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Front Cover

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Back Cover

Ripples [white pastel on black paper] by Clare Harris ’09

“An Ode to Long Ago” by Nelly Cubahiro ’09 Teapots [digital photography] by Melissa Benton ’10“Accepting Salieri” by Susan Lee ’12

“Accepting Salieri” (continued)

“At Least Ten Lines” by Elizabeth Grace ’11; “Trashing My Tennis Shoes While Listening to Rubber Soul” by Grace Adams ’10 4 drawings [ink] by Sarah Garman ’11; 4 drawings [ink] by Sarah Garman ’11 Transportation [pen, pencil, and crayons] by Nina Yang ’09

“Drops In Paradise” by Nelly Cubahiro ’09

Palm Trees [acryllic paint on canvas board] by Clare Harris ’09

“Chaos of the World” by Maddie Grimm ’11 Ice Cubes [charcoal] by Nina Yang ’09 “Dauntless Dancer” by Danielle Stockton ’09 Barbie [photography] by Samantha Clark ’10“Neil” by Jessica Gick ’09 Abandoned [photography] by Emma Howcroft ’12“Neil” (continued)

“Love Bytes” by Merril Roth ’09 Computer Art [digital media] by Samantha Clark ’10 Mandala [watercolor, ink] by Susan Lee ’12

“Life’s Glass” by Danielle Stockton ’09 Iguazu Waterfalls [digital photography] by Elizabeth Osborn ’11“Writing on the Walls” by Elizabeth Grace ’11 Flowers [photography] by Claire Szabo ’11“I Am Both” by Whembley Sewell ’11

Two Face Red Face [digital photography] by Grace Adams ’10

“She’s Leaving Home” by Shelly Bagchi ’09“The Pool and Me” by Delilah Ohrstrom ’09“This Is Just To Say” by Grace Adams ’10 Silk Shadows [photography] by Ana Olson ’10 “For a Second There, I Swear I Was Flying” by Delilah Ohrstrom ’09 Monkey Bars [photography] by Dorothy McQuaid ’09“The Tale of Niobe, Queen of Thebes” by Tosca Fischer ’09 Palms [photography] by Jenna Pugrant ’10“Always Have and Always Will” by Taylor Eggleston ’11

“Hopeful Illusions” by Shelly Bagchi ’09 Interrupted [photography] by Sabeen Qureshi ’09

“Girls of Summer” by Maddie Grimm ’11

Hands on Grass [photography] by Susan Lee ’12

Table of Contents

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1

How did the time pass?From when I was the only one,And you were happy that I was born,To now when I don’t belong?

Before I bloomed Laughing, playing, joyfully sharing The caprice and whim of my fl imsy childhood,And the dreams I dared to utter, The merriment of playful chatter.

We shared a cheerful worship Of time together spent, together, When you used to call me darling andI knew I was adored.

Memories crowd this wintry womb, An ode to long agoOf days when we used to smile To revere that fragile bond When one can do no wrong.

The moment passes, Over the refl ection of my faded youth,The loss of ties, from when she was born,And I forgotten, lost, the time became. Nelly Cubahiro ’09

