the raven 2012

12012 The Raven

The Raven2012

The Raven 20122 32012 The Raven

The RavenSPRING 2012

Editors

Darren ColbourneJesse Bessinger

Layout Editor

MinJae (Steve) Cho

FacuLty advisor

Ms. Laureen Bonin


TABLE OF CONTENTSART & PHOTO

TABLE OF CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTSTABLE OF CONTENTS ART & PHOTOPoetry anD Short StorieS

7 Dancing Shoes and Soles Darren Colbourne and Jesse Bessinger

9 Prom: a Satire Michelle Mehrtens

10 For the Feminists Broghan Zwack

13 Dilemma trevor Kenahan

14 Soldier Jesse Bessinger

16 From Kevin Carter to an anC Com Darren Colbourne

18 the Unknown Student Doug Lebo

19 Soliloquy tess McMahon

20 hands Sarah auer

22 Separation anxiety Darren Colbourne

23 Untitled Wenting Xu

24 Moon vs. Sun Bitsy Conklin

25 What? tiernan o’rourke

26 the Grand Portrait artist Darren Colbourne

30 Living Sarah auer

31 the Prepared Demise trevor Kenahan

32 i Would have allison Bolles

33 Untitled Broghan Zwack

34 homeward Bound Jamie Chapman

35 P*** Magazine Kai Smith

36 ode to Calculus Sarah auer

37 tsunami allison Bolles

38 if i Were him Jesse Bessinger

39 Untitled Sarah auer

40 the Perfect Day for Flower Picking allison Bolles

42 Untitled Wenting Xu

43 i am a Spirit yue “Will” Wu

44 Comparison tess McMahon

45 adventure Jesse Bessinger

ChUrCh taLKS48 a Community of Sunshine Jesse Bessinger

49 trust your instincts Sidharth Sharma

50 anger Management akunna onyiuke

51 the Big Picture Casey Kendall

52 Learning to appreciate Sean Kenahan

53 Make your own Legacy Caleb Chaffee

54 $2.66 Darren Colbourne

55 What really Matters Sarah auer

56 Live and Let Live emma Smith

P artiSt

Cover MinJae “Steve” Cho

2 nicholas DeLieto

5 Jeffrey heath

6 Katherine rodrock

8 Julia Slupska

11 Katherine rodrock

12 Mary-Frances Kielb

14 Katherine rodrock

17 Casey Kendall

18 nicholas DeLieto

34 Julia Slupska

36 nicholas DeLieto

37 John “Jack” young

38 Jeffrey heath

39 Julia Slupska

42 Fang Shao

43 nicholas DeLieto

44 MinJae “Steve” Cho



59 Casey Kendall

19 Casey Kendall

20 nicholas DeLieto

21 Meredith Wagner

22 Julia Slupska

23 Julia Slupska

24 John “Jack” young

25 alejandro Knoepffler

30 Julia Slupska

31 Matteo agnoletto

32 Julia Slupska

33 Claire Gralton

The Raven 20126

DanCinG ShoeS anD SoLeS By Darren CoLBoUrne & JeSSe BeSSinGer

Have I ever told you life’s little secret? It’s simple.Life’s like the pretty extrovert at a party,As she stumbles empty headed with an empty cup,Simple. A flash of red in a dress, dashes of black makeup; nothing but a shell.She’d wear striking shoes too, probably ill-fittingAnd clumsy, picked out by someone else.But this is not a condemnation, no-If it works for you, it works for me; she’s but a fleeting visageThat we toss a knowing smirk, and try to ignore.I’m a lover of the abstract, a truth in factThat should make me the most trustworthy.

So take off your shoes, and I’ll think on my feet, partners in a two step dance:Life can wait, as she refills her cup half full of empty potential.If barefoot you fly free from her specious grasp, I applaud your turnsOver a floor worn down by our shared tempo, shoeless or not.

One night I danced with a pretty girl in a red dress;I never asked her name but I’ll never forget her face, eyes dark and lips wet. She spilled her drink on me and then I helped her to the bathroom,Where we spent the rest of the evening, she purging her poison and me holding her hair.She slipped out of her older sister’s stilettos and massaged her aching soles-You did notice that I was dancing barefoot, I wondered if you would. Careful with your we, sir, for I have held life’s little secret in my arms as she sobbed,Spurned by the world for a visage shaped by that same world’s false promises.Her secret lies in the soles of her feet.Shedding those shoes, she becomes an angel with wings on her heels.He noticed her in the heels that raised blisters on her soul,But barefoot, she dances above him, Above you.

So ignore the pretty extrovert at this party, and I’ll dance between you two,A swaying bridge made of half empty cups that leads to our potential.

Life’s little secret cannot keep the tempo unless she loses the shoes,and thinks on her feet. Think on your feet, boy, come dance with me,

Shoeless or not.

72012 The Raven

The Raven 20128

ProM: a Satire By MiCheLLe MehrtenS

Prom is a time-honored, sacred tradition. It is more important than a high school graduation or an admission into college. It is more important than a funeral or a sudden death in the fam-ily. It is more important than a wedding or a birth. It is emblematic of a girl’s significance in society, for it proves—or validates—her worthiness as a person. As a matter of fact, prom is the pinnacle of a girl’s life. All that follows is but dust and shadows. Therefore, when a girl’s younger sister declares that she does not wish to attend prom, her elder sister, startled and bewildered, realizes that it is her duty to convince her to flutter off to prom—or force her, if necessary.

“Why don’t you want to go to prom?” the elder sister asks. She studies her sister’s blasé attitude and then adds sympathetically, “Has no one asked you?”

The girl scoffs. “At least three boys have asked me. But it doesn’t matter. If I wanted to go to prom, I would go even if no one had asked me.”

The sister looks at her, aghast. “You would go alone?”“Sure. Girls do it all the time. Guys, too.”The sister shakes her head, frantic. “Sacrilege! Girls cannot go to prom alone! Then they

will be seen as inadequate and unattractive. Everyone knows that any securities you hold can only be removed with the admiration of a significant other. Your sense of self-worth is contin-gent upon another’s approval.” The sister looks dramatically off to the side. “Without that, you are but a hollow being, a paper doll lost and floating in the wind. You are the dregs of society. So tragic!”

The girl stares at her, and then arches a brow. “What if I asked a boy to go with me?”Her sister gasps, her beautiful blue eyes bulging from her face, her lovely lashes fluttering

wildly. “Never! Girls cannot ask boys to go to prom. That is too confident, too presumptuous of them. How dare they be assertive and take the lead! It is simply improper to be so inde-pendent.”

“So…if I were going to prom—which I’m not—and I had a date, it would be alright?”The sister beams. “Of course!”“Even if I had asked him?”The sister’s face freezes. A look of indecision mars her flawless features. “Well…I guess…

so does that mean…you’re going to prom?”“No.”The sister howls in mourning, grieving the loss of her little sister’s worthiness to human-

kind. She will miss her baby sister, no matter how sarcastic she may act. It is too overwhelm-ing to think of the catatonic girl she will undoubtedly become because she is not in a relation-ship.

The girl gently touches her convulsing sister’s shoulder. “It’s not true, you,” she whispers.The sister looks up, her face tear-streaked. “What?”“This might be a little too saccharine for me, but I’ll say it.” The girl takes a deep breath.

“You’re a wonderful sister. Well, usually. And you’re kind and you’re smart and you can be pretty hilarious. You don’t need to be in a relationship to be an awesome person. You already are.”

The sister wipes her face, touched. “Wow. That was really nice. Thanks.”They smile at each other, feeling the glow of sisterhood. Perhaps they have even broken

a barrier, shed the vestiges of an outdated tradition that has harmed others and perpetuated unhealthy stereotypes. Perhaps they can now spend time as sisters, enjoying each other’s com-panionship…

“So you’re going to prom, right?”Or not.

92012 The Raven

112012 The Raven

For the FeMiniStS By BroGhan ZWaCK

Why must I my spirit ban? No hunter canst my freedom claim – I shall bow to no man,He would that I conform to masculine plan – But what of my own beating flame? Why must I my spirit ban? Life has but one short span, one which I shan’t spend tame: I shall bow to no man.

With false promises he lures to his clan – A crystal cell, wherein prisoner is devoid of name.Why must I my spirit ban?

I will never run, nor have I ever ran. No surrender will I give, though he thinks me lame.I shall bow to no man.

Deny the tyrants, I know I can.None shall subdue, not this dame! Why must I my spirit ban? I shall bow to no man.

The Raven 201210


DiLeMMa By trevor Kenahan

To hide or fight, a timeless dilemma,For does it last to rage with instinct,To fight for possession or self?Or, does it last to take coverAnd wait for no threats? To cower from forces, to set sailWith the white flag of incompetence,And turn arms forth in shame.To call the world on its faults and break, To end efforts, or to challenge.To take up arms and fight force with force,Stand tall with the fire of passion burning,Burning fiercely in eye and heart.The fire shall not be doused till demise.Yet, I still wait for the temptation,The temptation of long life, so long lingers in mind.I still lie in the dilemma of two.Two fates as did the great Achaean.Though, I am merely a manA man of flesh, not immortal.The sand still falls from my glassTo take short and sweet,Of the long and drawn out.I wait in hope my fate shall choose,So I am absent of choice.The consequences are known,Yet, I remain perplexed,As to which to choose.Still, I wait in frustration.The time of life is confusingYet I must, I will make one.I will choose for absence there of,Brings worst consequences of all…Nothing, I will take it,And stay by until I have no breath.

The Raven 201214

SoLDier By JeSSe BeSSinGer

Who could have told him, if not for me?I saw the morning he decided to jump,The blood on his hand and in his eyes,And it made me cry.

I saw the rapid spread of this cancer-lust,This addiction to death and the false promise of gloryAnd eternityEtched in the words of an oath and a noble heart.

I saw his weapon fall;Words abandoned long ago for steel or broken clubs,All he has are his two bloodied hands,And I want to take them in mine and press them against my lips.

He jumped.He leapt, eyes closed tight and arms crossed over his chest,Jumped like he knew he wouldn’t survive the landing,But it’s such a long way down.

I can’t give up hope that I can catch him somehow.Give me wings, give me a warbird,Give me a net,Give me anything, or I’ll jump myself.

He left behind the ground.Ungrounded, lost in flights of valor and heavy words of strength,He strikes against skyscrapers and jagged gusts of windUntil his brave heart is as bloody as my lips.

I saw his eyes; they shouted youth and courage in a question to the moonAnd she sung back only a silence.Silence misconstrued is as good as a promise of virtue to a doubting soul,And so he jumped under an indifferent sky, sure of himself.

Trembling behind a concrete city pillar,The cannon fire of fear pounding in his ears,He knows, because the moon told him, that he can never die,And so steps into the line of fire, sure of himself.

Sure of himself.They are all so sure of their cause, their hearts and their heads mergeIn a confidence of anger and arrogance and undeniable spirit;Those oaths, they swear on their golden souls, those oaths pollute a peaceful night.

Who else knows the mistake we make in trusting the moon?What reason could she have for revealing to us the truth of what We convince ourselves is real?I should have told him. I should have caught him.

Bands of stubborn pride-Tribes of painful past-Troops of rough hands and solid veins-Soldiers. Soldiers.

Trenchcoat thugs and cashiers with illusions of grandeur,Visions of something bright in their futureBut blindness preventing them from seeing the costOf the corpse-strewn road that leads there.

152012 The Raven

Black mask of street war that hides his smile,Obscures any brightness in his eyes,Leaves only a hard determination and a stranger with a blank stare-I hate that charade.

What soldier didn’t have a friend, once?What fight might have ended another way,Finding harmony in the dance of destruction Instead of insisting on discord?

What injustice deserved blood and fire,And not peace?Peace.A word that means weakness in a world of jumping soldiers and dark, stained masks.

My heart beats in time with the rhythm of the freedom songs,and it pounds an erratic answer to the wild music of change,ahead of me, harps and trumpets,behind, dirges and silence.

