Art and Literature 2025-26 Little Inklings RANSOM EVERGLADES MIDDLE SCHOOL
TABLE OF CONTENTS Marlo Sohn ’30 Feeling Cold and Blue Alia Rahman ’30 Georgie Karavetsos ’30 “Genesis” Jackson Mirabito ’30 “Ode to Fishing” Gabriella Taranto Green ’32 Freya Samuel ’30 “Ode to Trees” Olive Gelpi ’30 Karmelo Alexander ’30 “A Shimmering” Pace Caplow ’30 Mia Shukhman ’31 “Evanescent” Maya Ghosh ’31 Julia Russell ’31 “Sitting Down” Estelina Zhou ’31 “Growing Up” Benn Umugabo ’30 Jackie Fader ’32 Shivam Gupta ’31 “Persephone in the Meadow” Felicia Bland ’30 Emergency in Bloom Zoe Glick ’31 “Standing in the Storm” Felicia Bland ’30 Holding Fragments of Bloom Alexa Forgacs ’31 “Tears of Alexander the Great” Christian Hadjilogiou ’31 Annabelle LaConti ’32 “Sovereignty” Eliana Lufti ’32 Daphne Betts Escudero ’31 Luisa Abril ’30 “1,000 Million Pieces” Valentina Whitehead ’31 Zoe Lunkenheimer ’31 “Lorelei Who Changes Shape” Julia Russell ’31 Nina Shah ’30 “In Between” Max Mishkin ’31 “The Unfolding” Romina Fuenmayor Manzano ’30 Nora Centeno ’32 “Where Am I?” Aerin Atkins ’30 “I Am From” Yohann Calixte ’30 Aila Kaiser ’31 “Sultana Qureshi” Madeline Hyde ’32 Celine Dubose ’30 “Glowing” Alix Sofronia ’30 Front Cover 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 31 31 32 33 35 37 38 39 40
Gaby Villamizar ’32 Dylan Kern ’32 Nico Schleifer ’30 “Bilingual in Longing” Daphne Betts Escudero ’31 “Yia Yia” Ale Gonzalez ’30 “Spectral” Axel Monssoh ’30 A Trapped Soul Forever Maya Mercadal ’31 “Elida Who Misses Her Papa” Eve Simmons ’31 Grace Magaro ’32 “A Sorrowful Tale of 1929” Snowy Guo ’32 “Bittersweet Memories” Grant Yale ’30 Aria Rivera Flores ’31 “The Weight of My Name” Brady Goldberg ’31 “Canyonlands” Zarah Broome-Webster ’30 Ubai del Coso Pena ’30 “Ode to No One” Ryder Dalal ’30 Ivar Kostowicz ’31 “Work” Maksim Fehretdinov ’30 Edie Hoenig ’31 “Lost” Isa Arango Tobar ’32 Deandrei Sespene ’31 “Dunes of Sand” Celine Yang ’32 Carolina Fernandez ’30 “An Unexpected Consequence” Sania Ranadive ’30 Abby Krawll ’31 “The Rainy Journey of Hope” Alec Voss Del Vecchio ’31 “A Quaint Night” Gwen Rubini ’30 Alyssa Wang ’30 “Lost, and Found” Celine Yang ’32 To Be Happy Forever Mason Pearce ’30 Andrew Pomeraniec ’32 “The Band” Victoria Alvarez-Lorca ’32 Lara Galarce ’30 “A Fresh Start” Alia Rahman ’30 Grace Kern ’30 “The Last Day of School” Elizabeth Fernandez ’30 Claire Tate ’30 “Eternity” Sebastian Whitehead ’30 Annabella Revilla ’31 “The Ocean” Liam Kalstone ’30 41 42 43 45 47 48 49 50 51 53 54 55 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 71 72 73 74 75 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86
Alia Rahman ’30
Genesis The gentle grass rolls, Violet flowers go on forever, Hills as high as the biggest endeavor. Moon comes out, Nighttime’s shout, Dusk's last breath, Ghosts' silent death. Dawn's early awakening, Riverbank silently shimmering, Water flowing, free as can be. Warm mist floating softly. Mystical, magical land, Only touched by God's graceful hand. by Georgie Karavetsos ’30 2
I walk half a mile to get to the secret spot, The midday sun burns like fire, My bucket with shiners splashing as they fight to escape. I approach the water, rough like sandpaper, I drop my bag and set up my rod, Hoping I can catch my biggest fish yet. I put bait on my hook, I look in the water and see a big snook. Open the bail, I hear a click, I swing the rod back and I hear the wind say swoosh, Swing forth and let the line go. The line starts to empty, but lands in the water. I hear a splash, the hook sinks, The fish swam as if it had never eaten before. Eyes locked on my bait, All I can do is wait. I hope it bites. I see it open its mouth, teeth like razors, It swallows my fish in one whole bite. It realizes it’s hooked, it knows it needs to run, It swings its fins as fast as motors, It tugs on my line, I think to myself, this fish is mine. I tug and I pull and it starts to come closer, I realize this fight is almost over. I see it jump out of the water like a submarine, I tug hard and it comes closer to me, It’s now hanging under my rod. It shakes like an airplane in a cloud, I set it down on a mound. I take the hook out of its mouth and pick it up, I take a picture and put it in my book. I take it home and show my family what I caught, This was the dinner, better than anything the store bought. Ode to Fishing by Jackson Mirabito ’30 3
Gabriella Taranto Green ’32
Palm trees are the feeling of warm sand between my toes, the sound of waves crashing against the shore, while seagulls squawk and frisbees fly, reminding me that palm trees are my beachy Florida home. Trees are memories, trees are adventures, trees are life. Far away, on the blue star trail in Maine, endless conifers stand tall and proud. They are the guardians of the life the mountain holds; they are the thrill of danger and places unknown. Trees are memories, trees are adventures, trees are life. The old oak at the park has stories waiting to be told; a rite of passage for every kid to climb. If you fall, she tells you to get back up and to make new friends wherever you go. Trees are memories, trees are adventures, trees are life. In the autumn at the New York playground, red maple leaves coat every surface. Parents rake them into piles…we don’t care! Everyone young at heart jumps right in. Trees are memories, trees are adventures, trees are life. Pines are peppermint, hot cocoa, and a big warm hug all wrapped up in a pretty red bow. They are family sitting around a roaring fire and the happiest season of all. Ode to Trees 5 by Freya Samuel ’30
Trees are memories, trees are adventures, trees are life. Trees are an oasis in the desert, a speck of green in a sea of gray. Trees are a breath of fresh air in the murkiest mist and coolness on a hot summer day. Trees are a refuge for every creature, and survivors of the test of time. Trees are strong and sturdy, yet free and nimble and they’re neither yours nor mine. Trees are memories, trees are adventures, trees are life. A juicy mango in the afternoon, sunlight shining through green leaves, cherry blossoms dropping flowers… What would life be without trees? Trees are memories, trees are adventures, trees are life. 3 Olive Gelpi ’30
