minerva 2009

Minerva 2009

Minerva 2009A Stoneleigh-Burnham School

Literary and Art Magazine

Table Of Contents

Cover................................................Lost, I-Ting Tsai, pencil, ink wash on paperPage 1...............................................Plate Tectonics, Bryna Cofrin-Shaw, a poemPage 2.............................................My Beloved, Rebecca Gao, personal narrativePage 4....................................................Delete, Zoë Mancuso-Dunkelberg, prosePage 6.............................................Once We Were Young, Audrey Lewis, a poemPage 7..............El Prefacio, Anne-Marie Levien Gonzalez, acrylic on canvas boardPage 8.................................Just One Of You, Emily Hewlings, personal narrative Page 11........................................Superhero, Domenica Gomez, acrylic on paperPage 12......................................................................Blank, Morgan Bae, a poemPage 13............................Trio of Illuminated Letters, Lenna Quackenbush, Paola Gutierrez Mayano Baston, Rosalyn Wong, colored pencil, inkPage 14..................................Out Of The Fields, Bryna Cofrin-Shaw, short storyPage 17......................................Fall In Love With Jazz, Chi-Hung Liao, charcoalPage 18..........................................................................My Son, Kim Balk, prosePage 19.....................................Crows In The Backyard, Emily Hewlings, a poemPage 20.............................................................Vernal Pool, I- Ting Tsai, charcoalPage 21................................................Following Your Path, Morgan Bae, a poemPage 22................................................Do It For Dad, Leah Zraunig, short storyPage 29......Geometry In Gray, Purple, And Black, Chris Wang, acrylic on canvasPage 30........Where Do We Go From Here?, Kollyn-Marya Coleman, short storyPage 32.................................Trio of Reliefs, Jiwon Yi, Rose Kelleher, Soobin Ryu, paperclay, watercolorPage 33................................................................Eleven, Morgan Mattia, a poemPage 34..................................The Hunt, Morgan Mattia, pastel, charcoal, collagePage 35...................................A Friend Of Mine, Kat Fossum, personal narrativePage 37............................Desire Is Achievement, Violet Uwera, acrylic on canvasPage 38...........................................Trapped In The Tower, Audrey Lewis, a poemPage 39..........................................Spike’s Girl, Sophie Dorsch, personal narrativePage 44.......Where Do We Go From “Here”?, Lae Young Kim, personal narrativePage 46....................................Two Different Name, Julie Bae, personal narrativePage 49.............................Stoneleigh-Burnham School Literary Society MembersPage 49.................................................................................. Acknowledgements

Dedicated to Kara Fagan

“The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom

but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind.”

Kahlil Gibran

“Beyond the surface of the page you entered a worldwhere life was more alive than here on this side.”

Italo Calvino

Plate TectonicsBryna Cofrin-Shaw

In our living-room geography lesson-beside the black oceaned globe that spunwith a limpwe mastered Botswana and the staggered halo of lands surrounding.I mentioned Pangaea,heard the gulp that comes before sinking underand the words settling across her cheeks.She did not know the world’s surface had not always been broken;we only saw what remained.

And because she was my sister and I saw myself in her- or rather her in me;mud and bruises spilling across her kneesand static around her scalp,I could see, as well, the falling apart;mine and later hers.Not just limbs, growing into themselves falsely,but consciousness and conscience- decaying in equilibriumone Europe, the other the Americas, snapping off the same pulsing continent-

I wanted to tell her, thatlike this earthwe might be found, someday,mapped out to look deceivingly proportional;Her elbow a jutting peninsulamy knee a rounded coastline,both our eyes, tide-hollowed canals.Our splintered selves might appear to someone elsenot so.

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My BelovedRebecca Gao

It is raining outside. I lie in bed, hearing raindrops landing on roofs and eaves with joyful singing. In a twinkling, I have carried my self to here, Stoneleigh-Burnham, for two years, all the way across the Pacific Ocean. Even though it once had been an unfamiliar land with brand new experiences, I feel my second home here now. Gradually, the little raindrops are singing in an undertone, and then, eventually stop with their invigorating breath left behind, interrupting my thinking.

Unlike the short-lived rain here, the rain in Chengdu always drizzles for half a month. I remember rambling in the streets with my umbrella open, and how the whole world seemed silent. All I could hear were the raindrops hitting my umbrella, playing a brisk song, like a string of wind-chimes chanting along the breeze. Occasionally, car tires rubbing with the wet road, splashing the walkway with water, broke the transient calm. Covered by a gauzy mist knit with fine and threadlike raindrops, Chengdu became an illusory world where everything was so vague that though I thought I had reached something, it actually was far away from me hiding in the fog. As a bounty from nature, the rain quietly purged away sins, impetuousness, and anxiety, giving back a placid city. Nobody was hurrying in the streets, as if they were afraid to disturb this god-given peace. Roll-ing on leaves and then dropping into the soil, the raindrops scoured off dust, and returned the trees with dazzling green penetrated through the mysterious haze, mesmerizing me into its great sparkle so that I could not remove my eyes from it. While I was passing by my favorite bakery, a smell of flour, butter and cream, es-pecially appetizing in contrast to the smell of soil, floated to me, tempting me to walk in. After my stomach was satisfied with piping hot bread, I continued walk-ing in the rain to observe every single corner of this city that has been engraved on my memory; the memory I always carry along my journey.

Although the drizzle brings Chengdu quietude and composure, Chengdu, bathed in the sunshine, shows her vitality. Hanging on the wall near my desk, there is a photograph I took in Chengdu and carried with me to the United States. It is a picture of a small street in front of my grandparent’s house with vivid pink azaleas blooming on one side of the street and ginkgo trees, representatives of Chengdu, covering the street and sidewalks with their luxuriant leaves. On the sidewalk,

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two old men with white vests sitting in cane chairs and waving bamboo fans are playing Chinese chess surrounded by passers-by watching the situation on the chessboard. Shouldering schoolbags, three elementary school students pass by a grocery store where the owner is exposing some sacks of rice and millet to the sun to prevent them from mildew. Next to the grocery store, on the street corner, a couple is getting some steamed bread and youtiao, deep-fried fluffy dough sticks, for the next day’s breakfast. On the street, a green taxi with a design of a panda embracing a bamboo shoot is driving by. What a peaceful nightfall.

Forcing me to remove my eyes from the photographs, a beam of glaring twilight going through the shutter has made my eyes prick. I glance at the sky. The sun has come out after the short rain to show her last beauty before night arrives. Suddenly, I feel so far away from my beloved land since I have not seen the peaceful nightfall of that small street in front of my grandparent’s house for a long time. I miss my city; I miss every single corner of it. Within a second, I then realize that I am not far from home. I am carrying everything: the rain, the fog, the bakery, the hot pot, the street, the nightfall, the Chengdu people and my family. I am always carrying my city in my memory.

No matter wherever I go, I carry it, my beloved hometown, Chengdu.

DeleteZoë Mancuso-Dunkelberg

Something is different, I realize. I don’t mention it to you now, but I can see it plain as day. Something has changed.

I watch you as you write a letter. You don’t know I’m here, and I’m glad you don’t. I watch your hands move over the keyboard, filling the room with an end-less clicking sound. I wish you would stop so that there would finally be silence. Your hands are pale, and I can see the blue veins showing through your wrists. The silver ring on the ring finger of your left hand has the heart facing down.

A phone is ringing somewhere in my head.

I watch as you dance across the room, reflecting on the walls that shimmer. I watch as you enter a world I will never be able to, and I almost cry because you are so beautiful.

I’m alone at the pool except for a family of four—a mother, a father, a baby, and an eight-year-old girl. I do not know them. The parents are arguing. The girl is doing handstands in the water.“Daddy, look.”“I’m watching, kiddo.” He is not watching. He is glaring at the mother. The girl goes under the water and in seconds her legs shoot up over the surface, wobbly and unbalanced. She tumbles over.

A clock is ticking somewhere in my head.

You highlight the text you have written and hit “delete.” I exhale, and you look up. What am I doing here?

The girl surfaces for breath and looks hopefully at her father. Her face falls. “Daddy, you didn’t watch.”The man turns away from his wife and walks to the edge of the pool. “Yes I did,” he tells her. “I watched. It was brilliant.” The girl does a back flip in the water.How old are we when our parents first lie to us?

A door slams somewhere in my head.

“How can you leave?” I ask you. I wonder if you can even hear me over the tapping of the keyboard and the ringing of the phone, the clock ticking and the door slamming and the world splitting in half. I tear the room apart in my mind, shattering windows and ripping down one wall at a time. Anything to make you

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stay. How can you leave?

There is silence at the pool. I’m all alone.

“I’m not. I’m not leaving,” you say as you walk out the door. Something has changed.