An Ode to Long Ago

Teapotsdigital photographyMelissa Benton ’10

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I had a perfect childhood. I grew up as the only son in a reputable family with suffi cient amount of money. My father was a highly respected, successful businessman, and my mother was a beautiful, sociable lady, always the prettiest among all mothers. For all my childhood, I had every kind of toy I could possibly imagine, the best bike I could ever fi nd in a store, and the best kind of suits that fi t me perfectly. But most of all, I was loved by all adults for being a smart little boy. My piano tutor told me she’d never seen a boy pick up a tune so fast as I did. She loved me. My Latin tutor was impressed at how many words I could learn in a day. She loved me. My tennis tutor said to me often I could be an Olympic star if I wanted to. He loved me. My parents told me I made them proud by being such a talented young gentleman. People were always telling me I would grow up to be a great man, and intelligent, successful man, just like his father. When I turned thirteen, my mother took me to a testing center to test my IQ. My score was 134. The doctor there said to my mother, “that’s some bright kid right there, ma’am.” By that time, I was convinced that I was as smart as anyone could be. I was confi dent, and I knew I had a great future ahead of me just like I was expected to have one. That was until I met a friend that changed me forever. I attended the Blakely School, which you may have heard of once or twice at least, if you grew up in a traditional, conservative family like my own. The Blakely School used to be like Harvard of college preparatory schools for boys until it moved to a country side up in Michigan 10 years after I graduated. I heard it was because of the new headmaster, a big sailor. The school was big on sailing for a while but then slowly disappeared and no one knows about it anymore. My father and my grandfather and my great grandfather were all well-educated men, but I was the fi rst in my family to ever even consider Blakely. So you can imagine all the praises I received when I was accepted to the school Anyway, it was at Blakely that I met this particular fellow that changed me, my life, and every piece of my self-pride forever. His name was Henry Davis. Now, most boys that come to this prestigious school came from backgrounds similar to mine. They had rich fathers either lawyers or bankers or businessmen like mine that drove similar car and mothers of similar social groups and gatherings. A lot of us already knew each other before we came to the school or our fathers had business connections of some sort. So we had similar backgrounds, similar interests in the future, similar political views, similar brands of clothes, and so on. Yes, ‘similar’ would be the appropriate word, if not ‘same’. Then there was Henry Davis. He was different. He grew up under a single mother who ran a lodging house to make the family’s living. He wasn’t educated until he was nine at which age met a generous gentleman who offered to support Henry’s education. He studied mathematics, physics, and biology. He carried on his love for learning and taught himself Latin. Of course, I learned this long after I fi rst saw him. However, I still did notice he was different at fi rst sight. I didn’t know then, but I think it was the lack of arrogance in the way he carried himself that separated him from the rest of the crowd. I found out that we were roommates, so I introduced myself to him who was sitting just across the lunch table from me. “Hey, my name’s Charlie Noland. I hear we’re gonna be sharing room this year. Henry, right? Nice to meet you.” I reached out a hand. “Oh, you’re Charlie. Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking my hand briefl y with a smile. He had a nice, friendly smile. Not a vibrant one, but a nice, quiet, gentle smile. I knew we would get along well. I soon learned that Henry and I were the two smartest kids in school. We were respected by our peers and our teachers. I loved the feeling of being on top, although I knew I would be from the start. Everybody told me I would be before I came to Blakely. On the other hand, Henry seemed to know the fact that he was being respected for his brains but didn’t seem to care. We had a good year together. In our second year, we took Physics and Pre-calculus together. We were still the only people that understood all that went on in class perfectly. We often enjoyed having conversations after enjoyable lectures. Then one day, something I thought would never happen to me, happened in class. I didn’t understand a single con-cept our physics teacher, Mr. Gray, explained. I was stunned. I listened hard, even squinted at the board, but it was as if Mr. Gray was skipping a few words or a few important parts of the concept. I was confused. It was like the world had turned upside down. I, Charlie Noland, who had the greatest expectations, the greatest blessings upon me could not possibly be having diffi culties understanding in a high school science class. I stopped staring at the teacher mouth, wiped off my frown, and took a deep breadth. I looked around to see if this was some kind of a joke. It wasn’t. Everything was perfectly normal – the dazed look on Johnny’s face, Ben’s droopy eyes, the gentle tingling excitement in Henry’s concentration… Henry sure didn’t seem confused as I was… The class bell rang suddenly. I quickly jotted down the notes and walked out.

Accepting Salieri

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That night, Henry came over to my room (we now had separate rooms), wanting to talk about the class. “What’d you think about Gray’s big lecture today?” “Oh, I… I thought it was alright, I suppose,” I answered uneasily. “I think it was one of the best classes ever. Gray usually likes to hold on to his knowledge and give them away little at a time slowly. It was always a bit of a disappointment, but today was like he wanted us to know everything! I thought it was great.” “He…did give us a lot to process today, didn’t he?” I asked awkwardly. “I suppose he went a little overboard, but I really can’t complain. I loved it.” “Well, I actually wasn’t feeling very well in class… I think I might have missed some of the materials we cov-ered today. Will you meet in the library tomorrow to go over some of them with me?” Henry said he would be glad to and went out, wishing me better. I lay on my back, looking up at the white ceiling. I closed my eyes slowly with a sigh. I had denied I had trouble understanding the lecture. A few more physics classes passed, and people were starting to talk about how the class was getting absurdly diffi cult. Many dropped the class. Whatever happened to Mr. Gray, he defi nitely seemed to be trying his best to be the hardest teacher in school. Our classmates assumed Henry and I were having no trouble. That was not true, because I sure was on the same page with everyone else. To be precise, their assumption was half true – Henry didn’t have much diffi culty at all. I kept denying that he was above me, but by the time I received a C+ on my midterm and no one was coming to ask for my help anymore, my denial turned its head towards anger. I was angry. Infuriated. So enraged that I felt hot. This was wrong. I was smart. I had the greatest expectations. The expectations my parents had on me, their beliefs in my greatness, oh, the expectations I had on myself! I couldn’t take it. I burst out of my chair and ran out my room all the way to the edge of the library fi eld. Behind the library building was a great fi eld with a spectacular view of a lonely lake down below. It was beautiful. The chilly wind in my face quickly evaporated the single drop of tear from my eye. I caught my breadth and stood still for a while, looking down at the lake. My legs felt numb and wobbly. It wasn’t just a bad grade that made me panic. I didn’t care about a damn grade. What suffocated me was the feeling of limit. My limit. The limit of my ability, the limit of my capacity was a reality I didn’t know existed. My thoughts moved to Henry after calming down a little bit. I didn’t understand how he was just fi ne. He understood everything. How? Just how did he? An obvious answer: he was smart. Then an immediate thought followed: I wasn’t smart enough. It hadn’t ever occurred to me that I wasn’t smart “enough”. My arrogance crushed that day with my confi -dence and self-esteem. I watched Henry closely after that. How blind I was before! I could clearly see with my own two eyes. He had twinkling eyes that let light shine through his intellectual mind. Everything seemed to make sense to him. Everything seemed to interest him. He had a true passion for learning, especially science, so naturally. He was a born genius, a natural. I was embarrassed I thought he and I as equals. He was Mozart. I was Salieri. I suffered a severe depression for a long time. My physician recommended I stay home, but I insisted on staying at school. I took enormous amounts of pills to help me struggle. Once in a while when I forgot to take my medications, I felt a horrible fear of not being good enough come back. I graduated after two hard, long years. I took a year off before going on to college and spent it in the family vacation home to recover my strength for a new start. It was toward the end of my break that I found an old copy of Emerson’s Self-Reliance in my father’s study. Out of the whole book, the one sentence I remember till this day awoke my worn out soul. “Accept the place the divine providence has found for you, the society of your contemporaries, the connec-tion of events.” ‘Accept the place the divine has found for you…’ Well, so I did. I let go of the tiny bit of stubbornness I had that I may be able to change myself somehow. I was never going to change. I was who I was. I needed to accept that. Almost thirty years have passed since. I successfully fi nished my academic years and found myself a job as an editor for ‘Life’ magazine. Now I am a forty-seven year old businessman, running my old man’s company. The way I see it now is that there are spectrums for various things. On the intelligence spectrum from zero to ten, I just happened to fall at a point at about 7, a little above average. There are people on the point of 8.5 or 9 or 9.87. They just happened to, like I just happened to be a man that I am. Am I satisfi ed? No, quite frankly, I’m not. Quite disap-pointingly, I’m not. But what can I say or do. This is the place the divine providence of nature has found for me. And I’ve accepted so. Susan Lee ’12

