2016 signatures flipbook

XXVI, N0. 1

a creative

arts publication of bristol central high

Antarctica – Painting – Juliana Ciralli 2016

Best in Show – 2016 BCHS Art Exhibit

2016

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bchs - signatures - 2016

Art Show 2016

I: Artist Juliana Ciralli 2016 Lesley University

I

am an artist.

I am an artist with potential. I know I have potential. I can feel it within me; it is this bubbling pot of sunshine stirring in the pit of my being.

It’s a boiling cauldron of passion, this fiery desire that begins in my soul and reaches up and out into my heart, flooding my veins and engulfing the cavities of my bones. I feel potential rushing through me like electricity; it is a glowing need to learn, to improve, to succeed. It travels in my veins, down my arms, to my fingertips, extending directly out of me, right into a paintbrush or pencil.

My art is my potential.

Art says a lot about a person, of people in general. I admire it for what it is. Art is time. It is dedication and motivation. It is late nights spent perfecting a single detail I can’t sleep without completing; hours withered away mastering a color I previously created. Though not all art is timeconsuming, it is, however, time-manipulating. When I create something, I am lost in my own world. My dreams, my fears, the best and worst parts of me - all that releases. All stress fades. Everything halts.

Art is a dimension; a continuum of its own.

Art is communication. It is socially unacceptable or denied thoughts I repress that can be translated into a communal masterpiece. Art is mind reading. We as people can speak, write, interact. But how

do we communicate thoughts, how do we express those suppressed notions, the ones even we ourselves are too cowardly to think because we fear our own mind will judge itself for what it has conjured.

These thoughts are expressed in art - in my art.

My art is more than an image.

Of course, my art is a hobby. I love the messiness of it. It can be quite relaxing and gratifying to create something (anything). But my art is also a diary. It is a shelter and an outlet. I cannot scream and cry and have an outburst in public, but I can very easily break myself down in a painting or sculpture. My art protects me.

It is my safe haven. I can trust my art. It is my most reliable friend. My art knows all my secrets and inside jokes. My art laughs with me. My art wipes my tears and comforts me when I am uneasy. Art is not a major, or a class, or a word in the English language. Art- my art - art to me - is so much more.

My art is my life.

My art is myself.

I have no better way to describe my appreciation and interest for art but to say that I am in love with it. I have a matrimonial bond with my materials, a promise to stay with them. To use them to their best extent, to make them purposeful.

They promise to be durable, to withstand my frustrations and difficulties. They promise to be patient, and work with me to make something beautiful of our time together. Love is nothing but a great interest or pleasure in something, so it is not absurd of me to say I love art. But my love

art: The Collage – JULIANA CIRALLI 2016 is not one sided, for art loves me as well.

We have a bond of such intensity that I cannot compare it to a relationship of any other except love.

Voted “FAN FAVORITE” 2016 BCHS Art Exhibit No 3 Pencil Drawing Jon Rindfleisch 2018 Not Quite Pencil Drawing Jon Rindfleisch 2018

Art always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Art, my love, to you I say, I do.

College Essays that Worked

bchs - signatures - 2016

The Motherland

By Krzysztof Michal Nizielski The Elvio Award for Personal Narrative 2016 CT Class L Heavyweight Champ Wesleyan University

“W

atermelon! ... Yes?” A smile streaks across his gleaming face, his first correctly pronounced word in another language is making him overly enthusiastic.

“Yes!” I repeat back to him, leaning over to the side to face my brother, “at least he has something down for once.” My uncle Piotr, otherwise known as Peter, was in his mid-thirties and learning English just so he could visit America one day with his wife and daughter.

At the age of ten, I attempted to teach my uncle English - a language I, myself, was not raised into. Although neither of us was even relatively close to being fluently Polish spoken folk, my parents sent my brother and me, twelve and ten, on a plane destined to Brzozów County, Poland.

Sure, I had picked up the lingo by the end of the trip but the whole scheme of the trip wasn’t to learn my family’s primary language at all. Instead, the trip was to show, and in other words teach, us our family’s roots.

Looking back at the trip, there’s still one question I ask myself: Why? Why would they think that this would be a great idea? The arrangement was for a thirty-three year old woman and a thirtyfive year old man to have the audacity to send their two oldest sons by themselves, not even teenagers yet, to meet the distant

relatives.

Perhaps, trust? Trust might be a big factor in the equation of trying to solve this dilemma, that this not-so-average now American couple might just be as much lenient as they are strong minded. Maybe the same search for greatness is its own demise? Maybe this couple might as well have been just incredibly foolish? Maybe they wanted some time off from the kids?

My brother thought that it was a joke, but I insisted that there had to be valiant logic behind this.

Strength. Strength is the word that seems to glint its way into the spotlights of being quintessential. That the very same roots that had grown my mother to be the woman she is today will hopefully do the same for her children. Now the whole trip wasn’t just a getaway for my brother and me, or even for my parents if they needed one. No, no … the trip into the farmland owned by my grandma in Brzozów County, by the town of Dąbrowa Białostocka, was to forge the rooting of two Polish American children.

My parents sent me to Poland so that when I live my life amongst others in America, I can be proud of my differences.

I grew up hearing my friends call their parents Mom and Dad; I used Mama and Tata. They ate peanut butter and jelly; I ate bread with butter. They enjoyed chips as a snack; I enjoyed flaczki. Even the day-today life style was different: instead of playing video games, I had to feed the cows and plow the fields. For all the positive attributes of my parents growing up this way, there are still some negatives. Neither of my parents know how to use a com-

Krzys Nizielski: Portrait of a Champ - Photo by Dave Greenleaf puter, how to send a proper E-mail or actually save a phone number on their slide phone because smart phones are “too complicated.” Growing up I had to teach myself along with my own parents even just the basics of actually «growing up.»

Ever since this trip I›ve had the need to push forward, to exceed the basics of an average young man. Even though I›m not helping my uncle out in the fields, every day I still put myself to work, hard work, not physical labor but mental exertion.

SCIENCE GUY

By Max Grant

S

University of CT

pace.

The final frontier.

Or in this case, the back row of my elementary school library. From floor to ceiling, there were picture books about planets, quasars, and everything in between. As a child, I couldn’t understand what any of it meant. It was an alien language, but that made it even more interesting. At the time I didn’t know it, but this collection of books would spark my interest in the unknown, the confusing, and overall science and space.

At first, like all kids, I just thought the pictures looked cool. It was exciting to see giant fireballs in a barren background, or to see giant laser-looking phenomena that could destroy entire solar systems all on a page of a little book. Each day we would

go to the library, I would return to that back row of books, and each time I would be a bit more knowledgeable than my last visit. However, the more I knew, the more I wanted to understand.

This curiosity was shown by my interests outside of school. My favorite TV station was the Discovery Channel, my favorite show Mythbusters, because of the scientific nature of the content. I would go onto the internet and watch all sorts of videos on different scientific topics. I had become enthralled in learning about all of the weird things that go on in the universe, whether at a subatomic scale, or spanned across galaxies.

Thus, throughout all of my life, I have been a curious person with a scientific way of thinking. To me, the only questions that needed to be asked were the big important ones: Why? How? When? Then,

once I’ve learned the answers to those all important questions, the curiosity sets in again.

As a result, I’ve taken five different science classes in high school, and I am currently in my second year of physics. Every day I learn about something new that changes the way I look at the world. So when I’m asked what I want to do when I get out of high school, I say that I don’t want to just study those things, I want to be one of the people who discovers those new laws of nature that change how we see the world. I want one of my discoveries to inspire another little kid in an elementary school library to continue another generation of successful scientific progress.