A Shimmering During a cold, dark dusk, on top of the green, rolling hills, there is a lone tree. The lone tree has overlooked the empty plain for its entire life, from when it had been a youthful sprout to now when it has sprouted into adulthood. The lone tree has seen this plain in every shade you could imagine, its orange and dampness during the fall, its cold white embrace during the winter, its vibrant colors and wet weather during the spring, and finally its hot dry breath in the summer. Yet despite this, tonight is different from the rest, for it is time for the tree to rest. The tree taking its few final breaths, accepting its fate, for it has lived its life, seen this world to its fullest, and now it must die, for that is the fate of the tree. The tree does not fight, for there is no need nor desire. The tree is happy with its life, and now, it will die. The riverbank shimmering in the light of the sun, the cold water rushing through the stream, the surrounding fauna rustling with the river as it gushes, animals alike come to drink, temporarily ignoring their hunger in place of their thirst. It is peaceful there, it is near silent there, the truth of nature is there. 7 by Karmelo Alexander ’30
Pace Caplow ’30
9 Evanescent by Mia Shukhman ’31 As dusk turns to dawn, shimmering over the riverbank is a fragile light surrounded by a thin mist, the light growing as you get closer. When near, you realize it's not just a light, you notice that it's the light of a life, a frail fairy, with wings fluttering gently. She’s the color of the sun setting at night and the sun rising in the morning. She looks up at you with her tiny beaded eyes, her eyes have hope and life in them, but the tiny light starts to float away, leaving behind a trail of her existence. You’re proud of her for going, but sad to see her leave so quickly. It’s OK, you think to yourself, because nothing ever seems to last.
Maya Ghosh ’31
When we sat down next to each other, we didn’t say anything. Your shoes had touched mine, but no one said anything. I picked at the pieces of fake grass and kept pulling them out. The silence was too loud, never broken. I kept pulling at the grass. Your shoes were still touching mine, and we were both well aware of it. What’s on your mind? Say something, anything. I kept pulling at the grass. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing to say. I just kept pulling at the grass. My friends were talking, but I couldn’t hear them. Just the pulling of the grass. And my thoughts. How I wish I could just hear yours, too. I felt the grass between my fingers, I felt our shoes tapping ever so gently, barely noticeable. But it was definitely there. Everyone finally got up and you ran to the nearest person you knew. I ripped one last piece of grass out of the ground and saw that there was a small patch in the field from where I messed up the fake grass, and there were small pieces of plastic around it. I should have said something. You should have said something. Sitting Down 11 by Julia Russell ’31
Growing Up There was a small playset in my old home. Everyday after school we would run toward it. The air was crisp and cool. It was old and chipped, but it always felt so new. Many hours on it, with parents watching from the porch. At night we would all escape to that very porch in fear of what was lurking below. As the days got shorter, and weeks got longer, years went slower and that playset sat alone. My mother tried to revive the joy in all of the children by repainting it. But soon after, we left the world of sunshine, play, rainy, stay. Every day was filled with screens. Nothing more, nothing less. Now I wish that we played on that small playset more, before our childhood was sucked away from us. 12 by Estelina Zhou ’31
Benn Umugabo ’30 13
Jackie Fader ’32 14
The harsh wind blows by Turned sweet by one A goddess sweet, not sly Who roams meadows for fun One day while she was plucking flowers The ground surged up to claim her Because she had no such powers She allowed trouble to stir Dusk turns to Dawn The Sun to Moon No grass for the fawn No beauty emerging in the cocoon Her people searched Through the violets and the mist Their stomachs lurched At the thought of her ceasing to exist Zeus and Demeter convened They proposed a deal with Death Half a year with you, they said Half a year with us, no less During the half of which Persephone was away Winter was brought Yet while Persephone was close Winter would be forever fought Persephone in the Meadow 15 by Shivam Gupta ’31
Felicia Bland ’30
Standing in the Storm I don't know what to say when someone asks me are you okay All the pressure I can't show All the pain I carry I only say one thing The answer never varies I smile for my loved ones I smile for my friends It's my feelings that run through my veins I show the world I am fine I focus on another I wish to say my pain, but I make sure my pain is just mine I wish to cry it all out, but I don't I smile and go on I leave myself behind I am standing through the storm with a smile on my face Every day I can't find my place I want to scream, I want to cry I don't know my purpose in life My friend knows me as happy. My life knows me as pain I wish I could be myself But I will always stand through the rain by Zoe Glick ’31 17
I smile for the world. I smile to show that I’m fine even if I’m not I am standing through the storm, even if I don't want to I feel as if I was left behind to rot I want my life to be a dream Even if I can't understand myself I wish for it all But I hid it I am jumping into the pit of pain, and I took a great fall Felicia Bland ’30
Tears of Alexander the Great What is going on, what is this warm substance on my cheek, this despicable, iridescent liquid, am I crying, I who have concurred the very veil of reality, I who am surrounded by wealth and fortune, encased by diamonds, I who have caused the demise of beast after beast, no, I cannot be crying, crying is for those who care, those who don’t have enough, those who have lost or haven’t lived; if I’m crying it is for all the people who are shedding tears, for I cannot be crying, as my dream is now a reality, nature sways, civilizations bow, rebellions crushed, my place secure, and I am eternal, eternally alone, I am crying, and as droplets hit the ground, more and more follow, until it begins to rain, to pour, and the world finally cries. by Alexa Forgacs ’31 19
Christian Hadjilogiou ’31 20