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The porcelain waves of springtimeWhisper their qualms of remorseIvory spiders, tangible cloudsThey don’t want to be forced

Forbidden happiness, innocent inquiryThe children sit quiet and learnOf what may be dull but is so mature--They’ll lose all that they earn.

For within the waves that crash beside meIs a plethora of distant worlds;Yet human Race’s potentialReads quiet and gentle

Within only the sphere that is seen.

Elizabeth Grace ’11

At Least Ten Lines

The jelly of my sandwich,Salt of the earthMy feet sit in feet Wildly at rest, in peace,With caked canvas skin andSharp, metal eyes.You are my Rubber Soul.

Mastered on the mocking mountain,You stomp me until myFeet are fl at and full of fl ight.My gnarled toes acheFor you,Winding, minding road.You are my withered soul.

Grace Adams ’10

Trashing My Tennis Shoes While Listening to Rubber Soul

4 Drawingsink

Sarah Garman ’11

4 Drawingsink

Sarah Garman ’11

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Transportationpen, pencil, and crayon

Nina Yang ’09

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If someone had told me then that there would be a time when I would look forward to, even long for the rain, I would have called them ‘ikirofa’, a fool. In the midst of the emerald sea of trees, with the warm sun lighting my dusty playground, I ran, and jumped, and explored the hidden spoils of my jungle like home. I cherished those moments of peace and freedom more than the knowledge that I had a roof over my head and food in my belly. So utterly ridiculous would those words have been at a time in my life when rain was something to frown away, the horrid event that interrupted my childhood play, and forced me to be still and to refl ect upon my sorrow. I was always the restless one, fi rst out the door, fi rst to start the game, and last to give in. I never wasted time refl ecting on things that I could not change. From the minute I ripped off my little red bowtie, shed my blue sailor uniform, until someone grabbed the tail of my wrinkled dress to drag me in at night, I lived for the outdoors. I was wilder, fi ercer, and far more unruly than any creatures that shared the playground with me. In my way, I tried to escape the increasing tingle of awareness of yet another coup d’état, assassination and the shots in the night. By the time I turned four, I had left my childhood behind. Instead, I was yet another protector of my two year-old brother, and I struggled to keep his mind clear of my nightmares. So we ran and I let the sun darken the brown of my skin rather than rot in the dark inside. The sun took away our fear of death, abandonment, and even guns. In the light, even the Tutsi soldiers who patrolled outside the gate seemed less like blood thirsty monsters, and more like humans as they stopped and bought a cola, or placed their hideous machetes and guns on the ground. The sweat on their faces made them more real, made them seem more human. It was easier being outside when they came for their inspections, for their raids. I can remember the exact smell of the rain in the ground when we heard that they had killed Ndadaye, the only hope our country had at that time. It was raining then, and I had not forgotten my yaya’s hands thrusting me into the dark and stuffy hole under the bed, right before the Tutsi soldiers entered my parents’ room and destroyed the night. Afraid they were on yet another killing spree, my mother hid my brother and me underneath the bed behind the sacks of rice and fl our. The screaming and ensuing search for the rebels they knew were not there, was enough to wake the neighbors and warn them that they were next. I remember the lamp shattering as it was thrown on the ground, and yaya sobbing, as my mother tried to defl ect their violence, to save us. Counting the drops of rain, ‘rimwe, bibiri, bitatu, bine’ (one, two, three,four..), I tried to breathe and quell my panic, as I watched the mud soaked boots stamp on the fl oor, stealing my air, staying much longer than in the other rooms. When I could no longer breathe, I remember clutching my mouth to stop from screaming as the end of a bayonet poked around our hiding place, slashing the bag of rice, and missing me by bare inches. I shoved my baby brother further into the corner, and thanked God that he was such a heavy sleeper, and that my father was not yet home, for they surely would have killed us all. As the rain continued to pound on the roof, with my eyes shut tight, I remembered the sunny day before the clouds had rolled in, and the noise of the soldiers’ guns had begun. After what felt like hours, they fi nally left. It was even longer before I was allowed to crawl out from underneath the bed into my mother’s waiting arms. I could not understand what she meant when she said ‘Imana ihezagire imvura’, God bless the rain. Though it was not until years later, I too learned to be grateful for the rain. After that night, I had blamed the rain for my circumstances, knowing that there was always the possibility that once again the falling drops would trap me inside to wait for those mud soaked boots, to wait for the day when they would fi nd me. Unlike my treasured sunlight, the drops that I had blamed for the uncomfortable hours spent counting, had simultaneously saved my life. Whenever I remember the sound of my breathing, I can only be thankful for the deafening loudness of the rain. Now I am 7,322 miles away from that room. The scent and sound of a rain shower on the rooftop reminds me of a former life. The soft pattern reminds me not of the fear, but of the clean and refreshing smell in the morning air after that terrifying night. I am reminded of the second chance that I was lucky enough to receive, and to have hope in the darkest of times. Most importantly, when it rains, I now know to count my blessings rather than misfortune in the drops, for those are far more numerous. With the wisdom that comes from hindsight, I realize that were it not for this experience, I never would have gained the clarity that comes from a change in perspective. Having my preconceptions about the rain irrevocable shattered has allowed me to see and live life far more completely than I ever could merely playing in the sun. Nelly Cubahiro ’09

