Signatures 2015 by Bristol Press / New Britain Herald

XXV, N0. 1

a creative

arts publication of bristol central high

NATIVE - Acrylic on Canvas - Deyanera Elliott 2015

2015

bchs - signatures - 2015

Fiction

The Baseball Game

By Jake Emery 2015

t was the big day. The day when I got my ticket to walk through those big gates at Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox play the Yankees with my grandfather. Me, the Red Sox fan, and my grandfather, the Yankee fan. I hadn’t been to a Red Sox game in a while so I was more excited than ever. But, let me back up. I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I knew that my grandfather was coming up to Connecticut from his home in Georgia, I would watch all the Red Sox games intently and tell myself the same things over and over again. These words were ringing in my ears: “I want to go to Fenway this year” or “I gotta get up to Boston again.” I hadn’t been in a long time and the team that year was very charismatic and had great chemistry when they played. Watching them on TV was exhilarating and really fun already. Seeing them live would be even better. When my grandfather finally showed up a week before our game, sure, I was happy to see him, but when he showed me the tickets, I kinda forgot the fact that he was even there. I was happier than a little kid getting his $5 allowance. “How’s the truck coming along?” he said. “You taking good care of it?” “Yeah. Better than you ever did. That thing was a mess when you gave it to me!” I said with a playful tone. “What in the hell you talkin’ bout? That thing was in great shape, Dude!” His Southern accent rang throughout the house as we continued to talk. We went outside in the terrible humid Connecticut heat and I showed him his old truck which was then, my truck. The outside looked exactly like he’d left it except for the back wheels on which I had installed fender flares. They were jet black and fit around the wheels perfectly. I had drilled some screws nice and tight into the metal above so that the flares wouldn’t fall off while I was driving. Plus, above one of the wheels there was a boatload of rust and I didn’t have the money to fix it at the time so I used the fender flares to cover it. “That thing looks GOOOOD. All you gotta do now is fix the cap up.” “I hate that thing. Backing up is hell because the way it’s rounded at the top distorts my vision and my surroundings, and it makes the truck seem smaller than it actually is. Plus, it’s wicked heavy.” He put a cigarette in his mouth, crossed his arms and shook his head. “Yeah, I’ll give you that.” He lit the cigarette and puffed out some smoke. “Oh, and that reminds me,” I said to him. “You cannot smoke in the truck anymore. The ash tray inside the dash was filled to the brim with ashes and butts. It made the whole truck smell like nicotine and chemicals, and cleaning around there was so gross. Ashes were literally in every crevice and stuck in the gear shifter. You

know how there’s that leather cover over the handle?” “Yeah.” “Well, there were just tons of ashes in there. It was like a second ash tray! I don’t even know why the designers would put that under the ash tray knowing that the butts would fall in there and get stuck. It was actually really gross.” My grandfather laughed a little bit and continued to smoke his cigarette. He loved smoking. He smoked everything. His favorite smokes were Marlboro Reds. I would get sick from the fumes, let alone if I’d smoked one myself. Those things were deadly. My family and I stayed outside the rest of the day and we had a nice dinner outdoors on the deck. My family likes to be outdoors. Not me, though. I mean, I do, just not all day. I like to go outside later in the day around three or four, when the temperature has gone down a few degrees, when there’s some shade, and when there’s a nice breeze that makes your skin feel cool and crisp under the powerful sun. That’s my favorite. The breeze makes me feel at home. Comfortable. There’s just something about the breeze. Something about it makes me feel… Well… I don’t really know. It’s a feeling that I cannot describe because it’s so common and normal, that it’s foreign. Like a computer. Almost everyone has one and they see it, feel it, and use it every day but they don’t know how they do what they do with the materials inside of them. It’s so common, but foreign at the same time. In a sense, computers and the breeze are one and the same. Then, a few days passed like the blink of an eye. The big day had come and I was ready. I got up and dressed; my grandfather was already up like he always is. He goes to bed at 9 p.m. and gets up at 4 a.m., even though he’s retired. I never asked why he gets up so early, I just assumed that he liked to. “Boy, I thought you’d never get up, you lazy bum,” he called out to me. “But it’s only 8 in the morning,” I answered. “So?” I just shook my head and walked away to go put my shoes on as he lit another cigarette. “You got the tickets?” he yelled from the kitchen, “Yeah. They’re on the table in the dining room.” The dining room table was never really where my family and I dined. We always ate at the island in the kitchen, in the living room, or outside in the summer. The dining room table was always too cluttered

and a pain to clear off, so, we didn’t eat there. It’s okay though because we all ate together. “Well, let’s go den,” he said. My grandfather put his cigarette butt out in the ashtray on the kitchen island and I grabbed the tickets and put them in my pocket. “Get the keys to the truck,” he said, “Why? You want to drive it again?” I asked, “No. I want you to drive it.” “Oh. Okay then.” He stood by the door waiting while I went to go get the truck keys from the cup in the kitchen. My family kept all our spare keys in the kitchen in a metal mesh cup on a black table behind the island. We did that because we couldn’t find a place for them where they weren’t visible. We tried to make them less visible for guest purposes; you don’t want to go in someone’s house and find all kinds of stuff lying around. Do you? Plus, with that cup, we had easy access to them. So I got the truck keys and my house key and I asked, “Are you ready to go?” “Yeah. Are you?” “Yes.” “Well?!” “Okay, okay.” We got in to the truck and I started it up. “This thing looks nice don’t it?” I said. “It looks just like the way I left it!” “What are you talking about? This thing is eons better than what it was before. You’re crazy, Man.” He laughed. I pulled the truck out of the driveway and went left. My grandfather rolled down his window and I said, “Oh no you don’t. There’s no smoking in here anymore.” “Who in the hell said I was gunna smoke, Man?” “Rolling down the window sure is a big indication that you’re going to light one up.” I took a right and the truck’s big V8 engine roared down the street sounding like a demon flying down the road looking to cause some chaos. “Maybe I just wanted to roll down the window! Smoking is bad for you! Who smokes nowadays? I don’t even own a pack o’ gritz.” I shook my head and said,” You’re something else.” I made a left turn down a street to a four way intersection as he threw back his head and just laughed. The light was red and I was the first car in line. I was going to go straight so I sat there without that annoying ticking from the blinker. “Is this light still the longest light in Bristol?”