Lightning bolts and thunderous skies Reflected in an eagle’s eyes Rushing water clear as day Roars and splashes through the fray Sunlight hides from clouds, so gray Hourglass spinning endlessly Sandstorm blusters tremendously Cherry skies and satin eyes Whisper through the cloud-pocked skies Spirits float among the trees Buzzing like the busy bees Leaves of yellow, poppies red Sunsets frame the silhouettes Creatures large and creatures small Creatures short and creatures tall Dance under moonlight Shining bright Stars and planets waltz together Their movements as light as a feather Rainbows shining high and bright Hide a smile in the clouds Silver fox is slinking through Gray-backed wolf is howling too Northern bursts of greens and pinks Reflect the way a universe thinks Galaxies and stars among us Sovereignty by Annabelle LaConti ’32 21
Walk and talk like parrots among us Castles stand on salted pillars Oaken boats wash up the sand Berries sweet and berries tart Paint the grass with works of art White words float lightly above Shaping themselves into a dove White streaks north to winters cold Admires starlight gold and bold Paws of ice and eyes of night Hold the balance of dark and light Opposites attract and connect Similarities repel and isolate Sharpened points turn back the clock To an oaken boat upon the dock The boat bobs right, the boat shifts left Stirring poems churning bright Apple tree in graveyard black Full of life in a sea of dismal gray Bearing fruit of blood and youth Wither not for if they do Time will stop and sword strikes true Bones were ground beneath the soil By creatures forced to wallow and toil Trifle not with order or You may be thrown to Earth’s red core 22
Eliana Lufti ’32 23
Daphne Betts Escudero ’31 24
We were here for 3 years All week we worked Studied Cried and laughed We broke into 1,000 million pieces Like a beautiful porcelain vase fallen off the cabinet, we have shattered And for the next 4 years We will shatter into 1,000 more pieces of frustration and happiness When you tell your parents that you’re broken They won't understand, and in a couple of years Neither will you No matter how much sweat and tears you give the world The world will keep spinning The water still flows And you will slowly drop the memories in a never-ending rainstorm While you create many more Experiences are rivers flowing into an ocean of time Where time consumes all the water Draining it dry As time consumes your memories You might still recall, but never again will you sense wind when you arrive Or the AC when it’s a little too high You will never remember exactly how you feel now or exactly who you have become We met our friends 3 years ago We went for ice cream or dinner Some are still with us, and some Were the leaves falling with the seasons 1,000 Million Pieces by Luisa Abril ’30 25
They’re also vases fractured by time Split into 1,000 million pieces We see every day Others pained but healing Because we heal together We can fix all the fragments as we go along. Picking up pieces day by day But maybe It’s really worth it To sometimes break Time flows, and we break So here we are today Because tomorrow you’ll forget How do you feel living today You will break into 1,000 pieces and then forget So make every piece a fragment worth fixing 3 Valentina Whitehead ’31
Lorelei who changes shape as fast as a cat can catch a mouse. Her hair, which was once a shiny straight golden brown down to her back, is now a dark blue that curls up at her shoulders. Soon she'll come to school once again and others will talk and talk and talk about her hair. She can change shape as fast as I can eat my pie. She looks in the mirror just to cry till dinner. People like to whisper about her as much as hawks like to circle their prey. People will talk and talk and talk. Till she comes with her hair golden brown once more. The golden brown hair, however, is not the only thing that changes shape. She changes how she does her makeup almost everyday. She taught me to do mine, just the other day, with her soft powder brush and her eyes that change shape. Brown with gold in the light, green with gold in the dark. Her eyes change almost every day. Not in a strange way, she likes to say. She says her eyes are hazel, meaning they are green, brown, and gold. Green like a patch of grass on a sunny day, brown like the soft fur of a brown bear, and gold like a patch of hay. The gold always stays, unlike the others. She says it's to have one thing about her to be constant. People talk about her eyes all the time. How they are a beautiful color, but they change as fast as she does. Making them strange, they say. They continue to talk and talk and talk. Like people like to do. She will cry and say she hates her eyes till they change shape once more. One day she invited me over to help her change shape. She opened the door and her stuff was all spread out ready to change shape once more. I touched her hair, which was fluffing up as I added magic to her strands. We washed it out with a soft glitter shine as we both smelled the crime of changing her shape once more. We waited and waited for the magic to take place as her hair turned a pink like the cherry blossoms in that tree way downstate. She said she liked the magic and she smiled like a gift from heaven. But as soon as I walked right out the door, the magic disappeared like it was never even there before. I can hear her cries as clear as the blue birds say hi. And soon she’ll change shape once more. Lorelei Who Changes Shape by Zoe Lunkenheimer ’31 27
Julia Russell ’31 28
Only a fragment of the world, I drift in every direction. The things that anchor me, grounding me, are a multitude of many. The phrases that repeat themselves around me, Different dialects, chatters, surrounding myself, Do not stop their complexity for me to understand them. I would say that the world I live in is small, But in reality it isn't. I walk the streets of Miami, But there is something unfamiliar that I sense About enjoying, and taking in the sights of my city. Because I know my head is someplace else In a vision of my own creation. It is in the books I read, absorbing more information inside of them than a lifetime. It is in the notes that I play, that slowly wash away doubts, Allowing me to claim the melodies that are at the tip of my tongue. It is in the words that I write, where I pour my uncertainty into an ocean that never fills, rarely saying what I mean. But more than in my head, I live in a place of mixed emotions, uncertainty in all forms. I am a mosaic of mismatched colors, All intertwined by bilingual tongues. In Between by Nina Shah ’30 29
