The World is a Beautiful Place

tones
2010

tones 2010
Literary Editor
Deanna Amoia
Art Editor
Victoria Hardy
Assistant Literary Editors
Jennie Conway
Dana Mignione
Staff
Grace Gorenstein
Julie Hackett
Aditi Kothari
Vivian Lee
Advisors
Donna Grasso
Sarah McMane
Cover
Howard Kyong
Ed Bolan, Principal
Sheila Silverman, Assistant Principal
Juliet Gevargis, Assistant Principal
Tappan Zee High School, 15 Dutch Hill Rd., Orangeburg, NY 10962

table o f conte nts
1 Inhibitions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Deanna Amoia
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Song
2 La Petite Fille . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alex Aitken
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brandon Zhao
3 Sally . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dana Mignione
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Danielle Acevedo
4 Yellow or Pink Flowers . . . . . . . . Grace Gorenstein
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jenna Mrozinski
5 Chased . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chelsea Hano
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Song
7 Snowflakes and Paper Chains . . . . . Theresa Flynn
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Steve Purkis
8 Capturing the Infinite . . . . . . . . . . . . Anonymous
9 Second Time Around . . . . . . . . . . Jessica Ciallella
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jessica Ciallella
10 The Many Uses of Underwear . . . . Jennie Conway
12 The Pains of Grace . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julie Hackett
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Giannia Schettini
13 Hindsight . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Deanna Amoia
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julie Hackett
14 Charlie . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rosie Alig
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brandon Zhao
15 My Falling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sheila Krishnan
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nikki Hennessy
16 Promises . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Veronica Tenesaca
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Juan Molina
17 Great Grandpa . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Patrick Moffett
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rose Milando
18 Taxonomy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Justin Reiter
19 Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Martín Tlalolini
20 Kung Fu Grandma . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Annie Tao
21 Devil’s Daughter . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vivian Lee
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Song
22 Beloved: A Love Story . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rose Alig
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Isabel Barrie
23 The Ruination of Irish Dancing . . . . . . Kiera Brady
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Victoria Hardy
25 Title . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Giannia Schettini
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rachel Stanford
26 Rabid Smog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julie Hackett
27
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Emiko Chisholm
Neighbors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Regina Argenzio
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nicole Healy
28 Falling From New Heights . . . . . . . . Taimy Thomas
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Donna Grasso
29 Dimentico . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dana Mignione
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brandon Zhao
30 This I Believe: Better Odd Than Boring . . Elliot Halpern
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kevin Qian
31 Catherine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Theresa Flynn
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Song
32 Wicker Memories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julie Hackett
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julie Hackett
33 Ambivalence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chelsea Hano
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kevin Qian
34 Integrity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Deanna Amoia
36 Little Sisters . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alexandra Marks
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nicole Healy
37 Eyes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jennie Conway
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . Amanda Grinvalds
38 It Will Always Come Back . . . . . . . . . . Alyssa Lam
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Song
39 Cynic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sheila Krishnan
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Chris Cassidy
40 Windex . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vivian Lee
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Vivian Lee
41 Across the Pond . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Connor Teahan
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Emiko Chisholm
42 It. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Grace Gorenstein
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Song
43 Paper Planes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aditi Kothari
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jenna Mrozinski
44 Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alexandra Marks
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ashley Glazer
45 Imaginary Games . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Julie Hackett
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Song
46 I Am My Memories . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sara James
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aarati Akkapeddi
47 Speaking . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Elliot Halpern
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Aarati Akkapeddi
48 The Mirror . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Ashley Thompson
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Victoria Hardy
49 Ode to My Acne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Dana Mignione
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jessica Lynady
50 The Sun Rises Just for Me . . . . . . . Theresa Flynn
Art . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Danielle Acevedo

Inhibitions
by Deanna Amoia
A sly smile crept across his face, like that of a sideshow performer with a trick up his sleeve. The action made his eyes narrow
into a curious stare that I returned. I was prepared to jump off a mountain in exchange for the knowledge lurking behind this frostbitten
expression. But, to my dismay, there were no dangerous edifices to leap off of. I attempted to decrypt his gaze instead.