“Nothing’s changed, Bro,” I replied and I rolled down my window to stick my arm out. “Nothing’s changed.” We sat for at least two minutes more as no cars we’re anywhere to be seen. “How has this light not changed yet? Were the only ones sitting here.” “It’s whatever,” I said. “You’d think they’d do something with this.” “Nah. It’s Bristol. It’s Connecticut. They don’t do anything to help the people. Look at these roads. After the winter we had, you’d think they would repair at least some of it. Nah,” I replied. Finally, the light turned green. I was so happy that I said, “Thank God,” and pulled out into the intersection. Almost through the intersection, a car came flying down the road smashing into the bed of the truck. The driver used so much speed and velocity, he sent the truck spinning out of control. The sudden impact smashed my head against the window and cracked it. After what seemed like hours of spinning, the driver’s side of the truck crunched into a telephone pole. I opened my eyes and looked at the window to my left. It was bloodied and shattered. I looked at my grandfather and he was unconscious, his head on the dashboard, bleeding. My left leg was stuck in the mangled plastic and metal but I managed to get it free. It was sore and cut up. The windshield had a little crack right down the middle. I picked my good leg up and I kicked the windshield out to give myself an escape route. I crawled out onto the hood and rolled off onto the pavement. I stood up and felt the side of my head; gobs of glass and blood soon followed all over my hand and arm. I hurried over to my grandfather’s door which I had to open carefully, realizing he could fall out and get more hurt than he already was at the time. Once the door was open without incident, I got him out and onto the ground and started to do CPR on him. Seeing him like this had me worried; he was always lively, healthy, and strong. Now he was bleeding, stiff, and almost lifeless. I looked over at the other car and it was so mutilated and broken, it looked like it had been through a trash compactor. The driver was obviously dead because I didn’t see any life coming from the car and doubted anyone could survive a wreck like that car had endured. I got my cell phone and dialed “911”. The operator answered, “911, what’s your emergency?” “Yeah, uh, there’s been a car crash at the intersection of Tulip Street and Park Street. Everyone here needs medical attention.” “Okay, how many cars are involved?” “Hold on.” I put my phone down because I realized that the truck was still running and the hood had started smoking. I got back into the truck and turned it off and I noticed that some cars had stopped and people were starting to help.

Fiction

bchs - signatures - 2015

The Baseball Game continued “Is there anything we can do?” asked a woman. “Yeah, go check on that guy over there if you can,” I said as I picked up the phone and put it to my ear. “He’s probably dead,” I continued to say to the woman, “but go check on him anyways.” Then into my phone, I said, “Sorry, I had to turn my truck off and I was talking to a lady and a few others.” “Help is on the way.” I tuned out what the operator was saying after that because I had to focus on my grandfather who lay on the ground before me. CPR continued to be administered until the relief crew got there. Once they arrived, I backed off and went to check on the truck. I climbed into the wreck, put my head back, and shut my eyes. Unknowingly, I had fallen asleep and woke up in the hospital. There was a bandage around my head to cover up the wound and my leg was in a cast. I looked around and I was in a room with another

bed that held my grandfather. He looked over and said, “Hey, Dude. You’re finally up.” I looked at him and said, “Yeah. How are you? How long have you been up?” “Oh, not too long,” he answered in kind of a low smoky voice. “I’m concussed with a cracked skull. I’ll be fine. How ‘bout you?” “I guess I have a broken leg. I remember my head had glass in it before … and I was bleeding. I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine.” I turned and rested my head back on the pillow. “How’s the truck?” he asked. “Gone.” He laughed a bit. I looked up at the TV and saw that it had been tuned in to NESN for that day’s baseball game. There on the screen was the Green Monster. Fenway Park. Red Sox. Yankees. “Isn’t that nice?” I said. “After all this mess, we still get to watch the baseball game.”

NIGHTMARE ON TULIP STREET Realism Collage Painting Rocio Matus 2015

Non-Fiction

Coming to America I

Tyreek Dixon 2017

am 16 years old, and yes, I sound older than I am, and yes, I have an accent. This is surprisingly lovely to you all because in my culture we always speak and sound this way. Please raise your hand if you immigrated to the United States from another country? Those of you who have, know the challenges and rewards around such a big move. I am here today to share my experience of how I felt moving from Jamaica to America. Let me tell you, it was too much to take in initially. Jamaica is my homeland, and there is so much to see like the plateaus which are just so amazing. I remember when I was around eight years old getting a mango after climbing a tree; in the mean time I disturbed a hornet’s nest, sigh! Those were amazing, crazy times. Jamaica, the land we love is a tropical Island. The land of wood and water. It is a great place to go on vacation and have recreational outings. Lots of beautiful mountains, white sandy beaches, great food, and music, but that’s only the part of Jamaica that foreigners come to visit. We Jamaicans tend to ignore the problems and pains of our country. The economy is very bad; crime is out of control; poverty prevails; and the injustice of the corruption is a nationwide concern. Limited job opportunities and wages have been rapidly declining over the years. My homeland is in this state because of the government’s poor decisions and mismanagement. Foreigners move their businesses because of the high crime rate and poor development of the country which led to my being here in America today. We all know the expression, “The American Dream” and I believe my dream can be a reality here in America.

Pencil Drawing – desiree saindon 2015 I believe you can become anything as long as you put in effort. When I first landed in America only about a year ago, it was so cold! Like, super cold, cold. Remember, I’m coming from a tropical island which is always hot. In fact, my lips cracked so badly and I immediately looked “ashy” but I was happy and excited anyway! There was just so much to see. All the large buildings … everywhere. The billboards and the fast food restaurants, and stores were just amazing! As we were driving in the car, I was imaging getting a slice of pizza because the pizza on Brooklyn Street looked dazzling. I was very tired from the flight, but I wanted to go see everything around me because I was in New York! Being there was fascinating. But the thing is, school was still being held, and I

needed to go to school. The problem was I was not a resident yet. We had to figure out what to do. My mom made some calls and we went to get registered for school. The requirement was for me to get fully vaccinated. Which lead up to getting a lot shots, blood work, doctor examinations, the whole works. Apparently, in Jamaica I was fully immunized but not here. On the day of the appointment, I was given sixteen shots ……. SIXTEEN SHOTS! MY ARMS WERE NUMB. I MOVED LIKE A POTATO…… but I was very happy because that was it for a few months. School in New York was great. I met new friends, great teachers. I saw snow for the first time. It was crazy! Walking in so much snow to catch the train - that was a new experience as well. We don’t have passenger trains in Jamaica. Time passed by and I moved here to Connecticut. Then, I actually started to miss home. When I first moved here to Bristol no one could really understand me. I was the center of attention, yes, but also I could not relate to anyone. NYC was a lot more diverse and I was surrounded by other Jamaicans. In addition, there was no where to go in Bristol; it was like a ghost town. It still kind of is but now I’m adjusting to everything. The biggest culture shock that I really don’t understand is how people here use technology so much to communicate. In Jamaica people talk face to face and hang out. This bothers me as I thought my life was over! The thing that I don’t get is that people don’t speak in person. This bothers me because I connect with people face to face better, just like now with this lovely audience. I believe it’s our sense of morals that has been lost, through people and their connection and environment. I think I have a closer bond with teachers than most of the people I text over the phone. For me, I try to preserve my culture, my values, and my morals and still be myself. But despite these differences, my transition from Jamaica to here is good because I know the opportunities I have been given. To be in this country, I can be and do anything without limitations; I want to make the best of that.

bchs - signatures - 2015

The Best of the College Essays

The Power of the Bowel By Maria Sato 2015

St. Anselm’s College

n October 22, 2012, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, an autoimmune disease that can affect any part of the gastrointestinal tract. The most common symptoms are diarrhea, fatigue, loss of appetite, abdominal pain, and weight loss. If the events on October 22nd did not occur the way they did, I would not be the person I am today. This disease has taught me to persevere, to appreciate life, and to realize what my purpose in life is. When I was diagnosed my sophomore year of high school, I was extremely ill. I had displayed symptoms of Inflammatory Bowel Disease a few years before, but I just ignored it as if it would go away. I was too embarrassed, and I did not want to ask for help. When you are a teenager you think you are invincible and at that point in time I did. Finally, I had enough. Once it was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning and perform simple daily tasks, I knew it was time to seek help.