One from a mother’s radiant love, Surrounded by tíos and tías welcoming me, Though continents drive us apart. As I walk my own path, I can almost echo their heartfelt laughter. Learning from my primos as I teach them English, Bearing my abuelo's determination to surpass barriers, Hearing my abuela say to dream far with the angels, So I do. As I walk the streets of Miami, The rhythm of salsa spreads in my bones, But the rhythm that spreads Cannot ignore the language that is undefined in my mind. Walking the streets of Miami, I know when the happy chatter turns into roars of static, Though frustration grows in me to understand. I see elaborate saris, colorful bindhis, and a palette of spices That I can smell its aroma from miles away. My vivid life with at my nani’s house, Where I learn knowledge that inherit generations. And though I’m a person from two worlds, I live in the space between, Forced to walk the Streets of Miami, Forced to stop my mind from wandering, From doing cartwheels in the sky. But as I pace the pavement of my city, My head is the only sanctuary That I truly call home. 30
3 The Unfolding The riverbank shimmering in the mist of dawn, under the surface a whole other way of life. There is life everywhere you look. The mist of air bubbles like the smoky clouds, the seaweed feels silky like lying in a bed, the way of the creatures feels like a perfect day. There are many differences, but everything is life. The entire world flows long through different stages just like a river. by Max Mishkin ’31 Romina Fuenmayor Manzano ’30
So much green, life in the air. No need for sweatshirts, but I wear them anyway. Everybody loves, everybody feels the warmth drifting around them. Clay courts covered in footprints. Players chasing after that black, white checkered ball. Dripping down from the sky, water, coming harder. Everybody's dancing. Staying up late with your friends, music blasting, peacocks screaming. Iguanas walk along without a care, lying in the trees, trying to go to sleep. All of this, it's part of me. Green leaves, full streets, insanely loud music. The love, care, and having fun, in the Magic City, where anything is possible. Where Am I? by Nora Centeno ’32 32
I Am From I am from Camp Blue Star I am from the soft, beaming sunlight that wakes me up each morning I am from the bright, neon lights at the socials I am from the moonlit faces of my friends as we walk back to our cabin each night I come from the chirp of birds and the creaking of the floorboards in the old cabin I come from the noise of others walking on the rocks each day I come from the sound of the prayers each Saturday morning to celebrate Shabbat I come from the scent of the pine trees and the fresh mountain air blowing through my hair I am from the smell of fire and ash every final bonfire, and from the tears that follow I come from my friends who make me laugh and cry when I leave I come from my counselors, whose favorite songs linger with me even after camp I am from my broken crazy creek, covered in dirt after our campout I am from the dirty shared cabin mirror covered in stickers I am from my dying flashlight, whose light dims as the summer flies by I am from the first “I can’t wait to see you” the night before camp I am from the “Shabbat shalom” every Friday evening, hundreds of people united as one camp I am from the final “I don't want to leave” as I wave to my friends as the bus pulls out of the red iron gates I come from the freshly baked Hallah every Friday night I come from the instant Kraft Mac & Cheese made during rest hour I come from the Coca Cola given during color war, all senior girls opening the cans at one time, one POP and it’s over by Aerin Atkins ’30 33
I come from swimming in the lake with my friends, our laughter barely heard over the cold splashes of the lake as we jump in I come from playing pickleball for our options in the summer heat I come from hiking, mount pinnacle versus my summer sisters I am from watching Mean Girls on the last night of camp, 10 girls on one twin-sized mattress I am from “Ribs” by Lorde, played as I hug my best friends goodbye I won’t say hello again for another year I am from the music played as we get ready for dinner, blow dryers on full blast, yet the music is still louder I come from Camp Blue Star, my home away from home 34
The dhols do not ask for permission. They speak first. Deep. Proud. Echoing in my chest like a second heartbeat. People blur past me in gold and silk, laughing, perfumed, unreal. My mother starts to dance, as if the music was made to circle her. The kalidar pishwas moves when she pirouettes through the crowd, catching the light like it remembers other celebrations. The melon green softens her movements, making them elegant yet powerful. Lavender accents whisper her strength. She wears the beautifully embroidered florals the way she wears responsibility—stitched in, never loose. Her chocolate-brown eyes meet mine, warm and steady, welcoming with open arms. They have watched me grow, stumble, leave, and return. They have learned how to smile even when the heart is both full and heavy. When she smiles now, it is elegant and practiced—gentle velvet-pink lips saying everything without saying anything. And in that moment, amid the thunder of drums and the shimmer of celebration, I understand that strength does not always roar. Sometimes it dances. Sometimes it smiles. Sometimes it stands before you in melon green and lavender, hands lifted to the rhythm, moving gently, yet never yielding. Her wrists turn slightly, bangles brushing together, a softer rhythm beneath the drums. She dances with the weight of the room on her shoulders, and it never bends her. She reminds me of an empress: kind, elegant, powerful. A woman who carries the weight of others, full of responsibility, yet still a warrior. Sultana Qureshi by Aila Kaiser ’31 37
Madeline Hyde ’32