Drops In Paradise

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Palm Treesacrylic paint on canvas board

Clare Harris ’09

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Ice Cubes charcoal

Nina Yang ’09

If all the chaos of the world was laid upon my hand With all the peoples teeming past, like waves upon the sandSome claimed by the current, forever bond to fateSome striving to forge a path, to see what snarls awaitAll bound by the same thread, by the ebb of an unseen tide Some manage to rise above, to gasp for fl eeting breath As we feel the drowned shadows of those who’ve diedWe are all resting in an entanglement of lives

Maddie Grimm ’11

Chaos of the World

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Nimble feet swiftly glidingAlong their domain.The coquettish kiss of her toesMatched with the equal spring of the fl oorAre the endless give and takeOf the dance of life and destiny.Who knew a tilt of the kneeCould captivate an onlooker so fully?The beat ripples through her bodySo gracefully it seemsThat it and she are one and the same.As she makes love to the willing airWith the arch of her backAnd the swish of her hair,I feel as though I’m witnessingA very precious scene.

Danielle Stockton ’09

Dauntless Dancer

Barbiedigital photographySamantha Clark ’10

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I looked at my wristwatch. Friday, July 25, 2008. 7:30pm. The sun would not set below the skies of Dublin for another couple hours. I had just fi nished seeing the legendary Book of Kells when I saw him, the man who would soon prove to have great effect over my conscience and heart. He was hunched over, sitting cross-legged next to a large grey stone building. The hood of a dark grey sweatshirt was pulled over his head. His eyes were closed; my naïveté led me to believe that he was simply sleeping. His arms rested heavily across his lap. Loosely in his hands hung a small, white cup. He could not have been more than 25 years old. I quietly placed a light blue fi ve euro bill into his cup. As I walked away, I looked back to smile at him. I was then met with the most powerful gaze I had ever seen. His deep blue eyes locked directly onto mine. He was suddenly no longer a symbol of homelessness; he was no longer simply the receiver and I the giver. He became a person, a person with dreams, desires. For a few seconds, we connected; for a few seconds, our seemingly different lives became one. I said good luck to him and continued walking. I thought I had fi nished. But the image of his eyes burned into my mind. They haunted me. I could no