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Once We Were YoungAudrey Lewis

You are older now,and all grown up, too old

for young and childishfantasies. I am older, too

now that this many years have passed; my mane

of yarn, once the envy ofall around, has faded from

the richest gold to a fainterhue, more reminiscent of

corn silk than of the wild and terrible beast I used to be. My

left eye is gone now, torn awayin some great charge and lost

in the expansive jungle of your backyard. I have learned

to live without it, but never learned to live without you. You

charge around now, too old for me,but once you were young, and so

was I, and we were kings ofall that we surveyed.

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Just One Of YouBy Emily Hewlings

I once read somewhere that everyone has some kind of disability in some way and is able to hide it from others, whereas some people have to reveal theirs with no chance of ever concealing it from society. It’s there, like graffiti on the brick walls along the city streets. It’s noticeable; sometimes you might think sarcastically, Well, that’s nice of those guys to paint all over the walls. Or, instead: Oh, well, just more graffiti. Either way, the graffiti is simply there, out in public for everyone to see, whether you like it or not. I’m one of those people who can’t hide their disability. I was born with it, so it’s what I’ve always known my entire life. But my disability is not like graffiti. I am able to hide it, although I prefer not to. You won’t actually know that I have a disability until I mention it, or when I put my hair up. Or ask you to repeat things more than twice. Or when I don’t respond right away. Or even when I’m quiet during conversations. Maybe you already know about it. Maybe you’re still puzzling over what’s on my right ear. Or maybe you just simply shrug your shoulders, not really caring. I was born two weeks early on March 31, 1993, in Pennsylvania. The hospital pronounced me healthy and fit, ready to go home. Six weeks later, while sitting on my mother’s lap, the doctor told my parents that I had been born pro-foundly deaf in both ears. There are four types of hearing loss, three of them being mild, moder-ate, and severe. The fourth is profound, and that’s when you can’t hear anything at all out of your ears. Since the hair cells are pretty much damaged in both of my ears, I can’t hear anything at all. That was why, when I was a baby, I didn’t respond to any noises. I didn’t wake up when the dogs were barking. I didn’t turn my head at the sound of my parents’ voices. Nothing had a sound that I could detect. I was fitted with hearing aids shortly after my parents found out that I had a hearing loss, but the hearing aids didn’t help much. My parents debated over what was the best form of communication for me. It was either sign lan-guage or oral. In the end, they decided that oral language was the best because they wanted me to be able to communicate with everyone, not just the limited amount of people who know how to sign. At the age of two, I had surgery to be implanted with a device called

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a Cochlear Implant. The surgeon had to put a little wire in my cochlea. The “strange thing” on my ear can be known as the processor. It processes any sound that has been made and it travels through the processor, through the cable to the magnetic coil that is attached to the outside of my skull. It then transmits into the unit that’s inside the skull behind my ear. The sound travels through the electrodes that are threaded in my cochlea, which then taps into the auditory nerve . . . and I hear the sound that has been made. I can turn off my processor and all of the sudden, I’m back in the silent world. If the fire alarm went off in the middle of the night . . . I wouldn’t know unless I have my processor on. While this little piece of technology helps me to gather sounds and be able to detect them, it doesn’t actually repair the damage of the hair cells that I have. I don’t actually have “normal hearing” – if hearing is even normal. Does a particular person actually sound the way that is being heard through a hearing person’s ears? Is the sound of the ball hitting the bat during softball sound the way it’s supposed to be? Are the dogs’ barking supposed to be that annoying? That doesn’t really matter to me all that much. What matters is that I hear it, and what it’s coming from. That’s the beauty of cochlear implants. Again, because the cochlear implant doesn’t restore my hair cells, I can’t hear every little bit of information the way hearing people can. The two biggest disadvantages for this are background noises and the way people speak. When people talk too fast or too low, mumble or cover their mouths with their hands, I don’t get the information and, therefore, miss out on what they are saying. I don’t join in conversations because I don’t know what is being said 100% of the time. (Believe me, I’m not that boring!) When there are people talking at once, like in the lunchroom or during a sports game, that’s when I have to really struggle to hear what someone said. I’ll get all of the information or just fragments of it. Being deaf isn’t at all awful as it might sound. For one thing, I’m able to sleep through a thunderstorm at night. I have a lot of funny stories relating to my hearing loss, like misunderstanding people or thinking that people are talking to me when they’re actually on their cell phone. I have been able to meet totally great and inspiring people like Jeff Float (1st deaf Olympian swimmer to win the gold meal), Heather Whitestone McCallum (1st deaf Miss America), my former teachers, my best friend, other people with disabilities . . . everybody. Because I have been deaf ever since I was born, I don’t know what it feels like to have ears 24/7.

I view life as full of excitement and a gift. Being hearing-impaired has made me mature and responsible and ready to accomplish anything in life. Josh Swiller, author of The Unheard, a member of the Peace Corps, and someone who also has a hearing loss, once said, “Deafness makes some things harder but it also makes everything richer.” It’s so true. I’ve had a lot of challenges in life relating to my deafness. My first challenge was learning to speak, learning to communicate with others the way hearing people can with each other. And I’ve succeeded. Can you understand me when I talk? Yes. When I speak, you’d never know that I am profoundly deaf, as I’ve been told. But the road to that wasn’t easy; it was long and bumpy and tiresome. But because I got the cochlear implant at such a young age, I was able to develop the kind of speech that I have now due to many years of speech therapists and countless nights of vocabulary lessons. Other challenges have been struggling in an elementary public school, moving to Massachusetts so that I could go to an oral-deaf school, going to camps, trying to fit in, and much more. Each challenge that I go through, as it would for you, makes me a better person. I’m ready to accomplish anything. I want to succeed. I never stop and think, “Oh, yeah, I’m deaf. I can’t do that.” No, no, no. To me, being deaf is just a side thing. Something that’s on the bottom of my list, my mind.I don’t think of myself as a handicapped person, really. I see myself as you . . . someone who loves playing sports, especially softball. Someone who loves rock, alternative rock, country, and pop music. Someone who abhors homework. Someone who complains about winter. Someone who enjoys hanging out with friends. Someone who loves to watch movies. Someone who has a great sense of humor, and so on . . . I don’t want to be known as “The Girl Who’s Deaf,” even though I don’t mind explaining to people about my deafness. A title like that separates me from you, since it gives me a reason to be different. A title like, “The Girl with Blonde Hair” or even “The Other Emily” makes me sound more like one of you guys. See what I mean? I’m not and never have been self-conscious about my deafness. Even if you said, “What’s that on your ear?” I’ll just simply shrug, smile, and explain my disability. I like to prove to people that deaf individuals don’t just use sign language. I don’t find deafness as a burden. It’s just something I was born with. Simple as that.

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BlankMorgan Bae

One day, I saw a spider and told all my secrets to it,And it crawled up my armAnd left me.

One day, I saw a cat lying down on the couch and told all my secrets to her,And she meowedAnd left me.

If I would find you and tell you all my secrets,Would you also leave me?

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Out Of The FieldsBryna Cofrin-Shaw

I don’t know where the name Lucy came from. I can guess it meant something to Isabelle’s mother; Lucy was her dog. I used to wonder why she didn’t take the dog with her, but I don’t anymore. Sometimes my husband calls Lucy the name of his ex-wife when he does not know I’m around. He sings it out softly when they are leaving for a walk, or whispers it as he pets her nose early in the morning when he goes to start the coffee.

Isabelle is sitting very still with the dog taking up her whole lap and I wish we lived not so far from town. She’s too small to be sitting in the front seat of my car, but the back is a mess and there’s no time to clean it up.

Lucy stopped shaking, Isabelle tells me. It’s true, the dog isn’t twitching anymore, but she’s panting quietly. Her body is curled up like a stone on Isabelle’s lap with her face and paws hidden, so that the subtle rise and fall of this stone as it breathes is somehow surreal.

This is the first time my husband has ever left me in charge of his daughter for more than a few days and it is getting easier and easier to make mistakes. I didn’t tie up Isabelle’s hair when we were baking and now the ends hold clumps of frost-ing and there is chocolate batter hardened at the corners of her mouth. When I lean too close I can feel the heat from Isabelle’s sunburned shoulders. I will have a hard time explaining this to her father if he asks why I did not remember to put sunscreen on her when we went to the reservoir. It is not likely he will ask, and this is one of the times I am thankful for his disinterest.

All of the houses we pass on this street are like ours, much like the suburbs, except that this is the only road in a halo of cornfields. Each one is a slight, grey smudge on the street, like small piles of driftwood staggered at low tide. The houses are all very old, but ours is made new by too many appliances and too few books, remains of the woman that came before me. My husband and his dog and his small daughter have lived the longest on this street, but he has never told me just how long. Neighbors have been disappearing quickly, I have noticed. It is no doubt due to four cases of cancer that popped up within a few years of one another and caused families to flee, fearing the pesticides from the fields. I’ve only

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lived here for five months, but sometimes I feel these pesticides in my breath and falling from my skin in the shower.