I feel the beginnings of understanding flutter behind the things I saw.What could drive me to jump, in the end?Air compresses around my head and shoves at my eardrums,Forcing an awareness of the reason behind the madness of self-delusion.

But even if I chose to stand in that green grass,And stomp life out of every blade on this rolling hill,And lift my arms in a violent song of praise and hope,Underneath the cancer of courage, my true heart would weep, and die.

What could I have said to him, to keep him rooted to his mother earth?To remind him that the moon is only interested in lovers and mysteries,And that for every shot fired, a smile somewhere vanishes.This salt on my lips, these tears mixed with his blood-the words sting them.

I can only speak of love. I take his cold hands, dead hands, and press them to my heart, so he can feel the beat Of the true language of the night air, of the earth and the sky and of every beauty.My heart speaks to him, simple language.

I’d give my heart to him, if he understood.I’d give my heart to everyone with a gun,And I’d stand with him in the line of fire,And I’d fall beside him if I knew that it would restore the weight of peace.

Fury and despair and hope and grief and love,Always love.I feel love in every breath, and I see everything with it.My blood flows, lighter than the air and love pours through my skin, in and out and everywhere, and I wish I could bleed to death.

Who could have caught him?I lift bloody hands to my eyes to clear these tears,And I push his burning sacrificial bier out to sea,Until it falls off another edge into the depth of the horizon.I couldn’t catch


FroM Kevin Carter to an anC CoM By Darren CoLBoUrne

“Let us hope that Ken Oosterbroek is the last to die” – Nelson Mandela

Surprise, surprise my embattled comradeThat in these eyes you’ve turned prophetic;This hectic, eclectic, ragtag squad of peace keepersCover a familiar body that lies sad and dead.“It’s good that one of you dies,” you said,Offhand and off the cuff, the linesWrinkled rough around your face,Intertwined with a look of indifference, bracedAgainst this newest tragedy by years of bloodshed.But please, try not to be so condescending;I’ve lived through plenty of horrors myself,Heard the Molotov’s whoosh and boom,Seen the Kalashnikov rounds zoom, throughBrick and bone, tarp and skin, the soundsAll molding into an eerie, fading scream.I’ve watched the toyi-toyi danced,Wired freelanced negs to Reuters, and the AP…Did you know, comrade, that impiLining the Hostel Streets of hostileThakoza won a front page for me?Probably not. What use have you forA newspaper? South Africa has noStarbucks in which to savor every hotWord, and chilling image, over absurdlyPriced bourgeois drinks and pastries. Your eyes are too hardened, lackingThat familiar glassy emptiness,Ignoring captions and red wine blood stainsOn dusty streets. There’s no peace here.Pass some credit my way, please,Because the pains and tears that securedThe fabled Pulitzer ached and fell elsewhere;Fuck that vulture, and the starving girl too,She’s the scavenger of my soul now.I cry for her, and for me, and for man,And hole up within my battered selfTo watch this apartheid nation die.These tears fall like gasoline burningIn a tire around a country’s neck, as itSears and sizzles. Choking smoke sighedIn black puffs rises in the drizzling rain.Who are we, and who are you,When the chips are down and bullets fly?Morality skips town and humanity liesBuried within ideals and professions;So I’ll snap another picture or two,One for me, one for you, all for the world to judge.You said, “It’s good that one of you dies.”Through these bitter tears I remember Ken’s corpseAnd agree, though all these years I wishedIt were me, and with this confessionI think you can understand why.

*ANC – African National Congress, black liberation movement headed by Nelson Mandela supported by armed militant wings in the townships of South Africa. Coms, short for Comrades, were liberation fighters trained. impi – an armed group of Zulu Inthaka warriors, the black minority against the end of apartheid and supported by the white minority government. Toyi-toyi – a militant dance performed during official and religious ceremonies by militant youth combatants, generally on both sides. Thakoza – the most dangerous shanty town (district of removal) in the South African homelands during the 1990’s. Kevin Carter was a photographer who freelanced for multiple agencies and took pictures of the Sudan famine, Somalia Civil War, and most notably, the end of apartheid. Ken was a friend and fellow photographer killed in a firefight by friendly peace keeping fire during the siege of Thakoza. Kevin Carter would later commit suicide


the UnKnoWn StUDent By DoUG LeBo

(Class of 1970 Is All That Is Visible on the Worn-Out Tile)

The Dean’s List was found, deep in records somewhere;He was on that– but that seems to be of all we are aware.His transcripts were found, held by a rusty staple;The only comment was about a snooze under a maple.Sure he missed class, but it was only Geometry;After all, he scored twenty-two hundred on the SSAT.Infirmary staff concur, and would like to point outThat he never frequented there; he was always about.Dining Hall servers and Maintenance have said,“He always got up on the right side of the bed.”With thanks for his dishes, he pushed in his chair,And as he walked out the doors, he shoved back his hair.His room was clean, and his books lay on a shelf;His clothes never stunk; he washed them himself.His floor was swept, and his shoes made of leather;His umbrellas he handed to others in New England weather.But under his bed, there sat a small bin:Sepia pictures were all he kept within.Was he popular? Who were his friends? The questions are absurd:If something was off, his advisor would have heard.

SoLiLoqUy By teSS McMahon

Should I stand up for what I believeAnd try to beat the oppressorOr let sleeping dogs lie,Turn a blind eye to the situationAnd keep the peace? To relax, worry no more.No more sleepless nightsGoodbye to the quivering limbsAnd the sweat on the palms ofInnocent hands. Inner peace at last.And yet another with the same opinionsBut braver than I, may encounter this issueAnd by taking the other path revealMy own cowardice in fleeing the scene.Or perhaps no one will come across the situationAnd I have nothing to fear.I cannot predict how this will unfoldIf I choose incorrectly who knows what will happen?I would create enemies with either choiceBut if I do not choose perhaps this dilemma is avoidedHowever that is a choice in and of itselfThis indecision could bring me peaceOr it could be the very cause of a future problemBut I will never know unless I make up my mind.Would people conform to my viewsIf I stand up and proclaim them?Or would I forever be the subject of their scorn?My fleeting mind won’t allow me to decide.But time is running outI cannot debate this because thenThe decision will have been made for meThese thoughts that have been the cause of my insomniaHave now exhausted my mind.Sleep is taking overA decision will be made tomorrow.


hanDS By Sarah aUer

They are the human version of wingsThey know no bounds, they speak no versesA mere reflection, a soul, inspiringsAt such times their knobby ends are curses. Smashed, broken, tattered, charred and with stringThe last bit seen hanging from the hearsesOnce a beginning, a home for a ringEcstatic ovation, loud and rehearsedA human clasp, a boney envelopeCaught in the act, one simple and silentAn agreement gone utterly wrongOpened by some, closed by others to copeA picture of strength, fear, the tridentLines to lament the past days that are gone.


SeParation anXiety By Darren CoLBoUrne

From this angle, you do resemble the featherOf a young falcon, as she spirals in her gyre path;Down, down, rushing down, elegantly speedingIn careful innocence, talons bared; the feather,As it’s gently estranged from her tawny wingSlows to a graceful decent, stricken with sun.She spins below, pulling up finally, and I lose herAmongst the striking rays that reflect her shadow.

Rolling over, I find new perspective; you remind meOf a well phrased passage from a leather bound bookThat I’ve never opened. It sits on my chest, and heavesWith my sighs, its majestic aesthetic as imposingAs the torrent of words that hide that singular sentence.I’d find you in there, scattered amongst so many others,So many inferior metaphors and similes of beauty,But its spine rests unbroken, pages neither torn nor frayed.

The feather has parachuted to earth by now, arcingOver my head and swooping onto the grassBeside the book. Gentle winds push them together,And I watch as she ascends towards an empty heaven,Lighter for the effort, but handsomer for the loss.I pick up her gift, that feather of your own reflection,And place it in the book. What page I’m not sure,Though I know I’d find your phrase on it somewhere.

So in this field I finally see. What is the raptor featherless,And lonely lies the man deprived of that singular phrase;Simple, transcending explanation, lost as it is amongst The beating intricacies of life, ridged pages of a book,Of such a tumultuous and joyous existence.I would not trade the feather for the bird, nor partHer wings and search for her brightest alternative.

I’m walking home now and I can feel the rain;The water warming in the muggy twilight, but I smile,Because I know. Somewhere in this tender tempest fallsA single cooling raindrop; who she hits will know it too,And will be the better for it. The watered book laughs,The rigid feather bears nature’s weight and shines, as ifAll the parts of the sun and rain had clung lovingly to her.

UntitLeD By WentinG XU

You left the window open for the night.When the wind blows the curtain up, itDelivers a message for another day.The sun begins to shine on the vase,Which was dressed by yellow candlelight.It is still on the table,Seems like no one has touched it during the night.Who knows if the spirits descend at dawn,Kissing the container, blessing the plant?Because before the daylight wakes you up,The bird sings to call on blossom.It is still a February winter,While your sleeping face melts the icicle.It drops on the windowsill,Tick tocks as a summer rain.


What song?

What noise?

What plan?

What trick?

What justice?

What life?

…

What questions we ask,

what fears they bring.

What phrases cause grief,

what joy they stop.

What word, yet words,

describes best,

Everything?

What word, yet words,

says,

Everything?

Ask yourself,

What,

do you know?

Moon vS. SUn By BitSy ConKLin

Forgotten like a songThrough the radio staticSurprising every nightFrom the window in the atticTalking over the dark skyA beam of light and hope Reachable yet divineFrom the fireplace smoke.

Greets in the morning Necessity of dayPure unknown without It lights the wayEarth would crumbleConfusion would ensueA world without light,Not knowing what to do.

What? By tiernan o’roUrKe


the GranD Portrait artiSt By Darren CoLBoUrne

DARIUS was a man of peculiar profession. He was a painter of great renown, and for years he’d been the State’s sole Grand Portrait Artist. Long ago, during the Regime’s

rise to power, the majority of his contemporaries had been sentenced to labor or death. Whether their subversive tendencies or the government’s insistence on tight censorship brought about their demise fell on each individual’s situation. Regardless, Darius found him-self alone. An oddity. And in his survival, in his trait, he was certainly peculiar.

He was also a man of tremendous skill. Schooled in art from the time he could pick up a pencil, Darius had spent years drawing architectural blueprints and took up sketching in his spare time. By the dawn of the Revolution he’d become famous for his ability, which was uncanny. His drawings took on an essence unlike those of his colleagues, and they shined with life. One could have sworn he was staring into a mirror, and that the white canvas was merely an illusion. But so much more made Darius special. Because unlike those around him, he could really see people. What he painted was not simply aesthetic, but also deeply intimate and personal, as if he could peer into the very being of his subject. All of his cus-tomer’s fears and joys, loves and tribulations, manifested themselves in brightly colored oils and shaded images. It was for this reason, and this reason alone he surmised, that he’d been left alive at all. Such a skill was of use to the Regime.

When the war started, Darius had hidden at first. But it was of no use, he knew they would find him. They found everyone eventually. So when the boots clacked on the floor-boards above his head, and the dust stung at his eyes, he knew it was only a matter of time before he, too, would be up against the wall. When the rifle sights finally pointed his way, the soldiers had mocked and demeaned the poor man. He wasn’t large, never had someone considered Darius physically imposing. The men, all dressed in black and hidden behind glass visors, broke his stands and set many of his paintings alight. “Impress us, old man,” they jeered at Darius. “As you wish,” he’d whispered with resignation, taking up his remain-ing supplies and setting quickly to work. They laughed and made jokes at his expense all the while, until finally the old man collapsed into a chair. Ambling forward, the commanding solider turned the canvas for all to see.

A collective gasp had pierced the room. A scowl broke over the commander’s face as he raised his visor. “The meaning of this is what, old man?” Without rising, Darius had simply looked at the floor and mumbled something no one could hear. “Speak louder, you sniveling coward!” the solider reprimanded as he flung the portrait towards the immobile artist. It struck hard on the floor, and Darius found himself staring at his own handiwork. Six figures stood hunched over, their exteriors horribly disfigured and twisted, their faces empty and dark. All stood in shadow, black and dim shades of green being the only prominent col-ors on the canvas.