Neither of my parents know how to check my grades on PowerSchool or meet with my teachers for conferences. I wasn›t pressured to go for good grades; I wasn›t pressured to take AP courses in high school; I wasn›t pressured to strive for a 4.0 GPA. I have achieved these goals on my own and my parents congratulate me profusely for my accomplishments. Little did they know that all I had to keep myself going was not their inability to do more for me, but their unknown inspiration to just keep going.

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bchs - signatures - 2016

SAY GOODBYE TO YESTERDAY

College Essays SONGS IN THE KEY OF LIFE

By Brianna Tanguay

First Place 2016 Best College Essay University of Hartford

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ixteen years, one month, and one day.

That’s 839 weeks and three days; 141,024 hours; 8,461,440 minutes; 507,686,400 seconds. Those numbers may resemble nothing of significance to the average human, but to me those numbers signify the short amount of time it took for my entire world to be flipped upside down.

Have you ever let words slip from your mouth that you instantly regret? Have you ever said nothing at all when you really should have? When I was five years old, my dad was stationed for military duty in Bosnia. He never said goodbye before he left because he thought it would be harder for me if I knew he was leaving for a year rather than a quick stop at Dunkin’ Donuts. My mother came into my room that weekend, the weekend he was supposed to show, and told me he would be gone for a while and was not sure when he would be back.

I am not religious, but that night and for weeks after, I prayed.

I prayed because I didn’t know what my dad was doing. I did not know where he was, if he was safe, if he was coming back.

I prayed because I was five years old and my dad didn’t say goodbye.

When my dad returned home, I did not tell him I was upset with his choice. I did not tell him I was hurt. I did not tell him that I was scared. Instead, I stood tall. I looked to my room, and then back to the man dressed in Army green before me. I wanted him to be proud of me when he got back. And by the way he smiled, I knew he was. From the droplets forming under his eyes, I knew my dad was happy to be home. And until I got older, I believed it was because I had cleaned my room. I believed that had made all the difference. I told him all about the amazing grades I was getting in school, the comments my teachers made about the potential I had, the compliments I received about how well behaved and big-hearted I was, and I helped him unpack. And when we were done, I crawled into his duffel bag, the Army issued bag with his name stitched into the side, every letter the same size as the next.

And for a brief moment, I felt my eyes come to a close. It was only a short minute after when I felt the bag, where I nestled, be lifted from the bed and swung through the air in a series of circles. Putting aside the dizziness and the queasy rumble spreading throughout my stomach, an avalanche of laughter released from my dad and me. That easily became one of my favorite memories with him.

I remember the creak each step made as my mom came up the staircase. I remember the vibrations my phone made against my nightstand. I remember the tremble on my mother’s lips when she told me that my dad had left again. Only this time she told me that he wasn’t coming back. This time, she cried with me, because this time my dad didn’t just leave for Bosnia with the Army for a year. This time, he was in his room talking with a friend, when his heart stopped. And while my hands were a shade of purple from clutching onto my blankets so tightly, denying every possibility that this might actually be real, I felt my heart starting to stop, too. I was dizzy and my stomach was queasy, only not in the way it had been when I got out of my dad’s duffel bag eleven years earlier. This time, no laughter followed. I was 5,876 days old the day I lost my dad. I am not religious. But, I pray to him because I was sixteen years old and never had the chance to say goodbye.

Since my dad’s death, my healing process has been focused on making my dad proud, as proud as he was the day he returned home from Bosnia. Since then, that potential my teachers once saw in me, the personal compliments I received, those amazing grades that made my family proud, and the smile on my dad’s face when he saw the tidy floor of my bedroom - all of these serve as my motivation to be an even better me than I was in those first 5,876 days.

By Dan Myska University of CT

I

n August of 2014 I was given a key. It is about three inches long, is a warm rustbrown color, and made purely of iron. It has a very simple shape and, most importantly, it belonged to my grandfather. The key was given to me in the same year he passed away. My grandfather had been a collector of many things including the small set of antique, ornate keys that mine had been a part of.

As soon as I received it, I strung it as an amulet on a simple leather strap. This way I can keep it next to me. It always stays warm, tucked close under my shirt. There, it travels with me on small paths through forests or on snowy mountains, and always has a front row seat to every concert and event where I perform.

Every once in awhile, as I practice a song on my string bass, the key will swing and knock against the body of my instrument, as if it were trying to tap along to the song. It reminds me to play with a better technique and focuses me on the music. It reminds me to play with more feeling, and to play all of the minute details that make up the piece. I play as if I had an audience listening. I have the

HOME PLATE

By Brittany Stancavage

Western Connecticut State University Honors Program

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wo outs.

Runners on second and third.

I step into the batter’s box and Coach Annilise calls a time out and waves me over.

She could see the anxiety swelling in my face. She simply states, “You have one job: hit the ball,” and she backs away. My nerves flush away in an instant.

I step into the batter’s box one more time. Ball one.

Ball two. The next pitch comes in on the outside of the plate, I wait for it to travel in and send it sailing over the left fielder’s head. Pleased with my effort and the outcome, I stop on third base and Coach commends me for doing my job.

For me, taking things in life one step at a time, having only one job, can be a struggle. I am a perfectionist and there’s no way around it. I constantly feel like I have five million responsibilities and I must succeed in all of them or I feel that I have failed.

Looking at my junior year of high school very simplistically, I had one job. To hit a triple on my AP exams: English, Government, and Stats. When I went up to bat with my three exams during the two weeks of testing in May, I was not confident in my abilities, but that day in July when my scores were released, I felt like I hit the game winning RBI. Scoring a “3” in English and a “4” in both Government and Stats was more satisfying to me than my .330 batting average.

My favorite spot to be on the field is at home plate. I am an outfielder so I don’t spend much time there, but

same sensation when I feel it against my chest as I take a breath before singing the next note in choir. It drives me to work as hard in practice as I do in performance. When I am finally on stage performing with a choir or band, the key I wear gives me courage to perform as I know I can, because it is as if I am not alone while singing a solo. I feel supported.

The key follows me wherever I go, even to the tops of mountains. While I am snowboarding, it is with me as I follow my sense of adventure between the trees and down the ice covered paths. It is there when I effortlessly slide down the slope and when I fall and land covered in snow. It is with me when I fall, but also when I pick myself up and try again, determined to get it right, and later, when I’m just sitting comfortably around a campfire, telling the story of my adventures to family or friends.

The key sometimes gets in the way as I’m working. It will fall down in front of my face as I’m studying, or hang above a sound board as I work as a sound engineer. It doesn’t really bother me though. I take it as a reminder to work hard at every task I am handed, whether it is reading Oedipus, deriving a formula for calculus, or designing sound for a show.

It never lets me falter from being dedicated to whatever I do.

I’m not sure what my grandfather intended be done with his collections the coins, the model cars, the keys.

I only know that in some small way, he’s been a part of all the daily routines and important moments of my life.

like A. Bartlett Giamatti said, “Baseball is the only sport that starts and ends at home.” Like each at bat, I start every day at home and no matter how many foul balls I hit throughout the day, I am confident that I will make it back home to my family. My mom, dad, little sister and even my dog Mason are my most supportive teammates in life and I couldn’t ask for anything more from them. The endless love and support they give me is unconditional. Coach Annilise might be my softball coach, but my parents have been my coaches throughout my life. My relationship with my mom has strengthened tremendously throughout my high school years, and not many teenagers can share this sentiment. Although my dad and I aren’t as close, we still share a special bond. They have pushed me to be the best person that I can be, both on and off the field. Whether it be taking me outside to get some extra swings off the tee or pushing me to study so I can get all A’s in my classes, they want me to succeed.