Stop that, I tell Isabelle. She is shuffling her ankles and reaching around to scratch her neck. I tell her, try to keep the dog still, we don’t want her throwing up all over the place. I do not mean for it to come out cold. I am trying to be warm toward the girl, but sometimes I slip.

There are empty fields out of both of our windows with dust rising from their skeletons. In weeks to come something will start to grow, at least I think that something must. The land cannot stay lonely for long without falling into some-thing new, whether it be a fire or forest. Up ahead are tall buildings, the same ones that can be seen from our front yard. When I first moved in, Isabelle would spend the first few minutes of every night’s darkness drawing those buildings, with speckled yellow dots as lighted windows. She revealed them to her father once and claimed it was New York City, showing him a picture of a New York skyline as evidence, the speckled golden dots buzzing about like lightning bugs on both. With one hand petting Lucy by his other side, he explained that New York was too far away to be seen, and those were only the tall cement buildings of the University a town away. She draws at the foot of her bed now, though even this has become a sparse occurrence.

When we arrive at the veterinary clinic, a woman in green scrubs takes Lucy from my arms as we enter the building. I follow her into a room with a cold steel table and she starts to ask me when Lucy first became comatose.

Comatose? I say, but she was shaking earlier and then started breathing heavily, and that’s all. She was not comatose.

Now I see how her body is limp and can be shoved around on the table and prodded without her eyes opening. Small brown and white patches of her fur are matted together across her stomach and Isabelle stands level with the steel table, holding Lucy’s ear in one palm and petting it with two fingers of her other hand. The woman in scrubs asks me more questions about Lucy, and as she inspects the dog, I can see her ears and long, thin nose twitching as she listens to my answers. Her ears are so small and pressed so flat against her face that they barely keep the black hair off her cheeks, but her eyes are warm when they pass over

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Isabelle. This, I think, is the woman I would want my husband to come home with. She would jump into Isabelle’s chair and blanket forts, bumping together heads of dolls clad in Velcro clothes while Isabelle’s father would go unbothered as he brushed Lucy’s fur. I will not leave my husband and let his daughter be alone again. It would be an exaggeration to say I didn’t love him anymore; such a sentiment can’t vanish that quickly, I hope. But somehow it has slipped into the abandoned corners of our house, and I only come across it every so often, like a twenty dollar bill I don’t even remember losing. Even so, I will welcome a woman that forces me out, a woman like this one in green scrubs, who would care for Isabelle where her father’s indifference cannot.

Isabelle tugs at the bottom of my shirt. She stretches up to whisper something and I bend to meet her halfway. I do not think I have earned the trust of being the one she whispers to, but I listen as she says, Is it because I gave her a snack?No, Izzy. I say, You only gave her a dog treat, didn’t you? and the girl curls her shoulders in and folds both chubby arms across her eyes. She tells me, through short, suffocated breaths between each sob, how she let the dog lick the bowl and the spatula covered in chocolate batter.

In the waiting room I call my husband. I tell him how I dropped an open bag of chocolate chips on the floor and Isabelle was the one to notice how Lucy got to them before I could pick them up. I tell him how Isabelle is trembling in the heat. When the woman in green scrubs comes back out with her eyebrows too close to one another and arms clutched over a clipboard, I tell him that Lucy is gone.

The drive home is shorter than it was before. The drive home always is. Isabelle is silent with her arms resting on her belly and then she tells me, Mama had brown hair that was soft, just like Lucy’s long ears, and that is all she says. There is so much dust in the air that I cannot see the tall university buildings in my rearview mirror as we drive away. There is only the copper of the fields and the gold ghosts that rise from their skin. When we get closer to our house I pull the car over to the shoulder of the road. There is a pair of wild turkeys a few meters away that step jarringly across the field. They are digging at the ground with their beaks and I think there must be something in that soil getting ready to grow.

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My SonKim Balk

Always, when shaking someone’s hand, give a firm handshake. Make sure the

hand has a good grip. Make sure that your shake is strong, if it’s not, then they

will think you are weak. Nobody likes a weak man. But, nobody likes a rude

man. Be kind to the ladies. When going on dates, open the doors for them.

When going out, offer and pay the bill. Nobody likes a poor man. Don’t stay

out too late; your mother will think you are up to something. If you are up to

something, you will be punished. Don’t cry when you are punished. Nobody

likes a crying, wimpy man. But, nobody likes a man without any feelings. State

your opinions to people. But don’t speak all of your opinions. Nobody likes a

man who thinks he’s a know-it-all. Make sure you are strong. Go work out with

friends, do work around the house. Nobody likes a scrawny man. Do not become

too buff, because nobody likes a huge muscle man. When driving the car, don’t

be stupid. Nobody likes a stupid man. When driving, drive with knowledge of

the signs and what they are telling you. Nobody likes a stupid man, who can’t

read. If you crash the car, tell what really happened. Nobody likes a liar. If you

crash the car, you will pay for the damages. Nobody likes a man who can’t handle

his own mistakes. Get a job when you are young. Nobody likes a man who

doesn’t work. If you do not get a job when you are young, keep trying to get

one. Nobody likes a failure. Get a good education. Nobody likes a man who isn’t

smart. When you get older pay your bills. Nobody likes a man who can’t handle

the home. Listen to what people have to say. That’s all that matters in life.

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Crows In The BackyardEmily Hewlings

Sometimes I wonder what’s in the afterlife . . .Are there shrilling calls of warning?Or the fire blazing in one’s wounds?

Or people walking barefoot upon shards of glass?

Is there such a thing as fear,With empty hands reaching out,

Yearning for something to hold on toBut instead grasping into the desolateness of air.

Is the pain like a fragmented heart,Shattered into a thousand pieces in the pit of your stomach,

Or like feeling the aculeate thorn of the rose in the skin of your thumb,And wondering why such a beautiful thing would wound you?

Do the people come before you,With red circles around their disconsolate eyes?

Do they lie in the rain,Their tears mixed in with the sky?

Tell me, does the afterlife have this?Does the frigid wind numb your bones,

The sounds of cries slicing through your ears,The color red oozing out of the sky during sunset...

Do the long, scraggly arms of the bare tree branches hold you prisoner?Does the sand blow away from your hands?

Do unforgettable words echo in the walls around you?Are your wings ever broken, unable to lift you off the ground?

This may sound strange,For pain is such a melancholy feeling,

But if we weren’t able to see the crows in our backyard,Then the sun would never rise above the mountains.

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Following Your PathMorgan Bae

No matter who you are,No matter where you are,Don’t be afraid to journey to yourself.

Although it might be melancholy,it is your own way to find the destinationAnd has been your destiny since you are born.

No one might decipher,No one might understand,And you shall be hesitant to follow your way,

But there it is—the blazing sunshine of the sun,the refreshing scent of the breeze, the whispering sound of the stream—All are pleasant things about nature.Feel them as you travel.

No matter who you are or where you are,you will eventually find your destination and no one shall disturb your way.

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Do It For DadLeah Zraunig

“Cadence! Come help me please! Bailey needs help making her bed!” My mom was calling to me. Here we go again. I trudged up the stairs, to my little sister’s room. Her pink walls came into view, and I could see the disgruntled look on her face. I noticed that with Bailey’s blonde tousled hair and big brown eyes, she looked like an aggravated Labrador puppy. “I can’t do it!” she said loudly. I smiled. She tries so hard, I thought to myself. Just like I have been doing for the past year. But it just seemed to get worse. “Here Bailey, you do it like this,” I said to her. I showed Bailey, and after, she looked up at me with those big chocolate brown eyes. “Thank you Cadence. You’re the best sister ever.” Normally, this is when I would have started crying. But I have not cried for a year. I cannot cry. Ever since I was little, I have always had a hard time crying in front of people. All I would do is hold it inside. When I hold it inside, the pain is almost unbearable. And it has not gone away, ever since that night. Ever since that night my world and everything in it came crashing down. I am fifteen years old. I always thought that I would not have to be the responsible one until I was at least twenty, maybe even eighteen. But I learned early on. My family has always been important to me, and they still are. My mother, Martina, is a hard-working woman who has two jobs. She always wanted four kids, so she made her dream come true. First came my older brother, Elliot, from whom I inherited my basketball skills. He is in college now, so I barely see or even hear from him. I was born next, and am the most happy-go-lucky child. Next, came my little brother, Alden, who is six years old. He wants to become a firefighter like my dad. Finally, my little sister Bailey was born a year after Alden. She is a spitting image of me. But if you look, really look into her eyes, you can see my father’s eyes.

* * * * *

“Cadence, move to the ball, or I’m going to take you out!” My coach yelled at me from across the court. I always thought that he was a nice guy, but I was slowly starting to change my mind. I ran back and forth across the court like a mouse, skittish and afraid. I was in the ninth grade and I was playing with seniors. This must have been a mistake.