Once I was diagnosed, I immediately began treatment. Also, I gained frequent flyer status at the hospital! After a few months, I began to feel better, but I continued to have issues up until the end of my sophomore year. I was absent for twenty out of the one hundred eighty days of the school year, but I still achieved great grades despite my health challenges. Music has always played a huge role in my life. I have loved listening to music ever since I was a child. In fourth grade, I started playing percussion, and I have been playing ever since. In order to cope with being diagnosed, I went to music. It was my only outlet. Music has healing powers that are almost impossible to explain. In

order to feel better I go to music, whether it be listening to it or performing it. Music allowed me to escape Crohn’s. The journey after my diagnosis has taught me that I should be grateful for my life, and I should not take it for granted. There are so many children and young adults out there who do not have the chance to attend school, have their first kiss, visit another country, or experience their first love. I am so fortunate to be healthy again and be able to experience life thanks to my amazing doctor, nurses, and medication. Since my diagnosis, I have spent numerous hours in the hospital for infusions, procedures, and doctor’s appointments. As a result of my condition, I am con-

stantly surrounded by nurses. The strong, caring, courageous character of these nurses never ceases to amaze me. They constantly put the care of their patients before themselves. These nurses have taught me how to persevere through some of the most difficult situations, helping me so much that without them I feel I would not be alive today. I want to become a nurse because I so desperately want to pay it forward. I know I can fulfill this drive inside me by pursuing a career in nursing. Helping others and making a difference in someone else’s life would be an extremely rewarding experience for me. My purpose in life is to become a nurse and give back. Without being diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, I would have never known that. The fact that I have an incurable disease will never stop me. Crohn’s allows me to view life with a new set of eyes, and I am eternally grateful for that. So, thank you, Crohn’s, for the five million trips to the bathroom, for the many IV insertions, and for the call to nursing.

Character Building By Jean-Souvern Rioux 2015 Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute

hen I was seven years old, my family filed bankruptcy and we were forced out of our home in Colorado with what little that we could carry. After losing our house, my parents decided to move to my father’s hometown, Bristol, Connecticut. When we moved into Bristol we stayed with our cousins before moving into a cheap, one-bedroom apartment. The little that I remember of the apartment includes a caved-in ceiling in the bathroom and a small room that the four of us shared. We spent the next halfyear in this apartment while my father started repairs on a boarded-up twofamily home that my grandparents purchased for the sake of my family. I can recall walking through the house, seeing feces smeared on the walls by vagrants, and thinking that the house was better suited for rodents than human beings. In that half a year, my father made the necessary repairs to make the first floor livable and after doing so, we moved into our new home. Even as we moved into

this new home, my father never faltered and dedicated his whole self to making our house complete. Since money wasn’t a luxury we had available, it was inevitable that I would have to assist my father in his ventures. Shortly before the end of fifth grade, my father informed me that the house needed to be finished by the end of the summer in order to be approved for financing. Without anyone else to turn to, my father asked me for help. Even though I wasn’t enthused by the thought of working all summer, I knew that my father needed me. So for the next five weeks, we worked twelve hours a day, every day of the week, in the heat and the rain. In this time, we managed to tear down the siding and reside the entire house. We also completely replaced the porch, built a patio in the backyard, put roofing on the addition, and finished the remainder of the work that needed to be done inside the house. Out of necessity, I performed a number of tasks that were unfamiliar to me. I operated a table saw to cut countless pieces of wood and siding, which I carried to my father on a thirty-foot scaffold. I carried forty-pound bags of roofing shin-

gles and nailed them into the roof. I also nailed down floorboards and built cabinets. Whenever my work was less than perfect my father never hesitated to yell at me. I remember him throwing down pieces of siding that I cut oneeighth of an inch too short or too long, after which he would yell at me and I would cut another piece to his satisfaction. While this desire for perfection slowed us down, we still managed to complete the house before the deadline and we were left with something that we could be proud of. Since that distant summer, I have shared a number of experiences with my father and undertaken many problems alongside him. Often times, the problems we faced were arduous and frustrat-

ing, but we always managed to complete our objectives. Through these endeavors I’ve gained many interesting skills like how to build chicken coops and restore trucks, but these endeavors have given me much more than that. They have taught me how to never give up, how to understand what’s most important, and how to approach problems regardless of their peculiarity. The mindset instilled in me by these lessons has pushed me further than what I thought was possible. It has carried me through all of the difficulties I’ve faced in my young life, whether it was a hard crosscountry race or a daunting calculus problem, and as I step into adulthood I can’t help but be grateful for that summer we shared so long ago.

bchs - signatures - 2015

Color My World By Katherine-Clarke Britt 2015

Pace University

y name is Katherine-Clarke Britt and I am a traditional American teenager. I am captain of the varsity cheerleading squad at my school and I also do volunteer work in my spare time. Do you know what color I am? I partake in performing arts where I have had leads in the drama productions. I am also in two singing groups. Have you guessed my color yet? Not only do I juggle doing well in my activities, I try my hardest to challenge myself in academics by taking all honors classes and a number of AP courses. I am also in the top 20 of my class. Do you know what color I am now? In seventh grade my teacher looked puzzled as I nervously tip-toed into her classroom. With a stern voice she simply asked me, “Are you in the right class?” When she asked that question, I replaced a nervous grin with a puzzled stare. I thought to myself, “Why wouldn’t I be in the right class?” As I gazed at my schedule and occasionally glanced at the room number on the door I replied, “It says it right here on my schedule.” Then my teacher snatched the schedule out of my hands and said, “I think there has been a mistake. This is accelerated science.” I thought to myself, “So, why wouldn’t I be in accelerated science? Why would she say that?” Then it dawned on me, my teacher asked all these questions because she knew what color I was. Feeling the tears bubble behind my

eyes I politely walked away from her and sat down. Surprisingly she didn’t object, but I knew that for the rest of the year I would feel like an outsider in my class. To my surprise I survived that class and everything was great until I hit high school. Like many young girls going through adolescence I was looking for a change. I decided to pick my hair. I cut it all off. It was liberating. No more trying to be like my peers. It was just me and my no hair. I was really happy until one day a kid in my grade asked me, “Do you ever wish you had my type of hair?” When I said, “No,” he chuckled to himself and told me that I should. My heart sank. I felt the familiar shackles of low self esteem secure themselves around my wrists. “Back to the holding cell,” I told myself as I walked away holding back the tears. After that incident my self esteem was at an all time low. People in my world are not very fond of people my color. We get picked on, constantly being called “dirty” and “ugly.” But the worst was being called a “N@##!*,” a derogatory, antiquated, offensive name used to refer to my people. That moment right there was when I came to the realization that I cannot let my color define me. I define me … by how I act and what I do. My color is merely my appearance; it does not tell who I am. It is not something to be ashamed of, or something I need to overcome. I don’t try to hide my color. It is part of me, but it isn’t all of me. My name is Katherine-Clarke Britt and I am African American … but that doesn’t really matter ... anymore.