Their constant encouragement for me to excel has rubbed off on me and now I independently push myself just as much. My life coaches are the reason I have such little tolerance for failure and that is a skill that is not easy to teach.

Coach gives the batter a sign. Two- ZeroNine. Hit away. She turns to me on third base and tells me to make sure I tag up on a fly ball or wait and watch the throw on a grounder. Don’t run into a tag. The batter swings and pops the ball up to shallow right field. I tag up and start my final sprint to home plate and from the third base dugout I hear all of my teammates yelling for me to get down. The umpire yells “SAFE” as I squeeze under the tag. Once again, I managed to do my job and make it back home...

Isn’t that what life is all about?

Making it back to wherever you may call home.

College Essays YELLOW BRICK ROAD

By Michael Gibbons University of CT

I

have never been anywhere in my life. I’ve never left to see the world.

I never thought I would ever leave. Why would I? I was content. I thought the world had found its place for me.

I didn’t ever think to look past this; I accepted that for what it was. It wasn’t until I found myself in a completely new environment that I started to question my views of the world. I found myself backstage at a production of The Wizard of Oz. It was there that I started to go places. The limits I had placed upon myself were no longer there. It was incredibly freeing to find a new way to look at the same place you’ve been all your life. I joined our theater program and made the decision to give it every ounce of effort I had. Once I did that, everything started to change.

During my time on or around the stage, I learned more about being a person, about finding a place in the world; I learned more than all my other experiences combined. I’ve been a part of the theater department for the last three years. I learned and grew from every show I’ve been a part of. I have been involved with five shows and know I will continue in the future. I have found my place. Oz was where I fell in love with theater and the arts. I was skeptical at first, but that skepticism melted away when the lights came up on opening night. The stage was no longer a set that we were working on day and night. That image washed away when the lights came up on Kansas.

There, people I’ve known for years and those I’d just met, changed.

If there was one moment when my passion clicked into overdrive, it would be closing night for The Wizard of Oz. After months of preparation, weeks of building sets, and days of technical staging, it was almost over. The show closed with the song, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. After all this work everyone, on stage and off, started to sing. No one told us to. No one planned it. We just decided to do it. I was in charge of closing the curtain after the final song. I was hanging on to the rope, ready to close the curtain and it just happened. The voices of the actors mixed seamlessly with mine. I looked out into Kansas and felt like I had found my place in the world, that I had found a home. The people I met during that show have become friends that I hope to keep for a lifetime.

I have grown exponentially since then. Had I known all the memories, friendships, and lifelong lessons I would collect in the theater, I would have lived in it for as long as I possibly could. I went from admiring the stage to being on it. I became the person in the spotlight and not just the person pulling the curtain rope. I have gone from stage hand, to stage manager, to a crooked cop, to a loud, agnostic lawyer.

I have seen the world from that stage. I have rummaged around a plant shop on Skid Row. I have looked out from the rooftops of Urinetown. I have argued in front of a jury in small town Tennessee. I have travelled around that stage and been transported to new places and new times. And yet, I’ve never left.

Still, every time I look out from that same spot off “stage left” I think of that perfect moment when I found a home. Because there is really no place like the home you find along the way. I’ve never really been anywhere in my life, but I’ve walked the yellow brick road and it’s led me home.

FAMILY VALUES

By Jack Hale

Northeastern University With a night sky, my twin and a foreign exchange student at my back, I entered through the front door.

As I told my mother about an adventurous field trip to New York City, I heard small footsteps coming down the stairs. I looked up and saw a tiny four-yearold boy in light blue pajamas, with a finger in his mouth, and a sad look on his face. He said, “Mamma.”

This was my first encounter with Isaiah, and that day he increased my number of siblings to five.

Only 3% of families have adopted; 1.23% have seven or more people; 19.6% of households consist of a married couple with children; 3.4% of births are twins. Statistics are a great way of quickly understanding and predicting facts and actions. Despite my love of numbers, I must admit that statistics fall apart on an individual scale. I am more than just a number.

Five months before my birth, the physicians approached my mom asking if she wanted to keep me. A hereditary deformity in my pinkies mimics a common marker for Down syndrome, and they wanted to give my mother the opportunity to avoid a life of worry. She declined. With my partner in crime, I drove a car into my house at the age of two, owned seven chickens in middle school, and learned to drive at age sixteen. Everything I have ever done I owe to my family. My mother’s ultimate decision allowed me to grow up with a twin I had my own language with, have relatives who are scholars and engi-

BIG BANG POETRY

By Eric Duval University of CT

F

ew people can claim to have been reborn, to have been so severely impacted that they can break their life into two parts, a before and an after. Experience is fluid, after all. Events of the past are changing as fast as each day goes by. Our perception grows and matures with every passing second.

Yet I can still tell apart my two lives. One lived as a student, the other as a person.

I can describe most of my early life in a single world; afraid. I was absolutely terrified of everything. My darkest nightmares plagued me with visions of forgotten homework, gym clothes left at home, or a bus driving away as I run in slow-motion to catch it. In wakeful hours, I once got my “color changed” in kindergarten for misbehaving and cried for about an hour. A year later I used the exclamation “duh” when responding to my mother, and cried after she informed me that that was rude. I froze with tears coursing down my cheeks, unable to rescue a toy of mine from a trash can, because the child who stood up to throw it away didn’t fear the janitors as I did. The root of all my fears was not being enough, not doing enough, in a word: imperfection.

I did scores of foolish things out of this fear. In sixth grade I turned in late homework even though my average was nearly perfect, and the marking period was ending. I didn’t listen to music as, somewhere along the line, I had deemed it was not a productive pastime. I almost didn’t sit with my best friends at a pep rally because we were “assigned” to different bleachers--it was they who came to sit with me. Even though not all were enforced, rules were set in stone.

Then, at some point, I changed. I learned to see the beauty of the world. I saw art. I no

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neers, and attend family reunions to far-off places like France, Hawaii, and Iceland. All these things have increased my perspective and knowledge about my world.

However, what has had the most effect on me is undoubtedly the adoption of Isaiah. Growing up in a suburban middle class household made it easy to isolate myself from the real world, but the accepting of someone else, a stranger, into the sacred inner circle of our household and family challenged me, forced me, to view everything differently. Isaiah was very introverted due to fear and lack of understanding of his new surroundings; he had pronounced, undiagnosed ADHD. Just as the rest of my family neared independence, Isaiah entered to remind us of the difficulties in raising a young child, and the joy that can result. Isaiah has taught me more than a big family, a twin, or school ever could. More than how to collaborate, compromise, and standardize a z-score, he taught me how to be empathetic, entertaining, and enjoy the little things in life.

I’ve always loved math and science, physics and computers, puzzles and learning.

This love is wired deep in my brain, inevitably driving my actions and decisions, but it is love of family that has allowed me to truly become the person I am today. Listening to my oldest sister sing, helping my younger sister study, going to my brother’s soccer games, or all of us going on a 20-hour road trip to Florida: without these, I could not look back on the past, live in the present, and hope for the future with great enthusiasm.who’s losing.

longer merely looked upon it, folded my arms, squared my shoulders and proclaimed “Yes, this is a likeness of a tree.”

I learned to slouch there, slack-jawed, with eyes scanning over the work, feeling each brushstroke upon the canvas, envisioning the layers of color. I began to feel in ways that I never could before. I felt, for once, the hearth-like commitment of love, the soul-crushing brine of sadness, and the sun-streaked fragrant gardens of joy. I could really watch the world turn from blue as the sun washes the succubi of the night away. I learned what poetry was.