That had been many years ago. The soldier’s had threatened to kill him on the spot for his insubordination and mockery, but spared his life at the last minute. When next they returned, they brought a man dressed in clothes the likes of which Darius had never seen before. He looked nearly regal in his flowing robes, and the splendor of his dress matched the self-assured nature of his gait. Immediately Darius recognized him as one of the Judges, the ruling party of the new Regime. They prided themselves on their immense wealth and

understanding of the law; their claim to power lay in their intelligence. Unsure of what to do, the portrait artist had simply stood. “You are the painter called Darius?” he’d asked. Darius nodded. “You have a talent, citizen. One that I’ve heard tale of before. My soldier’s informed me of your conduct, and I knew immediately you were the one we’ve searched for.”

And since that fateful day, he’d become a worker in the innermost sanctum of the Regime’s system. As the Grand Portrait Artist, Darius was expected to keep alive the image of the Judges and their men. Far and wide his praises were sung, so that when the Judges arrived to have their portraits done he could falsify the painting to suit their liking. When the canvas was revealed, and the immaculate image observed, the perfect state of the Judges became unquestionable. With the help of Darius, the Regime manipulated its citizens into believing whatever they wanted.

So, when the time arrived for a new Judge’s promotion to council, the appointee ultimately made the sojourn up the mountain to Darius’ studio. His home was simple and discreet, much like its inhabitant. Built on a desolate rise overlooking a sharp cliff, the house maintained a single walking path covered the hundred or so feet that led up from the main highway. The walkway was small and fenced off, wide enough for only two men to walk abreast. Usually a guard would accompany a Judge, but today Darius noticed something odd. The two men striding into view from the road were not quite right; one had on the robes of the elite caste, but the other hobbled forward with his head down. He held neither gun nor ra-dio; no visor covered his face, and as he approached one could see his hands shackled behind his back.

“What is the meaning of this,” Darius demanded, marching indignantly out of his house and facing the oncoming Judge. “I am a simple artist, and I do as I’m told for you and your Regime. Why do you trouble me so?” As soon as he’d seen the black jumpsuit hanging loosely from the weary companion’s body, he’d guessed the truth. The Judge had brought a political prisoner, a man accused of the most detested crime in the land. “What more can you possibly ask of me… what do I have left to give?” He received no response, aside from a desperate snicker from the prisoner.

“You’re a fool, Darius. You’re a pitiful old fool.” The man in black spat into the dirt. “What have you become, man, what have you become?” He was silenced only by the cold glare of the accompanying Judge, who said: “Never mind him, old man. We’ll make our intentions known soon enough… you may show us in now.” With a sense of doomed resig-nation, Darius bowed and opened the door for the two.

Inside the house was open, albeit cluttered. The materials provided by the State took precedence over whatever comfort life had afforded the artist, and his bed was the only per-sonal effect in the house. Even that was pushed off into a corner. Darius directed the Judge onto one of his studio stools, and motioned for the prisoner to take a seat in the only other open chair. As he sat, he gave the painter a look that reeked of recognition and disdain. A gleam in his eye belied a personal knowledge of Darius, which for whatever reason he could not discern the root of. He resolved to ask about it at the first possible opportunity, though he was wary of what the Judge might think of such a conversation. Still, the presence of the prisoner unsettled him.

“I take it, Sir, that you’ve come for the usual Portrait of Ascension?” Darius used the official name for the inaugural painting, done when a new Judge rose to office.

“You’re presumption is unbecoming of your stature, citizen. If you wait, you will hear


soon enough just what the intention of the visit is.” His words were robotic, and his pudgy face snapped around to glare at the prisoner. “I’ve brought him along with me from the capital. He’s been accused of anarchist sensitivities and conspiracy against the Regime. Now, we love the support of the people, but in this case…” his eyes flashed a bit, “… I guess you could say there’s been some, er, dissension. So We require your skills to show his guilt.” He paused, “and then I’ll need that portrait.” It was added as an afterthought.

Darius bowed low to show he understood and accepted the task. Without a word, he placed two fresh canvases side by side and took up his brush. The prisoner uttered a short moan which interrupted his work. Looking up, he caught sight of the prisoner’s entire face for the first time. It didn’t require a second glance to spur his memory any further. Darius nearly recoiled in shock, and with a slight tremor began muttering under his breath. The Judge took notice.

“Silence citizen. We assumed you would recognize the prisoner, so I’ll dispel any ambiguity now. He no longer has any name. His title is Prisoner, and you will refer to him as such. Any history between you two no longer exists.”

“Hear that, Darius?” The prisoner mocked him openly, no longer fearing the wrath of the Judge. “He can make it all go away, can’t he? Is that what they did for you Darius? Made it all just go away?” As he finished, the artist slowly returned to his work. His hands were shaking, so he did his best to hide them behind the large sheets of canvas. Years ago it must have been, so many years ago, when the Prisoner had a name and a title and a dream. And at some point he’d brought them to Darius doorstep. They’d been pretty dreams, that much was for sure. Dreams of freedom and equality and no more fear. But Darius had been a simple man, and so he still was. This fellow artist… no, he was no longer an artist, but a Prisoner… had tried too hard. That he was still alive was nothing short of a miracle and that the govern-ment needed Darius’ skill to justify his execution only spoke of his subversive fame. But Darius knew better. He’d lived a long time, seen change come and change go. He’d seen the wars and the Revolution and witnessed the rise of a Regime, even as the previous one burned to the ground. He understood. The Prisoner was just another pretty talker, an idealist look-ing for a platform to shout from. And when his platform was raised to the top, he’d keep it elevated by the tired hands of those who lifted it there. Just like all the others before him. Knowing this, Darius had cast him out and asked him never to return.

“You’re a slave Darius. Does it hurt to see people like that and to lie? To have to look into everyone and lie about what’s really there? I heard the story about those soldiers you know.” Darius paused only briefly. That was the last time he’d ever made use of his skill. “It’s easier to tell people what they want to hear, and show them what they want to see…” Darius responded, no longer pausing.

“And what of you citizen?” The Judge jumped into the conversation. “What can you say of yourself?”

“It’s always easier looking out than it is looking in.” Darius was unsure why he spoke in riddles like that. A straightforward answer would surely please the Judge more, but as it were, he felt a little more reckless than usual. He was met with a grunt, and the work of painting consumed him.

His hands flew over the pictures, first with one and then the other, pausing only to glimpse at his subjects. Subtly, without meaning to, the Judge found himself doodling on a small scrap of paper, imitating the artist’s rapid strokes. The Prisoner sat in silence, his

contempt for the scene too strong for words. Muted and disgusted, he fiddled about with the fabric on his jumpsuit.

Some hours later, Darius inhaled deeply. “Finished,” he announced, stepping back-wards to allow his customers room to maneuver. Stepping around the stands, the Judge and Prisoner halted before their respective likenesses. Before examining his own, the Judge looked at the detainee’s. A multi-faced monstrosity peered back at him, its many expressions filled with sly intelligence and eyes of malice. Bright orange and red flames licked at his blackened body, as billowing smoke obscured the foreground.

“Most excellent!” The Judge proclaimed excitedly. “You’ve served us well.” The Prisoner snickered. Without haste, the Judge turned his gaze upon his own canvas. It was dark, blacker than any picture the Grand Portrait Artist had ever painted. There was no form or shape, very little substance at all, though an observer would have sworn the surrounding light drawn into the picture, leaving the nearby space a bit emptier.

“Most excellent!” The Prisoner proclaimed with equal excitement.”Maybe there is hope for you yet!” Before he could continue, the Judge threw the portrait to the floor, but soon after snatched up the Prisoner’s and placed it under his arm. “I’ll meet with the Regime to see how to deal with this action of insubordination.” He told Darius in fury, before yank-ing on the Prisoner’s chains and dragging him to the door.

“Is the rest I go to any better Darius? You tell me, oh Grand Portrait Artist! For I be-lieve you’ve been dead longer than you know, and have only recently woken up!” He shout-ed even as his frame was pulled from the door. The two struggled for a bit, with the Prisoner finally relenting and allowing himself to be pushed towards the car. Darius knew they’d never meet again. Outside the sun was setting, as the dust shook from the barren trees and the rocks of the nearby cliff gleamed in the late light. A small wind pushed through a bro-ken window, bringing the Grand Portrait Artist to stare out over the emptiness of the nearby world.

One day, he promised, he’d fly from the edge of the cliff. He’d soar, upwards and upwards towards the burning sun, until there was nothing left of his being. In those moments he would burn brighter than ever before, and live like he never had. From those heights, and in those infinitesimally small seconds, he hoped his mind would escape from the cursed re-straints that bound them, and open his perceptions to something beyond what lay directly in his sight. But those actions were for another day; the work left him too tired for such brash-ness.

He smiled only faintly as his gaze fell upon the blackened portrait. There was no need to remove it from the floor. Instead, Darius walked over to a large tarp dominating the center of the room. Without pomp or ceremony, he dragged the cloth off, revealing a towering can-vas, twice as large as any other in the room. The edges were bright with color, but the middle was empty, and the whiteness stared back at Darius with an imposing air. Lifting his brush, he let out a sigh, and made two quick strokes onto the portrait. Glistening in the evening light, the paint was the freshest the paper had seen since the Revolution. As he returned the supplies to his drawer and replaced the tarp, he stared into a mirror and allowed himself a sorrowful smile. One day, he promised himself again. One day he’d finish what he started all those years ago.

312012 The Raven

the PrePareD DeMiSe By trevor Kenahan

When the time comes for my time to end,I will be ready with nothing to say.No regrets, nothing unfinishedWhen I part from this place.It’s the end of something good,But I shall embrace my fate.Never was I others,Even if it brought distaste. I continued as meant to be.Others will mourn but know I did well.All days I stayed concrete, I was IAnd for that, for being self,There needs no cause for mourningBecause when its time for my demiseI will exit as me.

LivinG By Sarah aUer

Why is our world cold?The beds have no one in them.

When will the breeze stop?The deepness of the coloroverwhelms us-midnight.

Inevitableare these moments whencolor dissipates.For whom was it beckoned?Who steals it away?

When decency wins a lengthy hand of cards,only to find the spades have jumped ship.

With whom will you wait?Upon which point will you judge?Shall the sun beckon?Do not quicken your pacesBelieve today you will win.

Revel in the trueMingle with the vibrantLive for what is now.

The Raven 201230

332012 The Raven

i WoULD have By aLLiSon BoLLeS

I would have cried out for you until the salt of my tears eroded the marble of my skinjust to hear your voice again, and watch as your lips cupped around each word,like your eyelids, rising and falling around your eyes. And even if locusts had darkened the sky of my soul,I would have shared with you a smile brighter than a thousand firefliesjust to listen to the deep rumble of your laugh,exciting an earthquake in your ribs.I would have stood nude in a grisly winter stormuntil my fingers had paled with frostbite,just so you’d hold my hands till dawnand I’d feel the warmth of our fingers,intertwined like our bodies were, on that one night they called the cops to find us, and the search dogs stopped barking when they saw the look in our eyes… O, I would have given anything—anything—just to hold your face in my hands, and whisper, “I love you” one last time, before the drummer boy of my heartdecided he wouldn’t play another song.

UntitLeD By BroGhan ZWaCK

A Beast

Fighting for the worldIn a cyclic flurry ofMotion: eat, sleep, hunt, mate.Never quite peaceful.Living’s a battle –A race against thatMildly Amused Entity Time – Which none shall win.

A Fossil

Stopped. Lying still,Peaceful as eternal rest.Twisted spine and gaping Maw reveal past tragedies,But all pain is long-forgotten.Stable as stone, neverShifting, never wavering –Time is now insignificant passing.

