburg reveal how truth 57

is influenced by spiritual beliefs and human ambition to create new definitions of justice throughout history. However, although moral principals are altered by these factors, true justice rules over the world demanding that the innocent are not condemned regardless of any form of belief derived from religion or state rules. Constantine may use Christianity to justify his actions, jihad may have been claimed by the conflicting perspectives of Ali and Ayesha, and Akbar may have attempted to create his own religion, however, each of the religions alone claimed that each individual’s purpose was to avoid harming others. This core connection stressing equal treatment is seen around the world and connects every individual under the principles of universal justice.

Furthermore, as Judgement at Nuremburg articulated through the characterization of Mr. Peterson, Herr Yanning, and Hofstetter, although one may plead “not guilty” according to German laws, each defendant knew they were supporting injustice “the first time you [they] sentenced a man to death you [they] knew to be innocent.” In conclusion, true justice is formed through the common obligation of people to find similarities instead of harboring detestation from differences. Each individual is connected to every other individual through the demands of universal justice. If any one person deviates from this universal justice, all are guilty.

All are human.

Works Cited Ansary, Mir Tamim. Destiny Disrupted : A History of the World through Islamic Eyes.

PublicAffairs, 2009.

Bauer, Susan Wise. The History of the Medieval World : From the Conversion of Constantine to the First Crusade.

W.W.Norton, 2010.

Judgement at Nuremberg. Directed by Stanley Kramer, performances by Spencer Tracy, Burt Lancaster, Marlene Dietrich, Judy Garland, Maximilian Schell, and Montgomery Clift, United Artists, 1961.

Mann, Abby. Judgment At Nuremburg Script.

Script-O-Rama. Accessed 9 Oct. 2016.

Oldworldcat. “Judgment At Nuremburg (1961) – Montgomery Clift Testifying!”

YouTube, Uploaded by Oldworldcat, 8 July 2015. Accessed 9 Oct. 2016.

Robinson, B.A. “Versions of the Golden Rule in Dozens of Religions and Other Sources.” Religious Tolerance. Ontario Consultants on Religious Tolerance. 4 Feb. 2016. Accessed 9 Oct. 2016.

Emily Dromgold ’17 58

Fire, your blinding light Intrigued man amidst an age so young.

But alas, time has been reborn.

It discredits all who helped along the way.

All of your efforts have been forgotten.

You gave all your warmth to nomads, Granting them with a certain sense of companionship, You gave them life.

Water, you are given so much credit, Just for being drinkable.

They call you a universal solvent, Your hurricanes solve no problems.

Fire, your blinding light Intrigued man amidst an age so young.

But alas, time has been reborn.

It discredits all who helped along the way.

All of your efforts have been forgotten.

You gave all your warmth to nomads, Granting them with a certain sense of companionship, You gave them life.

Water, you are given so much credit, Just for being drinkable.

They call you a universal solvent, Your hurricanes solve no problems.

I mean not to take sides, But instead to play Devil’s advocate.

You both have your share of disasters and delights, So why can’t you both just get along.

Dylan Lattell ’17

Peter Labbe ’17 Photograph

I mean not to take slides, But instead to play Devil’s advocate.

You both have your share of disasters and delights, So why can’t you both just get along.

Dylan Latell ’17

Peter Labbe ’17 Photograph

Ode to Fire and Water

Daniel Qin-Dong ’17 Drawing

MADONNA OF THE ROSE & THORN

A

rt depicting the Virgin Mary captures the Mother of Christ's sanctity and the influence of the grace of God. The details and technique of Michelangelo and Raphael's works convey the Madonna's Christian symbolism as Nathaniel Hawthorne's descriptions and allusions reveal Hester Prynne's true meaning in The Scarlet Letter. Hester's character simultaneously evolves on two parallel paths.

In one, Hester serves as a representation of the Virgin Mary. Interconnected to this is her development as an adherent to the feminist ideals of Ann Hutchinson. Initially, Hester forms a character diametrically opposed to Christianity's Divine Maternity.

However, over the course of the novel she transforms into a true embodiment of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Hawthorne's descriptions of Hester Prynne emerging for the first time from the prison door, her stance of punishment atop the pillory, and, seven years later, her witness of Dimmesdale's confession and death also near those gallows, come to form a triptych organization of Hester's character in parallel to Mary the Mother of God. In the first sequence of the literary artwork organized by Hawthorne, when Hester steps from the prison door near the rosebush, she transfigures into the Madonna of the Rose Garden. The Rose, as Queen of the 61

Flowers, is frequently displayed as a symbol of Mary, the Queen of Heaven. The flower encompasses purity, beauty, and ideal love, yet signifies a hidden suffering because of the thorns that emerge from the perfection.