Poetry, to me, is everything. It’s how the world thinks.

The forests, the dawns, the pitch-laden midnights all exhale poetry, having breathed in experience. Poems were the door that led me into all other arts. Music is a poem with a backdrop of sound. Paintings tell a story through feeling, as a poem does. Even the beauty of nature, wasted on my ignorant young eyes, was recreated in a brand new light. Through poetry my life was redesigned, reformatted, reinvigorated. Everything came together in one giant Big Bang-esque swamp of singularity, and with the measured ending of the verse and the emphasized down-beat pounded the drum of creation and I find myself standing in a moss dampened field, vainly believing that I alone am witnessing the rebirth of everything.

This is the part where I tie everything back together. Where I explain that poems taught me how to feel. I explain the profoundly changed person that I am, having learned a new, beautiful way of perceiving the world. I tell how poems have showed me that life isn’t some mechanical formula, that we are not all following some rule book. That paper, stained by my words, became my wings that taught me how to fly over the dark clouds and feel the sun touch my pale cheeks. But that hasn’t happened yet. I’m getting closer every day.

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College Essays

Elephant Foot

MAPPING THE ROUTE

By Jennifer Harlow Queen’s College of Charlotte

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riumphs and tribulations, my closet is full of them.

While one can appreciate a cute hat or scarf, I prefer the many types of shoes I hold in my closet instead, and the shoes I wear express my persona better than any accessory.

Black Stilettos ... the girliest shoes you will ever catch me in. Six inches off the ground, standing in these shoes, especially when I’m 5’7 without them, it’s hard not to draw attention. Wearing them to my National Honor Society induction, junior prom, and countless school dances, they exude confidence. Their black color shows my simple preferences: they make a silent statement; my effort speaks for itself.

Neon Yellow Cleats and Neon Pink Crocs ... so much for a silent statement. When I’m on the soccer field my personality truly shines through. I’m loud, I’m tough, and I play with heart. While I can’t wear my pink Crocs on the field, my team and I bond over the sporting of Crocs. Even with my love for the game, it hasn’t always been kind to me. I’ve experienced many injuries such as a sprained ankle, hip problems, and a tilted patella. I’ve found allergies I never knew I had, such as medical tape which sent me and my Elephant foot to the hospital where I missed the scrimmage I was dying to be playing in. Elephant foot was followed by walks through many more injuries ... but I’m still standing.

With each injury, all I wanted to do was continue to play. I’ve been playing for seven years now and while soccer may be one of the toughest things I do, it continues to help me be a better person and learn things that I can always carry with me off the field.

Black Combat Boots ... rebel? While my mother may like to joke that I’m her rebel child this tough and rugged pair of boots was actually part of my costume for the school production of The Wizard Of OZ. While I’d always wanted a pair just because, my Talking Tree role required it. I love to perform; it’s always been an escape for me. Singing, dancing, and immersing myself into another world; there is nothing like it.

Nude Dress Flats ... Do I even have shoes on? While it may not look like I have shoes on in all the pictures I’ve taken in these dress flats, they are my shoe of choice when I want to look nice yet casual at an event.

I wore them to my brother’s college graduation and my best friend’s birthday dinner. These shoes look good; my friends and family deserve no less.

Grey Vans ... Where’s the concert at? I love these casual shoes and now wear them to concerts - country, punk rock, and pop. I bought them originally for my first job which consisted of walking around and taking pictures of amusement park goers. I smiled, accepted rejection, and stood for five hours straight in them, but it taught me to value earning my own money, as well being comfortable doing it.

Moccasins and Black Flip Flops ... my comfort shoes. Almost every winter day, I’m sporting moccasins. They’re comfortable, soft, and warm. During the summer, though, I prefer being barefoot, I fall back on my Old Navy black flip flops. I bought them on sale for a dollar. They’re my favorite pair of shoes ever! When I’m wearing them it’s at least seventy degrees out and sunny, my favorite type of weather. I live for those days.

I seem to have a toe in a little bit of everything - family, friends, school, sports, drama - and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I like to be busy and continuously trying new things. The contents of my closet reflect that ... my shoe stash and I continue to grow.

By Roberto Luis-Fuentes Boston University

DMV

No, not a Roman numeral, not a rap singer, not a vanity plate.

How about the oh-so-fun place where we get our license? Yes. The Department of Motor Vehicles. The place where either the ATMs have more personality than the people who operate them, or the little personality left in DMV employees is that of a snake. Ironically, this is the setting for one of my failures, the one that stung the most. Sure I have tried and failed at many things that seemed more important at the time, but nothing has quite stuck with me like hearing these words: “STOP! You almost backed into that car! Park over there and step out of the vehicle.”

That’s right. I failed my driver’s test.

What was even worse than actually failing was the ride home. I knew the incessant teasing that would come from my friends and the “cheering up” my parents would try to do. I could say that the lesson I took from this was simple, I need to drive more, practice, and prepare better for this exam.

However, the deeper lesson I took away from this was exceedingly more impactful than I ever would have imagined. Humility, specifically the lack of humility, is my hamartia. Why wouldn’t it be? Being an honor student and community leader, I admit it was easy for me to think, “I am smart. Many people I know passed this test and, of course, so will I!” A sense of humility was one of the ideas my dad tried drilling into me as a child, and for every right reason. At 17, my father was risking his life cross-

TAKING CHARGE

ing the Mexican border into the United States ... and I, at 17, was comfortably waiting in a line at the DMV for my ticket to freedom. Due to me being a first generation American and future college student; my parents believed humility was an important lesson for me to learn. They knew I would have to work harder and longer than others to achieve great things and that there would be no room for arrogance or overconfidence in my pursuits.

My parents knew I faced different challenges, including learning English and completing my homework without their help once I was past the sixth grade. What they gave me, though, was priceless. They knew they could not provide me with all the answers, so instead they gave me all the tools. The more I think about it, the more I realize sometimes I was just too blind to use the tools right in front of me. Perhaps those days when I tried to change a tire in life with nothing but a hacksaw were especially rough because, yes, I am stubborn. I can be overconfident and I do occasionally fail. I now see why.

I have come to some important realizations in this last year of my life and I could not be any more ready to put aside the failures and take away only the moments where I have been blessed with important lessons; most importantly, that lesson of humility.

My parents have always told me, “Mijo nunca te olvides de tus raíces,” which means, “Son, never forget your roots.” This is their way of constantly reminding me that no matter who I become, I will owe everything to a humble background and should have appreciation for every achievement and opportunity presented to me.

Failure has certainly humbled me, but like the voice on a GPS when you make a wrong turn, I hear my parents’ reminder, I analyze, and I recalculate, always making sure that I am on the best path to my destination

2016 Gary M. Buchanan Scholar-Athlete Central Connecticut State University

Sometime during that ride, I realized something. I realized that I never wanted to be in that position ever again. I never wanted the course of my life to be driven by something or someone else. That day, I came to a deep understanding of what I wanted in this world. All I wanted was to take charge of my own life.

woke up on a cool fall morning to my mother’s voice “Matt, Brendan, get changed and come out to the living room!” I sensed a bit of urgency and fright in her voice. Confused, I obeyed my mother’s commands. I busted into the living room to find nothing. I went to the picture window and witnessed a scene I will never forget. I saw my father, although I did not know him at the time, along with three police cars. He had a court order to secure my brother and me and to take us home. The next events were a blur.

I managed to find myself sitting in the passenger’s seat of my father’s truck with a little bag of clothes that my mom had prepared for me.