The Raven 201232


hoMeWarD BoUnD By JaMie ChaPMan

Out of the dirt, out of the sand—Rise from the darkness to this new land.Scratch the lid, fingernails scrape for Leave. Heave with one breath, boreOne way out through mahogany wood.Concrete cage—break through the cracks. Could The sod come up, green grass destroyed,This disparaged avaunt make Mother Nature void?

Climb up through past years tumbledDown low, crawl through memories jumbledBy Death. Stand up and walkPast headstones crumbled here; LockSecrets away, for no one knows you there.

P*** MaGaZine By Kai SMith

(Kevin walks into Trevor’s bedroom)Kevin: Sup, Big Bro. Whatcha reading? (Trevor shoves a magazine under his bed covers)Trevor: Oh… Nothing. Please leave. Kevin: Oh, O.K. I’ll leave. But first… you have to tell me what you’re reading. (Trevor sits on the book)Trevor: It’s none of your business. Just leave.Kevin: Why, Trevor? If it’s just a regular magazine, then it shouldn’t be a problem, right?Trevor: I just—I just don’t want you to see it!!Kevin: Why NOT?!?!Trevor: It’s… Look, if I show it to you, will you swear to not tell anyone? Kevin: SureTrevor: SWEAR?Kevin: I swear, gosh!Trevor: O.K (Takes a magazine out from underneath his bedcover)Kevin: OH MY GOOSSSHH!!!! You have a POR—Trevor: (Cuts him off) SHUSH!! You don’t want to wake Mom and Dad from their

nap, do you?Kevin: … We both know that they aren’t really napping Trevor: All the more reason to keep it downKevin: Yeah, you’re rightTrevor: All right, now that you know what it is, leave. Kevin: Wait! I never get to look at this type of stuff! Just because I’m a year younger

than you doesn’t mean that I don’t like that!Trevor: Don’t say that! You have to keep your innocence!Kevin: And what about you? You obviously have sold your soul to that stuff! Spending

so much time in your room looking at it! Trevor: You shut up about that! Let’s just drop it!Kevin: NO! Let me borrow the magazine for one day!Trevor: Are you crazy? This magazine stays in this room! You can look at it whenever

you want as long as it stays in this room! Mom and Dad might catch you! (Enter Mom and Dad)DaD: We might catch you doing what? (Trevor and Kevin stare)Kevin: Trevor has a—.Trevor: Shut up, Kevin!MoM: Trevor what do you have?Trevor: …DaD: Trevor, answer your mother. Trevor: (Starts to cry) I’m sorry Dad! I just can’t help myself! Maybe it’s just my hor-

mones! It’s just too hard to resist! Tommy let me borrow a—.Kevin: He has a Pork Magazine!! (Dad and Mom look stricken)MoM: Trevor, you are grounded for months!! You know that we are passionate vegans!!

How dare you bring such an atrocity into our home?!

Towards trees walk on edge whereSalvation awaits. Keep towards the horizon trueWhere sun sets to everlasting blueSeas. Soar through forestsLaden with flowers dying in poorest Conditions. Melt into meadows browningAcross vast expense; your CrowningThe world cannot delay on this day.

Push onward, ignore how destruction lay—Nothing may be done untilGlory melds with will.

Reach the waters, board the ship, Sail off towards home, ripEarth away from life. This strife mayOnly be resolved when dusk slays day:Lean out on the deck, great arms extendedGive Life back to the world, only lended.

372012 The Raven

tSUnaMi By aLLiSon BoLLeS

Wicked waves that crash and attack,that with each oscillation frighten and sackthousands of hopeless stones and shells,dragged unwillingly to the saltiest hell,hold in blue eyes, violent burning;shrouded in beauty, hold malice churning.Will ever again those stones see the light?Won’t they weep always in an unbounded night?The foaming mass on dry land falls.It crashes among life to wailing calls.This time shall only a shell be taken?Or of family and life, will Young be forsaken?If the sea’s unmoved by humanity’s loss—malevolent sea or malevolent Cross?

The Raven 201236

oDe to CaLCULUS By Sarah aUer

Impeccably beautiful in your numerical splendor,you are far too decadent for the common mind to comprehend, O dear Calculus. Is that youon that plush throne? They fear you,O Calculus. All the others, the shyminions on the ladder below you, they keep their heads down to avoidthe falling debris. The variousderivatives clattering to the ground withincreasing speed, shattering into dozensof sharp shards. Dare we pick them up?O only when forced, when futures relyon your intemperate soul. O Calculus,how you graciously condescend toinnocent Algebra and her mere simplicityand leer at Geometry and his polytheistic beliefs. You are so vibrantly unique,christened in gold and atop the totempole we all desperately attempt to climb.How powerful, how boorishly greedyand overrun with contempt! Howheinously loved, thou art! Hold tightto your calculator and gift themwith erasers, O Calculus, for love only extends so far. They may oneday rebel, climb all too far and overrun your castle, and then who willbe left to look down upon us alllike a miserable, looming storm cloud?

392012 The Raven

iF i Were hiM By JeSSe BeSSinGer

They expect me to break bread with them this evening,but I heard the sea call, and could not refuse.The vast expanse of glittering surfaces shifts under a cold moon as I leave my sandals in the tall, dead grass,and wade into black water, welcoming the scourging cold. I stand ankle deep in the little tsunamis and imagine being queen of the world.I am the lobster messiah, freeing the crustacean masses from the maze of their antennae minds.Self-righteous hermit crabs shout glories and obscenities from their purple plastic prison, a sand bucket with no windows and no ceiling,exquisite torture for those who’ve seen the night sky painted on a dark sea. A doubting spider challenges my toes with pointed legsand I dance for him, leaving half-footprints on the stage floor of thissalty sand arena, a theater for this audience of resentful periwinkles. A crown of dried sea strands, rendered sharp and unforgiving by dehydration and sunlight,twists harshly across my glistening brow, even breaking the skin.I step forward towards the imaginary horizon and a shard of shell pierces my sole,pierces my foot. Blood and water begin to blend invisibly in the darkness beneath my footstep, but the cloudy idea of unity disappears with the ocean’s next exhale,a sigh that absorbs my sacrifice into a grander significance.My scepter, a splintered bough that may have come from somewhere near Nazareth,Would burn a thousand different shades of blue if I threw it into the flames.Such is the nature of driftwood.I could be a radical prophet, but I am full of private prayer.Sometimes I know the presence of a nameless god,But when my feet bleed into the cruel, infectious sand-grime,I know I am forsaken and only the salt will heal my wounds.The sand, the sand has been bloodied, and this rose oracle, this flower prophet, this daughter of men and mother of starlight,I, child-teacher, I shed my scepter and my pagan wreath of sea-thorns.I whisper my secret incantation to the tide as it carries away the ornaments of my suffering,Dictating the responsorial psalm to a host of watery, barnacle-laden pews, empty but for the stubborn hermits.The response is silence, and the psalm is born out of the silence that prisons wear.Halfway to the horizon, the scepter catches fire, and the blue tongues of flamescast shadowsshadowsuntil it sinks into the deep forever and leaves only a trace of smokeincensebut now the fog is too far to obscure my vision. I raise my eyes to the heavens, and see them for the first time.

into your hands, world, I commend my spirit

The Raven 201238

UntitLeD By Sarah aUer

Run from the inevitable, good man.The darkness will creep and hover,Plan for the deepness of the sand.

The weak will join hands and those that ranwill regret what they left, O loverPlan for the deepness of the sand.

Run for all that you crave, sansbaggage and pain, why anotherPlan for the deepness of the sand.

Run from the inevitable, good man.For as time always does, and canShe shall catch up, O Mother

Run from the inevitable, good manwith weak knees not, rather fanall your glories, O Father

Plan for the deepness of the sand,and you will live and ban all unworthy of thought or those loftier.

Run from the inevitable, good man.Plan for the deepness of the sand.


the PerFeCt Day For FLoWer PiCKinG By aLLiSon BoLLeS

IT was the perfect day for flower-picking. Strolling over the hills, inhaling the salty breeze, I struggled to play down my uneasiness and just enjoy the morning air.

I should have gone to class that morning. I knew I’d be punished for an unexcused absence, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of listening to Mr. Quiner drone on and on for ninety minutes about this war and that war. Not when it was so beautiful out.

But as I n`eared the edge of the woods, I found that I was not alone. A red-headed lady I didn’t recognize was sitting on the grass by the trees. Startled, I ducked behind a severed tree trunk, heart racing. After a few seconds of hiding I tilted my head around the side of the trunk to see the woman. Her long pink dress was uncharacteristic of any teacher or student I’d ever met; and I’m sure I would have noticed that red hair around campus had it been there. I pulled my head back behind the trunk.

I wondered who she could be and whether she could potentially report me. I didn’t want to walk back towards campus; I’d make it back before classes were out and then I’d be doomed. I decided to suck it up and rise from behind the trunk. When I stood up, she turned to look at me.

Now I’ve seen a number of beautiful women in my lifetime, but not a super model in the world could compete with this one. Her beauty mesmerized me. When I finally decided to make full eye contact, my jaw dropped. Her piercing green eyes sparkled like diamonds in a coal mine. They were almost hypnotic. Women with eyes like that couldn’t exist in the real world. I tried pinching myself, but I had to conclude that I was fully awake.

For reasons unknown, she glared at me. I awkwardly lifted my hand to wave, but she didn’t return the gesture. She turned into the woods; the tree leaves began to conceal the pink of her dress. I watched her walk the path until I suddenly felt the urge to follow her. I ran towards the dirt path and bolted into the forest.

She had disappeared. My eyes darted around the woods, seeking a trace of her. I ran from path to path and from tree to tree until I grew discouraged. I slowed to a walk and started humming softly to myself. How uncharacteristic of me, not only to skip classes, but also to follow a complete stranger alone through the woods! As I reflected, I hummed more and more powerfully. The sun had started to set.

Yet suddenly, to my great surprise and pleasure, I became aware that the woman was humming the same tune. I had never heard her speak, but I knew it was her. The voice sounded beautiful and comforting, reminiscent of a mother’s voice as she sings a lullaby. We hummed in perfect harmony with one another. I could tell she was close, but could not see for the dark. I followed the sound of her voice until I stood only feet in front of her.

The moonlight descended through the trees above her, forming a perfect spotlight. Her head rested on a tree, her eyes closed in thought. She didn’t take any notice of me. Amidst the darkness, her ivory arms shined as if stars themselves. She glowed like a goddess. My stomach burned with simultaneous terror and desire. I reached out my hand to touch her shoulder, but then she started to sing. To my amazement, she sang the same tune I had hummed!

Call you; call you

And I’ll look your way

It’s hard to find me

Harder to make me stay

When she finished, her eyes snapped open and she started to walk towards the ocean. For half an instant, I considered turning back—the school must be searching for me. When I turned my head momentarily towards the campus, I felt shivers down my spine. My dream theory started to seem more plausible, but it didn’t matter whether this was real or not. I had to follow.

I sprinted to keep up with her slow and graceful gait. Periodically, I had to stop along the way just to catch my breath. I was more than relieved when the water finally came into view and she paused at its edge. In a matter of seconds, she completely disrobed. Her dress lay on the sand around her feet. She gracefully took a first step into the water and then fell forward into the waves.

Screw it, I thought. I undressed and splashed into the ocean. The woman’s head popped up from under the water, about twenty feet out. She turned to look at me. To my surprise, she smiled and gestured me onward. I swam to her. For miles, I trailed her in this way.

Either I had begun to swim more quickly or she had slowed down, for less than a meter lay between my hand and her heel. I pushed on, certain that I would, at last, secure her in my arms.

I started to hear voices. But there was no way in hell I was going back to school, no matter how many authorities threatened me with suspension. No clean record was worth more than this. I hadn’t been sure why I was following her, until, in that moment, an epiphany bloomed in my brain—I didn’t just want to meet her; I wanted to be her.