I come from the light orange rough house, the long light red brick path with overgrown bushes surrounding it, the slight sway of palm trees and thick air, and the mixed smell of peppery ginger perfume in the upstairs bedroom. I come from the small kitchen with my father holding a spoon in his hand, from the smell of chicken cooking in the oven as the sun sets, the loud R&B music blasting as he sings, and the gentle but annoying words to smile as it catches on. I come from the long dinners of creamy pasta and chicken, from the ink running out on the mottled receipt papers, from the videos of drawings trying to recreate what I saw, and the limited material always wanting something new. I come from the runs with my sister as I laugh at her being left behind, from the walks from school with our heavy backpacks that nearly made us fall, the late nights laughing with my sister in our tall loft beds, and the loud TV watching Gilmore Girls as we get scared of our sleeping parents. I come from the long rides from school, the looks out from the car window onto the busy highway, and from the bags of snacks with nuts and cheese, and from the sound of togetherness as we drive home, living and glowing miraculously under the bold light. Glowing by Celine Dubose ’30 39
Alix Sofronia ’30
Gaby Villamizar ’32 41
Dylan Kern ’32 42
Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. The verdant mountains call my name, vim aqui, volta they say as if my heart has not longed the exact same way. Sometimes they are whispers, other times shouts, but the persistence of my homeland is comparable to that of a cheetah chasing its prey. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. I yearn for Rio. I yearn for the places within. I yearn for the marvelous gems of places that one has to search in every nook and cranny, every lush tropical rainforest, every picturesque sand beach where one struggles to stand on without burning their feet. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. My heart aches for the melodic rhythm of Brazilian Portuguese. Each and every word sliding of the tongue in such a musical way, almost like an art form. Scratch that it IS an art form. An art form where one has to master the complex grammar, the vast amount of regional accents, and most importantly the warmth and hospitality of the language. The same language that raised me, the same language that taught me how to read, the same language that became the stepping stones and foundation for every other social skill I now acquire. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. My family always joked that you can always smell Rio before you see it. I’m not talking about the congested favelas or the Bahia de Guanabarra which, trust me, you ALWAYS smell before you see, but rather the gastronomy. Bilingual in Longing 43 by Nico Schleifer ’30
The phrase “melting pot” is extremely relevant to Brazilian cuisine. The same food that everyday Brazilians eat can be traced back to generations, to different places, to cultures that you’ve never even heard of. To the Portuguese, to the West Africans, to the Tupi who live deep in the rainforest, they all became a mix as if it were in a blender of cultures. I keep that in mind every time I savor a coxinha, every time I devour a brigadeiro, every time I inhale a suco de maracuja which you can never get the same outside of Brazil. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. When God said “let there be light,” he clearly was talking about Rio, because we got all of it and I mean ALL of it. So much in fact that when I first visited during the summer, I couldn’t tell whether I had a fever or whether this place was genuinely above the pits of hell. God, if I didn’t believe in global warming before, now I do because each year I go, the oven gets 10 degrees hotter. When the sun is not baking the entire country, there’s rain. There’s so much rain that the phrase “raining cats and dogs” looks down in the corner in shame. When tropical storms flooded our neighborhood in a foot and a half of water, my mom looked at me as if I had personally offended her (I probably did). She’d grown up seeing cars submerged under feet of murky water that would probably kill you if you step in it. Then she looked me in the eyes and with no words were needed. “When did I raise such a gringo” echoed through both of our heads. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra. More than anything I miss my people or “minha gente,” as one would say in my native tongue. Words cannot describe the whirlpool of emotion I feel just thinking of them. The same family who’d always accepted me, the same family who didn’t judge me, the same family who have shown me more love then I will ever feel. Eu sinto saudade da minha terra, I miss my homeland. 44
my yia yia once told me about my name how it symbolizes a tree a story deeply rooted to these stories apollo who loved goddess who lost said my yia yia the bark on my tree feels rough it tells these stories my roots have been through it all the floods the droughts and life said my yia yia your roots go deeper than memory all you know are stories stories of your roots said my yia yia your name is a tree a failure a victory said my yia yia Yia Yia by Daphne Betts Escudero ’31 45
your name is roots and culture and life and all you know about your homeland your forest said my yia yia you grow like a tree your mother planted and named the seed and worked to give you water you grew and now you’ve grown your tree said my yia yia you now know your tree built of greek mythology your ancestry is your name your only roots you know are me said my yia yia her voice is soft and sweet her eyes show proof her hair looks well kept yet she is wild she is far away but sound travels 46
At dusk, when night is quiet and dull, the moon glows with a silver hue. The moon casts a dark, violet shadow, for it is when ghosts and ghouls wander the land; they prowl through the hills, spirits rising from the ground. The river shimmers like glass, the water spirits rise from the water. Awakening in the dusk, they crawl up onto the riverbank, standing up in the mist between the trees. The spirits spend their nights sulking near the river. As dawn approaches, they retreat, one more, to its depths. by Ale Gonzalez ’30 47 Spectral
Axel Monssoh ’30