For the Virgin Mary, the Rose symbolically refers to the crown of thorns worn by Christ as he dies on the cross. For Hester, her suffering and thorn is her sin, represented by the scarlet A. The rosebush forms a complex symbol of religious significance and feminism as Hawthorne discusses if "it had sprung up under the footsteps of the sainted Ann Hutchinson, as she entered the prison door" (46). Ann Hutchinson is referred to as a martyr, a woman whose ideals and values were sacred. When Hester passes through the prison door, the red of the rosebush seems to be transferred from the flower to the "A.� The roses that grew from the early feminist's footsteps into the prison merge into Hester's character as she exits. In this moment, the Rose becomes symbolic of Hester's future position in challenging the patriarchy of Puritan Boston. The religious allusions surrounding Ann Hutchinson in combination with the connections to the Virgin Mary shape Hester's character in this primary scene of the triptych. The rosebush references Hester's beauty while alluding to the suffering caused by her sin and her

Noah Kantor ’19 Photograph

future sadness, the thorns in her life.

As part of her suffering, Hester serves her punishment atop the pillory, and, clutching Pearl, creates an image reminiscent of Raphael's Sistine Madonna.

The halo surrounding the Mary of the Renaissance masterpiece is replaced by the red tint of the scarlet A shining over the stocks. Hawthorne describes Hester's seemingly religious appearance, Had there been a papist among the crowd of Puritans, he might have seen in this beautiful woman...an object to remind him of the image of Divine Maternity, which so many illustrious painters have vied with one another to represent; something which should remind him ... of that sacred image of sinless motherhood, whose infant was to redeem the world. (53) Hester's adulterous sin contrasts to the chaste Virgin Mary. Marched before the town and forced to confront society while branded by the "A", Hester transforms into an icon for the Puritans—a living embodiment of sin. Hawthorne describes how the papists strive to capture Divine Maternity in artwork, a form of iconography condemned by the Puritans. A symbol of Mary would not be worshipped in Puritan Boston.

And yet, they hold up Hester as the icon of adultery, one of the seven deadly sins.

The hypocrisy of the Puritan government undermines Hester's punishment. Standing tall and as beautiful as the Virgin Mary, she

creates a strength and obstacle to the patriarchy. On the pillory, Hester's beauty seems not as pure as Divine Maternity, "Here, there was the taint of deepest sin in the most sacred quality of human life, working such effect, that the world was only the darker for this woman's beauty, and the more lost for the infant that she had borne" (53). The society believes that Hester's soul is permanently tainted by her sin. They refuse to recognize the genuine characteristics that come to define Hester's role, seeing only a beauty forever marred by the scarlet letter of punishment. In this second scene of the triptych, society paints a darker image of Hester than Raphael depicts of Divine Maternity in his Sistine Madonna. That Hester could be mistaken by papists for Mary reveals that her sin and her punishment are solely Puritan constructs and not reflective of her character. Although she possesses the qualities of the Virgin Mary, to the Puritans, Hester's sin is what dominates her person.

Detailing Hester's character juxtaposed to that of the Virgin Mary on the pillory, Hawthorne highlights the connections between the Puritan icon of sin and the Mother of God. Mary was blessed with God's grace, and bore Christ, our Savior. As Hester steps out of the prison door and past the rosebush, she is, in a sense, being expelled from the Garden of Eden. Hester is now branded by her sin through the fiery, scarlet A. From the moment she commits adultery, Hester's appearance is equated with sin and 62

shame. This is in stark contrast to the Virgin Mary's outwardly sacred meaning. However, though perpetually marked by sin, Hester is internally pure. She holds a pure love for Dimmesdale, a pure maternal love for Pearl, and a genuine kindness and forgiveness in her actions towards the poor and the Puritan society as a whole. Her personality rings true. Hester's exterior character is dominated by her sin, while the Virgin Mary's is reflective of God's grace. In this way, Hester Prynne and the Virgin Mary have reversed roles. The Puritan society does not comprehend this connection between Hester and the Virgin Mary. Until Dimmesdale's confession and death on the pillory, Hester remains to them a somber figure of sin.