Even though my determination skyrocketed, it became gradually harder to keep swimming. The waves had started to rise higher and fall faster. A deafening foghorn suddenly sounded, vibrating my sternum. When I came up for air, I turned my head around my shoulder.

People were calling out from a massive iron ship in the distance. I found it strange that the police or the school authorities owned such a large vessel; even stranger that they would use it to “rescue” a student. Soon, I felt like the ship was vibrating the water itself, unnaturally so. The waves shouldn’t have been so big. The ship seemed to be rocking the ocean, rather than the other way around.

I started to question my sanity when I noticed that the voices were not of just school friends, but also of my parents, all my extended relatives, and even friends that I’d made in my childhood. Yet their calls seemed dishonest, like safety was something they’d have to trick me into, rather than something I would actually want. The distance between me and the woman grew.

Mysteriously, a life jacket splashed in the water before me. I wanted nothing to do with it, so I pushed it behind me triumphantly and kicked my way towards the woman. A rowboat manned by an old neighbor of mine appeared about halfway between the ship and me. He threw me the end of a rope, but I refused to grab it.

I ducked my head into the salty water and swam with all of my strength. I gave it everything I had. My muscles went numb; my eyes burned; I felt as though I was pushing my face against a great brick wall. Suddenly, I felt myself break through it. I had never felt so victorious. My muscles no longer ached; my eyes no longer burned. Everything seemed quiet. The ship had stopped rocking the ocean.

But out of the blue, I heard a great cry break the peace. No longer feeling endangered, I calmly turned my head and saw a girl I recognized but could put no name to, looking at me with crazed and desperate eyes. She was entangled in a rope, being pulled towards some rowboat by the neck. Her cry pierced my heart, but I knew better than to swim to her. I swam in the direction I’d been going and simply waved her onward. She screamed and cried for me, but clearly didn’t recognize the kind of strength she’d need to break free.

The Raven 201242

UntitLeD By WentinG XU

Who turns on the street lamp beforeHanging the moon across the sky? OrMaybe the naughty clouds hide the foreverBright light. Fruit fly finds no route back toHome, flapping the wings towards the lamp,The only illuminant attracts it with faint heat.It may build a shelter under the man-made light.Angels, who love sleeping in the moonlight, findAnother halo shape who never excuses herselfFrom mystic veils. Glitter coming from the wireFills the bubble, fills the night. Before the sun comesOut with his fatherly shine, the dark evil dares eitherShout for bats. Who cannot fall in dreamsIn complete black? The lamp standing outsideThe window dispels the gloomy fright.

432012 The Raven

i aM a SPirit By yUe “WiLL” WU

I AM A SPIRITListen, oh, listen to the void of hollow,Like the passion of Echo faded into echo,Like the ghosts sunken into Lethe forgetting their sorrow,Like the gilt Luna pouring out my shadow.In the stillness, I stand alone to live and die,I try to escape this tranquil Chaos, but in vain, I try;Every motion, beat and breath pang me to die,But I’m melting, vanishing, but not dying, by the witness of my eye.I turn invisible and intangible, but exist, like a spirit;My heart is by the dagger of ecstasy and swoon split.Nothing I possess, so nothing to lose, as a nothing myself;All my burden is just a pure spirit my self.I’m a whiff of zeal finding an end along the Life Wire;Inside, I’m fire.

The Raven 201244

aDventUre By JeSSe BeSSinGer

So in basement corners and dark closets,When monsters scrape jagged hangnails along dusty cement floors,The answer to your sweaty palms and pounding heartIs to sprint directly at the point of deepest blackness, screaming and waving your arms erratically, and tackle it to the ground.

Ever looked down an endless tunnel that disappears into an abyss of the unknown,And wanted to crawl into it so badly your bare toes started to curl up in the dirt?Maybe most of us lost that crazy, wonderful adventure-lust when we “grew up,”Along with the memory of tag and woodchip snowball fights and going down slides headfirst.Where are the days of grass-stains and band-aids, of hair tangled from the wind on the beach and left to become a giant salty dreadlock

because combs are for girls…? I used to resist the color pink like it was a tattoo across my forehead that read SISSY.Occasionally I’ll find myself avoiding the pink tank tops or flip-flops, chiding myself for acting like a child. You know, I secretly enjoy those moments.Ever climbed a tree to read a book balanced on a comfortable throne of Scratchy bark?I read Harry Potter in the Japanese plum tree behind my house and didn’t come down for dinner, at the age of eleven.Last week, I snuck out earlier than the sunrise with Aldous Huxley under my arm to sit by a misty waterfall in a different tree.I missed breakfast

Remember when getting in trouble meant staying out past when the street-lights came on?We used to hide behind the bush on the corner of our block until dad came out counting down from three,just to see how many fractions he could make until we emerged, racing towards our porches because there was no way any number could get closer to zero than one one hundredth.

CoMPariSon By teSS MCMahon

Firewood:The air becomes coldAs the weather takes a turnThat is when they need meThey need something that can burnI revive the weak and wearyFrom the cold that bitesThem. For I welcome the fireI will continue to burn during these winter nights.

Bricks:Solid of build, stacked highThere we stand strongNothing can break us,We were built to last long.No element will defeat usWe hold out groundAgainst this raging fireHere we are stacked and here we are bound.

452012 The Raven


Wisdom and EloquenceSapientia et Eloquentia


MOST people who know me know that

I’m a certifiable flower child. If you couldn’t guess that from my classic sixties hair, or the fact that I only got a Facebook two months ago, I could tell you that I’ve been struggling to convince my friends not to squish the bugs in the dorms for three years. I grew up in a home where my favorite toys were rocks and sticks, and my favorite stories were about faeries. Not Tinkerbell, I mean faerie spirits of the flowers and the grass and the ocean. I’ve never eaten a Twinkie. Instead, I go home on weekends to enjoy garbanzo bean brownies and backyard-weed smoothies. We grow our own food in the summer, in a wildly overgrown and much-beloved garden behind my house, and all of our meat is local and free-range, all of our store-bought food organic and clean. My favorite part of summer is walking barefoot, and I resent shoes more than blazers when it gets too cold to go without. As well as being a flower child, I’m not Catholic. My mom is actually a certified interfaith minister. When I was nine, I was baptized, in a manner of speaking, by a very spiritual musician named Leroy, in my backyard, barefoot, flowers woven through my hair. Formally, it was a Blessing of the Light, and Leroy christened me with salt water from the beach and a sun prayer, and we celebrated by dancing around in the grass while he played the drums and sang around a bonfire long past sunset. Now, I don’t know

the exact qualifications for being a pagan, but needless to say, I experienced a fair amount of culture shock my first year at Catholic, conservative, preppy Portsmouth Abbey!

When I found out that I had to deliver the first Church Assembly speech, I was appropriately terrified,

mostly because I couldn’t think of anything valuable or relevant to share with everyone. “Start the year off right, guys, school is important, and grades are important, and friends are awesome, and we’re going to have to get over Saturday classes and dress code, and the Abbey is an awesome place to be... ” Nothing we all haven’t heard before, many, many times. And besides, I don’t exactly seem qualified—not Catholic, or even one of the other “normal” religions for Abbey students—what could I possibly have to say to you in Church?

Luckily for my would-be clichéd speech, I went to New York City to see Hair on Broadway for my eighteenth birthday. For those of you who don’t know that musical, it’s the ultimate, supreme celebration of free love, peace, flowers, freedom, happiness, and hippies. It’s the story of a group of young men and women living in New York City during the Vietnam War, every one of them a true hippie, as they struggle with the draft, the quest for

peace, and the irreconcilable conflict between war and their philosophy of life. Some of the more famous songs include “Aquarius,” “Hair,” and “Good Morning Starshine.” Some of the lesser-known songs include “Hare Krishna,” “Black Boys,” “White Boys,” “Hashish” . . . you get the

idea. It’s a pretty radical show, no holds barred—the main character whips off his pants in the first scene and tosses them into the audience.

How could I possibly tie this freak show into the beginning of the school year? Hair is basically the anti-Portsmouth Abbey. I’ll admit that even as I was watching the show, I would smile to myself imagining the chaos Hair would create on campus, and then roll my eyes at the sheer impossibility of the idea. One winter musical that will never be approved! But, crazy as it sounds, what I got out of the performance was not the shocking nudity, or the trippy hallucination scenes, but a sense of what is at the core of being a “Hippie.” Over the years, that label has come to signify tie-dye, pot, and free love, but underneath the stereotype, there is a really valuable truth. The story in Hair ends in real, unexpected and heartbreaking tragedy, but the last song is entitled “Let the Sun Shine In.” As the people in the show wade through their grief

and conflict, they are able to find in themselves a place where light can still shine. There was a palpable energy in that theater during the last minutes of the show, an energy that radiated directly from the heart of the performance. The entire audience was on their feet, climbing onto the stage,

dancing in the aisles, singing along, welcomed with open arms to join the community of peace and trust and love that the show had created. It wasn’t an audience of hippies, either; there were a couple old ladies from New Jersey behind me, some very reluctant husbands in front of me, college kids, tourists from California, a pack of German researchers, me ... What struck me about the experience was that all of these people, myself included, were so caught up in the spirit of being open to life and love that all self-consciousness just fell away, and we shared a moment of letting our barriers down

. . . letting our hair down, you might say.

I came home after the show and announced that I was going to stand up for my speech and burst into that song . . . . (Pause) Uh, maybe not. What I want to share at the beginning of this school year is a little different from the traditional themes. I want to tell you guys that this experience was something more than a great show. Maybe I have an advantage, growing up as a flower child, but I don’t

Jesse Bessinger a Community of Sunshine

I want to remInd you that not only Is there always lIght, but that the lIght grows when you share It.

think so. As school gets going and we all get into the swing of the year and our crazy, scheduled insanity, I want to remind you that no matter what the situation is, there is light all around you. It may be spiritual, it may be divine, it may be cosmic or philosophical, it may be invisible, but it’s there. I want to remind you that not only is there always light, but that the light grows when you share it.

This isn’t the best practical advice: I mean, you could write down in your planner, “Share my light during conference today!” If that works for you, go for it. But however you remember it, I think it’s important to open our eyes to this community we’re all living in together. We’re different: the field hockey team is different from the the Abbey Players; the minds of students taking AP English are different

from the minds in Advanced Math; I’m different from you, but we all coexist. If we are willing to drop those barriers, I can tell you from personal experience that there is joy in sharing moments of light. And I promise that you don’t need to be wearing love beads to share in this joy. Whether we wear Sperry’s or no shoes at all, we’re all walking this earth together, and right now we’re all at

Portsmouth Abbey. We’re already a group

of people—all kinds of different people, and let those differences exist—but this year, let’s be a community. Let’s let that mysterious light or grace draw us together. As we begin another Abbey year, sharing our lives in the classroom and the Church, the Dining Hall and the dorm . . . let’s let the sun shine in.

ALTHOUGH Father Edmund might disa-

gree with me on this, Ab-bey students don’t talk enough. Or at least we don’t talk enough about the right things. We like to talk about what went down during the last Tuck dance, what some-one said about someone else last night at dinner, and how much homework we were

assigned over Winter Week-end. Of course, all this vent-ing is what keeps us sane and stops us from sponta-neously exploding after a long, grueling week at the Abbey. But there is so much more that we keep bottled up inside that we never talk about, topics we skirt around, and unwritten rules of protocol we all follow. By allowing ourselves to be consumed by living the life we’re told we want to live, we sell ourselves short.

We have been taught to try to skip over the sticky patches of our lives, pre-tending certain things don’t exist, or will never come up

in the future. We all have something that keeps us up at night, something that claws at our insides. These are the secrets that we want to take with us to the grave, but that we also want to stand up and just yell to the world. But we all know how it is; we don’t dare to do something as wimpy as share. To quote Ke$ha,

“One day you asked if we could just talk,/That’s the reason why I’m walking.” The fact that we always barge into the church run-ning our mouths off is proof that we like to talk when we shouldn’t, but we still fol-low a rule: gossip is good, but personal fears are taboo. Just opening our mouths and saying what we want to say sounds so simple, but in reality the judgment we will face makes this a daunting step.