Act I, Scene 12

By Jordyn Gauvin 2015

Pace University

am standing backstage, next to the girls who know me better than anyone else, the girls who I have shared my passion of dance with for the past fifteen years of my life. I turn to them and to my teachers, take one last sip of water, and then I walk onstage. “Up next, Act Number 97. This is Jordyn, with ‘Wake Me Up’.” Is this really my last performance? As I step into my beginning position, I take one last look into the audience out of the corner of my eye and I see my parents. My friends. My life. This one’s for you. The music begins to play and, all of a sudden, the entire past seventeen years of life – of what I can remember – take over my body… Finding my way through the darkness, guided by a beating heart… I flash back to second grade, my parents’ divorce. I was so young and so confused; all that I had left to hold onto was that single beating heart, mine, which unified my family. The song continues… And I don’t know where the journey will end, but I know where to start… Eighth grade; high school was our biggest concern. We had been coddled all of our lives, until now - it was a huge transi-

tion. School had always been tranquil for me, I hardly worried about getting an A on that English paper, or how I was going to find time to finish my lab for Biology – until then. I began to take more challenging courses with each year, and I started noticing a shift from my perfect, “High Honors.” As taken back as I was by this, I told myself, keep pushing through; I may not have known just where my life would lead me but I did know that, in order for me to reach my highest potential, I had to start working towards that now. The dance carries on, I tombe, pas de bourree,glissade,and grand jete gracefully across the stage as I hear the words… And they tell me I’m too young to understand, they say I’m caught up in a dream… My parents had always told me not to worry, I was “too young to be involved” – I hated hearing that. I was constantly excluded from the divorce details. I now realize that my parents had just been trying to protect me… So wake me up when it’s all over, when I’m wiser and I’m older… My life was beginning to overwhelm me. From packing bags to travel weekly between houses, to getting to work on time, training at dance for hours, and finally getting home to finish

homework and study – I thought that I was going to lose it, multiple times. … All this time I was finding myself and I didn’t know I was lost… The confusion of my parents’ divorce haunted me. Was it my fault? Could I have done something differently? I was so wrapped up in figuring out just why and how, I nearly forgot what it had been like to simply care about my own well-being. As I grew older, I realized nothing could have changed the divorce and that I was blessed with two loving parents. As the song ended and I danced to the very last lyrics, one thought crossed my mind. What had held me together my entire life? It was dance. Dance had taught me countless life lessons for which I am forever grateful. I have learned the value of family, the importance of self-discipline and, most importantly, the essence of being a strong, independent woman. I first took the stage as a wide eyed innocent little girl; walking off the stage this final time, I leave behind my past and all of its naiveté and regret. I’m ready to choreograph my next performance.

bchs - signatures - 2015

College Essays

Regarding Henry By LeeAnn Waye 2015

University of Saint Joseph

firmly believe my past, although at times extremely hard to endure, had had a direct impact on my life, influencing the decisions I make, and more specifically, fueling my passion to be a nurse. Some individuals stumble into their futures rather coincidentally, finding the thing that makes them happy by chance. On the contrary, I did not luckily come to the decision to be a nurse: The decision was pounded, forced, and drilled into my destiny ever since one tragic event that left a sister, brother-less. On March 5, 2009, while walking home with his friend. my brother,Henry was struck by a drunk driver. He was walking on the correct side of the road walking his bike when the drunk driver swerved over and hit him, killing him instantly. Henry was revived, rushed to Bristol Hospital, Life-Starred to Hartford Hospital, and finally Connecticut Children’s Medical Center, where he died that night. Having also lost my mother seven years earlier, the pain my family experienced from the loss of Henry was almost too much to endure. Throughout this ordeal, I kept telling myself to keep my head up and persevere. I could sit around all day and feel bad for myself, blaming the world for my problems, or I could get through this and do something constructive. One valuable trait I gained from Henry’s death was the ability to take a bad situation and

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

2015 Editorial Board Vinh Cao Haley Knox Lillian Sundgren

Faculty Advisor, G. Gale Dickau

On Style and Substance To the forty student writers and artists whose work graces the pages of this issue of Signatures, a profound thank you for sharing pieces of your deepest selves. From freshman to senior, poet to satirist, artist to storyteller, workshop to coffee house, it’s that creative pull

turn it into something positive. I realized after a lengthy grief period, that I could not bring my brother back no matter how tragic and unfair his death was. One thing I could do, however, was raise funds and awareness for an organization that helps families like mine cope with loss due to a drunk driver: M.A.D.D. (Mothers Against Drunk Driving) The team I organized for an awareness walk raised over $600. If I could not bring my brother back, I could help others in his memory. Not only did the death of my brother help to develop my character, it deepened my passion to be a part of the medical field. Although Henry suffered too many irreversible injuries, he was attended to by so many doctors and nurses who worked diligently right by his side to try and save him. I find the focus, emotional stability, and compassion of medical professionals more than admirable. I think my experience with Henry’s death showed me I have what it takes to join them in helping and caring for those in need. I realize becoming a nurse is far from an easy goal to accomplish. It will take endless hours of studying, determination, and dedication to achieve this aspiration. Nursing also beckons those who are caring, compassionate, and love to help others. I am up for the challenge. I know I possess those qualities and truly believe my life experiences along with my faith have led me to a completely appropriate career path. I choose to be a nurse.

COLLEGE ESSAYS THAT WORK Consults Available See Mrs. Dickau The Writing Lab - 127 E-Mail: galedickau@ci.bristol.ct.us that draws us to each other. There are threads of genius in these pages: raw truths; authentic voices; keen observations; comforting wisdom; jaw dropping images; warm wit. We have made it our design to search the classrooms and the corridors of our school, from the cafeteria corners to the library

lounges, for the salient stuff that sustains us; validates us; inspires us. Kudos to graphic artist Wayne DePaolo; art teachers Jessica Stifel and Leslie Fernandez; gifted senior editors VC, HK, and LS. This is our signature collection … try it on. - GGD - 2015

STATURE By Francesco Patria 2015 University of Rhode Island

My individual identity is considered by many to be rather blatant. In fact, this identity is one that I cannot control. I stand at a generous five-foot five, constantly being reminded by peers and opponents. However, while several perceive minuscule height to be a disadvantage or even undesirable, the simple fact that I can’t change myself helped me place confidence in my own unique height. Ever since I was little I would ask my father when I would grow - expecting the unexpected. I grew up always waiting for what I view now to be some sort of miracle. The truth is, there aren’t any shortcuts to your goals and certain individuals might have it easier than others. Some may have the height that I lack for the sports that they play, while others may not need to study for a single test to receive an A. I, on the other hand, don’t have that luxury. The issues of being short and coming up short became a regularity for me. Anything that would suggest the word “short” made me cringe. I was looked upon by coaches as a liability to their team before even given the chance to prove myself worthy and I received unsatisfactory grades after studying for hours. It was obvious that something had to be done. One valuable lesson that I have learned from my height came from my dad; he’s always said, “Work with what you’ve got.” To this day, those are the words that shape who I am. Both in school and in sports, I realized that once I accepted my situation for what it is, I would then be able to ignore it as if it didn’t exist and overcome any obstacle to my success. Academically, I have learned that a little goes a long way. The difference from a B to an A seemed to be just a little more effort in the classroom. I no longer relied on the assistance of others for their advice on studying. It became clear to me that I am my own person and my study habits differ from anyone else’s. It took me until my junior year to figure this out. On the lacrosse field I no longer let my size get to me because what’s in your head is what matters the most. The mentality that my height doesn’t matter translated to my play on the field. If I thought big, I would play big. If I believed I could turn my grades around, it would happen. Instead of wasting my time feeling sorry for myself I trained twice as hard and studied twice as long. In time, the positive outcome slowly became more of a reality. I was announced starting midfielder on our school lacrosse team my sophomore year, and improved my GPA from previous years. None of this could have been a possibility if it weren’t for the lessons I’ve learned from myself. Ultimately my height has taught me that individuality is worth cherishing and resolutions can be found in a variety of ways. The fact that your way and my way are different doesn’t make either approach wrong. My father’s words helped me find my way.