Neil

Abandonedphotography

Emma Howcroft ’12

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longer see the hundreds of people bustling around me. The street signs and the mighty River Liffey became a distant blur. My chest tightened. My head pounded. Tears teased my eyes. I felt empty, numb. I needed to talk to him. I thought about the consequences of what I was about to do. I knew that it could be dangerous, but I also knew this was something I just had to do. I wiped my sweaty hands, took a deep breath, and swallowed hard. Time stood still. After what seemed like an eternity, he called me over with his hand. I came, surprisingly calm. He asked me if I was the one who helped him. I said yes, and he responded with thank you. There was a long, awkward pause. Then I looked straight at him and asked him his name. “What?” he asked in a confused tone. He seemed so surprised that somebody cared about him. I asked him again. “Neil”, he responded in a kind tone peppered with a thick Irish accent. “Are you on holiday?” he asked me. I looked at him blankly. I only understood about a third of what he said. “Are you on holiday?” he asked again. “Yes, I am on vacation,” I answered, unaware of my use of the American word ‘vacation’. Then, strangely, something changed. He suddenly sounded distant, like a parent telling a child a tale of long ago. “I went to England once. That is the only other place I have ever been.” His voice drifted off into the crisp Dublin air. He paused, in thought. “Wait a minute,” he stammered, “I also visited Scotland as a young boy.” There was a long silence. “I am heading to Killarney tomorrow”, I told him. “I heard it is a real tourist trap.” Then it happened. He laughed. Derisively. But it was a laugh nonetheless. As soon as I got back to my hotel room that night, I cried. My mom, frantic that something horrible had happened, began to ask me questions. Are you not having a good time in Ireland? Do you not like our tour guides? I then realized how petty I sometimes was. I cried out in frustration not only with myself, but with my whole society. After a long time, I was able to control myself. “It is just not fair”, I said at last. “Why have I been blessed with so much but him so little?” Karl Marx, the notorious political philosopher, described the world in terms of “haves” and “have-nots”. I am a “have”; Neil is a “have-not”. Although these labels make our lives seem so distant, in reality, we are united. Human connection is the silk that holds the web of society tightly together. When Neil gazed directly into my heart with his longing eyes, we connected in tangible ways. I realized that we were physically similar. Neil and I were both Irish, although my ancestors left for Ellis Island during the Potato Famine of the 1840’s. Neil was not much older than me; in fact, I doubt that he was more than eight years older. His deep blue eyes resembled those of my dad, and his light brown hair could have easily been a mixture of my mom’s dark brown and my dad’s blonde hair. During my conversation with Neil, I realized that we were also connected in intangible ways. His personality seemed similar to my own. As suggested by his physical stance and hooded sweatshirt and proven by the sound intensity of his voice, he did not like to call attention to himself. He was shy, but when someone showed that she really cared, he had a lot to say. Even our laughs were similar. I, too, snickered with a little derisive laugh when I saw how touristy Killarney truly was. Although our “have” and “have-not” labels were carried invisibly on our backs, for the fi ve minutes we talked, our lives were no longer distinct. In fact, I realized then that Neil could have easily been my older brother. In my opinion, there have always been, and there always will be, “haves” and “have-nots”. But, as I learned from Neil, the individual people in these groups are not so different. We are all connected by our community, and each one of us has a specifi c obligation to that community. The individuals of both groups – not just the “haves” – give back in unique ways. Neil gave me his time. During our short, but powerful conversation, Neil allowed me to understand my responsibility – nay my purpose – as a “have”, as a human being. I now know why I have been blessed with so much. I now know why I have a loving family, safe environment, and wonderful education. Neil helped me realize that because I have grown up receiving, I can better appreciate giving. I wish to share the greatest gift I have been given – a love of learning. Ever since I was little I have enjoyed challenging myself through learning. As an adult, I wish to spread my enthusiasm for learning by being an educator. I believe that a life long desire to learn fuels mankind’s natural curiosity, curiosity which makes man and woman better problem solvers and thus leads to greater independence. Education enriches human society, and I want to be a part of this enrichment by preparing genera-tions for the world of tomorrow by teaching and learning with them today. Like a broken record, Neil’s departing words to me play over and over in my mind. “Thank you and God bless you.” It is now my turn to thank Neil. Implicitly, he allowed me to understand and embrace my place in society. Sometimes life’s biggest lessons are taught by the most unlikely teachers.

Jessica Gick ’09

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You’re sexy like photoshopI just can’t crop you out of my mindI want to select you over andOver againThen I’ll ctrl+c you and paste you intoMy lifeSometimes I want to change your resolutionYou’re 72 but I know you can be 300,Like SpartaYour body moves like the pen toolAll curvesAnd no sharp anglesI want to give you the alt key to my heartUnmask yourself to meOur hue and saturation may go up and downBut you rock my world like a clearly rendered imageYou’ve got great pixelsI’m glad you’re on auto-saveBut I can’t ctrl+z what you’ve doneSo I’m shutting you downThere’s no more memory for this program to run Force quit. End process. Merrill Roth ’09

Love Bytes

Computer Artdigital media

Samantha Clark ’10

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Mandalawatercolor, inkSusan Lee ’12

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Iguazu Waterfallsphotography

Elizabeth Osborn ’11

Perhaps we never fi ndThe answers in life.As I thirstily search for knowledge,My fi ndings are fruitless at best.All I have are glimpsesThrough a looking glass I made myself.Sometimes it is foggy,Sometimes it is rosy:I never quite seeWhat lies ahead.But everyday I look through it,Armed with my hopes and dreams.

Danielle Stockton ’09

Life’s Glass

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Flowers photography

Claire Szabo ’11

I’m writing on the walls againSick attempt to fool the ghosts.Her writhing in the tide beginsTo captivate my soul. Needles in a blue balloonFeeding on our fl eshWe know the start will come too soonThe question’s where to end. Stifl ing whispers of a lifeShe scrubs, scrubs, scrubs the dirtAnd comes across beguiling strifeTo convince us we don’t hurt. Leaving her arms red and rawFor what she knows is realShe breaks a small intrinsic lawWhich leaves everything offset. Now the girl has left her shellAlong with all the restLet the ghost its story tell And let me scrounge a pigment.

Elizabeth Grace ’11

Writing on the Walls

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I am what’s left of slaves and slave owners, the sellers, the buyers, the bought and the sold.

I am what’s left of those who cracked whips and those who met the crack of the whips on their backs, the ones who worked the fi elds tediously and the ones who reaped the benefi ts idly.