Tim Gunn’s speech last Friday reminded me of how we inhibit ourselves. The side of the auditorium with St. Brigid’s, Manor House,

and St. Benet’s made their appreciation for Tim Gunn quite audibly clear. They were visibly excited; how-ever, the opposite side of the auditorium was slouched in their seats, moody, unhap-py. Tim Gunn didn’t focus on fashion, or design, or anything repulsively unap-pealing to the male popula-tion of the school. Instead,

he spoke about lessons that are applicable to everyone. But in an ill-disguised at-tempt to prove our collec-tive masculinity, our side of the auditorium was dead silent and stony.

Notice, though, that I am excluding St. Hugh’s from this; the Third Form class is always my favorite. This awkward stage of high school proves to me that we are human. Third Formers haven’t had time to conform. They haven’t had a chance to figure out who they’re supposed to be, so they can only be them-selves. They asked ques-tions; they laughed; they

had nothing to prove. Of course, as we get older we forget what it’s like to be a Third Former, and we lose a little bit of ourselves. A houseparent used to quip that Third Formers don’t have souls yet, and that they only earn them later. I disa-gree; as we get closer and closer to graduation, and closer to the time when we will be freshmen again, we lose our souls, bit by bit.

On top of the inhibitions we impose on one another, we also repress ourselves. We think that no one will understand what we are feeling or what we are going through, and this makes us want to bury our real selves even deeper. The thing is, we are all angsty teenagers, whether we’re the football jocks or the study hall re-cluses. As angsty teenagers, we are all in the same boat, but we hide our hopes and fears—it’s better to stick to our stereotype, to read from the script, than to take the risk of saying anything sin-cere or, worst of all, just be-ing yourself.

At the end of the Ap-palachia trip last March, I found myself helping clean

Sidharth Sharma trust your instincts

by allowIng ourselves to be consumed by lIvIng the lIfe we’re told we want to lIve, we sell ourselves short.


I stood there, looking at her headless, lifeless form. A feeling of grief settled

in my stomach. She was gone forever. Then, almost immedi-

ately, I felt a flood of rage fill my body. I was beyond reason, but that didn’t mat-ter. I already knew every-thing that I needed to know.

I knew who had com-mitted this heinous crime against my beloved.

My beloved Malibu Bar-bie, Deluxe Edition.

And now she had to pay. I felt myself pushing

past my classmates, clos-ing in on my target: my now-former first grade BFF Sophia. I lifted my hand up and smacked her across the face. It felt so good. . . for about two seconds.

Then I suddenly felt the anger drain out, and the re-ality of what I’d done flow into my body. As I saw So-phia hold her face in utter shock and then burst into tears, I immediately regret-ted what I’d done. I’d let my anger get the best of me.

For the rest of the year, when the kids in my class saw me, all they saw was my worst side. But I couldn’t blame them, because that’s

the side I had shown them. I had lost my best friend—and I had become the Third Grade Class Bully.

All because I couldn’t control my anger. That day, I vowed that I would never let anger get the best of me again.

You can all probably de-duce from that story that I was an angry little girl. But I hope, and even trust, that you don’t see me as an an-gry teenage girl now. Well, that is because I kept the promise I made to myself and learned how to control

my anger. I saw that my an-ger was destructive. It de-stroyed a friendship, and it could have destroyed me.

As high school students there is a lot that makes us angry, like schoolwork, teachers, sports, and friends. Now, anger is a natural hu-man emotion that can’t sim-ply be turned off like a light switch. But anger, even justifiable anger, if handled negatively, has the potential to be incredibly dangerous and self-destructive. This might sound a bit overdra-matic, but think about it. If you lose your temper in a small community like the Abbey, over what seems

big to you right now, but is pretty small compared to the challenges you will face in the real world, you prob-ably won’t make it too long in that real world.

Learning to control your anger takes self-discipline. Handling anger does not mean just holding it in, be-cause anger is natural and trying to suppress what’s natural just leads to worse things. The best thing to do with anger is to channel it productively. For instance, when a certain squash coach /college counselor/ house

parent cut me from the ten-nis team, I was angry. But it wasn’t her fault that I was lame at tennis, and just be-cause I was lame at tennis didn’t mean that I would be lame at every sport. I took all my angry energy and channeled it into lacrosse, a good aggressive sport, not a wimpy one like tennis.

Like I said, anger is natural, but it isn’t always justifiable. During my 4th Form year at the Abbey, my brother Chido was seriously hurt in basketball accident. My family and I experi-enced an incredible amount of fear and stress. I couldn’t even begin to think about

the possibility of my brother dying. I felt so scared, but I also remember feeling a whole lot of anger. The way I saw it, my family and I had done nothing to deserve this kind of heartache and pain. We were good people, and there were definitely peo-ple out there who were not good: they deserved this kind of pain, not us. So in-stead of praying to God, my anger led me to blame God. I blamed God for making my brother suffer, and for putting this burden on my family.

But as I sat in the hospi-tal waiting room that night, I grew tired of being angry. Wasn’t the situation already bad enough? Anger was only making it worse. So as I sat there, I started think-ing. Yes, it was true that I had done nothing to deserve this fear and pain. But what did I deserve? Did I deserve my warm home, my great friends, or the great school I attended? Did I deserve my great, loving, and supportive family and this whole great, loving, and supportive com-munity? Let’s be honest: I had done nothing to deserve all of those blessings. My anger wasn’t letting me see things in perspective. Once I let it go, I realized that I had no right to be angry with God, and that the best

akunna onyiuke anger Management

up random wood scraps; we were tossing the small pieces and saving the big-ger ones. I came across a piece that was iffy-it wasn’t big but it wasn’t small, so I asked my team’s leader what we should do with it. I guess this was the culmi-nation of all the annoying

questions I had been asking the whole week, because she threw down the scraps in her arms and gave me a fierce glare. “What do you think we should do with it? Stop asking so many ques-tions and go with your gut feeling.” I don’t think she knows it, but that one rep-

rimand had a profound im-pact on me. It prompted me to make some changes in my life, and I think that life lesson is applicable here, too. Instead of asking others what we should feel, what we should think, and what we should say, we need to decide for ourselves. Why

live a life somebody else wants you to live, instead of living your own? Who do you want to be? What do you want to do with your life, and maybe even be re-membered for doing?

It’s only after you an-swer that question honestly that you can truly be free.

learnIng to control your anger takes self-dIscIplIne.

WHEN anyone asks Abbey students how

they are feeling, most of the time they answer “tired” or “stressed.” Everybody here is stressed, from new Third Formers, stressed by being away from home, to veteran Sixth Formers, stressed out by the college application process. Then there’s the Smiths’ Humani-ties class, or AP US History overviews, or Calculus: that overall pressure to make the best grades possible. But all of these things are not what stress me out the most. I’m not saying I don’t get wor-ried about my classes or my grades. But I feel another kind of stress, and that stress comes from my brother.

I have a sixteen-year-old brother named Ted, who suffers from severe autism. Autism is a mental condition that causes the person great difficulty in communicating and form-ing relationships. I’m sure some of you know autistic people, but every single case is completely differ-ent. Ted moved out of the house when he was seven years old. My family could not take care of him alone, even though we always had staff around the house for him. When Ted moved out, my mom was pregnant with my younger brother. Three times during her pregnancy, my mom had to climb out on the roof to save Ted. That’s when we realized that we

needed more help. No, he was not about to jump off the roof, he just wanted to play with the leaves. A simple thing like throwing leaves into the air can en-tertain Ted for hours. He did not realize that he was put-ting himself or my mom in danger by being out on the roof: that’s just where the leaves were. And since Ted does cannot communicate very well—neither speak-ing nor understanding—my mom couldn’t just tell him to come down from the roof.

Now, Ted lives in a spe-cial group home with other

autistic kids and has staff with him constantly. He uses some sign language and communication boards. My brother does not even know my name. We are only eighteen months apart. When we were kids we were never apart: we used to play together, wore matching smocked outfits to church, and jumped on the trampo-line all day long. We were always together, but he still does not know my name. Now, when I visit him, I tell him my name a few times until he will eventually re-peat it.

There is no cure for au-tism, and I can say that my

family has tried almost eve-rything. My parents even went through the black mar-ket for injections that were supposed to cure Ted. They didn’t work.

I worry about Ted and my family every day. We never know how he is going to react to a new environ-ment, so simple things like going out to dinner can take a drastic turn very quickly. His favorite place to eat is McDonald’s. One of the few words he knows how to say is “Donald’s.” One day last year we all went out for lunch. The meal had gone

great and we were walking back to the car, when all of the sudden Ted decided to run out into a major 4-lane highway. This is my kind of stress. Cars were honk-ing and slamming on their brakes. Everyone started freaking out unitl Ted ran back to us. He then proceed-ed to lie on the ground and began tearing up chunks of grass. My parents had to call in backup from his school. It was a major scene. Things can be going perfectly well, and then suddenly every-thing can go downhill. We never know when things are going wrong because Ted can’t tell us. For me, stress

is The Unknown: every day I never know what might happen to Ted, and what that would do to my family, and to me.

Every day is not a bad day with Ted, though. Some are great. This year we did not spend Thanksgiving eating turkey. Instead we all went to see “Kung Fu Panda 2.” Now that he is sixteen, we can finally go and see a movie together as a fam-ily. Family, however, now means us plus a staff mem-ber, just in case anything happens. After the movie, we went out to a high-class

meal at Cracker Barrel. Cracker Barrel is a very casual restaurant with coun-try decorations, located di-rectly off the interstate. Not exactly the fanciest place to go for Thanksgiving. But the meal went great, we all ate our turkey and dress-ing, and Ted was so happy. Afterwards, we went out-side and sat on the rocking chairs while waiting for my parents to pay. I decided that we should try to take a Christmas card photo while we were all together. This is where the picture was going to have to be taken. My youngest brother and I decided to sit Ted down in

Casey Kendall the Big Picture

thing that I could do in the situation was accept it and pray for a good outcome.

At first, every bad situ-ation always seems much worse than it actually is. You

may get angry, but hold on to your reason—it’ll keep you from saying or doing something that you’ll only regret. So, whether you’ve been cut from the team, or

your friend beheaded your Barbie, or if it just seems like it’s you against the world, don’t let anger get the best of you. Remember this very wise quotation

from the Buddha: “Holding on to anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intention of throwing it at someone else. You’re the one who will always get burned.”

for me, stress Is the unknown:every day I never know what mIght happen to ted,

and what that would do to my famIly, and to me.


I have kind of a crazy story to tell, a little different than

the usual Church Assembly speech. My story is about the time I spent in Kingston, Ja-maica this past summer, and as strange as it may sound, my story combines street crime and kids playing with LEGO pieces.

But let me back up for a moment.

Two years ago, I met Douglas Orane, a success-ful Jamaican businessman, at the Jamaican Jazz Festival. I spoke with him about how I wanted to spend my rising senior year summer work-ing outside of the United States. After much planning, we worked out a way for me to reach my goal. I would spend six weeks in Kingston with the Oranes and work at a nearby school, teaching un-derprivileged children.

When I first arrived in Jamaica I remember think-ing “Ok, just accept the fact that for these next six weeks, you’re going to be a minor-ity—the outcast.” But I really had no idea how true that state-ment was. From the moment I stepped foot out of the King-ston airport I was the only fair complexion for miles. In fact, I didn’t see another white per-son during my entire trip, and no matter where I went I was continually gawked at. When-ever I walked down the streets

Jamaican eyes shot open, as if to say “Yo mon, what this birgeon think he doin’ here?” Needless to say, I was tak-ing a crash course in being a complete outsider. To my sur-prise, however, being an alien somehow seemed to enhance my teaching at the school.