She told me he’s still there. In Nicaragua, where they’re from. He made enough money to send over his wife and kids, but not enough money for himself. He works as a carpenter, Elida told me. We came over on a huge boat. And then on a train, and then by foot. It took about three weeks to get to New York City. We saw the most amazing thing, the most beautiful statue, la Estatua de la Libertad. It’s supposed to symbolize freedom, and even though it’s pretty, it reminded me that my papa wasn’t there to see it. We took a train from New York through Pennsylvania and then to a place called Ohio. From there we took another train to Indiana. Then, we walked all the way from Indiana to Chicago. We couldn’t afford another train, so we took about a month to walk here, stopping at cheap motels and houses along the way. I just hope that my papa will make enough money to come straight here without the long trek. Elida? ¿Sí, Esperanza? Why didn’t you wait, for your papa, so you could all come together? You see, Esperanza, life in Nicaragua was amazing. I had great friends at a great school, I was perfectly fine there, but my parents told me of this amazing place called America. They said our lives here would be ten times better. So of course we left as soon as possible, but we didn’t know that my papa would join us later. Apparently he had some trouble with the government there. It’s probably something with rent or taxes, but I’m not really sure. He wanted us to come now and he would come after. But sometimes, it feels like he isn’t going to come for us. I don’t know why, but I just feel like I’m not going to see him for a very long time. Elida Who Misses Her Papa 49 by Maya Mercadal ’31
Eve Simmons ’31 50
School was never any fun. At least to Evelyn Alice Byrd. She ruffles her loose-hanging skirt; silky red fabric embroidered with beautiful white stitches. She feels her corset tighten around her; a rich crimson with fluffy white lace decorating the strings and edges. Her mind wanders back to her dearest father, how in such a frenzy he had arrived earlier, and the panic he revealed as he shut the door ever so quickly. Evelyn had tried to listen, but what hushed voices they were speaking in could only predict such secrecy and misfortune. Has something terrible arisen? Lately, they had been selling off their furnishings and expenses in order to gain more money. Mother and Father have been tired and ever-so-worried, frantically vending away anything possible. “Mother? Is there something amiss?” “My dear, it is nothing of your concern. Just a little… obstacle, as one would put it.” She brushed it off; not queer—Mother nor Father never paid much attention to her ever since she was born. They had been selling their expensive clothes and furnishes frantically, and have even started packing for something unknown to Evelyn. A vague glimpse of a memory flitters through her mind, the necessity of frantically selling on the street markets. How long ago was that? Oh yes, a few weeks ago when her mother had taken her out to shop for some more sewing supplies. “Miss Byrd?” a voice snaps her out of her thoughts, laced with nastiness. It was quite a queer one, a mix between weasely and snotty. “Miss Evelyn Byrd!” “I’m very sorry, Missus Cavendish.” She bows apologetically. “Would you do one the favour of repeating oneself for another?” “Wretched child,” she snarls in her nasally voice. “You never listen. See yourself outside.” Evelyn nods and must resist skipping out, for that would be improper, unprofessional, and unladylike. Being at home with Mother and Father would be exceedingly of a greater account more entertaining rather than sitting here for an undue measure of time-wasting, in her personal opinion. A Sorrowful Tale of 1929 by Grace Magaro ’32 51
She steps out of the classroom gracefully, and if one did not know her, they might think what a blessing she looks like, with her long, flowing hair and graceful stature — perhaps even initiate a request to court her! How exciting—Evelyn’s only dream. “Evelyn Byrd,” she snarls disapprovingly. “I’m disappointed with you. I count another five times accompanying this one. You shall be returning home shortly.” “Very well then,” she whispers, faking her disappointment. “May I walk myself out?” Before Missus Cavendish could respond, Evelyn rushes off. The very moment she steps out onto the rocky pavement, the murmur of the streets engulf her in one big gulp. However, it was more than a buzz, more like a screech. This cannot be good, are Mother and Father well? The first thing our darling Evelyn should have noticed was the ‘SELLING’ sign on their front porch. How peculiar, are Mother and Father selling the accommodations? Are we moving? How come they haven’t informed me? Evelyn opens the door to find a dark home with nothing in it. “Mother? Father?” she calls uncertainly. Her finger brushes against something of the lightest touch; a note. Daughter, I am sorry to inform you that we have moved on and we are unable to support you any longer. We sincerely apologize and send you well wishes in hopes you support yourself in your life. Sincerely, Mother and Father Evelyn feels the breath rush out of her in a singular, cruel grab. The warm buzzing she was originally feeling leaves, filling her with a cold numbness. Her mouth opens tentatively as if she were attempting unsuccessfully to speak, but instead, a tear rolls out of her eye and bathes the floor with her sorrow. The soft pitter patter of her quiet weeping fills the empty space as she stands there, choking in silence, attempting to take in the sharp truth. They left her. And they weren’t coming back. 52
I remember when we danced, we smiled, When the endless hours of boredom didn’t matter. I remember when we chortled in the soft grass When no one cared if you didn’t see, didn’t understand. I remember when we didn’t need screens, When we only needed laughter. I remember when the low bars only meant higher jumps, When nothing mattered more than pure joy. Once we didn’t care if something smelled like trash, When we didn’t judge if we heard weird things, When we didn’t have to hide our words, our emotions. Once we laughed, now we lie. But those are only memories. Bittersweet memories. Ones we all knew so well, Ones we choose to forget. We don’t smile the way we used to, We can’t stand being without devices, We see things we should never have seen, And we lose what we once held so dear. And they will only ever be bittersweet memories. The ones we once loved, but now forgotten. The bittersweet memories are a light to the darkness But a shadow to our new spotlight. Bittersweet Memories by Snowy Guo ’32 53
Grant Yale ’30 54