College Essays

bchs - signatures - 2015

Not Lost in Translation By Giselle Martinez 2015

Central Connecticut State University

“W

e bought Coca-Cola just for you. I know how much you Americans like your pop.” I heard my Italian host tell me as she was serving the other glasses: water. I was respectful but I acknowledged that soda was my least preferred beverage. I took Sofia’s casual stereotype as her way of providing comfort and her awareness for me. Their offer made me strive to teach myself and my new family further than stereotypes and to break away from the boundaries of my restricted perspective. From the second I first stepped off the plane at the Bologna airport, the vivid geography and beautiful architecture fascinated me; the energy and scenery definitely told me I was not in New England anymore. I had just arrived in Fano, Italy when I saw a group of Italian students wait meters away from the bus, anxiety seeped into my body as I stalled to get off the bus. Sofia approached me with her arms open and the widest smile. I embraced her as if we were meeting up after years of being apart. My impression

of her grew strong as she asked about my jetlag and flight. Our conversation evolved from music, interests, and accomplishments, to perception, religion, and principles. As she told me about her family, she mentioned that her parents did not hold religious or legal bonds. Her lifestyle captivated me since I lived with two Mexican parents that were deep rooted in their traditions. I had adapted to anything and everything, the variations ranged from roasted grasshoppers to Catholicism. I was dressed in beautiful traditional outfits to dance El Baile Mixteco and made frequent visits to Oaxaca, Mexico, where my creationist grandparents would expose me to the parts of Mexico that were not displayed in brochures. I was accustomed to viewing love as the religious and legal bond that brought my family together for generations, so all the articles and books I had read about Roman Catholicism in Italy seemed close to my nature. I realized in that moment that as adaptive as I thought I was, I was still isolated in the Mexican culture that my parents had raised me with. The last thing I wanted to be was deaf to the endless possibilities of religion, perceptions, and belief. My Italian family

had given me the insight to modify my perceptions and beliefs that had not been truly my own, as well as aspects of my life I had been forced to follow, including Catholicism. My independence and confidence reached its peak as I learned the definition of certainty. My understanding of new ideas that branched further than those of my parents were helped significantly by my academic success in my Italian classes. The endless worksheets and articles used in Room 23 gave me proficiency in the Italian language but I gained something greater from drinking cappuccinos in the local cafes, visiting the nearby cities with Sofia

and her family, and enjoying the delicacy of piantura in her kitchen. My success as an Italian student allowed me to explore parts of my personality that were undiscovered. I built my personal foundations as well as my cultural awareness off the different lifestyle I experienced. I would commence to form my ideas on political, religious, and moral aspects that would help me evolve, while still holding true to my Mexican roots. As my last hour in Fano arrived, the tears that poured down my cheeks were reflected by those of Sofia. Who knew that the girl randomly assigned to me on paper would become my greatest teacher and lifelong friend? As the bus approached the curb, I stalled to get on, my heart felt tears but my eyes remained clear as a mirror.

Kiss Your Mother; Hug Your Father By Andrew Damon-Smith 2015 University of Connecticut

othing ticks me off more than when people constantly complain about their families. I get it; parents are annoying, siblings are grossly infuriating, and grandparents are sometimes just weird. What I say to those who complain is this: family is all you have. I’m not saying anything new here. We’ve all heard this a million times. While some frown at this truth, I smile. Among all the factors that have contributed to my development as a student, athlete, and person, good parenting has been among the most influential. Let me paint you a picture of the Damon-Smith family. I have two younger brothers who uphold a business like devotion to standard brotherly love. I have a mother. You do not want to mess with my mother. She has a snappy attitude and the voice of a banshee. (Just ask anyone at my cross country meets.) When she says something, she means it. My father, an aspiring intellectual, is a former Marine whose concealed musculature is of the variety that makes other men feel inadequate. Together, they make one very intol-

erant, menacing couple. What’s funny about my parents is that they are terrifying and loving all at once. I remember early in my high school career feeling terrified upon my mother’s demand for a kiss in public, fearing that I might face social exclusion. Being a social outcast is scary, but living with an angry Mrs. Damon-Smith is scarier. To this day, I still kiss my mother (and hug my father) at every meet, banquet, and academic award ceremony they attend, and I am better because of it. Chiefly because of her initially traumatic kisses, I now have a strong sense of selfconfidence – not to mention, the admiration of cute girls. Though the things that I ask of my parents are often declined, I scarcely ever deny a parental

request. Learning to listen and accept “no” is something I learned how to do when I was young. Before I graduated middle school, I fully comprehended that when parents said they were right, boy, were they right. (Based upon my experience, I’ve found that about 99% of the time, my parents are absolutely infallible. As far as that 1% goes, there was once a time when they said Santa was responsible for eating the Christmas cookies, which is not true at all.) Because of my family, I learned right from wrong before all my friends did, and I knew responsibility before I could even spell it. This responsibility is why my parents, though cautious, let me out into the world to do my own thing; they know that I will not let them down. Overall, what I’ve missed

out on is trivial. I do not care about the no’s I’ve received in my life, for I am always reimbursed with bigger and better yes’s. I’ve been to Mexico and Bermuda and all along the Eastern seaboard. Whereas my friends were at home making trouble, becoming a different kind of “cultured,” my parents were introducing me to the positivity of a diverse outlook on life. My parents have given me the absolute finest instruments for success. Like true leaders, they taught me by example. Watching them work hard every day at their jobs while pursuing their education has been eye opening. The inspiration they’ve provided allows me to remain ambitious in my goals as I strive toward financial independence and a successful family of my own. Without their guidance, I’d scoff, as many teenagers do, at the mention of the words organization, planning, and goal setting. So many kids brag about the things they are given and seek to derive success from the work of others. My parents have taught me to work hard for the things I want and to earn them myself. While some parents may have money, mine have a good core set of values that, to me, are priceless.