Sarah Song
His thoughts, the foreign transmissions inside his head, transformed the eyes I had seen so many times before into something
completely different. The faded grass color was replaced by brilliant green hues with hints of rusted gold that reflected every snowflake
around us. In those brief moments, instead of a dead lawn, I looked into a forest of evergreens and yellow birches peeling from age,
covered in ice. I could build a log cabin there and live in it forever. I could write a novel about their colors alone. I could have day-long
conversations with this newly discovered paradise. I could learn everything there is to know about him and still be happily surprised.
I could learn life's secrets or ignore their presence. I could do anything I wanted to, except kiss his knowing grin.
1

La Petite Fille
by Alex Aitken
2
What’s my secret, you ask? My biggest secret? Well, it’s not so much of a secret anymore, but it haunts me now more
than ever. It was one of the most personal and hardest things one could keep to himself. In fact, I’m surprised I kept it hidden
for as long as I did. No, I am not in the mafia. No, I am not gay. My secret was my name, my middle name; my secret
was my identity. Within those for letters lurked my past, my identity, and my weakness. For years and years, I had kept this
to myself. But of course, as all secrets do, my identity became public at the worst possible time: fourth grade.
As anyone could have guessed by now, my name is embarrassing; at least it was in elementary school, at time when any
miniscule abnormality, even a mere freckle, could be used as a tool of insurmountable ridicule and torment. I mean, obviously,
I had an embarrassing middle name or else there would be no reason for me to write about it. But it’s not just embarrassing.
It goes deeper than just a silly name for the infantile mind to snicker at like “Dick Hertz” or the name of the substitute
teacher every child seemed to have at least once, “Mister Bates.” This identity changed the way people perceived me. It made
others, and me, question my manhood.
I remember the day when everything changed. I remember clearly as a curious classmate glanced over at my report card.
He was checking to see if he had done better than me, but in knew the subject of interest had immediately changed when I
heard the infamous words come screeching our of his prepubescent throat, “Who is Renéééééééé??” There was only one “e”
at the end, but my friend hung onto that last vowel for so long I was sure he would suffocate on it.
“That’s me,” I said, “René is my middle name.”
I shouldn’t have said that. I should’ve said René was my mother or something. It’s not like he would know any better.
“Renéééé? But isn’t that... a girl’s name?”
“No!” I defended, “It’s French Canadian. I’m French Canadian!” Like that
made anything better.
“You’re French!? AND Canadian? So you ARE a girl then, eehhh, Renééééé?”
It’s funny how elementary school kids are the most prejudiced and bigoted
people of all, pointing out stereotypes that didn’t exist before their mouths blurted
them out. Then, all young minds in hearing range will take that stereotype,
now a truth, and smash it into your face until you bleed from embarrassment.
Apparently, to a fourth grader, being French Canadian, especially a French
Canadian named René, makes you a bona fide girl.
It ain’t no picnic being French Canadian. Of course, my people did not suffer
from hundreds of years of oppression and racial violence, and of course, there
are ethnic backgrounds that have endured more difficult prejudices. But then
again, if someone makes fun of one of these minorities, it’s called racism. If
someone makes fun of a French Canadian, it’s called hilarity. Try being a French
Canadian boy. Try being a French Canadian boy named Alex René.
Ambiguity consumed me from the moment that awful name came out of my
classmate’s mouth. From that point on, I was no longer “Alex Aitken,” the quiet
little boy who was good at math and liked rock and roll. I was “Renééééé,
eehhh?” the petite French Canadian girl. My identity was now a question.
Everything about me was in question. When people saw me, they questioned
whether I was who I said I was. They didn’t believe me. Soon, I didn’t believe
myself. I had to go home and look in the mirror to see if I really was who I said
I was. And when I saw the face staring back at me in the mirror, I asked myself,
“Ou est le fils?”