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“Get open, Cadence! I’m not gonna ask you again!” His voice bellowed in my ears. I could tell that my teammates were getting furious with me. I should have never come to this school, let alone this team. I have moved a lot in my life, stepping onto five different courts of five different teams. And I have had a total of eight different coaches to actually become familiar with and trust. But the one coach that first taught me is my dad. I trusted him with my life. One of the senior girls rammed into me. It hurt, feeling like I got the wind knocked out of me. “Move outta the way, freshman, or I suggest that you take some classes on the game of basketball.” Ouch. Why did I ever agree to this? “Okay, okay, that’s enough for today. Be here early tomorrow. Cadence, can I talk to you for a minute?” I was scared out of my mind. He needs to under-stand this: I have had to learn a million different plays almost every year, trying to process them in my brain. It was like playing with a new toy, breaking it, get-ting a new one, and repeating. Again and again. “Don’t even bother showing up tomorrow,” the senior said to me as she walked away. I looked over at my coach and he stared at me intently. I slowly walked over, and tried to look him in the eye. It did not work. “I would really like to see you work harder out there. You are lagging behind, and you’re just being stationary out there.” It was my turn to talk now. “But didn’t you see them pushing me around out there?! They’re trying to kill me!” He gave me a look that sent shivers down my spine. “They’re your teammates, Cadence. They’re not trying to do anything but help you. Play for them. Do it for your team.” I nearly had tears in my eyes. How could he treat me like this? Didn’t he have the slightest idea how challeng-ing this was for me? He doesn’t care. He just doesn’t. I ran out before he could say another word. I saw my dad’s truck outside of the gym and ran into the front seat, right into his arms. I could smell his scent of mint gum. I did not even have to say anything. My dad knew me best, and he could tell right off that being on a varsity girl’s basketball team with six-foot girls was slowly having a despondent effect on me. All I did was lay in his arms, listening to the truck running, and the radio softly playing “Silent Night.”

* * * * *

“Give it to me! It’s mine, Alden!” I heard all the yelling so I walked into our living room. I saw Bailey and Alden fighting over a single teddy bear. It was my dad’s old teddy bear. My eyes went wide. They were going to rip it! “Guys, calm down! What’s going on?” I took the teddy bear from

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Alden’s small sticky hands. “If you guys keep tugging this back and forth, you are gonna rip it for sure.” Alden glared at me. “She started it! You know that dad gave this to me!” Alden tried grab-bing it from my hands but I stepped away from him. “Please don’t talk about dad. I’m trying to figure out why the two of you would fight over this thing when clearly you are no longer babies.” Now Bailey glared at me. If there was one thing that she inherited from me, it’s the fact that she gets mad easily. “But Alden said I could have it yesterday!” Bailey exclaimed. “No I didn’t!” I rolled my eyes. “YES YOU DID!” Bailey hollered at the top of her lungs. My mom walked in, looking very mad. I was to find out soon that I, not the young ones, was who she was mad at. “What is all this yelling? Both of you need to go to your rooms right now. I’m trying to get prepared for this meeting tomorrow, and then I hear all this yelling back and forth. Now go! Cadence, you wait here.” Great. There were those famous words again. My mom looked at me with narrow eyes. “Have a seat.” I slowly walked over to our couch and plopped down. I could tell that this was not going to be good. I looked into her eyes. They pierced into mine like darts heading straight for a dartboard. “I got back your report card today.” I just stared at her. What could I do? I was caught red handed. Suddenly I had the urge to say everything. “Okay, mom, listen. I can explain.” “Well you sure have a lot to explain to me considering that you are fail-ing almost all of your classes! What’s going on Cadence?” “I’m not failing them purposely, mom, and you know it! I’m doing the best I can!” How could my mom, out of all people, not understand this? “Well, I’d like you to really show me that you can bring your grades up, Cadence. You’re hurting me inside, and I know that it’s hard for you to be in the position you are in now.” No you don’t, I thought to myself. She gave me a sad look and walked out of the living room like a zombie. She would never know. I’ve wished for the longest time that I could just tell her, or someone I trusted, about everything I was feeling at that point in time. Ever since that day, that day when flames consumed my everything. I’ve had to live up to everyone’s expecta-tions and be what they wanted me to be. I was sick of living a life where I had to change for other people’s benefits instead of mine.

* * * * * Sweat beaded the top of my forehead. I was extremely tired and

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wrought with exhaustion. I had to keep practicing. At age fourteen, basketball meant the world to me. My dad, Jack, was helping me practice, and I was grate-ful for him to take time off from the fire department for me. “I know that you can do this, Cadence. Just keep working on that drive to the hoop. You can top those seniors,” my dad said with a grin. I smiled. “Yeah, right.” I dribbled the ball hard to the hoop and went up for a lay-up. The ball bounced off the backboard and missed the rim. I groaned. “Don’t worry. You’ll get it.” My dad passed the ball back to me and I caught it. “Hey dad, can I ask you something?” My dad nodded. He looked at me sympathetically. “Have you ever been scared?” He looked at me with his soft brown eyes. He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. Like what do you mean, scared with my job?” I nodded my head quickly. He looked thoughtful, even perplexed. “Well, yeah. I think that every fire fighter and cop is scared all the time. And if one said they weren’t, then they’d be lying. Only because everyone is scared doing what they do.” I was sort of confused. “Huh?” My dad laughed at me with his husky laugh. “Look at it this way, cour-age is being scared to death but doing it anyway. We all have to do it at some point in our lives. For me, I do it every day of my life. For you, your time is now. Don’t let anything stop you from playing on that court. It’s you who controls what you want. Play the game your way.” I smiled at my dad. These were the times when he acted more like he studied life than the pressure of water in hose pumps.

* * * * *

Basketball at my school hadn’t changed at all for me one bit. I was still the youngest on the team after a year, and I still considered myself the worst player by far. I didn’t know if my coach thought the same thing, but he’d prob-ably say I was doing fine anyway, even if I was having the worst practice. If our high school girl’s varsity basketball team was like the show Survivor, I’d be the first voted off the court. It’s as simple as that. But my playing never affected the way I ever felt about basketball. It still meant the world to me, and I always be-lieved that my heart was shaped like a basketball. I lived it. But my heart was like a basketball almost. It was being dribbled all the time. I had to play the sport. When I got home form school, I did my best to concentrate on my homework. The night before, my mom was telling me to get good grades for her,

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while Bailey was telling me to make her bed for her, and Alden was telling me to do his first grade homework for him. It was getting old, hearing the same line, “do it for me.” Now Bailey and Alden were yelling again. My head was pounding like a jackhammer from the headache I got from the seniors yelling at me from practice. The yelling was just making it worse. “Cadence, clean your room,” my mom said, coming in holding a bunch of papers. “I’m doing my homework. Leave.” Oops. Bad answer. My mom glared at me and grabbed my homework from the table. Her nostrils were flaring. “Clean. Your. Room. Now. Please.” She said it slowly with clenched teeth. I rolled my eyes and ran up the stairs. I was so tired of trying to keep my grades above sea level, and trying to be a perfect child in my mother’s eyes twenty-four-seven. The same went for playing basketball. I wish that I could play better for everyone around me, and show them that I was different from everyone else athletically. And not in the way they think. I wanted to make my playing worth something, if it was even worth anything at all. I felt like I had to compete everywhere, with everyone. These were the times when my dad would comfort me and hold me in his arms. And surprisingly, he couldn’t do it anymore. I still remember the exact moment when he last practiced with me. But seeing the chief on our front doorstep was a blur. After that, I never cried again, because losing my father changed me for good.

* * * * *

“Good job Cadence! You’re getting better, I can see it already!” My dad was helping me once again with my lay-ups, and I was improving. My dad should seriously consider a job as a basketball coach. All of a sudden, my dad’s cell phone rang. He picked up. His expression went from happy to almost shocked, and I just stared at him the whole time. I asked him what was wrong. He looked at me intently. “Cadence, I have to go to the firehouse for a call-back. There’s a big building fire at the old mill house. Keep practicing though.” I got a worried look on my face. “When will you be back?” My dad said he would be back by morning, and then he said, “I love you.” The sky suddenly went dark, and gray clouds dotted the sky like gray paint. I watched him with my sweaty face and windblown hair as he pulled out his truck and drove down the road. I dropped the basketball and watched it bounce across our dirt driveway.

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The time was 3:52 A.M. I awoke to a car engine running outside my bedroom window. I got up so abruptly, that a sick strange darkness flooded into my eyes, and I had to steady myself. I slowly crept down the stairs and sat quietly behind the dark wooden railing. Right on cue, there was a quiet little knock on our door. My mom had fallen asleep on the couch, so I watched her through the railing as she rubbed her sleepy eyes. In her nightgown, she opened the door. There, in our front doorway, was the fire fighter chief from my dad’s fire depart-ment. His hands were hidden behind his back. My head started to hurt again. He cleared his throat quietly and took off his hat. He looked sad. “There’s, uh, no easy way to say this, ma’am. I am terribly sorry. Your husband, Jack, was one of the last men in the building.” My mom just stared with lifeless eyes. It looked like she wasn’t breathing. “He uh, he was trying to get out of one of the storage rooms, and the smoke was heavy, real heavy. So while he was trying to get out, the ceiling collapsed. He never made it, ma’am. I’m really sorry.” Right then and there, the chief pulled out my dad’s blackened helmet, and softly placed it in my mom’s hands. All I remember is my mom crying and crying and crying, hugging the chief. As for me, I watched in shock. I didn’t move, and I felt my hands go freezing cold. As the chief was hugging my mom, he looked up and saw me, and I could have sworn that I saw one lone tear stream down his face. A tear flowed down my face, and I pinched my eyes shut tightly and rested my head against the railing. That sick strange darkness was coming again.