The Vernacular:

bchs - signatures - 2015

UPTOWN GIRL – Acrylic on Canva – Lexi Calfe 2016

GIRL, INTERRUPTED – Acrylic on Canvas – Juliana Ciralli 2017

December The nights I spent cuddled up, hiding under thick covers, were nights that I believe somehow felt different than others, I wrote all Winter, of things to see, places to go, people to be, I was ambitious in the Winter, December especially, Christmas time always meant money, and money meant a lot to me, I grew up admiring things with outrageous price tags,

UGGs, Victoria’s Secret, Abercrombie but soon I learned that there’s more to life than Aeropostale and Hollister, or having Coach shoes on my feet my peers looked to me as inferior, for I was “not in with the style” but I knew that spending money on clothes was not worthwhile, So for Christmas I didn’t get Starbucks gift cards, or gift cards to the “popular” stores that are deemed upscale, I got one hundred dollar bills, and I knew I could spend them better than they could spend theirs, soon I looked down upon them, for being silly, naïve, and trivial, I bought snacks when needed, or an extra lunch

and I laughed as they looked like fools, because when we got to High School, clothes didn’t make you look “cool” especially not Chanel and Juicy Couture, High School meant you buy your own stuff, you realize less is more, I learned about money, and the best way to save it In December I didn’t want a brand new Macbook Pro, or something absurdly expensive, I’d much rather have a check book, or a new notebook with clean pages

Alexus Chaleman 2016

Voice and Vision

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The Girl in My Head At night, I sit and play games with her. Our favorite is “What if.” She asks me questions that bring back long buried memories And for that I am thankful. She reminds me that I am human. She watches me every day, Hears everything I say, And shows me the alternatives. It’s funny to think that she doesn’t have a name, Because she is a variation of myself, Although she is the farthest from what I want to be. But is she? The essence of her character is that She does not care. Her smile is devious and unfamiliar. I must tread lightly Especially in the early morning When she is wide awake and bright and dangerous – And I am nothing but pale and vulnerable. One day, she will leave. Her presence is comforting, but freedom is ever more appealing. She will leave in pieces. I will take what I want from her, And discard the rest. When her pieces are gone, I will be whole.

Lillian Sundgren 2015 SAD BEAUTY – Fabric Sculpture – Juliana Ciralli 2017

MASQUE Tears rolled down my rosy cheeks As I tried to hold in a heart shattering sob Locking up my anguish and frustration like it’s some sort of beast Who can never see the light of day But my therapist told me that she’s really proud of me for being here And that it’s more than ok to cry The great thing is I’m starting to believe it I’m afraid of being messy She said And she’s right

But now my answer to “How are you?” Is no longer the default “Good, how are you?” If I feel like I’m crumbling like an old forgotten building Or drowning in the deepest darkest sea And I don’t know how to swim Or that I was buried alive and don’t know how to escape

I’ll be sure to express that to someone I’m human I’m allowed to feel like nothing is going right I’m slowly removing my mask And letting my true colors shine through Even if some of them are dark

Holly Kay 2017

bchs - signatures - 2015

Poetry

LET’S (NOT) TALK ABOUT COLLEGE “So, have you thought about college?” Of course I’ve thought about college You only ask me at like, EVERY family event, like ever Even people I don’t know find out I’m a senior and it’s like Moby Dick THAR SHE BLOWS Except, I’m gonna blow Chunks all over if you ask me about college ONE MORE TIME If I had it my way, I’d be honest and tell you I’m marrying rich so I don’t have to do anything But that’s no fun for either of us So, yes I’m going to college I’m going to college, I don’t know where yet So please don’t buy me a bunch of t-shirts so I can make up my mind It won’t help anyone I’m going to get my “extensive education” somewhere Then I’ll probably marry rich Just don’t start asking me about when

THE LORD OF MY MIND The beast grows inside my mind Tearing sinuous fibers that Sing when the breeze blows just right It wears my hand just like a glove It drops all that I hold high To build its own creation It makes me tear out my hair Perfection seeking, no, it demands It must be perfect! As fine china on a summer’s day The agonizing ticking of hourglass sands

And what be it, its foul name? The beast that comes, and comes again That steals my name, my hand, my soul My mind it grabs, a burning coal! And yet what name can it misuse Misconstrued through foggy views A rainbow cast in bloody hues Its name, my friend, is only Muse.

Eric Duval 2016

Rachel Petke 2015

DON’T JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER There’s a crowd, that can’t help but be loud Some laugh and string them on, but some think they’re wrong They are the kids who get first invite, Or a new bulb when they run out of light At the end of that tunnel, I sit and wait As their positive judgment, becomes hate Why am I subjected to a crowd I know absolutely nothing about? I hang with the jocks and “cool kids” And kids start to question me for my popularity It’s not a medal, reward, or gem, So don’t tell me how to choose my friends You look at my smile and think I’m happy In all honesty, my life, is crappy I don’t have a Dad, or a big home I live in the projects with my mom And I’m always alone I don’t have the funds for college The only thing I have is the knowledge Yea, they give scholarships, but I don’t take handouts I never did and never will Without my pain, I’d have no skill I live a life that no one will Sometimes I wake up and wonder Why can’t God strike me with thunder? Do you think people would ever wonder Where I went, or how it happened? Without my heart, I’d be a lost cause Waiting for someone to cut me off Before you judge me for my friends Realize my whole life is coming to an end Without those people, everything falls apart vastly Think of your own happiness Before you try to read me, like, The Great Gatsby.

O’Keefe Floral - ANTHONY ROSS 2017

Sean Sandy 2016

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2015

MULTIPLE CHOICE(S) Alacrity Acrimonious Acumen Memorize What do they mean? Give me two definitions Remember and you’ll be fine Take your SAT Take it twice Score over 550 and you’ll do fine Build your resume List achievements volunteering leadership and sports Give us your soul and you’ll be fine Pick your price tag Match your size Find your fit and you’ll do fine Visit a campus Is it urban? Is it Rural? If you can make it in your Suburban than you’ll do fine Gather the data Combine all the Stats Comb through the schools Till your eyes roll back But apply to your top five and you’ll do fine High school is over You’ve prepared since 9th grade So pack your suitcase and you’ll be fine

Gabby Raymond 2016

“Write What You Know” We are told to write what we know. So I start by writing my alphabet from A-Z.

I write out Pi…3.14 all the way out to that 7. You know which 7. The one after the 9.

I write the names of the greatest philosophers of all time, Aristotle, Plato, Fulghum, Snoopy.

I write that be it vodka or french fries, you’ve got the same thing in your mouth and really we’re just alike aren’t we?

I write six months. That is how long forever is when you’re sixteen. We did our research.

We have no data to show you, but we all cried.

I write the words “I love you”. These are not for anyone, but I know them.

I know what they mean. I know how they feel and taste and hurt.

I write that you never really understand the impermanence of what is happening around you until it

I know, I know, I know.

Is Over.