Brandon Zhao

Sally
by Dana Mingione
Her name is Sally.
She sits in the corner of the room, veiled in a thin sheet of dust and neglect.
She’s probably out of tune.
When I unwrapped her on Christmas morning, I became six years old again; she was a new Barbie and I wore pigtails. I wanted
to rip her out of her case, tweak those bright chrome knobs and do nothing but explore her notes and chords all day. But I was sixteen,
not six, so after presents, I went back to sleep for awhile. Instead of sugar plums, I dreamed of cherry red guitars.
For the whole month of January, she was my best friend. I would sit on my bed and cradle her, trying to decipher the tab sheets
that I had printed out. After about a week, I bought an amp. I bought a capo. I was in for the long haul. Those stupid dreams of a band
that I had with my friends weren’t looking so stupid anymore. I could sing, I would write songs. All I needed was to work at this instrument
thing and I’d be golden, right?
I managed to coax some decent chords from her neck, but my
inexperienced fingers stumbled. Those strings were trip wires. My
brain’s commands couldn’t bridge the vast gap of my synapses and
make it all the way to my hands.
Still, I would pluck away, softly singing song after simple song.
While I attempted it, the new songbook of hardcore pop music that I
received for Christmas was still a little out of my league. I got pretty
darn good at “Happy Birthday” and “Deck the Halls” though, let me
tell you.
I had every intention of practicing every day. I really did. But
things came up, as things tend to do. The dulcet tones of off tempo
strumming and botched chords could be heard less and less in my
house.
It was fifth grade clarinet all over again.
So Sally got cozy in her new neighborhood in the corner, along
with her companions, Amp and Songbook. I should really pay her a
visit sometime.
Am I not driven? Am I not talented? The answer to the former is
“Yes,” so I guess I’ll never know the answer to the latter. You probably
won’t see me at the Grammys, on MTV, or even on stage at Acoustic
Underground.
But then again, maybe I will take Sally our one Saturday afternoon
and really fall for her. We would start off fast, as we did before,
with a sudden spark. But our love may blossom over time. Maybe
we’ll have a life together someday.
But until that day, I think we are just fair-weather friends.
Danielle Acevedo
3

Yellow or Pink Flowers
by Grace Gorenstein
She wakes up at 5:30 to brush her teeth. With the sun already in the sky, she feels as though the day will be one sprinkled
with golden moments. The green mouthwash stings the insides of her cheeks, but she insists on gargling despite watering
eyes. Once sleep has been washed away, she proceeds to dress her face. With clothes, she feels, the body can be accentuated
and yet hidden. At the same time, makeup allows someone to show herself without revealing the truth. With a mascara
wand in hand, she continues the process. Her face must be made beautiful. Like everything in her world, she must work hard
for perfection. It does not come to her easily like natural beauty queens. A bunkmate drunk with early-morning fatigue walks
into the bathroom to pee. The girl waits until the loser goes back to bed before continuing with her beautification. Now the crucial
element: straightened hair. Although camp policy looks down upon using the straightening iron because of poor electricity,
she uses one anyway. Frizz is ugly. She is ugly. Straight and shiny is desirable. At seven she crawls back onto the top bunk,
and rests on her back so as to not ruin the closest thing to Perfect she can be without him. Fifteen minutes later, the cabin is
woken, and eleven groggy girls roll out of bed and proceed in their bulky pajamas and sweatshirts to breakfast. She goes as
well, wearing short shorts and a cutoff sweatshirt for that subtle 80’s-but-sexy look to the best of her fat ability. He’ll ask me
today. I know it.