As my dad backed out of the driveway, I stared out at the house I had grown up in.

Little did I know this would be the last time I ever saw it.

The most vivid memory of that day was the long drive home. I was confused and scared beyond imagination. It was a terrifying experience to be taken from your home and to be subjected to the thought that your mother, someone you thought cared about you very deeply, had actually kept you from someone who genuinely did: my father. The circumstances of my life had become apparent. My mother, for reasons that I still do not understand today, denied my father from ever seeing me. My dad had to fight for years just to see his own son.

As I progressed through school, I encountered the greatest obstacle in my path. Attending college. I realized that my middle class family could not bear to send all of its four children to college. My father understood this as well. Although he is relatively successful in life, he always wanted me to become something greater than him. My father encouraged me to put my best foot forward, to be focused and committed to every challenge thrown my way. He taught me to work hard now so that I can reap the benefits later in life. I worked relentlessly at school and became involved in my high school through sports and extracurricular activities. I realized that if I did not try to be the best person I could be, then I would have no chance of fulfilling my dream.

Money would dictate my future and steer me down a path I did not want to follow. Everything I did was to solidify my right to choose what I would do with my future.

I often reflect on that early childhood event and I now realize how much my life has changed. When my father looks at me, he does not see his scared son that he had just taken home after not seeing him for years. He sees an individual who has reached the zenith of his potential. He sees one who is committed to face all the challenges of a student. He sees one who does not dance around his obstacles but who meets them head-on. I have taken charge of my own life and I can choose what path will guide the next phase of my journey.

By Matthew Varnum

I

HOW I LEARNED I AM NOT A RUNNER

By George Pittman 2016 Phi Beta Kappa Book Prize Providence College

I

t took me four years to finally realize that I am not good at running. After countless hours of pushing myself well beyond any comfortable limit, I do not have much to brag about. My freshman year I showed promise, since I was able to keep ahead of my fellow freshmen, but as my high school career progressed, so did my teammates’ running ability. My own ability remained about the same, only progressing at all due to sheer willpower. In fact, I am about as naturally talented at running as a penguin is at flying. By that I mean, not talented at all.

I had doubted my ability for a while, but it never really struck me that I was no good at this sport until my senior year, when my freshman brother with no previous running experience passed me out in our first dual meet. At first, I was angry and very disappointed. But as I came to think about it, I came to a few realizations and made a few decisions about my running career.

First off, and most obviously, I came to accept that I am not that great at running. However, this does not mean I will not continue to be a part of the team. Instead, I will cheer louder and work harder to ensure the success of my teammates and friends.

I will lead group chants and pump up the others before a big meet. I will cheer those who have done well and encourage those who have not to get them up, smiling, and ready to try again. I will run with my teammates no longer as an individual, but as a supporter, worrying less about my own ability and more about improving the ability of the team as a whole.

Secondly, I began to understand that I cannot do everything. No matter how hard I try, there are just some things that I will never be good at. Originally a pessimistic thought, I understood that while no one is perfect -- especially me -- everyone is different. It is not just the successes and achievements in life that define a person, but the failures and disappointments as well. No one can do everything, and no one is great at all the things they can already do. The successes and failures of our lives describe like binary code. They are our bases; we are either good at something, or we are not.

I myself am a pretty good swimmer and I can play guitar, but if I tried to jump a track hurdle I would break most of the bones in my body. I can tell jokes and I can read a book fast, but I can barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning. I remember faces, but forget names. I am great at checkers, but rarely win a game of chess, no matter how low I set the difficulty. I can make new friends, I can whistle with my tongue, I can eat a whole pizza and I can drive a car, but I am not good at running.

Despite all of the things I can do, there are plenty I cannot. That is what makes me unique. I would never give up the things I enjoy just to be better at other things, even if I am as bad at them as I am with spelling, remembering, or running.

And I’m happy with that.

College Essays MATH OF MYTHIC PROPORTIONS

By Gabrielle Raymond

M

Mount Holyoke College

ath. As the old acronym goes, it’s Mental Abuse To Humans. Yes, we can thank Newton, Einstein, and Pythagoras for giving us tools that allowed our society to flourish; however, I like to credit them with my restless nights and tear drenched calculator. Yet, here I am, filling my senior year with AP Calculus. Why didn’t I enjoy a year filled solely of history, science, and English? The answer, as it seems, is that I’m a bit of a masochist. Math is my Achilles heel and I am determined not to be felled by Paris’ arrow. Every year of high school I have taken a math class and scored in the B range with what I can only describe as an obstinacy rivaling a mule.

The war between Math and me really started in eighth grade. The previous year, I took a placement test that said I had the number-sense to skip right to Algebra, traditionally a ninth grade subject; I must have been infused with the spirit of Athena for those 60 minutes because after that test, I never understood math again. Algebra 1 became my own personal Hydra; every time I hacked understanding into my number-senseless brain, two more concepts would appear to torture my pubescent dreams. I managed to get an 80 in the class purely because I did my homework every day, and Mrs. Martel, seeing how I struggled, would stay after school to help me before quizzes and tests. Despite my determination and countless hours poring over X, Y, Z, and the parabola of F(g), I ended up with a 69 on both the midterm and final; I think you can imagine how awkwardly embarrassing this was to a thirteen-year-old girl.

Despite my floundering in Algebra 1, I

I AM GAGGAN; HEAR ME ROAR

By Gaggan Preet Singh

“Y

Salutatorian, Class of 2016 University of CT

ou’re so quiet!”

Yes, I know I’m quiet; I hear this phrase every single day. I don’t always have something to say, and I’m not the one with a loud personality.

However as slight as my presence is, I make a lasting impression. I don’t shout across the table at a chaotic party, because no one would hear me over the music. I don’t talk to prevent my English teacher from giving a quiz, since it is inevitable. I don’t point out the flaws of the new kid while my friends gossip, since he is trying his best. I am the friend who will stay up late at night to assist with a last minute assignment, listen to everything you have to say, and impact your life.

“She talks?!”

The room smells of dried paint and wood. Children are unable to sit still and are covertly talking to their neighbors.

Despite how loud it is in the room I am sitting on my stool in my 7th grade art classroom, working on a realistic sketch of a mannequin on a scratched table bleeding with colors.

The boy next to me, Brian, is jokingly mocking his friend, saying, “Just be normal.” As soon as he says these words I contemplate whether I should get involved. Ultimately, I can’t stop myself from speaking. With one sentence I manage to leave everyone around me speechless and flabbergasted. “What’s normal if everyone is different?”

Everyone is surprised to hear such emphatic words from a quiet girl like me. No one thinks to challenge what normal is, yet I, one of the quietest girls in the class, did. I have always wondered

bchs - signatures - 2016

7

proceeded to Geometry with the hope of a Brave New World.

Unfortunately for me, it was not the place I had imagined it to be: triangles and the Pythagorean Theorem were fated to elude me as well. Again I struggled through an hour of homework that took my peers fifteen minutes, and I stayed after school the day before assessments in an attempt to do the best I could. My seemingly Sisyphean quest to achieve an A in math continued into tenth grade when Algebra came back with double the force and as double the conundrum. Being a person more comfortable with the humanities I assumed I would be happy to see letters in math, ironically though, mixing the alphabet with numbers became the rock I was chained to for the rest of high school. Like Prometheus, I would recover from my daily torture to find myself with an intact brain the next morning, only to be devoured again by the beast called Math.

Thus, being chained by my need to be well rounded, I took Pre-Calculus during my junior year. To my horror, I was reunited with my long lost nemesis, the triangle, except that year she was on steroids. All year we raced; I hurdled past the slope of every possible graph, sprinted through the mud known as logarithms, swam tediously through sine waves, and marathoned alongside trigonometry.