On the first day, the stu-dents at Stella Maris School stared at me like I was from another planet. They didn’t know what an American was doing in their country, much less in their school, much less standing in front of their class-room. But their curiosity to find out who I was and what I had to say immediately made for a great classroom dynam-ic. I was buried in questions about my home, and the kids hardly believed they were in school when they discov-ered that they were going to be in Uncle Sean’s class. (In Jamaica it’s common to ad-dress your elders as “Auntie” or “Uncle.”) In fact, they de-cided that being in my class was playtime—a fact that I used to my advantage. Now, these kids loved playing with LEGOS. Little did they know that while they put together their LEGO cars they were also putting together the me-

chanical concepts of the axle and the wheel, and when they built their LEGO houses they were learning about structural integrity. The kids also had fake camp money they could use in class to “buy” more LEGO pieces. We hoped that this would teach the kids how

to add and subtract money, which they rarely see, much less use. Before teaching these amazing children I had always considered education a right, but not a privilege. After seeing poverty-stricken children actually cheer when they were called back into class after lunch, I changed my mind. Cheering for school! The children’s faces yearned for instruction. I filled the role of elder, teacher, and friend. For the first time in my life, I saw that for these Jamaican students, education was their right and my privi-lege.

That wasn’t my only wake-up call. I was also forced to confront the harsh reality that many of these children had to overcome.

Every day I would walk the same route to school. This involved a pleasant stroll down the quaint, well-devel-oped street called Acadia, fol-

lowed by a rapid change of scene. The upscale homes that included front gates and guard dogs quickly changed into the small rusted shacks that many Jamaicans call home. You see, once I left the pro-tective confines of “uptown,” as the locals called it, I would

then turn onto Rosemary Street, which is the boundary of Kingston’s tough “down-town” district. On one par-ticular afternoon, as I walked down Rosemary, two men sitting on a corner across the street took notice of me. They immediately stood up and be-gan to cross the road. As they neared, I told myself they just wanted to sell me something: possibly a newspaper, maybe some fruit, or even some sort of drug. But then they split up. One approached me from the front and the other from be-hind. Then I heard quick foot-steps and the man grabbed me from behind. His partner in front, who was about the size of Mike Camara, tore my shirt as he rapidly searched my pockets for anything of value. Neither guy seemed to have a weapon—believe me, I was looking. Jamaican Mike plucked my blackberry out of my pants pocket and

a rocking chair, while we stood up around him. My mom brought out her IP-hone and quickly snapped a picture of us. This picture turned out to be our Christ-mas card. This was the first Christmas card we have had in over 6 years because we can never get Ted to take

pictures. I had to crop out the sign and do some major editing so it was not obvi-ous we were sitting on the Cracker Barrel porch. I did not look my absolute best, and it was not a very high quality picture, but to my family it was perfect.

Ted is always on my

mind when I am making future plans. I get worried about him. I am not trying to say that grades aren’t im-portant, because they are. Anybody who knows my family or me knows we are not stressed out. There is a downside to this because we are so carefree about

things, sometimes we forget to get my plane tickets un-til the week I am supposed to leave school. When you think about what is stressing you out, think about the big-ger picture.

Sean Kenahan Learning to appreciate

before teachIng these amazIng chIldren, I had always consIdered educatIon a rIght, but not a prIvIlege.

WHEN I got the let-ter in my mail box at

the beginning of the year, informing me that I had to speak at Church Assem-bly, my throat dropped to my stomach. I wanted to decline right away. Then I saw that I wasn’t scheduled to speak until February, so I figured I could just sit on it. Denial is a good coping mechanism. But now here I am, in Church, at the lec-tern. In the months leading up to today, I have probably come up with ten different topics to talk about. I know that everyone expects me to talk about my dad, and what it’s like having a Governor living in my house. So I de-cided that I would talk about expectations, and especially

about the fear that accompa-nies expectations.

As many of you know, last year my dad was elected Governor of Rhode Island. Before that he was a U.S.

Senator and Mayor of War-wick. (Another item on his resume? Portsmouth Ab-bey wrestling coach.) My Grandfather was a career politician as well. He was the Governor of Rhode Is-land, Secretary of the Navy, and served in the U.S. Sen-ate for over twenty years. I am very lucky to have two such remarkable men in my lineage. I am often asked if I want to pursue a career in politics, and be a part of the family legacy. Whoa. That’s a really big expecta-tion, coming from a lot of people. I can feel the pres-sure as soon as they ask the question. Why do I have to be a part of this legacy? I’m not trying to reject the pos-sibility, but oftentimes peo-

ple have expectations that can rattle you and mess with your head.

The other side of expecta-tions is fear and doubt. Fear and doubt are the primary

reasons why a lot of people never end up doing what they really want to do. If I have learned anything from my dad, it is to be a risk-tak-er. But at the same time he would say not to take a risk on anything that I am not committed to. When he was a Senator, he was the only Republican to vote against the use of force in Iraq. He put his country before his job security, and simply did what he thought was right. Complete fearlessness in your convictions: I think that is the key to living up to your own expectations and your own potential.

I am severely dyslexic, and I have had a very hard time in school. When I was in the third grade I don’t

think I even knew the al-phabet. When I was in fifth grade I was still at the first grade reading level. I mix up my B’s and D’s, P’s and Q’s, 5’s and 2’s, 9 and 6’s all the

time. As you can imagine, it is very frustrating. Espe-cially when you spell “bed” “deb,” D-E-B, without even realizing it. But I never con-sidered myself stupid. I al-ways saw it as something that I would have to get over in order to fulfill the expec-tations that are inevitably put on me. My mom used to sit with me on the couch every night after dinner, and help me with my reading. It was not always easy, and I would want to give up, but my mom would never let me.

The most important thing in all of this is that I don’t use the expectations that are put on me as an excuse to be scared, but as a standard to live up to, or a high bar I have to clear. There is a thin line between the fear of fail-ure and the will to succeed. I don’t think that anyone can succeed if they only doubt themselves. A lot of us in this church have expecta-tions coming from our par-ents, our teachers, and most importantly from ourselves. And a lot of us, including

took off running as I shouted some things that I won’t re-peat here. The man behind me was still frisking me. I spun around and saw that this Ja-maican had more of a Rhoads McGuire physique, so I pro-ceeded to throw a right hook that Matteo would have been proud of. It landed, the man staggered, and then fled. I was left standing there on Rose-mary Street, wondering what had just happened. I was im-mediately filled with anger, anger because I had jour-neyed to this country in order to aid Jamaica’s next genera-

tion. Was this how the coun-try thanked me for my hard work? My anger continued into the next day, but it then began to grow into something much more profound.

I tell this story not to cel-ebrate violence or even to encourage self-defense. I tell it for a reason that took me a while to realize: Appre-ciation. After the mugging a friend told me that almost all the crime and violence in Kingston arises from neces-sity. People steal in order to pay the rent, to clothe them-selves or, all too often, just to

feed their children. Getting mugged made me a little more wary, but a lot more apprecia-tive. It’s easy to lose sight of all the luxuries that come with being an American, especially an American at Portsmouth Abbey instead of Stella Maris School in Kingston. Here we always have a roof over our heads, we never worry where our next meal will come from, and we enjoy an amazing edu-cation. Food, clothing, educa-tion: just the basics to us, but luxuries for most of the world. Seeing children overjoyed be-cause they got to go to school,

and witnessing, up close and personal, what some people have to do to survive changed the way I feel when the alarm goes off every morning.

I urge you all to take a moment every morning when your alarm wakes you to re-alize how lucky you are and to appreciate every moment you spend in this great com-munity, surrounded by so many who only wish to see you grow into the person you want to be.

Caleb Chafee Make your own Legacy

but I want to stress that expectatIons should not be IntImIdatIng.


TWO sixty six. The av-erage cost of a public

school lunch in the United States is $2.66. It’s a trivial fact, an interesting footnote on the standard elementary school student’s favorite part of the day, and gener-ally nothing more. But a couple of summers ago, the realization of what $2.66 means really hit me. I was assisting a teacher with a summer learn to read pro-gram in a public school near my home, in Davie County North Carolina. The stu-dents, ages ranging from

six to eight, were sitting in a semi circle on a mat, all intently focused on the teacher as she read aloud from a storybook. The nar-rative was cut short by a bell; lunch time. Kids filed into the lunchroom, and I saw one student, an older boy of nine, getting his food and walking away from the counter without paying. “He’s on the assisted lunch

program.” The teacher whispered to me, before I had a chance to reprimand the thief. She went on to explain how the system worked. Students from low income families ate lunch for free in the cafeteria. Well, I wondered, what hap-pens when the school year is over? The answer was in front of me; the boy wasn’t only here to learn. Without school, he might go hungry.

I’ve earned something of a reputation here for my comments regarding poli-tics. If I touch on that sub-

ject today, I promise it will be broad, and serve only to make a more important point. Because I’m much more interested in talking about people. I want to talk about individuals, about the distinctive and unique ex-periences that culminate to form every person you’ve ever met or will meet. I’ve grown accustomed to hear-ing, during my time at the

Abbey, in my suburban home town, and especially from and the talking heads on the television, the word “poor” used as a class. Sud-denly, it’s a grouping of faceless individuals, a cat-egory of people collectively guilty of its own faults and failings, never accounting for the individuals and per-sonalities contained within its confines. An interesting phenomenon, to be sure. It makes sense upon first in-spection; it seems easier to refer to a certain level of in-come with a single phrase:

the poor. But we’ve per-verted that word, and now it seems to have a completely condemnatory meaning. We automatically associ-ate the poor with the lazy and ambitionless. During a debate with a good friend, I was generalizing about the shortcomings and apparent hypocrisies of the ultra-wealthy as a class. My friend decided to point out the er-

ror in my logic, bringing up such notable individuals as Bill Gates, Steve Jobs, and others. All self made multi-millionaires who started from scratch, putting in way over the usual eighty hours of work a week to get their start. Their faces grace Forbes and Time magazines so often everyone recogniz-es them.

My friend was right, but his examples only prove my points when you real-ize that, unlike the poor, these celebrity tycoons have a face. When you refer to their group, it conjures up individuals. People with fa-mous faces and well known stories that distract us from condemning the failings of others within that fortu-nate stratum. The poor stay anonymous. Sally Fernan-dez, a hypothetical single mother of two who works as a teacher to support her family and doesn’t make near enough, will never get that kind of coverage. She works just as many hours as Bill Gates, just as hard as Warren Buffet, came from even less, and offers society a desperately needed ser-vice. Yet we find her indi-

myself, have a hard time be-lieving that we can live up to these expectations. May-be your parents have their heart set on you getting into that ONE college—or you do. Maybe you are ex-pected to become a doc-tor, but so far your grades never seem to match your goals. Maybe everyone ex-pects you to be the perfect role model as prefect, or to show the coach how good you really are, or to never,

ever let anyone know how much the pressure gets to you. It’s hard, living up to all that. But I want to stress that expectations should not be intimidating.

People expect me to be a politician like my grand-father and my dad, and I don’t know if I can live up to those expectations. But I will definitely not say no. If I do that I will have ad-mitted defeat before I have even tried. I refuse to quit

before I have tried my best. Maybe in the end I will find something that I like to do that doesn’t relate to poli-tics. If that is the case, I will still use the same motiva-tion to do my best.

Here’s how I’d sum it up: fear should be a motiva-tor and not a destroyer. Be confident and truly believe in your ability to overcome your weakness, doubt, and fear. Politicians have to read a lot of very long bills,

and even deliver a speech every now and then. Being dyslexic, well, reading re-ally isn’t my thing. But here I am, reading this to you. A lot of people who know that I’m dyslexic wouldn’t have thought I could do this. What they didn’t know is that I’m not a quitter. The only people that can suc-ceed are those who can pre-vail. We can all be stronger than our doubts and fears.

Darren Colbourne $2.66

as people, as beIngs lIvIng In common solIdarIty wIth one another, we can no longer afford to reduce the human IndIvIdual to a faceless class.