I am both.

I am the remnants of the lynchers and the lynched. Of race riots, and those rioted against, I am the remnants of the murdered, and the murderers.

I am a part of those who rode proudly in the front, and those who slumped miserably in the back, part of the ones who quenched their thirst on the pris-tine fountains that donned the word “WHITE”, and those who sipped from the decrepit fountains that seemed to be stained by the word “COLORED”

I am a part of the one’s who walked, ran, and marched towards freedom and justice, and those who turned their backs, stubbornly treading towards treachery and hate. I am both.

Whembley Sewell ’11

I Am Both

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Two Face Red Facedigital photography

Grace Adams ’10

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She trailed her fi ngers through the dust, past one stuffed animal after another, neatly lined up on the wooden bookshelf. She paused here and there, smiling – a large elephant, a koala from her visit to Australia, even a little bat curled around the neck of a giraffe. There were more, mostly teddy bears, but she stopped at the last one, a big, soft Saint Bernard. It had been her favorite as a child, not quite so long ago; she’d even used it as a pillow for the longest time. When she pulled it out, the cloud of dust made her cough and she waited a minute for it to settle, holding the dog still. She held the stuffed animal a moment longer, then it was the fi rst into the cardboard box on the fl oor. The others followed soon after, as did the rest of her belongings, one by one. When she was done, the room was empty and it was as if she’d never lived there. A momentary wave of uncertainty washed over her – it wasn’t as if she’d never come home again, was it? Even if her parents weren’t likely to live in this big, echoingly empty house without her, well, home didn’t always have to be a place. She should think of this not as the end of her childhood and life as she knew it, but as a new beginning, her next step in life. And with her mind fi rmly fi xed on that thought, she picked up the last box and left the room, pausing to pull one last sign off the door – “Beware: A Teenager Lives Here”.

Shelly Bagchi ’09

She’s Leaving Home

The luminescence of the endless pool matches the deepness of the sky perfectly. Palm trees stand tall in the comfort of the air. I walk toward the gangly cluster of young teens. The stars beyond the water cling to each other, twinkling in and out, hoping for recognition. The kids are talking. One of the older ones is trying to dominate the conversation. The others pretend his jokes are funny so that they can look composed. I edge into the group warily, taking a seat on the metal edge of a glass table. It is meant for lighter things, piña coladas. I briefl y make eye contact with a few of them to establish my presence. Jamaica is nice this time of day, and the party music is fl oating towards me from the other end of the resort. There are lights across the water, below the mountains. They twinkle hello to each other. Homes. I play with my ring: slide off, slide on. My hands are tan and relieved that they are outdoors. My gaze runs up my left arm, to my shoulder, and down at my loose cream and red colored sun dress. There is no sun now, though. Only one lovely moon. Jabs of laughter bring me back to the conversation at hand. Something petty. I put my ring back on my left ring fi nger, making sure it is facing the correct direction. The cool of the night is a change from the heat of the day. I play with my necklace, I play with my right earring, my left earring. I look to my left at the turquoise pool. I glance at the group of younger-than-me’s. No one talks to me. That tall kid is trying to be funny again. I look back at the gleaming pool, hand on my necklace. Nobody is looking at me. I glance back over my shoulder at the crystal blue pool. I put my other hand to my necklace, unclasp it, and carefully place it behind me on the wavy glass table. My left earring, my right. No one is looking at me. I slip my ring off my fi nger one last time and place it with the necklace and the earrings. Again, I stare at the pool. “I’m going to do it,” I mutter. “My god, I’m going to do it,” I chuckle. My hands clutch the sides of my dress for support. I stand up and walk casually toward the edge of the pool. The moon refl ects in the ocean water, beyond. My pace quickens until I leap, feet fi rst, into the shining blue endless pool. The fresh smell of chlorine awakens me and the stars go black for a long second. The kids are looking at me.

“Hey, I’ll join you,” the tall kid says.

“No thanks,” I reply as I climb out of the pool and walk up to my hotel room. The moon states its presence in the sky. Delilah Ohrstrom ’09