I used to think Choices just happened That they fell into my hands Already made Already decided That if something broke It wasn’t mine to fix And if someone hurt It wasn’t my fault But growing feels like standing still And realizing The ground beneath you Is yours Every word I say Lands somewhere Every silence Chooses a side I used to walk away I’d call it peace I used to stay quiet I’d call it kindness But sometimes doing nothing Is still doing something I am learning that being good The Weight of My Name by Aria Rivera Flores ’31 55
Doesn’t mean being perfect But being honest when it's easier not to It is saying “I was wrong” Without adding excuses It is holding what I did Without dropping it on someone else Responsibility feels heavy Because it is But it is also what gives my actions meaning So now When I stand at the edge of a decision I don’t ask, “Will this be easy?” I ask, “Will this be right?” And if my hands shake I’ll let them Because growth is not loud It’s steady I am becoming someone Who can be trusted With their own power I am becoming someone who understands That my name carries weight And when I carry that weight I will carry it with care 56
An arid gust of wind sweeps through the parched landscape The cracks in the colossal rock that turns around the sun Which beams its might upon the amber rocks of the desert Mesas grasping at the sky of sapphire Green serpents jut out from the crimson sand Their flesh shielded by an array of needles Airborne gliders of bronze feathers and golden talons Spirals decorated with scales holding daggerlike fangs No man ever ludicrous enough to lay his foot upon the scorched earth But what they call the savage The subhuman They do not seem to care They stay in this hellscape and call it Diné Bikéyah They feast They farm They preserve tradition with dignity No corrupt nation would ever attempt to crush this enduring community But what they call the white man The conqueror They do not seem to care They claim this region and call it Utah They build They innovate They spread across this continent like wildfire And no sadistic being dares to defy their reign But what they call the canyon Canyonlands by Brady Goldberg ’31 57
Zarah Broome-Webster ’30
Out of all the people I love, One always stands out. This may sound depressing, But, it's no one at all. Through the paralyzing embrace of air, And the everlasting quiet in a loud household. Through the time spent escaping boredom As though it was a killer, Or listening to music and reading, Through peace of mind, No one was there for me. Through million of things to do, Or none at all. From sleep to space from others. Loneliness might be boring to some, But to sum up my life, No one was there for me. Never annoying, Pleasant at all times, Never interrupts, Always respectful. So fragile, Broken by one more person. But strong enough to keep me company for hours on end. No one was always here for me. Ode to No One by Ubai del Coso Pena ’30 59
From my bed to my door, From the shows I watch, To all things I accomplish when alone. For the fraction of times my family isn’t active, I will always enjoy no one's company. The space for anything, And at nothing at the same time, I achieve whatever, And no one lets me do that. No one is and was always there for me. Ryder Dalal ’30
There was a warehouse, in that warehouse, with its grand 200-foot ceiling there was parked a truck, and in that truck were pencils, millions of them. Also in the room, there was a large desk, on that desk were boxes of pencils, freshly unloaded from the truck. The pencils were dull and had no erasers. The desk groaned slightly as more and more of the useless pencils were set upon it, they came in 10lb boxes, which came in cartons, which contained perfectly measured tonnes of pencils. A worker toiled behind the desk unloading every one of the 4,000 boxes in the delivery one by one by one by one. Gradually, the worker began to tire, sweat beading on his brow. As the worker toiled for longer and longer, he got more and more tired. As he became more and more tired, he became slower, making the work take longer. As the work took longer and longer, the worker toiled longer and longer, and so the process repeated. The worker, now aching from the work, got a call, which he answered and said something about how no, he did not want to buy used cars, then he hung up. After another hour or so of work, he got a call from another person, a quieter, more refined voice, which he put on speaker, the caller said that actually, he had not meant to send the pencils there. Then the worker was told to put the pencils back on the truck, and without so much as a grimace, he continued working. His hands tracing the same path through the air as when he began. Work by Ivar Kostowicz ’31 61
Maksim Fehretdinov ’30
Lost The ground, it remembers, each step that we take. The footsteps of elders, their souls, still awake. The language went quiet, but the trees spoke for us. Our tribe that once thrived in the Redwood Forest. Stars guide our descendants, teaching them our ways. Traditions held close, but alas, set ablaze. Like a salmon swimming upstream, our tribe fights for survival. Our forest, Our home, Our rivers, So vital. The moonlight reflects, shining above, The settlers chose hate, while we chose love. by Edie Hoenig ’31 63
Isa Arango Tobar ’32 64
Our land, the land of the Apacheans, Surrounded by soft, white sand that looked like snow. The hills of pure gypsum stand firm in all directions, Watching, observing everything that leaves footprints on them. Footprints have walked the white dunes across millennia, But the hills have not forgotten even the whispers of the Apache. From our presence to our thoughts, the sand always hears and listens. Even if all the grains of white blow away, our stories Will cling on to what is left of our land. To others, it is a “national park,” but to the Apacheans, it is our home, Where we were born, where our culture rooted from, And how our stories came to be. We grew here, with our feet planted into the white sand, Memories and history formed every step we took. And to this day, as time passes, As unfamiliar footprints walk, As every memory of us fades, Every grain of sand will continue to tell the story of the Apacheans, Even if no one listens. Dunes of Sand by Deandrei Sespene ’31 65
Celine Yang ’32