According to fantasy, she is supposed to proceed to breakfast with the rest of the camp, and sometime during the meal
he will stand up on a table, with flowers in hand, and profess his love to her. Everyone will clap. She’ll appear shocked, of
course, and stand up so everyone can see how beautiful she is. As she rises, he will descend from the table and walk to her,
his blue eyes remaining on her mud-colored eyes the entire time. He will pay no mind to the ugly eye color, but only to the
makeup surrounding it. He will give her the flowers, which will be yellow or pink roses (whichever match her outfit) and he will
hug her passionately and then kiss her for all to envy. But the losers
will still clap. Because although they can never experience bliss
themselves, they can still recognize the Perfection they will create
and support its presence.
She goes to the buffet line, and only gets food that is attractive,
so that she is never caught at a bad moment. Just yogurt. Imagine,
if in addition to her pale skin she had crumbs or bacon on her face?
Basics are always accepted. Only yogurt. She waits. She’s sitting with
her cabin, but makes sure that she can see him across the dining
hall. The flowers must be under the table. The girls on either side of
her gorge themselves in eggs, bacon, chocolate milk, and other
undesirables. She hopes that eating the lumpy yogurt won’t be in
vain. Breakfast is over and the clunking of plates and cutlery begins
to fill the hall. Maybe he’s waiting until it’s loud, just so that he can
silence the room before telling everyone he loves me. That way it’s
more dramatic. The plates are now stacked, and campers await dismissal
so they can return to the cabins and put clothes on for the
day’s activities. She looks over, and sees him focused on a thumb
war with one of his friends. Stand up. Tell me you love me. In front of
everyone. The campers are dismissed, and the day begins.
In pursuit of a good camp experience, every day eleven girls put
on sunscreen and sneakers, and one girl goes to vomit in the bathroom.
But while at her lowest, gripping the toilet bowl, she’s still smiling,
because she knows that she will get her flowers at lunch.
4
Jenna Mrozinski

Chased
by Chelsea Hano
Disclaimer: I am not a damsel in distress. I am not a wilting
flower. When I go on dates with guys, I don’t let them pay for
me. If they do pay, it makes me feel like a prostitute. That
must sound really silly, but it’s how I feel. Most of my male
friends have been trained to run in fear when I’m angry and
flinch if I raise my hand too quickly. Unlike most girls, I don’t
view being single as a curse. To me it’s a pleasure. I am
strong, independent, and fierce. I don’t need a man, or anyone
to save me. Except for this one time, at theater camp…
It was lunchtime at French Woods Festival for the
Performing Arts, summer of 2009 (or the summer of Two
Thousand and Swine, as it’s known amongst the campers).
I was seventeen, young, and stupid. As I write this, I am still
seventeen, still young, and still very stupid.
After waiting on line for what seemed like hours, I
had finally gotten my food. The food at French Woods is
pretty questionable but it’s food and most of the time it’s
good. It’s always deep fried though. I never understood that.
I saw my friend Alex making his way back to his
lunch table. Alex is one of those lanky theater boys that girls
like me are suckers for. He can quote Shakespeare and sing
Steven Sondheim with the best of them. His soft, dark brown
hair is made to be tussled and stroked, like a puppy.
Sometimes he lets me and his other female friends verbally
beat the crap out of him. When I had a fake wedding earlier
that summer, Alex borrowed the hand-me-down jacket from my dad and “gave me away.” Mothers
like him. Alex is disarming. His eyes sometimes sparkle.
Sarah Song
We saw each other and started talking. I needed to talk to him. It was important.
“Hey Alex, remember yesterday when we were all hanging out and that kid Chase showed up?”
Alex nodded. I’m pretty sure he had some idea of what I was about to say.
“Well…he’s a creeper. When I was sitting with him during evening activity he kept trying to take off my bra through my
shirt. He wouldn’t stop until I smashed his hand against the wall with my back.”
It’s perfectly normal for friends to do that to each other as a joke. But some kid we don’t know, not cool. “What the
@#$%!” Alex exclaimed.