The Pool and Me

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19

I steppedon the baby birdssquawkingon your lawn

maybe youwere caring for themsince their motherwent missing

Forgive me

they were fragilenoisyand very small

*I have slept inyour bedand readyour diary

which was lyingcovers openwhile you wereat work

Forgive me

the pages smelled of coffeeso bitterand cold

*I snuffed outall your cigarettesthat were in yourjacket pocket

after Iburned each oneslowly

Forgive me

You always smellso rancidlike death

Grace Adams ’10

This Is Just To Say

Silk Shadowsphotography

Ana Olson ’10

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I can only vaguely remember learning to ride a bike without training wheels. Dad’s hands on my shoulders, my hands clutching the hard rubber handlebars. The handlebars don’t clutch back. My wobbly knees banging against the frame of this blue bike. My Dad saying, “Are you ready?” My little heart saying dunno, dunno, dunno. The slightly downhill curve of our gravel driveway. The grass next to it, the little spiky plants that live in the grass and bite your feet if you dare run through the fi eld without shoes. The splintery wooden buildings of my childhood. We used to take walks by that baby waterfall and pick newly sprouting ferns to cook and eat. In my mind they were delicious, but they really always tasted sour. Like crab apples disappoint. I am moving my feet, trying to peddle fast with the force of my Dad pushing my shoulders. I see the gravel road. I see the trees on either side. I feel my yellow house behind me. That house always had mouse poop in the window sills and dirty linoleum tiling in the kitchen but I will always love it. I feel the bike moving downhill. I feel my hair rising in the wind of my motion. I know I have no training wheels, no security belt. No safety net. Just like our trampoline never had a safety net. We have always had a trampoline. Elias and I used to jump on it and play games like Tag, and Crack the Egg. We still have a trampoline now at our house in Virginia. Elias jumps on it for exercise. I don’t use it so much anymore. A moment of panic as Dad lets go of my shoulders. I have the brief, sudden urge to let go of the handlebars and get a head start on the inevitable fall. But I don’t. Not this time. My feet peddle fast to keep up with the momentum of my downhill motion. My Dad saying “Come on Delilah!” My little heart saying okay, okay, okay. My body is suddenly cruising – comfortable, easy. I smile then scream as I lose control and the bike swerves off the driveway, into the grass. When I stand up, my hands are red and scraped from my fall. Playing on the swing set, looking for frogs in the stream, taking walks in the sloping fi elds. For a second there I swear I was fl ying.

Delilah Ohrstrom ’09

For A Second There, I Swear I Was Flying

Monkey Barsdigital photography

Dorothy McQuaid ’09

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The queen of Thebes, Niobe,was as proud as she possibly could be,with beauty and health,and all of her wealth,she was like a steeple,above all her people;

To whom she proclaimed:“build me a temple,and not one for Leto,for of daughters and sons,I have seven of each,and she of each but one”.

Artemis and Apollo, both of them hallowed,a word against their mother they never allow’d.Artemis, proud huntress, fi rst born,a dark haired fury with ice cold scorn.Apollo, god of reason and light,fair haired son, for mother, always ready to fi ght.

Seven fi ery shafts Apollo let fl y,the sons could not help but die.Seven arrows like the moon,led the daughters to their doom,the siblings would show no mercy.

And ere a day had passed,Niobe could not grasp,why all of her children lay dead.

The queen who was outspoken,her proud heart broken,closed her eyes to cry,she wished she would die,

By the god’s mercy alone,she was turned into a stone,from which a spring, sprang forth.

Tosca Fischer ’09

The Tale of Niobe, Queen of Thebes

Palmsdigital photography

Jenna Pugrant ’10

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22

Dear Diary: I hate going to school. I always have and I always will. I mean, I do enjoy learning: I enjoy learning how to speak Spanish; I enjoy learning Biology; I absolutely love learning about American History. So maybe I do not hate all of school, but going to school just to learn is not that easy, no matter how much I wish it were. In amongst studying, test taking, and learning, one would think that nobody would have time for anything else but academics. Nevertheless, here I am in seventh grade, attending a private Catholic school just as I have for my entire life and I am now fully realizing that other people do have time for activities outside of the academic world. Now do not get me wrong, some of these “extra-curricular” activities are harmless. For example, I have been Irish dancing for nine years and I have been playing soccer since I could walk. I whole-heartedly participate in both of these activities while still making time for my studies. Maybe that is the reason why I am always the outsider at school and, you know what, sometimes I feel like I always will be. Maybe the fact that I can dance, play soccer, and still be successful in the class-room annoys other girls. Whatever their reasons, all the other girls at school make time for something different from dancing or playing sports: bullying other girls. “Hey Sarah, nice hat! You look like a pimp.” “What?” I say, so shocked to hear this foul comment so early on this Monday morning, as I enter the locker room of the school. “It is cold outside and this is the only hat I could fi nd this morning,” I reply. To me the topic of their bullying is just an ordinary yellow hat, not to mention the fact that it matches my uniform perfectly. As the group of girls walks away laughing, I try to talk myself out of getting upset. “They probably do not even know what that word means.” I sit down in my chair, still thinking of the confrontation with my classmates, just as the fi rst bell rings. The teacher stands up and says, “I have graded your American History tests from last Friday and some of you may be a little troubled by your results.” A loud sigh breaks out from the class and many girls roll their eyes, looking annoyed. “Therefore,” the teacher continues, “I am going to speak with you all individually outside in the hall to discuss your test and what you can do to receive a better score next time. Kate, let’s start with you. Everyone else may do homework in the meantime.” As Kate gets up and leisurely walks out of the classroom with the teacher, I think more about what she and the other girls said about my hat that morning. “Just shake it off, Sarah,” I tell myself, “Just shake it off and do your homework.” As I fi nish my history assignment, Kate walks back into the classroom. “Hey, how’d you do, Kate?” the girls ask, “Yeah, what’d you get?” “I got a seventy percent,” Kate replies with a grin. “Hey, that’s not bad!” one girl says, “Yeah, that is like far from failing,” another girl adds, “I thought the teacher said we might be upset with our test grades.” Totally shocked from hearing Kate’s and the other girls’ reactions to the fi rst result of the test, I get up from my desk in response to the teacher calling me into the hall. As I make my way to the hallway, I am stung in the heart by such comments that make their way to my ears, “I bet she got a one-hundred,” one girl whispers in a bad-mannered tone, “Yeah, she is such a geek,” whispers another. When I fi nally think I can take a deep breath as I exit the room, I hear from Kate, “Who would have thought that such a skinny blonde could ever be such a…” “Hello, Sarah,” the teacher says. Quickly re-focusing on why I was in the hall, I walk up to the teacher and sit down on the chair in front of her. “Well, this should not take long,” the teacher says as she searches through her pile of papers. “Congratulations, ninety-fi ve.” As I take the paper from her hands, I suddenly feel better about myself. As I see the number 95 smiling up at me from the paper, I feel as if a wave of cool water has just rushed through my body soothing wherever it hurts. “Thank you,” I reply with a smile as I get up from the chair and make my way back to the classroom. As soon as the door opens, I hear a loud bang and I jump what seems like three feet in the air with a loud frightened squeak. Every girl in the class slammed her head and arms to her desk producing a sound like that of a gunshot and then all began to laugh uncontrollably at my reaction to the terrible noise. I now realize that my sense of happiness is to be short lived, “Just focus on your test grade,” I tell myself, “Everything is going to be all right.” “What did miss smarty-pants get on the test, huh?” one girl asks me maliciously. I silently make my way to my desk, choking back tears with a half-smile. Taylor Eggleston ’11