* * * * *

It was our final game, we were down by three points, and the time was running out. My whole family was there, including my grandparents, my mom, Elliot, Alden, and Bailey. I tried to find it in my heart to say that my dad was there, too, but it was difficult. It was still hard to deal with the pain of losing him, but I was dealing with it. As I looked back at my family screaming my name and cheering for me, I saw their faces, and somehow I saw my dad in the crowd. He waved and smiled at me. My eyes went wide. “You okay?” I glanced back and saw my coach walking towards me. I looked back at the crowd and didn’t see my father anywhere. “Uh, yeah, I’m fine.” He smiled at me. “I wanna put you in for the last minutes of the game today. I feel like something has come over you.” So he had noticed that change in me. All I could do was nod my head, because I didn’t know what to say. But this was my turn now. No one was going stop me. I looked over at my mom, and for some reason, she had tears in her eyes. I saw her mouth, ‘do it for dad’, and right then, I finally

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cried. This was my moment, and I was going to make it happen. The board read 3:52. I recognized those exact numbers. My dad was here, and I knew he was always going to watch over me. We played hard. When the final seconds counted down, the ball was passed to me. People everywhere were cheering my name, and it was a bit over-whelming for me. One of the seniors on my team made a basket, sending the stands into a frenzy. “Tough d! Tough d!” my coach yelled as we all scrambled down the court. The minutes were counting down. We were in desperate need of a steal, or we would lose the game for sure. A junior on our team intercepted a chest pass right on cue, and we all sped down the court after her. I instantly thought of my dad, remembering the lay-ups he would make me do again and again. I suddenly had a burst of energy and was feeling very aggressive. “Cadence!” the junior yelled. I was right near her. She passed the ball to me without hesitation and I froze. There was an open lane towards the hoop. I could hear everyone yelling, “go!” so I made a drive to the hoop. I tried remem-bering the same techniques that my dad had taught me last year before he died. I put the ball up, and it hit the backboard, bouncing over the rim. The clock ran out, and the buzzer sounded. The game was over. We were defeated. I failed, missing a simple lay-up. I put my hands to my head. All of a sudden I felt many hands being put on my shoulders. It was my team, including the seniors. My coach walked over and high-fived me. “Nice playing. You really stepped up there.” My team joined in with smiles, “yeah’s!” and head-nods. So maybe I didn’t make the winning shot, and we did lose by a point. My life definitely wasn’t some fairytale story with a traditional happy ending. But this is what I know: don’t give up on your dreams of what you want, even if things are falling apart and you have lost something. Odds are that you’ll be able to make the best out of it, and be who you choose to be. I learned that from my very own father, and thanks to him, my basketball heart was still bouncing.

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Where Do We Go From Here?Kollyn-Marya Coleman

Dear Self, I am somewhat stationary and unable to move because we have not es-tablished a close enough relationship to realize that we have absolutely no where to move forward to. Living in this small town area where the breeze is scarce and the plants seem to have everything but life and beauty, I look at myself and see the same within; a lifeless, hideous; human-being that seems to know nothing more than the town which she lives in. This silly mirror, that I hold in my hand quite often, with its flamboyant embroidery and painted-on pastel colors that match what the earth’s shades and colors should look like, is all that I have to hold close to my heart. It was given to me by my mother who no longer lives or cares for me. She left me in this place that I call “home” and lies stiffly in her grave that I visit from time to time, hoping to find an idea of who I am. Where I come from? And where do I go from here? You and I both know that where I go can’t be too far. But anyway, as I sit here in front of my mother’s gravestone contemplat-ing about the person I am, my mirror starts to reflect this portrait of myself that I can not seem to get rid of. It is as if it is slowly deteriorating while finding ways to break down the sturdy wall on the outside of my skeletal interior. The one thing that I have had all of my life is leisurely leaving me just like my mother did. You and I both are stuck in this mirror with no possible way to break free from it. I am trying to think thoughts about how our life could possibly get any worse, but now the rain is starting to fall and the pages of this book that I am instilling all of my knowledge in are starting to dampen as the words written upon this page begin to fade. Could it be that this condensation is from the rain, or could it be from the tears that are trickling down my cheek and now reach the lined paper? I’m going to take another quick look at this mirror that has no true sense or use to me at all. I am going to look into it, this time, and see the same person that I see every time; a girl that has no clue where she is going; a girl who is oblivious to the world and to herself. The rain is starting to fall harder now and I can hear the wind increas-ing speed. I’m scared but I don’t want to tell you that I am because you will judge me, and you will soon realize that I have fears, many of them at that. I want you to believe that I am as strong and fearless as any person or thing on this earth. I want you to believe that this storm that is slowly but surely passing by us, as we speak, is merely a figment of our imagination; it is only a joke that we can both simply laugh at. But if you believe this, you will only believe a truthful lie, for I

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am one that you cannot fully trust. I am scared, terrified at that, of what life or death has in store for me. I do not want to turn out like my mother, for she was also scared just as I am. She had the same fears that I have, or so I’ve been told. My mother means nothing to me. Just like this storm, she is merely a figment of our imagination. I never knew her and I never will. I can assume that her skin was brown like ours, with features so broad and structured. I can assume that she was about our height, maybe a little bit taller. I can assume that her hair was a shade of brown that we can only see on the trunks of trees or in the soil of the earth. I can assume that her lips were succulent and pink just as mine are. But now that I assume these features of my mother, I only wish to assume differently, for these features that I speak of are no different than my own. My hands are getting cold now and the rain has yet to slow down. I am shivering and this mirror is starting to slip out of my drenched hands and I am unsure if I can continue to grip it any longer. Look down. You can see that the mirror’s painted pastel colors that I spoke about are starting to drip onto my fingers. The mirror is starting to lose its life, its dreams, and its importance to me. Do I care? Of course I don’t care. Why care about something that gets you absolutely nowhere, something that has no value or use to you, something that breaks you down with a simple glance from the reflection? I cannot deal with the thought of knowing who I am or where I am physically or mentally going. I wonder if she, my mother, knew where she was going. Did she know that her daughter would be suffering the consequences of her death or did she think that she could make up for it by leaving behind a treasure that has not any sentimen-tal value to me? The mirror has seemed to have dropped out of my left hand and onto the con-crete ground. The glass has shattered and an overwhelming feeling has taken over my body. What is this emotion that has my spirit gleaming? I cannot find the words to elucidate what I am feeling, but I will try. My eyebrows are raised and my mouth seems to be making an upward shape. I can feel my upper lip pushed against my glossy teeth while the edges of my mouth are pressured upwards, forcing my cheeks to ache. I am still unable to find the words that match this emotional journey that my body is partaking in. Have I found happiness? Have I found a way to break free from this hurt and pain? I am going to leave this place now, and never return. The mirror shall stay where it has broken and you and I shall continue to find where we go from here.

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ElevenMorgan Mattia

At my grandmother’s funeralshe sat next to me,quiet.Composed.Tears fallingsilently.Standing tallAt 5’0”,the last of the Smiths:Ruth Long,surrounded by her loved onesbut somehow still alone.MiltonHarryDonaldAllanKennethClaireEleanorEvelynShirleyDorothyand little Ruthie,with no shoulder to cry on.Even Evelyn bowed out.My mother said:“It was like a race, somebody had to win.”

But what was the prize?

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A Friend Of MineKat Fossum

It’s September 2003. A truck pulls in the driveway as the wind blows through the yellowing trees and the setting sun. A quiet white barn sits at the only driveway on Denny Street. The footsteps of the Arabian stallion are lost in the dusk of day as the rumble of a stock trailer is heard in the driveway. The stallion graciously comes to the fence to greet the newcomer. A loud whinny and foot stomps are his hello. Then, he turns back to gallop into his field. After being cooped up in a stall all day he gets all the fields to run in for the night. He takes advantage of the new freedom and runs as fast as his legs can carry him. He rears up and bucks while the last glint of sun reflects his shadow against the grass. The grass is singing with the crickets and the stream is filled with the croaks of bull frogs. The stars and moon then come out and they shine over the field. They are the only source of light the stallion has. He looks up at moon and then carries on grazing. The breeze cuts through the tall grass and it whistles through the trees. The plastic fencing quietly creaks with the wisps of air and the sagging strips of electric tape float around in the wind. The now lit-up barn is at a distance and sits quietly at the top of the hill undisturbed.