Cradling Dimmesdale's dying form in her arms, Hester embodies the Virgin Mary of Michelangelo's Pietà. She acts as his love and strength in life as well as death. Hawthorne paints the climactic image, "Then, down he sank upon the scaffold! Hester partly raised him, and supported his head against her bosom" (221). She supports her love just as the Virgin Mary mourned Christ after he was taken down from the Cross.

The Mother of God suffered in Christ's death as Hester suffers in Dimmesdale's.

Their equal suffering in these scenes draws Hester closer to the symbolic meaning of the Virgin Mary. In the final moments of Dimmesdale's life, Hester's "sin of passion, not of principle, nor even purpose,” seems to be absolved as the Puritans realize the

meaning of their beloved minister's death (174). Their tainted love, in the moment of mourning and honesty, ultimately becomes pure. Witnessing Hester's affectionate grasp on Dimmesdale's dying body, the Puritans recognize that "in the view of Infinite Purity, we are sinners all alike" (224). In the Puritan's "utopia", as perfect as a rose, there is revealed the thorn in each individual, sin.

Hester and Dimmesdale's final moments together forge a powerful bond between Hester and the Virgin Mary. Michelangelo's Pietà depicts Mary mourning after Christ's suffering and death. Hawthorne's description of Hester and Dimmesdale on the pillory forms a literary interpretation of the religious scene. In the aftermath of this event, the scarlet A changes meaning, and turns into a symbol of the combined influence of Ann Hutchinson and the Mother of God. From the prison door with the rosebush to the pillory and the Pietà, Hester and her Scarlet Letter transform into a complex representing feminist ideals and religious significance. It is at the end of the novel that Hawthorne addresses this transfiguration, as he states, But, in the lapse of the toilsome, thoughtful, and self devoted years that made up Hester's life, the scarlet letter ceased to be a stigma which attracted the world's scorn and bitterness, and became a type of something to be sorrowed over, and looked upon with awe, yet with reverence too. (227) 63

Hester is dominated for so long by her sin.

In this final scene, her true character is exposed. Hawthorne's triptych organization concludes with the Pietà. In this moment her parallel roles converge. The feminist representation of Ann Hutchinson combines with the Virgin Mary's symbolism to redraw Hester's character. The scarlet A, the punishment and source of her sorrows, becomes a mark of reverence. After Hester's return to Boston, other women go to her for her advice. The Woman of the Scarlet Letter transforms into a figure embraced by society.

In these final moments of her life, Hester at last assumes her purpose in the world. She holds the feminist ideals of Ann Hutchinson and embodies Christianity's Virgin Mary.

Hester Prynne is shaped by historical

and religious allusions throughout the course of the novel. The Woman of the Scarlet Letter forms a complex character symbolized by Hawthorne's references to Ann Hutchinson and the Virgin Mary.

The novel traces the development of her figure throughout three principle scenes.

Each of these moments, artfully described

by Hawthorne, creates a triptych organization of literary imagery comparable to the Renaissance artwork of Michelangelo and Raphael. In the painting and sculpture lay a divine symbolism that is mirrored

by Hawthorne in his novel. Yet as her role becomes defined by her connection to the Virgin Mary, Hester also reveals to society the imperfection of human nature. Even in beauty and strength, we are sinners all.

Julianne Schmidt ’17 Work Cited

64

Meng Hsin “Maggie” Hsiao ’17 Photograph

Hawthorne, Nathaniel. The Scarlet Letter.

Penguin Group, 2003.

Meng Hsin “Maggie” Hsiao ’17 Photograph

PR OCE DER E

Yewon “Jamie” Lee ’20 Photograph

66

You were you.

A woman with shades of darkness that consumed.

A woman with hands that loved, but fingers that dealt instead of feelings that felt.

I was me.

A boy with eager optimism.

A boy with firecracker emotions, and all you ever did was set me on fire, but how could I mind with those loving hands?

You were a woman with a distant sweetness, reminiscent of honeysuckle, of the pine needles strewn upon the ground upon which I now walk, perhaps more tasted in the air than smelled.

I inhale deeply the vapor wafting, unseen on the breeze.

Trees stand lifeless, their wood dry and white where the bark once clung desperately To the wooden knots of the timber Just as I had once clung to you.

The sun of the new morning streaks in slim rays between inhabitants of the dense woodland. an aftermath defined beauty.

No animals hunt, no birds call.

Instead the crunch of our feet upon the twigs and leaves that litter the understory echoes across the vast forest.

Mosquitos do not even fly through the breeze which you once made sweet for me.

Arnieri Anthony Anthony Arnieri’18 ’18