5

“Yeah, he kept on asking me out. This guy met me yesterday and he asked me out. He went on and on and on about
how he could see ‘the pain in my eyes.’ And that ‘I’ve really suffered.’ Like I was some emo boy’s Barbie or something. But
anyway, I was wondering, if you see him near me or about to come near me or anything like that, could you…”
“Definitely.” He knew exactly what I was talking about. You know when two people are such good friends that they can
read each other’s minds? Alex and I can do that.
“It’s not like I couldn’t kick his ass or anything, but it helps to have a guy just there. You know? Also…he tried to put a
dog collar on me.”
Alex’s jaw dropped. A string of words came out of his mouth. It resembled “Huh bah duh wah?” The fact that any guy
would do that didn’t seem to click in his mind.
“Yeah, during evening activity and we were alone. He pulled out this big, black, spiked dog collar out of his pocket. The
kind that an emo would buy at Hot Topic. He tried to make me wear it. I don’t work like that though. So just if you see him or
something just…you know.”
He nodded, he knew. We hugged and went to our separate tables.
The next day, at lunchtime once again. I stood at the front of the dining hall. My eyes scanned the smelly hall looking
for my friend Steph. Guess who walked up to me with a repulsive swagger? Chase.
Chase was one of those cliché looking emo kids that are the reason people hate emos. His clothes were only black,
usually involving chains and shirts with an “ironic and witty” statement. He stood 5’2 inches and weighed about ninety pounds.
Chase was mentally disturbed, but I was still bigger than him so I had no doubt that I could’ve taken him in a fight if necessary.
If he were well-built, I would’ve told an adult or something. Everything about him was covered in a thin layer of dirt and
grease. The greasiest part of him was his long stringy hair that covered his glasses; it was lightly speckled with white flecks of
dandruff. Thinking about him makes me vomit in my mouth a little bit.
“Hey, are you looking for me?” he said, choking on his own smirk.
I put on my best bitchy teenage girl face “No,” I said.
In Chase’s mind the “no” must’ve translated into “please take off my bra,” because that’s exactly what he tried to do. I
dodged his dirt covered hands all the while saying things like “Stop. Don’t.” and “Cut it out!” He didn’t listen to me. I was starting
to freak out, when all of a sudden, who came riding in on the metaphorical white horse of chivalry? Alex.
He walked towards us like a hero in an action movie. Full of purpose and ready to kick ass. Without hurting me, Alex
grabbed my arm and swung me around so he was in between me and Chase. Alex was a wall protecting me from grabby, grimy
hands. This adorkable, lanky, kind of awkward nineteen-year-old had become a wall. I breathed in a feeling of safety.
Alex spoke to me but didn’t take his eyes off of his victim. “Go. Leave. He’s not going to hurt you.”
“She’s not yours,” said Chase. Everything this kid did was slimy.
“She’s not yours either.” Alex drew himself up to his full height, towering over Chase like a horse towers over a snake.
“I belong to myself, thank you very much.” This seemed like a good enough time for me to speak up. I turned around
and walked away.
After that, Chase wasn’t so bold anymore, and he never tried to undo my bra ever again, but he still wouldn’t leave me
alone. After threatening to tell the head of camp, he still wouldn’t back off. I knew only one thing would make him stop, and I
was more than happy to do it. I punched him in the face.
6

Snowflakes and Paper-Chains
by Theresa Flynn
My facial features are not uncommon, nor are they unique. They are closely replicated on the faces of my sisters – big
brown eyes, a small nose with a bump, high cheek bones and a fair complexion, all framed by thick frizzy hair.
At first glance we are a paper-chain, each cut out of exactly like the next, but look closer and you will see we are
snowflakes, similar at a distance, but still unique and special.
My big brown eyes shine when they are happy. At the mention of the paper-chain, they narrow. The tips of my toes
curl, and an angry, red heat travels into my face.
I am a snowflake. Unique and special. I am not part of the paper-chain – cut from the same paper, attached permanently
to the other paper-girls, with the same sharp edge of the skirt and uniform length of hair. My pattern is different, and
all its own.
I am a snowflake.