Erin Shapland 2016

color wheel SHANAYA SIRIWARDENE 2017

WINDOW The sun is piercing through my window Gracing my condition with a bright hello As I cower in the bed of a dark room A spring day arise and flowers bloom But he keeps me put strung out on hopes I gaze out my exit longingly His hand rise and with that I shudder Wishing I could enjoy that amazing weather The laughter of children slaps the glass He runs his fingers down my back How I wish that I could escape this fate There is no hope left at this rate Happy couples hold hands and smile Tears run down sobs get loud Creep up my spine until I scream He’ll smack and beat until I bleed I look away from that window He holds my life at his disposal And the world passes me by

Cecilia BiFane 2016

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2015

THIS is IT This is it The day we burst from the cocoon Four years nestled at Bristol Central Now our futures loom

2015 Class Poem

We crawled once as caterpillars Gaining confidence; tasting life Eager for the promise of Friday nights Engaged in the high school hype The fastest four years of our lives Filled with wisdom, friends, and memories Feels like just yesterday we were at Festivus Laughing with the ones who brought out the best in us Now we transform into beautiful butterflies Built with the potential of wings Prepared to fly Over a lush array of flowering possibility We may know who we are now But not who we will be Uncertain of where we will land When that last school bell rings; and we fly This is it.

HALEY KNOX 2015

WORDLESS

We meet again, my oldest friend.

Back from the darkness, you rise again But you are quite opposite of the dark; instead you are a blinding bright white An unwavering, immovable white light Whom I will be battling for the next 7 hours Tonight.

We meet again, my constant companion.

You have been the ruin of many men, but not I; you will never best me again We’ve waged war ever since I was nine, and you bring the same weapons, time after time A sword you lovingly call “Agony” holstered in a sheath named “Indecision” I’ve tried a great many times, to strike your body But my blows are deflected by your armor, “The Introduction” I’ve readied my armies, and for the next 7 hours We fight.

We meet again, my most familiar enemy.

Our wars are never fought with paper or pen We battle to the clicks of the keys, once again At times I wonder, why do we contend? Perhaps it’s your blank stare or wordless presence Perhaps it’s your silent demeanor or taunting cadence You may be faceless, but not nameless You are my greatest rival, a constant threat You go by the name of “Screen, Computer” and I will never forget It matters little, for I have prepared my thoughts, and for the next 7 hours I write.

Vinh Cao 2015

ON WRITING I’m just a small boy I haven’t lost any ball And yet here I stand In the middle of the road And I see no cars Not another person for miles So I sit there waiting Expecting something to come In a place where nothing ever comes A place where I am truly alone But then I hear it The roar of an engine I don’t see anything coming The noise gets louder I close my eyes, ready And then it hits me And I write

Joshua Morrell 2017 Color Wheel - Tamir Hornesby 2016

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2015

COULD YOU? Wrists tied in homework Restless, tired, growing young the latest iPhone at my thumb “Mom” has never been around, “Dad” rarely is either, I’ve grown to remain to myself, the opposite of a people pleaser There has never been any form of discipline for any of my teenage rooted decisions but I have directed myself, and learned on my own my behavior has never required revision Could you remind yourself to wash your laundry, after returning from a long night of work? Could you comfort yourself, after your very first break up when you feel endlessly hurt? Could you keep your own spirits up, No matter how bad everything seems? Could you come to terms with your loneliness although you are surrounded with love in your dreams? Consistently wishing that you had some guidance, realizing later, that it isn’t mandatory you’ve grown into a well spoken young woman No one will ever believe your story No matter how abandoned you feel, You know there is nothing that can ever be done To get you back that feeling, that comfort of really being young You taught yourself to ride a bike, to tie your shoes, to tell off the boys, to take care of yourself pure knowledge is power, it is something you cannot obtain from anyone else Could you grow old, without ever having to be told that you’re wrong, or you’re right without a single idea what comes next no hint, or helping hand in sight? Could you tutor yourself, help yourself do things you’ve never done before intimate with morals, continue to want to learn more? Could you knock yourself down pick yourself up fix yourself into the right direction although your psyche remains corrupt? I did it, I always have and I still do and when I’m old enough to live on my own, do “grown” people things, live like an adult, I will already know how to.

Alexus Chaleman 2016

O’Keefe Floral - GLENN DEPREY 2016

Navigator I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know how to get there, I don’t know what’s my plan, I can’t say it’ll happen, I can’t say I am there, I can’t tell if I’m far, I damn sure can’t tell if I’m near, I have no idea where to go, I have no idea why I’m going, But it’s not about planning, And it’s not about knowing, Life is unpredicted, unexpected never planned. You can take the wheel, But your life is in his hand, Don’t make the wrong turn, You might get stuck on a road, A road that you’ll lose track of all things you’ve ever known. So don’t forget what’s important, You don’t need a map or planner, Be yourself and stick with your instincts, Trust, life will get better.

Malasia Johnson 2017

UNTITLED a terrifying tango, spinning across an intersection, is a brutal interruption of an ordinary instant. breaks wail in belated warning, collision preceding comprehension. metal smashes against metal as shattered glass is strewn about. emerge unsteadily from the carcass to assess the aftermath. wheezing engines and labored breathing overcome by blinding lights and blaring sirens. frozen in astonishment, you thank your lucky stars that the only casualties were the cars.

Athena Giannopoulos 2015

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2015

SKIPPING STONES Stones thrown don’t pierce the water with as fierce a precision as intended. The ripples of our actions, spread out from the point of impact, breaking surface tension, in rings that reverberate the common note, a unified chorus: “Why?”

We crumble to the ground, along with your intentions. We surrender, like the stone, to your convictions destined to be skipping across the water skidding out of control.

We too will become a weapon, the water stretching out in rings that go for miles and on to the horizon; again that familiar note we sing: “Why?”

Kayla Southworth 2015

TAINTED BREEZE A POEM Tainted breeze Beckoning for rapture And reverie Incandescent Luminescence From machines beneath Mesmerizing murmur Air consumed By toxin and clamor Vacant of tranquility Yearning for somnolence Begging for felicity Peace remains ephemeral Longing to escape Remains visceral Dreaming of ethereal destination In him I found revelation He was a chrysalis Of cashmere And confidence Desultory affection Brought serenity Foreign emotion He gave feelings Never before felt Mimicking daydreams Deceptive hoax As suddenly arrived Equivalently abandoned Painted sky Fades to smoke Beauty remains a lie Returning to solitary With lack of rapture Or reverie Depleted lungs Welcome breath From a tainted breeze

Katie Plourde 2017 O’Keefe Floral - CHRISTOPHER KELLER 2018

Poetry

bchs - signatures - 2015

Saturn

Color Wheel Breana Morin 2017

I can be cool Especially behind someone else’s shadow Never living up to expectations That’s an expectation I can meet They’re always talking about me Yet they never talk to me They think the whole world revolves around them I’m sorry to say, the rest of us only orbit the sun We can surely survive and live happily without you But I don’t think you could live without us Would you be able to survive without the little people? The so called “unimportant ones,” because I sure think we’re the most important We’re the ones you can always fall back on, we’d take you in. We exist, but we try to keep it low-key We don’t need validation, from you or anyone We know ourselves, that we are ok, and will be ok, and we can make it Maybe we won’t have a huge crowd, but we don’t need that Sometimes you have to be like Saturn Glorious in your own way, known for being different Be known for the individual Support yourself and take support from others Open up some horizons Open up that vague world you so strongly hold in the palm of your hands Open up your arms and take in the differences among you For if we never opened up our views and our worlds We wouldn’t know wonderful places like Saturn exist