My 70’s and 80’s on the tests would lead one to believe I didn’t try, but I did. Mrs. Frant became my favorite teacher because she cared. I gave her my all and she did the same. Although I ended the year with only an 83 average I gained a little confidence along the way.

Math is all about being confident in your method and your answer; I have never felt that confidence, but I’m working on it. Even in AP Calculus, if I pursue the answer armed with enough confused hours spent fumbling through practice problems that finally turn into epiphanies, I’m bound to get an A one of these days. why everyone says “be normal,” yet teachers always say everyone is unique, encouraging creativity.

Yes, I do talk- everyone does when there’s a reason to speak. When I talk, people listen. They may not memorize every word, but they feel the power of what I have to say.

Words have a magnificent power. Although I may not have changed everyone’s view of “normal” in my art class, I did offer a new perspective. Since then, I’ve preferred to measure my words, allowing my actions to speak volumes.

“You’re so shy!”

It is quite true that I may not jump at the opportunity to introduce myself or talk in a group. Introductions are always challenging for me, yet I’d risk it to help someone.

October 3, 2015 was the day I realized the impact I had on people. My friend Preeti and I were in line to get pancakes at our church breakfast. Preeti was boasting to Sahaj, the new kid from India, about how I was her first best friend when she moved here. Then she continued to state how I helped her with school, friends, and family. Until then, I had no idea I had done so much. I didn›t realize that I jump at the chance to help people, even someone I do not know very well. Even with Sahaj, I was the only one who treated him as if I had known him for years. I know what it’s like to start over in a new place, and I made sure Sahaj had friends and transitioned into school without any problems. I may be silent, but I will put that aside to give others a chance.

I will always be the quiet girl in the class. I’ll get nervous when I have to talk to someone new. I’ll stay quiet in a loud room and will go unnoticed at times.

However, I don’t believe those traits are my weaknesses; they are my greatest strengths. I am the quiet girl who touches the lives of those around her.

I am Gaggan.

8

AND And you beg, and you plead, And you cry, and you weep.

But you cannot perceive Why you cannot be loved.

You disperse love in hopes of reciprocation,

Verse and Vision

bchs - signatures - 2016

But you are misled and disappointed.

You fail in the aspect of elucidation.

That they are hurting you, Unconsciously converting you, Inverting all of your innocence, Mentally contorting you.

They don’t realize you are giving your all

And staying true.

And you beg, and you plead for them to stop changing you.

And you cry, and you weep because The old you is gone, And the dried up tears are its residue.

Mersadez Chaleman 2018

CHRONOLOGY It’s 6:45 I have time Time for a snap Time for nap I only have twelve essays Three free response problems And a scholarship due tomorrow I have time to relax After six hours of school And three more at the track Don’t you know There are 26 hours in a day I don’t need to sleep Let me use them all up On all of this stuff Weekends are great Volunteering at seven Then track meets at noon Then Sunday long run day Before I toil on my prophetic loom Spinning and weaving my hours away Until I’m finally at college I can check off that mile mark And I’m 22 at an internship Living to please Striving for a dream Until I’m 25 and give into the daily grind And then I’m at the altar Checking off the husband The kids And married life My god in ten years what will I do with my life If I keep spinning and weaving Never pausing to think But that doesn’t matter when it’s Sunday long run day And I have places to be so I can live the dream It’s now 9:45 And I have to get done twelve essays Three free response problems And a scholarship for tomorrow

MY FAVORITE THINGS – Painting – Amber Pelletier 2018

Gabrielle Raymond 2016

bchs - signatures - 2016

PERFUME My boyfriend loves the way I smell in a discontinued perfume I am running out of.

I am loved for an exhausted personality that no longer fits on my body.

It is a worn out, size-too-small sweater that suffocates my heart and fails to challenge my brain.

I have grown up.

I have grown out of so many people.

I am not the girl you fell in love with anymore.

I am the girl I can finally learn to love.

I am no longer the gentle spring breeze that lifts the corners of your mouth so slightly and delivers the sweet smell of roses to your lawn chair as you sit in the sun.

I am a hurricane and trees will fall and boughs will break and you will respect me as you hide in your basement and curse my poison-laced name in the dark of safety.

I am no longer the park merry-go-round.

I am the scariest coaster in the park that your mom doesn’t think you should go on unless you’re “absolutely sure, honey.”

I am no longer afraid of the dark; the dark is afraid of me and finds sweet relief when I turn the lights on so it can see exactly where I am.

I cry more now, but I laugh more too and if you are afraid of me, it doesn’t mean that I am wrong or scary, it means that you are a coward and unworthy of my time.

I’m not your dream girl anymore.

I’m mine.

Erin Shapland 2016

The Eunice Award for Poetry First Place – District Poetry Competition

Temple Fusion – Digital Painting – CJ Keller 2018

9

10

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2016

CARNATION It hasn’t hit me yet the going away and leaving you behind and it may not hit me until I’m on the beach in the summer or until I’m in my dorm room where I’m going or I have a career and a home of my own

IDENTITY

2016 Class Poem

but we screamed from the stands in the cold with our arms around each other’s shoulders and we could see our breath in the air and we jumped up and down and heard the screech of metal beneath us and we ran around the track and in the park breathing a heartbeat’s worth of spring air with each stride kicking up gravel and dust abandoning all in our wake for the future that is now and we sang from the stages and the risers we stood on the edge and looked into your eyes and we plastered on makeup and costumes and played pretend while our voices gave out one by one in the stuffy evening air and we played our horns and beat our drums we went to club meetings and to class and to work we kissed and we laughed and we breathed fire and we drove through the streets of this city as fast as we could and it hasn’t hit me yet but it’ll wash over me like a wave in the summer and I will keep it in my pocket this memory of you, as we wave goodbye.

Erin Shapland 2016

BCHS Creative Writing Award Independent Study – Poetry

I was born in a free capital fought for by my ancestors captured by the earth tone green of the wilderness blessed in blaze by the yellow of the sun swept in blue in the waves of the Atlantic I tasted sugarcanes never knowing the word genetically processed anything!

I played in mud and bathed in the rain I became a black dove soaring past the sky I landed on foreign grounds torched soil that wasn’t mine They called it America specifically New York the city boiled me into a rock but the essence of Gabon remained in my spirit I was molded from concrete Brooklyn became my cage and playground I was stripped of my language Lo Francais perdu dans ma gorge Captured by glitz and glam a place where celebrities are worshipped morals are abandoned technology is all the rage & lost boys deflower the foolish I was forced down and told to submit to this way of life pollution burned holes through my lungs music filled with propaganda captured my eardrums making me believe in an alternate reality It took me time to realize my truth whether or not I am on American soil I refuse to convert I refuse to abandon the sweetness of my true home I cherish the darkness of my skin I am amazed by the strength of my people The bitter cold will never corrupt me I entered this world like a flower in bloom the golden rays of the sun beating on my flesh

Self-Portrait Pencil Drawing Jalen Benoit 2016

I am a Gabonese woman

CECILIA BIFANE 2016

Independent Study – Poetry & Fiction

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2016

PURPLE BAGS Five Hours Generously.

Probably four and a half A cup of bitter coffee to wash down the chocolate cereal that I ate from a Tupperware.

At four in the morning I dragged my spine out of bed it all had clumped together, you know, in a stiff and immobile bug-like shell.

But I pulled myself out with my arms.

My eyes burn.

I try my hardest to not look insane.

I didn’t shave my face this morning.