Always Have and Always Will

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On this lonely day, skies open to the heaven-tears that wet my face, I miss you. And I think of the days that could have been, when my now-abandoned one-bedroom would have been not too small but just right for the two of us, when even a miserable day like this would have been full of laughter and good spirits and love. The memories come back now, of the time when we were at least friends, and I tried so hard to keep things that way. I was happy then, but it was a pleasure mixed with pain and could not - did not - last for long. Perhaps it would be better were you gone from this world, but no; now we are merely as strangers. So close, yet I cannot reach you. And what is there now to be done? The rain pours down, and I cannot escape it. What good will it do me? I have no will left, no desires, no needs. Still I wait, motionless. I have given up both hope and despair, and all I can do now is wait. Although I cannot pretend that there is any longer someone to wait for, I stand here in the deserted street, mind empty of all thoughts. How long has it been—One hour? Two? Finally I slump against the wall and sit, ignoring the puddle under me. The rain is falling harder now, and I can even imagine seeing your dark-clad fi gure through the dark mist. But it is not possible, illogical, a mere illusory trick of the mind, and so I refuse to look up a second time. My head on my knees, I sit and curse my imagination for the fl eeting glimpse of hope it has shown me. A drop falls before my face, and somehow it is different from the rain pouring on my head. One more drop, then another, and I catch them on the tips of my fi ngers. The bitter-salt taste fl oods my mouth and I am frozen, heart stopped for an infi nite, eternal moment. I cannot muster the strength to look up, and I do not need to. A fi gure - impossible, imaginary illusion - drops to its knees before me, and my mind illogically focuses on the blood that seeps from those knees into the rainwater. I make no sound but my hand blindly reaches out of its own volition. Familiar, familiar features under my fi ngertips; I gasp suddenly - disbelief, amazement, wonder - and I am home.

Shelly Bagchi ’09

Hopeful Illusions

Interruptedphotography

Sabeen Qureshi ’09

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These girls of the summerThese creatures of laughterThese confections of hope And eternal smiles Their futures unfurling, Like so many intricate threads Of a grand tapestry But all they know is this summer Of moments suspended in time Of fi ngers entwining, And hearts melting together as one These girls of the summerGazing together At the majesty of a night’s sky Their faces are shrouded In the veil of shadows But love exudes from their eyes As they vow to never let time Steal this moment Ravage this memoryAnd let their souls fade away And so they say Let destiny beckonAnd let the world call us Call us away from this night sky But let it wait, lets ignore it And suspend this moment in time So when love betrays us And when destiny fails us And when the world turns away We can close our eyes and return to a moment Suspended in our minds This moment that will last beyond Anything the world can offer us Anything this tapestry of life holds in store Because for just one moment, one eternal moment, one moment etched on our soulsWe were just girls Girls of the summer

Maddie Grimm ’11

Girls of the Summer

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STAFFEditor-in-Chief: Nelly Cubahiro ’09

Art Editors: Nouf Aljowaysir ’11 and Justine Davenport ’09Layout Editors: Shelly Bagchi ’09 and Jenna Pugrant ’10

Writing Editors: Elizabeth Grace ’11 and Danielle Stockton ’09

Staff:Sarah Garman ’11

Madeline Grimm ’11 Alison Kayes ’11

Delilah Ohrstrom ’09Elizabeth Osborn ’11

Kyra Paul ’11Moogie Scott ’09 Mairin Wood ’11

Advisors:Charles BarbourNancy Magnus

Gate was recognized by the national Council of Teachers in English as one of the 25 top Virginia literary magazines of 2008. The magazine accepts poetry, prose, short stories, personal essays, photographs, paintings, sketches, drawings, digital art, and collages.

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THE MADEIRA SCHOOL | 8328 GEORGETOWN PIKE | MCLEAN, VA 22102

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