Meanwhile, the sounds of bare hooves hitting the concrete floor and soft greet-ings from the other horses in the barn fill the aisle; a green-trimmed Dutch door closes behind a swishing tail and the new arrival goes straight for the hay. A new home, a new place, a new friend. I’m 13 years old and I walk into his stall, put my face against his neck and stay for a while. I close my eyes and just listen. The rustle of hay and sloshing water brings peace and my whole body relaxes with the sounds. The warmth of his body heats my face and then he startles me, stomping his blonde legs lightly and twitching his ears as the buzzing flies try to latch on to him. I run my fingers through his smooth baby fur as a flash of light shines through the window. He happily knickers as a soft kiss lands on his nose and the crisp sound of an apple ends the night. I leave, feeling the cool night air through my hair as I jump into the SUV with my dad. I am excited and happy: he is my own, and I can’t wait for the next day to begin.

It’s morning and the rays of the sun emerge from over the trees. It’s 6:30 a.m. and the smell of dewy morning air and maple trees fill my lungs as the horses are turned out into the field. The ends of swinging tails and the sound of pounding hooves are lost behind the hill as they run into the distance to play and soak up the rising sun. Morning chores are immediately started. I get a pitchfork and a wheel barrel and begin mucking out a stall. Dust fills my lungs and the concen-trated smell of the mare in heat burns my lungs. Shavings fly into the wheel bar-rel and when it’s full I go and try to dump it in the spreader. Being 4’8” with the build of a string bean, the wheel barrel weighs practically as much as me, if not

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more. As I struggle to dump it in the spreader, it almost pulls me down with it… scary when you think you’re about to go head first into something you don’t want to be landing in. Next are water buckets; they have to be carried out to the end of the aisle to be dumped and scrubbed. In a hurry, I walk as fast as I can with a ten- gallon bucket to the end of the aisle and by the time I get there, half of the water is all over the ground and the floor. The barn crew and I do the finishing touches, and by the end, I’m covered from head to toe in dirt. I brush off what I can from my clothes and quickly jump the fence to catch my new furry friend. I walk down the hill and see him grazing with the other horses. I shout his name and he lifts his head to see what he heard. I walk over to him and slip his halter over his ears, give him a pat on the neck and start walking. We get to the barn and I clip him to the cross ties and start brushing him. It’s day one of training; the first of many and it’s a new experience for the both of us. Learning to walk in a straight line is a challenge, but building a bond no one can break will be easy.

At the end of the day I like to sit on the fence surrounding the pasture and watch; watch anything that is in view and absorb what a beautiful place this farm is and how lucky I am to be a part of it. I watch the horses play and the wind blow, squirrels run and birds fly. I watch the flowers and the grass ripple with the wind, the leaves on the trees, and the water from the stream. The heat of the sun beats down on me but when the cool wind blows and makes the mane and tales of the horse float in the air, it chills my spine. This place understands the real me. It doesn’t judge me and it accepts me without hesitation. It makes time freeze as the wind blows away, taking with it all the anger and frustrations of being a teenager. It feels like a weight is lifted from my shoulders and I can finally relax in a place where I know I belong. And when I’m ready to face the real world again, I leave a piece of my heart behind for when I come back to hide.

Ears perked and nostrils flaring; you’re galloping across the field and I close my eyes as the wind blows through your mane and the nasty little flies that pick at you are left helplessly behind in the dust. We’re flying across the field as your smooth coat glistens against the beating sun. It almost looks like the trees are sparkling from the reflecting light and the red, yellow, and orange glimmers are seen from afar. We slow down to cool off as we soak in the fresh autumn air. Goose bumps arise on my arms as we walk around the perimeter of the field. We watch the birds, the squirrels, and the cars zoom by. Time to go home; we start heading towards the barn and as we cross the street, I signal for the cars to slow down. The loud sounds of your shoes are heard and your friends hear you com-ing. We cross the road and into the driveway we go. I untack you and curry out the saddle rubs while you make funny faces. I scratch your neck and think if only I could tell you how happy you make me. If only.

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Trapped In The TowerAudrey Lewis

Rapunzel, please let down your golden hair, ThereI ask you for these reasons, kind and just: mustallow me to climb up, your face to see bedo not leave my heart here on the floor morebecause, since last seeing you, my love grew tountil now it is nearly a cause of strife. lifeI will return again and again thanuntil you grant my wish for one small kiss thisI wish I could grant you the power towerto see all my devotion; take my hand andand tell me my proposal’s hit or miss thiswith an answer of a kiss or wince. prince

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Spike’s GirlSophie Dorsch

I carry thousands of pounds. I carry magnificence and freedom. I carry a mode of transportation. I carry my best friends. I carry courses. I carry brushes. I carry various colors of fur. I carry dirty pockets filled with hay and mints. I car-ry saddles, bridles, helmets, spurs, boxes of brushes and sprays. I carry memories of my first time picking out a hoof. I carry trunks full of tack to a showground. I carry hay bales, then more hay bales, and then some. I carry animals that have molded my body to suit their own; my arms strong, my legs stronger, my core supportive, my left hip more flexible then my right from mounting. I carry horses. Horses are a gift to the earth. Their graceful majestic presence can over-whelm and empower anyone. I have been riding since I was eight and have had the pleasure to meet many different horses. They have taught me how to speak their language, without ever having to vocalize a syllable. They have shown me how different they are from one another and they have shown me to respect them as individuals. Horses awaken my spirit and reach down into the coldest depths of my heart to warm it. When I ride, they challenge every muscle. They push me to push them, to earn their respect. They let me know when teamwork is going to take place, and when I need to be supportive. They have allowed me to believe that they have their own secret society that takes years to be accepted into. In the beginning riding was strictly a physical attraction. I was only interested in learning the basic principles of riding and caretaking. As time went on, I became interested in the connection between horse and girl, and so the horses began my spiritual education of their world. As more time went on, I became stronger, but so did the horses. I learned more about the way they moved, the way they social-ized with each other. In the present time I still have more to learn about their world, but I know it will come in time. I began riding at Sage Farm when I was eight. I rode Rosie, a black pony with fungus in her ears. I can remember what it was like to groom her, to touch her, to feel the leather of her saddle. I remember cleaning the tack, carrying the brushes, sweeping up after myself, but I do not recall any deep friendships made. At that time I had no idea that horses would become a part of my life. I had no idea the relationships to come and their impact on me. I had not met the horse that would change my life; the large chestnut quarter horse that would challenge my spirit. My first time riding a horse I was too excited and naive to

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think that there could be a deeper, long-lasting connection with an animal. Over the years, I began to understand horse housekeeping. I began to understand their eating habits, their playing habits and their social interac-tion with one another. I learned to read their body. Ears back meant anger, ears forward most always meant hungry. When I was able to trot by myself, it was on a horse named Danny. I had been riding for only a few months, but I really enjoyed this particular horse. He was a very large, old, bay horse who obviously had been fancy once, but now had dedicated his life to education. He was a phi-losopher, a professor. I only spent a few short months with him before he passed away of a heart attack. He was the first being, apart from pet fish that I cannot remember, that I knew to die. I was heartbroken and full of regret for being such an ignorant child and not being as gentle with him as he had been with me in his last few months of life. I still carry the guilt of being an ill-mannered kid who only cared for the physical horse and not the spirit. Life went on. I mourned for about a week; I drew little pictures of a gravestone with Danny’s name on it on my fourth grade worksheets to com-memorate him. But I began to ride again, this time a horse named Wally, who had an uncanny resemblance to Danny. I learned to canter on Wally, I learned to be courageous, and I learned to trust him. Looking back, I know that underneath me he was taking most careful steps to ensure my safety. Wally was very good to me. I had the experience of riding him a few years ago after I had learned more about riding, and as soon as I got on, he knew. He knew that I was the little girl he had taught to canter, to trust. They told me when I rode him that he was the liveliest they had seen him in months. He was jumping the poles instead of trotting over them. He was swapping his leads, a more advanced move that he had probably not done in many years. He had carried me in his memory, then he carried me for our last time. I will not stop carrying him. He is long since dead, but to this day, every once and a while when I am about to canter I remember my first rollercoaster ride atop Wally. As I advanced in riding I switched from horse to horse, unless I found one that I particularly liked. I learned to jump on Soxy. I did my first lead change on Soxy. I had my first show on Soxy. He was a prince, my prince. We got 5th and 6th place ribbons, but we did not care one bit. Soxy and I were always having fun. At our first home show, we played gambler’s choice over cross-rails, where the riders choose to jump a certain course to achieve the most points. Soxy and I came in second place to a large fancy white thoroughbred that was notori-ous for winning this event. We were not the closest of friends, but we did know