Steve Purkis
7

Mom
“Do you remember me?”
Those were the first words I remember my mom saying as she hugged me. She was tall with long wavy dark as midnight
hair and a unique smell. She smelled of lavender and babies. Her skin was tanned and she had one beauty mark on her left
hand, the only part of her I could make out clearly, as I was midget-sized, even for a five-year-old. She waved her hand towards
me and it seemed to emit comfort. Without thinking, I reached for it, and was surprised by its smoothness. She smiled at my
surprised face and turned me towards a tall man with coffee skin who smelled of paint. He stepped closer to me and I tilted my
head up to try to see all of him. I could just barely make out two dark eyes and a laughing smile. He looked down and said, “Let’s
go.” Something in the back of my mind said dad.
I hadn’t seen my parents in a long time—not since they’d left to start our new life in America—and I had to get to know
them all over again.
My mom then lifted me into my dad’s arms and navigated her way through the throngs of figures with suitcases. When we
got to the car, he placed me back into her arms and the smell of her skin lulled me to sleep. When I awoke, it was dark. We
were in front of this hideous pineapple-colored house that looked to be hundreds of years old. I was pushed out the car, into the
house, up the creaking stairs, and into a small room. There my mom pointed to a rosy pink princess bed with matching pillows.
I turned to her, saw her goofy happy expression, and didn’t have the heart to tell her my favorite color was blue.
The next month, my sister, Diana, came, and I was able to tell someone just how crazy my mom was. She would do things
like watch me play with my dolls or play with the kids downstairs. She would ask if she could braid my hair, even though it was
still short from my last haircut. She would ask me if I was happy. If I looked sad, she looked sad. I never once realized that all
she was doing was trying to get to know me, just as I had to get to know her. I was used to having people know that my face
gets serious when I am deep in thought, or that my favorite color is blue, or that I like having my hair loose, not braided. These
were things, I figured, that I had to teach her. But my mom caught on quickly and replaced the Pepto-Bismol bed with a flowery
sky blue one. She stopped trying to braid my hair every day. When school started, she would take me to the bus stop and then
hurry off to work.
After a few years, my mom and dad decided to have another baby. Her name was Lillian. Then they decided to split up, and
we, my sisters and I, left with my mom. At first, she worried about us, but when I discovered the violin, she decided that if it
helped me, she would do everything to support me. She never missed a single concert and pushed me to practice every day.
When she found out I enjoyed reading, she decided that routine trips to the library were a must. She never once complained
about how hard it was to keep a roof over our heads; all she did was try to make things fun for us.
On the weekends, she would take us on walks to the park and treat us to ice cream. On the days she was home, she would
make up stories for me.
But then, all that changed.
One summer day when we were on one of our regular trips to the library, she collapsed and was rushed to the hospital.
There she was diagnosed with cancer. For a few months, she attended an outpatient program in Valhalla. Then when her cancer
worsened, she went to Westchester Medical Hospital. Whenever she went to the hospital, I would go with her, even if that
meant missing school. Little by little, I saw my mom shrink from the beauty that she was into this pale, weak, prematurely aged
woman whom I didn’t know. As she slipped away, I realized that she tried to make things the way they used to be. She would
have me curl up in bed with her and listen to stories about what she used to do as a little girl. Every time I we did this, I would
lie there and inhale her smell so I would have it with me forever.
Then it happened.
That day was the same as every other day. I woke up and was about to go to school, but decided to stay home. She got
worse and I had
Nicole
to call
Healy
an ambulance. Two days later, she was gone. She left while I was at school and I didn’t have the chance
to say goodbye. All that remained was her empty bed that smelled like lavender and babies.
At that moment, all I wanted was to hear her scream at me to clean my room, or to curl up in bed with her and listen to her
stories. It has taken a long time, but now, when I remember her, I think of her scent, and imagine her somewhere looking down
on me, protecting me and smiling at me. And I know I am never alone.