When I found out my church talk was in April, I kept tell-ing people I was waiting for my “big event” to happen so that I could write about it. After all, I was at the begin-ning of my Sixth Form year with the exciting prospects of prefectship and college ahead of me. Good things were bound to happen. Lit-tle did I know my big event was already happening. Lit-tle did I know it would last all year.

To all of you, I’ve looked healthy. But that’s because you can’t see tonsillitis. It doesn’t bleed or require crutches. But it does sneak up on you. Beginning in October, I battled eight con-secutive cases of tonsillitis. I

was a ticking time bomb. It got to where I could practi-cally calculate down to the day it would return. And eve-ry time it did, I would disap-pear for another doctor’s ap-pointment, another round of antibiotics, another weekend of misery. My parents’ EZ-Pass recorded 18 trips across the Newport Bridge to fetch me, doing the weekly mede-vac run. I was a chronically ill 18-year-old.

We take for granted how nice it is to be healthy. If you’re not thinking about how you’re feeling, you’re usually doing pretty well. Only when we are ill do we realize what illness takes away. While my friends crept into the Factory of Terror, I

crept into the doctor’s office. While my friends strapped on workboots in Kentucky, I slipped on a hospital gown. Most unfortunately, I even missed my SATs. I didn’t plan any of this. I certainly did not plan to spend my spring break the way I did. I joked, telling people, “My friend Jackie is going to St. Maarten’s. My friend Ceara is going to St. John’s. I’m going to St. Raphael’s...Hos-pital.” My month of March was spent recovering from surgery, deprived of solid food or any kind of physical activity for fear my wounds would open. I had no choice but to sit out.

But it is not the medicine, the pain, or the sleepless

nights I will remember years from now. Maybe that’s be-cause I’ve mentally blocked them out. But something else will stand out. Someone else.

When I came home from the hospital the day of my operation, swollen and tired, my 5-foot-1 inch friend with a powerhouse per-sonality was already there. Having taken the day off from school, she was fully prepared to sit by my side, whether I was awake or asleep, if only for the sake of telling me to drink water (doctor’s orders), no mat-ter what dirty look she got in return. Later in the week, the same friend would bring me flowers with a sympathy

viduality reduced, because her story is trivial and unim-portant. I don’t mean this to be a call to class warfare, be-cause it’s not. Everyone has their trials, and everybody has to start from something; everybody is responsible for their actions. But that’s ex-actly my point. As people, as beings living in common solidarity with one another, we can no longer afford to reduce the human indi-vidual to a faceless class. Each person lives as more than a face amongst a sea of humanity, and each per-son is responsible for their own conduct, without being tied to a generalization. It’s time to stop blaming human nature for our inaction, time to stop saying that change is impossible because it’s “always been this way”. Mikhail Bakunin, a Rus-sian anarchist, or otherwise known as the type of person you’d expect me to quote,

once said: “By striving to do the impossible, man has always achieved the impos-sible. Those who have done no more than they believed possible have never taken a single step forward.”

For me, that single step forward came with the re-alization that I’d incorrectly made an assumption about a nine year old boy. Break-ing through preconceived notions is difficult, and the idea that a kid couldn’t af-ford a $2.66 lunch struck me just as strongly as the awareness of his individu-ality. By understanding his position, his motives, and his background, his action made sense. I decided to fol-low up on him, and learned shortly thereafter that he showed great progress as a student, and eagerness as well. The moment tran-scended the taking of the lunch. His desire to contin-ue with a summer education

out of the need to eat, and the love of learning, was as tragic and romantic a vision of life as I’ve seen. This sin-gular experience, in all of its paradoxical glory, changed the way I perceive people and groups and stereotypes. We all have different views on life, different philoso-phies, different theologies, and different quirks that comprise who we are. One thing we all share, regard-less of how we perceive our differences, is the experi-ence of living, of existing in this time with one another. I have a strong feeling that everybody in this church has experienced a time that connected them with an-other struggling individual. Another soul, trying to cope with the tougher moments in life, whether born from social inequality, economic inequality, or deeply per-sonal tribulations. When you connect with some-

one, and really experience their lives through their eyes, you cannot help but reach a deeper understand-ing. We owe it to ourselves, each and every one of us, to break through these stereo-types and reductive labels and get to know not just the issue, but the human faces of the issue. It’s more than a call for social equality or a desire to help reestablish a faltering nation. Rather, it arises from the depth of our psyche, and our most basic desire to experience and un-derstand and not to suffer through things alone. That’s a tall order, but it doesn’t take much to make your first step. It could happen just standing in a school lunch line. Opening ourselves up to empathy, to the reality of another individual’s plight, could be the seemingly im-possible feat that allows us to take a monumental step forward.

Sarah auer What really Matters


Last year, when I was a Fifth Former, we had

a speaker named Marc El-liot, who gave a lecture on tolerance. Marc Elliot has Tourette Syndrome. As a result, he has a unique per-spective on how people in-teract with those who are different. Throughout his lecture, he emphasized the need to “live and let live,” meaning that we have no idea what kinds of strug-gles everyone is facing in their day to day lives, so we must be sympathetic and compassionate towards eve-ryone we meet. This idea of “live and let live” really struck me. It resonated with me because it is absolutely true. We don’t know what kind of battles people are

fighting each and every day. We don’t know why people act the way they do or say the things they say. Since we don’t know what they may be going through, we need to be kind and toler-ant. So why aren’t we? Why is there so much hate and unhappiness everywhere we look? There’s no simple answer to that, but I believe that insecurity plays a big role.

We all have insecurities. Don’t we all wish we could change something about ourselves? Haven’t you thought, “If only I were”- fill in the blank: smarter, better-looking, more athlet-ic, popular, whatever- “then I’d be happy.” These inse-curities breed unhappiness

within us. Dissatisfaction with ourselves gives way to anger, frustration, and jeal-ousy. So we lash out and hurt others.

I used to live in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, where my fa-ther worked as a diplomat. My experiences there were not good to say the least. It was extremely dangerous. We couldn’t leave the house without the protection of an armored car. It felt like we were living in a prison, trapped behind the concrete walls of our house. When we would venture outside, you never knew what kind of violence you might run into. I remember looking out the car window on our way to the Embassy, un-til my mother covered my

eyes with her hands. The driver had whispered to her, “Madame, il y a un cadavre dans le chemain”- “there’s a corpse in the street.” My parents did all they could to protect me and keep me safe, but being there was a constant nightmare. At night, I would bury my head beneath my pillows and pre-tend that the distant booms and cracks of gunfire were just fireworks.

The violence and un-rest, however, were not what made life unbearable. What really hurt and scarred me was my experience at school there. I was bullied. I was one of the few Ameri-cans there, and one of the few white kids. That made me different. The kids in my

card: “I’m sorry...;you don’t have your tonsils.” And she wasn’t the only one. During not one step of this ordeal was I ever alone. Through-out that never-ending fall, friends had dutifully brought me cups of tea and walked me to the Infirmary. And even a week post-op, when my energy level was teetering towards zero, I had friends willing to just lie around and watch my third Red Box film of the day, Fi-nal Destination...Five.

We are taught to plan. We are taught to get ahead of every assignment and application, to fill up every inch of time with something productive. But nothing will ever go exactly according to plan in our lives. At some point, we must step back and accept the difference between our expectations and reality. Tomorrow will always be a challenge and

a surprise, even an obstacle we could have never seen coming. But that is what makes the present, and the presence of others, so in-valuable. I did not plan to get sick. Back in October I never planned to give this

speech. But I also did not plan to discover just how important those around me, right now, are. No planning or prescription could have provided me with people so willing to step up when I couldn’t. They were the only things not covered by insurance.

Back in October, I made plans. I mapped out my fu-ture, down to the specific academic programs I would complete over the next four

years. I chose the campus where I would graduate in 2016, and the type of people I would study next to in the library. I laid out the path I’d imagined for myself years ago. But then life changed, as it does. Turns out, next

fall I will not be setting foot on a college campus. Come September, I may be step-ping off a plane in Europe or making my way across the United States. I will be taking what is commonly known as a “gap year” and deferring my freshman year of college. Once again, my future stretches out in front of me. Except this time, there are no concrete plans. Whatever I do, my only plan is to take it day-by-day, per-

son-by-person, moment-by-precious-moment. The year is wide open, and frankly, that’s the beauty of it.

I had a lot taken away from me this year: my free-dom to plan, my choices, my nice, neat future. Instead

I got to be sick, all year. But my friends chose to simply be there with me, to be pre-sent right then, when I need-ed them. This made me real-ize how much of the future is out of our control. Wher-ever you are, and whoever you are with, the present is all that you have. Make the most of it. Your big event, your life, is happening now.

at some poInt, we must step back and accept thedIfference between our expectatIons and realIty.

emma Smith Live and Let Live

dIssatIsfactIon wIth ourselves gIves way to anger, frustratIon, and jealousy.

class used to call me “Con-densed Milk” and made fun of my skin color. They said that the only reason I got good grades was because I was white and the teachers were racist. They made me feel utterly alone and sepa-rated because I was differ-ent on the outside. Looking back now, I can laugh a little bit because, I mean “Con-densed Milk”- really? But to a ten year old it wasn’t funny, it was devastating. I just wanted people to like me, but I was constantly ostracized and picked on. I would come home every day in tears and would beg my parents not to make me go back.

There was one boy in my grade, named Guy, who was bullied even more than me. He was an awkward kid and didn’t know how to interact with people. The kids saw his weakness and jumped on it. When I wasn’t be-ing picked on, I joined in with the others and made fun of him. He had an odd way of walking- he would swing his arms out in front of him and drag his feet. I would imitate him, follow-

ing behind with an over-ex-aggerated, unsightly stride. Guy did nothing to deserve my cruelty- if anything, as a fellow-victim I should have sympathized with him. Instead, I thought that joining in would make my classmates think differently of me, accept me, and that would make me feel better. But it never did. They kept bulling me and I just felt worse. My insecurities grew and my self-worth shrank each day.

Two years later, Guy’s mother was murdered by Haitian gang members at a

gas station before his very eyes. The whole school was stunned. He received an outpouring of support and condolences from all of us. Everyone was gen-tle towards him and there were no more harsh words or actions. This made me wonder why he had been bullied in the first place. There was absolutely no reason. Sure, he was a lit-

tle strange and didn’t like to talk to many people, but he didn’t deserve to be picked on. It shouldn’t have taken something as horrific and heartbreaking as his moth-er’s murder to make us stop mistreating him.

My experience in Haiti was painful and difficult for me, but it was nothing compared to Guy’s loss and sorrow. Life is not fair. Bad things happen to people who don’t deserve them. But no one is spared entirely. Eve-ryone has some struggle of their own, be it great or small. Someone here might

have a family member who is sick and may not get better. Someone could be wondering why she doesn’t have many friends here, or why his parents are getting divorced. Somebody may have been called stupid and believes it. We have no idea. We can, however, ease this unfairness with kindness and compassion. But it’s not always easy to remem-

ber this, especially when we have our own struggles and insecurities. When we are dissatisfied with ourselves and our life, we snap at each other and hurt people. We pay our misery forward. Of course, that only adds to the general unhappiness and frustration.

When it comes down to it, we all are really very similar. We want to be liked by our peers and approved of by our betters. Each and every one of us has dreams, desires, hopes, and fears. And we are all living in a very strange and unfair

world. So, the next time you feel insecure or un-happy; give someone a kind word instead of an insult. If someone is different, recog-nize that they are who they are for a reason. You don’t know what kind of internal battles they are fighting at this very moment. Live your life and let them live theirs.

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The BeaconPhoto Contest Winners

1St PLaCe niChoLaS DeLieto

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PoRTSmouTh AbbEy SchoolPoRTSmouTh, RI

mISSIon STATEmEnT

The aim of Portsmouth Abbey School is to help young men and women grow in knowledge and grace.

Grounded in the Catholic faith and 1500-year-oldBenedictine intellectual tradition, the school fosters:

REvEREncEfor God and the human person

RESPEcTfor learning and order

RESPonSIbIlITyfor the shared experience of community life

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