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how to enjoy each other’s company in the ring. Colonel, a horse that had rumored to have bitten a girl’s finger off once, was one of my favorite horses to spend time with. He was bad-tempered, did not like little children, did not like saddles, girths, brushes, or bridles, but he loved me. I used to help the less experienced children get him ready for their lessons. I had a way of talking to him and massaging his mouth that soothed him. Every-one thought I was crazy for putting my hands anywhere close to his mouth, but we had come to an understanding. He had been abused at one point in his life, and was not very fond of people, but we connected. At that age, getting a horse to like you was a major accomplishment and earned bragging rights. I befriended him, but because I never rode him we had not shared a completely harmonious relationship. Colonel was just my buddy. Sometimes I would go way out of my way just to groom him or to walk beside him for two minutes. Strolling around with Colonel was so relaxing; this quality is hard to find in a horse. One day I was walking besides Phillip to take him back to his stall. He saw the gate and the highway and let out a huge buck followed by a large rear. He is a prime example of horses that I do not like to walk besides. Phillip was an absolutely stunning bay who was not interested in captivity. I remember being absolutely horrified that a horse could misbehave like he had with me. I remem-ber never wanting to ride him, ever. His wild nature intimidated me, made my adrenaline flow to match his temperament, which was always ultrahigh. My instructor made me ride him once and fell in love. His gaits were fraught with raw power, his eagerness, addictive. He was a very fancy horse that liked to show himself off and was good at it too. I remember taking him out some days just to brush him and care for him. I loved to make that horse’s coat gleam, his chiseled muscles accentuated. I would leave him for weeks at a time to ride other horses, but I always ended up coming back to him, sometimes even to just groom. I found out fairly recently that Phillip had a foot injury and had to be put to sleep. That horse was timeless. He was not going to leave this earth without assistance.In the first three years of my riding career I learned to walk, trot, canter and jump. I learned to muck, sweep, clean tack, feed, groom, lead. I learned how to post without stirrups, to ride a course, put my heels down, my thumbs up, my shoulders back. I learned about death, about connection, about love, perse-verance, security, insecurity. Spike, the first horse I leased, was an impeccable teacher. He was an ex-police horse. The first time I saw someone ride him he was jumping two jumps, one right after the other. He was so excited to be jumping, not listening to his rider at all. It appeared as if he were going to try and jump

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the two jumps at the same time. His heart and soul had already bounded over the two jumps; his large chestnut quarter-horse body just had to follow. It all began how many relationships begin, with physical attraction. During that jumping lesson I was drawn to his big body that was capable of turning heads. I was sucked in by the booming sound his hooves made as they pounded the ground. He was majestic and fierce, but his puppy face and sweet attitude softened him in all the right places. Grooming, playing with him, and walking with him were all pleasurable. Riding him could not get much better either. He was gentle, but still challenged me to be assertive with my wants. I could feel a rush of energy surge up underneath me and shoot off like a rocket to the fences. I had finally achieved the balance that was impossible to reach with Rosie, or Danny, or Wally, Soxy, Colonel or Phillip. As our relationship devel-oped we learned to respect one another, but as it evolved we fell in love; both on the ground and in the saddle. One day, I was riding him alone in the indoor arena. Nothing is more healing than just riding, without instruction, without criticism— just raw, unre-fined riding. We were cantering and obviously gaining momentum, but neither of us cared. We both at that moment wished his hoofs could lift off the ground. We wanted to hover above the atmosphere together. This was a whole new level of riding. For the first time I knew that there was a real live horse, not just a saddle, underneath me, and that he loved me. He knew that I was more than a little girl who wanted to learn how to ride. We were united. He wanted to move, and I wanted to follow, merely steering the way. We wanted to ride off together into the sky. It is times like these when riding becomes art, when grace meets power and tranquility. Rides like these cannot be forgotten. They are engrained in a part of my mind. Spike, two nights after our temporary flight, died. I had ridden him just two days prior, and we soared. We were on top of the world, together. Spike was my best friend. He was there through my parent’s marital problems, he was there when the kids in school made fun of me for being overweight, he was always waiting for me in his stall with a neck to hug. The owner of the barn talked to me the day afterwards. She had heard him neighing in distress in the middle of the night. The vet located the tumor in his stomach in the chilly fall evening, but at this point Spike was not going to fight any longer. While I was sleeping snug in my bed, Spike was slipping away. In the morning, while the truck came to collect his still, stiff body I would be naively eating breakfast. Every moment I spent in ignorance that morning I still feel guilt for to this day. I was Spike’s girl. I should

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have been there in his final moments, I should have comforted him, let him know that he had done his job, that his life was justified and fulfilled. Every day I carry Spike. I carry a thousand pounds of dead weight. I carry our memories. I carry his stall nameplate and his picture in a crystal frame. I carry the blaze down his face. I carry my first saddle that I bought for us. I know somewhere he is still carrying me too. I have carried wheelbarrows full of muck. I have lifted countless hooves. I have wrapped thousands of legs. I have learned from many horses. Chip showed me how to find a distance. Tutu trained my muscles to follow her rhythm. Quest taught me to lift my hands and use my stomach. Flair forced me to play her game sometimes instead of my own. Spike taught me how to love. He taught me the most important lessons of life. He taught me that there is more than just physical attraction, more than just a saddle and reins underneath a rider. He taught me how to be courageous, how to respect. He taught me how to cope with loss, he helped me grow into the person that I am today. I will always carry Spike and his love. I will never forget that I am Spike’s girl.

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Where Do We Go From “Here”?Lae Young Kim

One day in April, the snow in the ground has already melted months ago and new growths have just started to breathe in the fresh air of spring. Only less than two months have passed since the school has begun. I still see some kids not being used to wearing their new school uniforms. The school is running normally as it did yesterday, the day before, and a month ago. As usual, the kids are making noises and running around everywhere in the hallway, but we are an exception, the students of Class 3-6. All the seats and desks, placed in several straight rows, are occupied, except the one next to mine. I only see fragrant white chrysanthemums on the desks, and one of them is mine. The sun shines on the desk as if whispering a secret to the flowers. Everyone in the classroom is making a wooden face, but I am not sure whether they are expressions of sadness, anger, fear, or indifference. Their emotions seem as if they have vanished into the air. Those flowers on the desk are disturbing my sight right now. To be hon-est, I feel ashamed rather than disturbed for surely knowing that all of us includ-ing myself bear responsibility for what has happened. The bell for the first class rings, everyone in the hallway goes back to their classroom, and the time keeps going. Everyone seems ignorant about the death of Jung Eun. Her suicide doesn’t bother anyone. I stayed in the classroom after school. Something didn’t let me walk away, but put my view on the flowers. “Hey,” a girl said as she opened the door slowly and came into the classroom. She looked friendly unlike kids in this class, and was holding a flower in her hand. “I just wanted to put this on her desk,” she said as she placed the flower on top of the other ones. I didn’t reply. “Are you Jung Eun’s friend?” she asked carefully. I rather stared at her eyes, but couldn’t see her clearly because tears filled up my eyes and disturbed my view. “I… … I am sorry. I didn’t mean to…” she said. But I cried out louder and louder. I couldn’t stop, but it felt better to let it go like this. Minutes had passed and we were sitting facing each other over the desk in my classroom. She was grabbing my hands with her warm ones. I had never seen her before, but I felt a warmth and friendliness which I hadn’t felt for a while. “Tell me, please. Can you share your story with me?” she said, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have any story to tell her. I had talked to Jung Eun a few times when we worked on a project together. I must be the one who talked to her the most, probably the most recent one to talk to her in this class, too. I didn’t know much about her, but I had no doubt that anyone else in this school knew more about her than I. I didn’t have anything to share, but I decided to talk to her anyways. “People in my classroom don’t even know each other’s name correctly, and neither do I. This class is only for the ones who are this country’s future, ones with highly remarkable academic achievements and talents, as you probably know. Each one of us is busy doing our own work in order to take a bigger role in the future and accomplish our dreams. We don’t spend time hanging out with friends or even try to make them. We just don’t do anything that we think is a waste of time. We concentrate only on studying. Why do we live like this, unlike