8
—Anonymous

Second Time Around
by Jessica Ciallella
.6% — not even 1%. Who falls under such unlikely circumstances? My family.
The odds of having an autistic child are 1 in 150. My mom managed to have not one, but two autistic boys. Though my
first autistic brother Richard passed away at age four, six years later, my mom had another boy who, coincidentally, was autistic.
Some would think falling under such a small percentage is unlucky, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Jake is my autistic brother, who’s now ten years old. I won’t lie and say it was
easy accepting my brother’s disability; it took a lot of patience, energy, and a few
blood-drawing bites. Being only two when my older brother passed away, I had no
previous knowledge of autism and had no idea how challenging it would be. A quick
run to the supermarket turned into a two-hour trip, shopping around for fish oils,
gluten-free, wheat-free foods that were according to Jake’s therapist “better for him.”
Our family had to change up the annual summer vacation and stay away from beach
and pool resorts because where ever there was water, Jake swam…naked. Any store
that sold videotapes was one to stay away from, since Jake could probably spend his
whole day picking out movies. If we didn’t buy them, he screamed, threw himself on
the floor, and did basically anything in his power to get his way. Bystanders in stores
often stared and whispered. I probably have bumps on my tongue from biting it so
hard holding back my anger. I wasn’t angry with Jake though; I was angry with the
people who didn’t understand his diagnosis.
Over the course of time, I started developing a strong relationship with Jake. As
he grew older, he also grew out of his old ways. He retired swimming in his birthday
suit, handled himself in social environments, and cut down his video addiction. Once
he could cope in public places without an instant temper tantrum, he gained more
freedom. Wherever I began to go, Jake wasn’t too far. He now enjoys places I take
him regularly. Every Saturday morning we wake up and go to Dunkin’ Donuts. Jake
tags along when I run into the mall, but starts getting fussy in the shoe department.
Compromise was a key component all along. He put up with the shopping and walking,
and I rewarded him with a number 10 from Burger King. Jake understood that
good behavior became rewarded, and to this day hasn’t acted up under my watch.
My parents and family members were in awe of my successful relationship with Jake.
As Jake progressed with social interaction and verbal skills, I learned all about
responsibility, caring for someone more than I care about myself. I teased my mom
Jessica Ciallella
telling her I should be Jake’s mother. On May 14th, 2008, it was no joking matter.
I felt like the wind got knocked out of me that morning. Right before I left for school, my mom told me that I was going to
be Jake’s legal guardian when my parents pass away, and I would sign the paperwork confirming it when I got home from practice.
I felt like I got hit by a train, my bones were so numb. I honestly couldn’t tell you a thing I learned that day in school. All I
thought about was how my life was about to do a 360 right before my eyes. I haven’t even made it out of high school yet, and
haven’t even entered the “real world.” I couldn’t do it. I got home from practice and said no, telling my mom this could potentially
ruin my life. My parents were so hurt, they said if I didn’t sign, Jake would be put in a home and live there for the rest of
his life. But I was selfish and cared only about my own prosperity and future. I went to church a few nights later, and it was
almost as if the message were directed to me. “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for the people we love, whether it’s our
first choice or not. You never realize how strong you are until you have to be.” The message couldn’t have been anymore clear.
This was my opportunity to rise to responsibility and test my strengths. How could I have been so naïve?
That night I went home and cried more than Jake would when he couldn’t drink orange soda before bed. I couldn’t believe
I almost allowed Jake to live in a home, without his family. It’s more than Jake needing me, I realized—it’s me needing him! I
wouldn’t be half the person I am today without Jake’s autism. Legal document or not, I treated Jake already as if he were my
own. As for the signing, I’m not allowed to legally sign consent until I’m twenty-one, but when that time comes, I will.
9

The Many Uses of Underwear
by Jennie Conway
Underwear; by definition it’s clothing worn underneath our outer layers. It’s also the cause of cliché sexual tension situations
in movies between the romantic leads. My own experience with these colorful garments was certainly tense, but it wasn’t
even remotely sexual; it was just plain awkward.