Everyone who knows me asks if I’m okay I told them both I’m fine.

My girlfriend confessed to the other that I’m lying.

I’m going to be home -- soon.

I shall shower. And I shall make my bed.

I shall use my medicated shampoo to assuage my flaking scalp.

I won’t shave in the shower today, but I can tomorrow morning.

In a place where matter doesn’t exist, eyes watch by the billion and the fabric of the place burns to the touch that’s why we have no bodies.

It’s like an itchy cheese-cloth that lets all of our milky thoughts drip and congeal in a bowl to be discarded.

Five hours Liberally.

I know four is a closer guess.

But who can know when they fall asleep, exactly?

But I know that it was after Eleven.

I was nearly crying for all of this morning. but hey, these are the best years of my life and time is a such terrible thing to waste

ERIC DUVAL 2016

Rita L. Gerzanick Expository Writing Award Independent Study – Poetry

Self-Portrait – Pencil Drawing – Riley Burrrell 2018

INDEED Indeed is my favorite word Because I like the way It punctuates a phrase Really captures the definition Of my stance in life Because Indeed I am here Indeed I am alive somewhere In a place that I exist Indeed I am a runner Indeed I am a writer Indeed I am on top of my life And Indeed I am not everything you want me to be Today I won’t be she That girl that loans you a hair tie And comes up with a clever bit To loan you a smile for a while Today I won’t be there for you And I won’t write another word And I won’t run another lap And I won’t sing a tune And I won’t dance like a trained monkey

Indeed I cannot be me today I am out of town, that girl you need The one you’re looking for isn’t here So shuffle through your list Whatever identity that suits you for today Has been cancelled Your subscriptions ended Because all my aliases are spent Today it’s just me sitting here Thinking about Indeed Because Indeed you’ll need me back Even though I can’t tell you Who I’ll be tomorrow Hopefully just me But probably not As you all need the different skins I wear To be pleased Indeed

GABRIELLE Raymond 2016 Independent Study Poetry & Journalism

11

12

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2016

ABOUT THIS GIRL

BASEBALL

and breathe.

Photos being taken, peanuts shells breaking, bubble gum masticating.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Pitchers throwing curve balls, batters hitting foul balls, fans catching game balls.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Pitchers on the mound, Catchers squat down, Mascots run around.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Popcorn being dropped, drunks taken by the cops, big rallies being stopped.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Ball goes over the wall, batter touches them all, celebrate the curtain call.

Snap, crackle, pop.

Players start to pack up, Fans try to pile up, Announcers wrap up.

Snap, crackle, pop.

LEXI PICCIRILLO 2018

Jalen Benoit 2016

EYES that have cried oceans and flooded cities; A MOUTH that has tried to speak up too many times, and now has stopped trying HAIR that has been matted down by sweat from all the anxiety attacks.

The memories invade my mind when I look at her.

ALL the battles I’ve seen her lose; ALL the times she’s almost given up; A mind that has been corrupted; a mind that has become so dark.

Memories of mascara running down her cheeks Memories of screaming at the top of her lungs Tired of trying to find her voice when NO ONE is listening I can see her giving up I can see the distance in her eyes; It’s like she’s no longer here.

I can’t bear to look at her any longer so I turn the mirror around,

LINES: 3, 4, 5 The hand that feeds is the one we bite We close our eyes from fear and fright And pay attention to the light We’ll see ourselves and shed our tears Waiting dusk to dawn, it feels like years Ignoring the hand that gave us a spark While lying there, just cold and dark

TREY BACCHUS 2016

One Side of an Ongoing Conversation with Sharon, My Therapist: Part Two. Sharon, are you listening?

Sharon, are you listening?

God, sometimes it feels like I’m talking to a wall.

Aren’t you supposed to be here for me?

Why aren’t you helping me, Sharon.

Fix me, please. Why am I still broken?

To this day my anxiety floods over me like a river and I can’t breathe.

It’s been six years, Sharon, why can’t I breathe?

My depression still swallows me like a whirlpool, and it’s killing me, Sharon.

Don’t let it kill me.

You know, it sucks, Sharon.

I’m not afraid of the monsters under my bed anymore, I’m afraid of the reflection in the mirror.

I don’t want to be afraid anymore.

Some days I feel like I’m a doll in a music box, I can hear the music but I can’t dance.

Why can’t I dance, Sharon, I just want to dance.

I’m up to five pills a day now, five.

I’m seventeen years old and I can’t be normal without my five pills.

I hate it, Sharon. The pills don’t even help anymore, why don’t they help?

Fix me, Sharon.

I thought I was getting better, I thought I survived.

Then out of nowhere the grim reaper decided to pluck my grandmother like a thorn in a field of a million roses and he took her away.

I can’t live without her, Sharon.

She was my life jacket in this ocean of mental illness and now I can’t swim.

I’m drowning, Sharon, and I can’t breathe.

I can’t get her back, and it’s not fair.

I’m angry, Sharon, god, I’m so angry.

No, Sharon, I don’t want to talk about my father anymore.

Stop asking me about my father.

No, I haven’t heard from him. No, it doesn’t upset me anymore.

This isn’t about him anymore, Sharon, why can’t you understand.

I’m just sick. Why am I so sick; why doesn’t this go away.

Why did my grandma have to go; why doesn’t my dad care?

When does this stop.

GOD, SHARON, I AM DROWNING. Teach me how to swim, Sharon, please.

JENNA MARTINO 2016 Text Collage - Kaynan Conrod 2017

Follow the leader and omit the negativity Once we turn to dust, there will be no nativity There will be no ocean or vast land No colossal mountains where you can stand We’ll live no more because we bit that hand

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2016

SHACKLES I want to live in a world of mossy browns and earthy greens. a realm of near-symmetry but not quite a green burning core and an earth made of stone and dust compacted.

I want a land to fly around in and stare and smile and observe the land from afar.

I want to sit upon the surface and dangle my feet over the edge and worry about dropping a sneaker into the warm and pulsing depths of the world.

I live in a world of monochrome stagnation.

Blacks and whites oppress and drive down the still un-beating core mocks with its blockish tendrils and I could dance if it were not for the weight of the world placed upon my shaky deer-faun legs.

My minds whirrs with possibilities but the ink mocks and drowns and some verbal salad of thoughts entangle my own and I don’t know who I am.

But when I close my eyes the world moves and I see a shackled hand set the clock a-going It turns the key and I I see the world of blue skies and green lands and hot mud-slides playing like seals And the ink waits, for but a moment, to let the hand and I dream for just a day.

ERIC DUVAL 2016

Text Collage – Kelsea Paradis 2016

ON HOPPER’S PAINTING: Room with a View

I wake up every day to the sounds of seagulls, the smell of the ocean and the fog of Poseidon.

My windows let in the aroma and sting of the sea.

The world outside shines proudly blue.

Just outside my door the expanse lies.

Every day I float somewhere new.

The view never changes from my palace on the blue, still bright.

Sometimes I awaken anew, the sea warm and comforting.

Other times I’m shaken, beaten, and threatened with the wrath of the world I so loved.

It only takes moments for my small world to crumble, constant rocking with methodical pacing.

On good days I lounge; On bad ones I drown.

MICHAEL GIBBONS 2016

PERFORMANCE I like seeing beautiful things because they make me feel.

I don’t think I do that enough.

I think everything is processed through my brain in a series of recognition, understanding, acceptance ... to be tucked away for when it matters or makes a difference.

It’s this recurring feeling of numbness, like mindless TV static, a heartbeat flat-lined, accompanied by a silence of aching acceptance, and I realize that I am steadily existing.