The blade sliced through the air in a perfect arc, coming down to meet the wooden dummy standing before him with a satisfying thwack. The sun beat down on him, his messy brown hair sticking to his forehead. He did a few more rounds with the dummy, then returned the longsword to the practice racks. “Jaxon.” A voice rang through the training yard, one that bled power and importance. Jax turned around, his eyes meeting his father’s emerald ones. “Come with me.” Jax followed his father through the winding corridors of the palace, keeping up with his long strides until they went through a bronze door. A stunning gold throne waited behind a wooden desk. His father sat on his throne, every bit the imposing king he was made to be. “Sit.” The prince sat on the luxurious armchair opposite the throne, looking his father in the eyes. “I suppose you know what I’ve called you here for,” the king demanded. Jax nodded. Of course he knew. The time for the Ceremony was approaching, and until now, Jax had been able to blissfully ignore its existence. But now that he was 17, the thought of it followed him everywhere. “Good. Then I trust you’ve met your Requirements?” the king asked. In preparation for the Ceremony, 17-year olds had to meet a set of chosen Requirements that determined if they were fit to stay in the kingdom. Jax hadn’t started preparing yet. “Yes, Father.” The lie escaped him easily. The Ceremony wasn’t until another three months. He had time to work on his Requirements. Right? *** Jax woke up to the sound of dull knocking. He strode up to the door and opened it. A lanky woman was on the other side, dressed in the uniform of the king’s Reformers. She handed Jax a letter and walked off without a word. Jax opened the letter and scanned its contents, his heart speeding up with every word. The day of the Ceremony had caught up to him. And he wasn’t ready. ** An announcer confidently strode up to the stage, dressed in a smart three-piece suit. He acknowledged the audience with the customary greeting, then walked up to the podium to begin his speech. “On this day of every year…” Jax tuned out the announcer’s voice, lost in his own thoughts. A cheer from the audience brought him back to the present. “As for those who have not yet met their Requirements...” He gave a pointed look to a boxed off section, where Jax and a few others waited. An Unexpected Consequence by Carolina Fernandez ’30 67
“We will choose twelve who will be moved to the surrounding islands.” He walked down the steps and handed a black box to a young girl in the audience. She drew a slip of paper and read it out. Jax closed his eyes, regretting every decision he made to ignore the Requirements. Name after name was read out, his heart beating faster with every word. Every person chosen walked up to the stage, a downcast expression on their faces. The girl drew out the last paper, reading the name for the world to hear. “Jaxon Arendox.” Sania Ranadive ’30 68
The small red fox plays Plays with his family Jumping and running Frolicking and playing Feeling the wind Run through their fur Flash! Then something shifts The small fox is alone Shivering and realizing He has been surrounded By a storm He calls out for his family Running through the forest Jumping over rocks and logs Hearing the boom of the thunder But he keeps going Rush… He finally steps up To the final challenge The roaring Churning Jagged The Rainy Journey of Hope by Abby Krawll ’31 69
Restless River He runs through it Thrashing through the waves The little fox is soaked Freezing in his furry coat Feeling as if The air is biting Arctic Bone chilling cold But he moves on Then he sees His family And a rainbow above them The fox then looks ahead And sees Hope Like sunlight Breaking through the rain And the little fox realizes That the hope Has been there all along 70
A Quaint Night At dusk, the solemn boy took a stroll by the riverbank, With a forlorn spirit he wandered aimlessly, searching, but for what he didn’t know. The algae grasping the wall and the shallow blue water, just like the shallow feeling in his heart. Like the flow of the river, he felt his heart simply floating away. He saw a quaint duck shimmer through the water and wade. “Oh wade, oh wade,” he called out to the little duckling. The duck began to build true spirit in his heart. The nighttime mist brought awe and a heartwarming touch, A renewed sentiment for his life. by Alec Voss Del Vecchio ’31 71
Gwen Rubini ’30
The setting sun showered golden rays on the pristine marble fountain of Marrow Park. It was the middle of autumn, and the burgundy trees swayed in the cool, gentle breeze. A mother sat comfortably in a warm coat on an oak bench, watching her children play in the fallen maroon leaves. A shabby black cat stood unmoving, watching the family from a tree longingly. The mother was now trying to drag the younger child, who was throwing a tantrum, out of the park. The branches rustled as the cat sauntered down. He didn’t make much effort hiding himself, since no one could see him anyway. His dark fur was mangled and dirty. His eyes burned a vibrant blue. The cat slinked towards a building marked with an “Out of Service” sign. He made his way to an old, musty drainage pipe, which was just wide enough for him to squeeze through. Just as he nodded off, a whimper from outside roused him awake. The sun had already set, and the park would soon close. He peeked out and saw the little boy. No, he can find his way back, the cat told himself. I will not be meddling with humans. But the longer the boy stood there shivering, the more the cat’s defiance depleted. Reluctantly, he crawled out of his hiding place. What’s the point, I’m just wasting my energy, he sighed, inching toward the boy cautiously. He sensed the cat from the crinkling leaves approaching him. Strangely unafraid, the boy wiped his nose on his sleeve and gazed right into the cat’s piercing blue eyes. He sees me. It felt surreal. The boy gingerly patted the cat’s head and asked, “Hey, kitty, are you lost too? I can’t find my mama. Who are you looking for?” Just then, a shout was heard from behind the fountain. “Eddy!” “Hi, mama. Look! I found a kitty. I’m naming him Ninja.” As his mother was scolding him, Ninja studied the face of his newfound owner. Looking at Eddy, Ninja realized he finally found something he never thought possible. A home. Lost, and Found by Alyssa Wang ’30 73
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