Nicole Truszkowski 2017

ALL THINGS POSSIBLE In my life people have told me, “You will never make it in life” Back then, whenever I asked myself, “Will I ever make it?” I would always have that sense of doubt But I now know that life is amazing No matter what people say Because God is the only one who decides On the future direction of my life He is my judge in life, not my friends or family Thanks to Him I’ve learned how to stand on my own In good times and bad I never imagined Being able to go to school and graduating. But the Lord is always going to want me to never give up Because God is always pushing me to run the extra mile So I always try to do more than what’s expected of me I never really thought about it But if you’re with Him He will give you that victory your heart most desires

Felipe Garay-Ortega 2015

THE GREAT EQUALIZER Calm and still as a winter morn The water stands alone Toxic and destructive, the water is my cologne Solid and substantial, strong as stone Mysterious and inquisitive, the water’s unknown Through many lessons, I have learned on my own Through many lessons, I have fully grown No matter race, or religion, There is no division No matter belief or back ground, Everyone’s the same within water’s bound Like a warm motherly hug, it invites you in Hard to ignore, like a strong addiction An obstacle you must defeat alone, All skills and talents you undoubtedly hone The water has become my throne I dive in. “Welcome home.”

Will Litwinczyk 2015

Rant

bchs - signatures - 2015

MALL-ED By Vinh Cao 2015

herever there is hardship in this world, there is someone else who’s trying to help. Be it oppression or adversity. Cruelty or injustice. It seems that everyone has an advocate. But, sadly, there’s one group whose anguish has gone overlooked for far too long: Guys. You can actually pinpoint the cause of our pain to one fateful day. October 8, 1956. To most of us, it seemed a day like any other. But on that day, a man named Victor Gruen opened the first indoor shopping mall in Edina, Minnesota. The mall was called Southdale. And guys everywhere have been tortured by the invention ever since. Lest you blow this off as a joke, pay attention next time you’re in the mall. Take heed of our distress. Note the pained expressions. We look forlorn. Despondent. You see us draped over faux gold railings. Tracing an index finger over the bars. Remembering what life was like on the outside. Sometimes, we even look as if we’re giving serious thought to jumping. “Would it really be worse than Ann Taylor Loft?” Meanwhile, strains of Christmas carols pipe from speakers on the ceiling. “The most wonderful time of the year,” my ass. As we men pass each other in the hallways, shackled with Nordstrom bags, we exchange a somber, knowing glance. It’s the same look neutered dogs give each other when they cross paths on the street. “I feel your pain. Now let’s never speak of this again.” In the mall, we men revert to dissociation. It’s a self-preservation technique where the mind blocks itself off to prevent trauma. You’ll often see it in cases of extreme psychological distress. Guys who have been through wars. Guys who have been through natural catastrophes. Guys who have been through Victoria’s Secret. The expression is universal. It’s more vacant than a Paris Hilton bookshelf and it crosses every imaginable social barrier. Black or white, young or old, Yankees or Red Sox. Worst of all, our suffering is senseless. We men are dragged to the mall against our will by wives, girlfriends, and girls we’re trying to impress. But why?

Why do you make us come along? There must be a good reason to torture us so. You might say that, “Some guys like to shop.” Sure. More often, you schlep us to the mall under the guise that you want our opinion, a man’s opinion. That you value our keen eye for women’s fashion. To this I say, “Do you really?” We wear golf shirts embroidered with obscure corporate insignias. Usually, the shirts have been in business longer than the companies. We wear our 1996 Gap Relaxed Fit jeans without thought of a belt. The pants stay up fine without one, so what’s the point? On our right foot, there’s a navy blue Jockey crew sock. On our left, a black Hanes. It’s inside out. But we don’t care. Why should we? You can’t see the seam unless you take off our white New Balance tennis shoes. So, ladies, do you really want to know whether we prefer the Boot Cut or the Flare? Keep in mind that many of us own flannel. Very ugly flannel. And yet, despite our appalling fashion sensibilities, you insist that we join you at the mall. Sometimes, you even play the “We never spend any quality time together” card. So, reluctantly, we follow you into Forever 21. And so the suffering continues. Once inside the women’s clothing store, our only solace is the Man Chair, a wonderfully cushy seat that provides safe harbor for men in women’s clothing stores across the country. Such a chair is generally shoved in a corner by the dressing rooms. Leaving us eye-level with a rack full of Granny Panties. Awkward? Perhaps. But it’s far better than the alternative. See, these days Man Chairs are few and far between. They’re an endangered species. A dinosaur from more considerate times. So, while you ladies duck into the dressing room for a small eternity, we’re left to fend for ourselves in the wild. This is a major dilemma. Because let me tell you. A man is never more naked than when he’s alone in a women’s clothing store. Guys, you know exactly what I mean. At first, you stand. Hands in pockets. Rocking back and forth on your heels. You contemplate a coffee stain on your shirt. You check your watch. It’s a collector’s edition Patriots watch. You frown and try

So, ladies, do you really want to know whether we prefer the Boot Cut or the Flare?

Cool - Still Life - Morgan Bibbins 2015 to take solace in the reflected testosterone. But it’s no use. You’re surrounded by pink things. They’re embroidered with silk and estrogen and described with adjectives like “pretty” and “soft.” Manhood receding, you glance around the store. Most of the women are alone. You silently curse their husbands who are fortunate enough to be at home, at the bar, or dead. As your eye leaps from face to face, an attractive blonde girl inevitably catches your gaze. You smile sheepishly. She does not smile back. It’s then that you realize that you’re the creepy guy who’s in Forever 21 by himself. Lurking by the dressing room. Ogling. Your smile vanishes as you offer an expression that is at once innocent and apologetic. It’s a look that you only hope telegraphs, “No! It’s okay! I don’t own a website!” You pull your hands from your pockets (which, of course, makes it look even worse) and divert your eyes to the nearest clothing rack. With desperation, you start touching things. As you lumber around the racks you try your best to feign interest. You feel a pair of sweatpants, purse your lips and nod. You hope that this look passes as normal, like the expression of someone who appreciates fabric. “These are nice sweatpants,” you announce to the woman across the display table. She stares for a moment, then walks away.

You shrug and continue touching the sweatpants. They say “JUICY” across the ass. You realize this isn’t making you look any less of a pervert. Your mind races, desperate to think of a way to not look awkward. You’ve never been more unsure of what to do with your hands. Then you have an idea. You approach the free-standing display shelves. “Could I sit there?” You give the clothes a nudge and slowly lower your backside to the display. After testing the surface with a tentative butt-cheek, you decide it’s not sturdy enough. You stand up and wonder if anyone noticed. Someone did. The hot blonde girl shakes her head and frowns, wondering why you felt compelled to touch your ass to the ladies’ undergarments. You quickly straighten the stack of ladies undergarments, making a conscious effort not to touch the glittery lettering that spells “Vixen.” And so it goes for guys in malls. A constant dance of awkwardness, boredom and emasculation. Sadly, as long as there are malls, the senseless suffering will continue. But it doesn’t have to be this way. Ladies, consider this a plea on behalf of all men. Next time you go shopping, let us stay home. Let us sit on the couch, watch sports, and scratch ourselves. Let us eat pizza and drink beer. Let us fart. Please.

Sadly, as long as there are malls, the senseless suffering will continue