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other teenagers? For what? To go where from here? But I am afraid to quit. I don’t want to be blamed by anybody,” I said without taking a breath. I felt as if I have found my voice back that was lost for a long time. “People wanted more and more from us and Jung Eun is just a victim of this greedy world.” I thought it was unfortunate that I couldn’t say this to anybody else, like my family, who are so supportive about my future and about keeping me in this class.“I am so sorry. I met Jung Eun at church months ago. I baby sit every Saturday after school there and I saw her praying alone when I was going to leave after work. She looked sad, but she didn’t talk to me at first. Then eventually she told me pretty much the same thing as what you just told me. I tried to help her and be her friend, but whenever I called her home, her parents wouldn’t let me talk to her and later told me to stop calling and not to disturb her. I tried to visit her in this classroom, but my friends told me not to disturb you guys if I didn’t want to be in trouble. I gave up. I should have tried different ways to help her, I guess.” She was gazing at the flowers as she told me her stories. “By the way, my name is Jin. I am in class 3-2. I hope I can be your friend. I really want to help you,” she said as she smiled. “I… … I am Sung Hae.” I felt embarrassed. I was very uncomfortable to introduce myself because I just hadn’t done it for such a long time. It had been so long since I met new people and became friends with them. The clock was already telling four thirty, the time I should have been at home by. “Oh no, my mom’s going to panic if I don’t go now. I always have to go back home as soon as the school ends,” I said as we hurried and opened the door. Han Min, one of my classmates was sitting outside of the classroom, with tears all over his face. His eyes were red. “What are you doing here?” I said, half knowing the answer and half in surprise of seeing him there. Han Min came back to put a letter on Jung Eun’s desk and heard the conversation between Jin and I. “You were talking about things that I have been hiding inside myself for years. I thought I was the only one who felt that way in this class. I couldn’t stop crying when I found out that it wasn’t just me. I… I wasn’t alone,” he said. The next day, I noticed how everyone’s eyes were red and swollen. Books were open, but no one really studied. “I got into big trouble yesterday. You should have seen my mom’s face when she yelled at me,” I said to Han Min and the kids turned their attention to us. They seemed surprised to see the existence of friendships in the classroom. I simply nodded at them, and felt proud of myself for the first time. I didn’t even feel this way when I won first place in an international math contest. I would have had to see the doctor if I felt okay after not going to sleep for days to prepare for the contest anyways. For the next few days, there were a few classmates who replaced the flowers on Jung Eun’s desk with fresh ones. Then, a few weeks later, people slowly opened up themselves to be honest with their true feelings and thoughts. Yes, we eventually all became friends. And obviously Jin always comes over to my class-room. We found what we had lost for so long – friendship and honesty. Since then, no one was ignorant about Jung Eun anymore. The students of Class 3-6, who used to have a “heart missing,” were no longer the same.

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Two Different Names Julie Bae

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to JFK airport. Local time is 20:08. For your safety and comfort, we ask that you please remain seated with your seatbelt fastened until the Captain turns off the fasten seat belt sign. Please check around your seat for any personal belongings you may have brought onboard with you. On behalf of Korea Airlines, thank you for joining us on this trip and we are looking forward to see you on board again. Yes! Hearing a familiar in-flight announcement, I smiled with a sense of victory. Once again, I had endured a long, boring 14 hours in the plane. Although traveling across the Pacific Ocean is not an unusual event in my life, I have never gotten used to it. Passing a long passageway to the JFK airport, I was in a totally different environment from where I had been 14 hours ago, which removed the boredom and exhaustion but instead left me in a state of confu-sion. I felt like Aggie in Halloween Town, being able to go everywhere I want in a second, using a portal machine. Morning sunlight, figures with black hair and black eyes, a faint smell of Korean spice, and cordial farewells in Korean simulta-neously heard from everywhere were all gone. It was quieter and darker in New York, filled with people of various colors and appearances. Murmurs of English conversation reached my ears. A series of bright yellow cabs sped by, and glowing English banners dazzled me. I took a cab and traveled for another four hours to the school. Although I could not sleep anymore, hours passed by quickly as I was immersed in a ceaseless chain of thoughts. I asked myself, “Am I ready for a change? After three months of staying in Korea, will I be able to successfully put ‘Jin-kyung Bae’ to sleep and pull out ‘Julie Bae’?” I remember the overwhelming restlessness and alienation that I felt when I first arrived at the school four years ago. Memories of a home on a crowd-ed city street faded as I came to a secluded school surrounded by trees, green grasses, and wide fields. It was on the first day of the school that my fascination towards the peaceful environment vanished and was instead replaced by sheer fear. Most of the conversation in English I couldn’t understand. Every question that people asked seemed to me like a fill-in-the-blank section in the English dialogue test that I frequently had to take in Korea. I had never had close contact with Mexican, white, or black people in my life, and to me they were all indis-tinguishable aliens from a different planet. Two hours of soccer practice put me, who had never exercised other than walking to school, into severe exhaustion and subdued me with the stress of socializing with the “aliens.” With my lips firmly closed, I would not say anything, but only follow the drills the whole time. During lunch time, the Koreans and I would closely gather together at one table, taking out food or spices from our own country and chattering in our language. It was as if we were in a large, transparent bubble that others could not see. I felt relief, but at the same time I was frustrated by my inability to open my mind to

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the others. It took me over three years to adjust, more or less. My earnest desire to fit into American society seemed to be achieved thanks to my close observations of my classmates. I was afraid of being different from others and tried to abandon any element that set me apart from my peers. I learned their values and tried to follow and imitate them. I created my own English name, “Julie Bae,” instead of using “Jin-kyung Bae” which others found hard to pronounce. I started to bring Korean food to the dining hall less and less. I ate sandwiches and spaghetti instead of rice with kimchi. I learned to enjoy and even love playing team sports. I created my Facebook page and watched Grey’s Anatomy. I listened to Mariah Carey’s songs and put aside Korean songs by putting all of them in a small file named “K.” I fully committed myself to every task, partly because I did not want to look dumb with my poor speaking skills but also because I wanted others to acknowledge me not by my speaking ability, but by my other capabilities. After undergoing some painful moments, I was also able to break out of the Korean circle. I felt a sense of uneasiness but also was thrilled by freeing myself from both the strict Korean hierarchy and the small circle that I thought I would have never been able to get out of. After numerous big and small efforts, I began to see the small changes around me. I felt pride in what I had achieved and gained confidence in myself. My classmates no longer looked like strangers, and I did not avoid having conversations or joking with them anymore. To fit into the new society, I tried desperately to shorten the gap between me and my peers by remodeling myself like an architect reconstructing an old building, and my ef-forts seemed to succeed. And yet, whenever I went back to Korea for breaks, I sneakily hid my new “Julie Bae” mask and wore an old mask that completely transformed myself like Robocop. I tried to act as if America had had no effect on me, in order not to lose valuable people and the world that I had belonged to for a long time. I hid the changes in me, believing that they would separate me from the world that I had grown up in. Despite my growing unfamiliarity with my family and friends, I ignored the signs of increasing distance between us. I would return to being a child in front of my parents, and they would reassume control over my decisions and behaviors. When I met friends, I became a loud-mouth, chattering with them for hours in the café. I would tell them all about my life in America, and they would tell me about current issues in Korea in exchange. I would sympa-thize with them as they complained about their boyfriends or parents. We would spend hours walking around the city street filled with small stores, driven by the crowds. We would eat ddukboki, rice cakes with Korean spices that are redder than the peppers. Before parting, in the small yogurt ice cream store near our house, we had deep talks that I had never imagined I would have with American friends. I indulged in the sweet taste of ice cream, the sight of my companions, and delightful conversation about our future. Familiar Korean ballads reached my ears, and I smiled as I overheard students nearby gossiping about their

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friends. Through the window I could see luminous Korean banners, tall build-ings, and a group of cars brightening the dark. Crowds with black hair prepared to cross the street. Then, in such moments, the name “Julie Bae” would become foreign and distant, and my life in America seemed like a long dream that only existed in my imagination. My desperate attempt to preserve two sides of myself to fit in both societies left me with a great sense of insecurity that constantly plagued my mind. Despite my efforts, no matter where I was, I was “not there” entirely after all. The thought of belonging to nowhere startled me. I felt like a liar, not showing my honest being that even I did not know. Should I be afraid of being different? Do I have to keep camouflaging myself to fit into both worlds? Is it worth it even when I feel removed anywhere? Which is real, and who am I?

The spring term is approaching, and less than three months are left before graduation. I must prepare for the new environment that I will have to settle in for another four years. Once again, I will be given a chance to draw whatever I want from the blank sheet of paper. At the same time, having to choose between “Julie Bae” and “Jin-kyung Bae,” I will be faced with the same questions that have constantly plagued me. With regard to this matter, I have no brilliant set of plans or ideas for the near future. The idea of starting all over again in an unknown place sometimes frightens me to death. But this time, I will not oblige myself to choose one of the two. Besides, not everything is black or white. I will take a risk and test as many options as possible. As long as I maintain a firm certainty of myself, I believe I will learn to understand my identity someday.

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Literary Society Members:

Bryna Cofrin-ShawAudrey Lewis

Emily HewlingsZoë Mancuso-Dunkelberg

Literary Society Faculty Advisor:

Shawn Durrett

Acknowledgments:

The Literary Society gratefully acknowledges the help and support of the following:

Carly Nartowicz Holly Mott

The English DepartmentSally Mixsell

Linda MahoneyTiger Press

Regina Mooney The Admissions Office

The Office of Development and Alumni Relations

574 Bernardston Rd.Greenfield, MA 01301

WWW.SBSCHOOL.ORG

minerva 2009

Documents

personal narrativepage

morgan bae

short storypage

personal narrative page

morgan mattia

bryna cofrinshaw

ting tsai

emily hewlings