It just appears as if most of the time I am surrounded by mannequins, on a set up stage, before an empty audience.

I bump into the lifeless others and sometimes

they teeter, blankly.

I wish they would come to life to make me feel like someone is affected by my presence, because I feel invisible more than I feel present.

The curtains never close, and nobody is ever front row or even back row so I wonder, often times, if I’m in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I don’t know if I’m reading a script.

I can’t tell if I’m in the right costume.

What’s the name of this play?

I sit at the edge of the stage and glance at the empty seats.

How come no one ever shows?

ALEXUS CHALEMAN 2016

Independent Study – Poetry & Journalism

13

14

bchs - signatures - 2016

I am a writer.

Being a writer is hard.

You don’t know who you

SHOULD impress, So you try to impress

EVERYONE. Which obviously doesn’t work, because, well, that lady

over there loves the trees, and

singing, the wind, the color of blood.

The same hot, thick blood

that flows and pumps fast and smooth through

my trembling body that tries, tries SO HARD to find a place as a writer in the world where nearly

NO ONE is happy.

And you cannot forget that

gentleman, over there.

He fell for the rain, the guitar,

guns.

The same guns he himself

used to hold, used to protect

his life,

Used to rob the innocent of

THEIR lives.

Oh, the guns - all the clicking, firing, reloading

without even a

second ... thought.

The shots ringing throughout

the seemingly eternal

night.

The dark, smoke-filled,

starry night.

The stars.

The one thing that that

lady

and that gentleman

have in common.

The stars that saw those

guns and that smoke

and her blood red

flowing forth from

the innocent, The exact . same . stars

from under which the sound of those guns

rings in my

head.

The banging, banging,

BANGING

Poetry of the words in my

head.

The words of her wind that blows the

smoke of his guns

through the branches

of her trees.

Or her trees sheltering

his men with guns from her rain that washes her blood

red down the

rocks of

a mountain.

Or her blood red glistening

on his guitar that

he strums with his best friend

as she sings her

songs about men

with guns, while

watching him:

the man who

was once a man

with a gun.

I am a writer.

PROP Tears hit my cheeks one by one Oh how I wish this day could be done Ridicule, slander, the words of hurt Who said the villains never won?

Trying to block out the words they blurt Trying to impress with dresses and skirts Sitting back to avoid the pain Getting kicked with social dirt Starting to feel the mental drain All these words that need to be slain Praying that one day it will all stop Maybe they’ll see they’re living in vain Using people as their comedy props Watching you as your dignity drops Taking love out of what you enjoy Thinking they'll always be on top Worst part about being a “toy” The one stomped on by little boys You constantly wonder what you did To have your hurt, be their joy.

Olivia Mason 2016

HANNAH SHAPLAND 2018

Self-Portrait -pencil Drawing - Jenna September 2018

Self-Portrait - Pencil Drawing - AMBER PELLETIER 2018

Art & Writing

bchs - signatures - 2016

15

THE UNAPOLOGETIC ENIGMA

By Olivia Apergis Valedictorian, Class of 2016 Georgia Institute of Technology

I

dash off the bus and sprint into the locker room to change. I have just gotten back from a grueling math team meet and now have to cheer for the basketball game in twenty minutes. I don my uniform as quickly as possible and run out to meet the rest of the cheerleading team for warm ups. This scenario is just a typical Wednesday for me. I go from practicing exponential functions to performing floor cheers. My life is a series of contradictions. I am a cheerleader. I am an intellectual. I am passionate about math and science, but I am also an avid reader. I am a girl who wants to be an engineer. These opposing traits meld together to create my essence – an enigmatic personality that cannot be described by merely one category. Unfortunately, these seemingly conflicting characteristics often create the need for me to hide behind a mask in order to blend in.

When people hear that I am a cheerleader, the last thing they expect is for me to have relish the social good grades. Stereotypes dicaspect and the tate that cheerleaders are not the brightest students and bonds that form don’t take school seriously. from being a part Often other girls on the team of the team. complain about failing a class. I put up a façade and As a cheerleader, sympathize with their dilem- I get to express my ma to avoid being excluded gregarious side, a from the group. Yet, on the part of me that is other hand, one of the rea- ordinarily kept sons I love cheerleading is hidden. because the sport is so removed from the stress of schoolwork that it gives me time to just relax and hang out with friends. I relish the social aspect and the bonds that form from being a part of the team. As a cheerleader, I get to express my gregarious side, a part of me that is ordinarily kept hidden.

As a girl who wants to be an engineer, I find it often takes an unexpected amount of effort for me to fit in. On my first day of high school, I walked into the engineering classroom only to be engulfed by a sea of male faces. I was the only girl in the class and, as a quiet freshman coming from a small private school, I was quite intimidated. At one point, I had to wear my cheerleading uniform to school and one guy in class incredulously remarked, “You are a cheerleader?” It took me a couple of weeks to realize that being unique was not so bad. I shed the mask of intimidation and let myself step into my full potential. I still had to put up with the fact that I did not get all of the boys’ jokes, but at the end of the day, we all shared an interest in mathematics and design. I was able to establish a lead in the class and overcome the stereotype that “only guys take engineering.”

People tend to fall under one of two categories: those who like math and science or those who like the humanities. I have an appreciation for both. I revel in the challenge of figuring out a particularly difficult math problem, yet I delight in finishing the last page of a long, heart-wrenching book. I treasure my analytic side and my imaginative side. I love adding an artistic flair to mundane school projects.

What seems to be a motley assortment of qualities, or possibly an indecisive mind, is what makes me balanced. I am not just a cheerleader or a nerd. I am more than my favorite subject in school. I am a puzzle and each piece is necessary for the complete picture.

I

Self-Portrait - Pencil Drawing - Olivia Apergis 2016

COLLEGE ESSAYS THAT WORK Consults Available See Mrs. Dickau The Writing Lab - 127 E-Mail: galedickau@ci.bristol.ct.us

a creative arts publication of Bristol Central High School Bristol, Connecticut 06011-0700

2016 Editorial Board Alexus Chaleman Eric Duval Erin Shapland

Faculty Advisor, G. Gale Dickau

16

bchs - signatures - 2016

The Year of Living Artfully

Make a Wish – Painting – Leslie Fernandez, Art Department

Soul Mate – Painting – Jessica Stifel, Art Department

Culture Shift: Moved by Art

E

vents showcasing the creative efforts of the students and staff of Bristol Central High School produced a collaborative vibe in 2016. Guided by the district’s visionary gifted program; inspired by the performance writing of this year’s Distinguished Alum, Quinnipiac Professor of Creative Writing Ken Cormier; and buoyed by a grant from the Bristol Business Education Foundation, the library was turned into a museum and performance space for two weeks in March.

Art became the crossroads where creativity enhanced curriculum: math met its match in perfect pencil drawings; languages became the poetry of paintings; science wandered into corridors of color; history was recorded in stunning photographic narratives.

Hendrix

Text Collage Brian Achim 2016

The art exhibit drew seventy student and staff submissions; nearly 1200 visitors cast ballots for their “Fan Favorites.”

Art Show 2016 served as both catalyst and backdrop for a myriad of creative excursions including the Power Breakfast for gifted writers; the Poetry Contest; the final round of the BCHS Quiz Bowl; an art-inspired Teacher-as-Writer workshop; the Meet-the-Artists Reception with faculty and friends; and The Writer’s Feast, a family and faculty reception for finalists in the 2016 College Essay competition.

The 2016 edition of Signatures features many of the year’s finest artistic expressions.

Examine. Reflect. Connect. Laugh.

Cry. Identify.

Enjoy.

- GGD