The summer of ’07 I went on one of those overrated People to People trips; you know, the ones where they stress
responsibility and leadership and that our goal is to show America in a good light? In reality, it was a sightseeing trip. A way
for teenagers to see the real life versions of those itty-bitty pictures we are force-fed in history textbooks.
The first few days in Italy were spent traveling from the rustic southern provinces to the picturesque countryside in the
north that the country is famous for. Nestled in the region of Umbria lies the town of Assisi, known as the birthplace of St.
Francis.
When Assisi comes to mind, an image on a postcard immediately follows without another thought. Narrow, spindly cobblestone
streets wound their way across lush hills with a backdrop of a pure and unpolluted blue void above. Monuments
from the age of St. Francis lay in assorted clusters in varying elevations, and our knees complained incessantly with every
height change, screaming at the creakiest pitch available.
Our hotel was on one of the blissfully flat portions of the city, a yellow rectangle that rose three stories, and dotted with
blindly white cutouts, overlooking the pristine countryside beyond. Once assigned, the immaculate rooms offered a wonderful
reprieve and washing capabilities. The rotting stench that permeated all of our luggage and our tour bus would be sedated
by the glorious availability of water.
I brought out my tattered shorts, faded shirts, and fraying socks in a large bundle that made me look like a walking
washing machine. My arms were as red as the fading sunset when I began contentedly pinning my articles of clothing to the
clothesline positioned across the white balcony. My roommate had some vendetta against washing clothes, so I had been
able to commandeer the entire section for myself.
I sighed and leisurely folded myself down so that my legs swung childishly from between the balcony’s iron bars. The
endless shades of orange, purple and pink swirled before me as the sun set at a sluggish pace so that all could enjoy its
wonders.
I chatted with my friends in the room to the left of mine; they had some qualms about the fact that they had no clothespins
on their line to hold everything in place, but I absentmindedly assured them that there would barely be any wind that
night. Satisfied with my answer, we wished each other sweet dreams before heading off into the warm contours of dreamless
sleep.
The morning was plagued by shrieks that usually accompanied hyperactive girls who cannot decide what outfit to wear.
My legs found their way wearily next-door while my lifeless roommate remained in her bed, last night’s drool creeping precariously
over the side. Before I had time to raise my hand, the door swung open with a thrashing sound that vibrated
throughout the entire floor.
“It’s gone!”
“What is?”
“Our clothes!”
10

“Huh?”
“The clothes we washed last night! They blew off the clothesline!”
“Oh…uh…where are—”
“THEY’RE ON THE BOY’S BALCONY!” Anoki, Jessica’s small Indian roommate was a girl who had never spoken above a
polite whisper before. Now she whipped past me with enough force to drive me into a wall. My friend Jessica followed soon
after her, flapping her arms wildly in her attempt to retrieve her clothes before the boys spotted the polka-dotted bras and
undies lying outside their room.
Thunder cascaded down the stairs as more girls realized that their clothes had been swept away to a horrifying exhibition
located on the boy’s floor. Following Anoki and Jessica, I was subjected to the loudest rumble of thunder heard that
morning.
it.
The door quaked like a frightened schoolboy underneath the knocking that Anoki and Jessica fruitlessly bore down upon
Fortunately for the door’s sake, it was rescued by one of the irritable inhabitants from behind it. You see, although it is
typically believed that girls are the annoying and prissy ones in the mornings, it is actually the boys who snap more readily
and curse far more frequently when disturbed during their morning routine. These boys, already aggravated by the screaming,
unceremoniously threw open their door, wearing either oddly patterned boxers or towels around their waists.
“Let us in.”
“No! It’s our room and we’re not dressed!”
“Does it look like I give a crap? Our…belongings….are outside on your balcony and WE…WANT…THEM…BACK.”
“We’ll go get them for you.”
“IF YOU TOUCH ONE OF MY BRAS I WILL THROW YOU UNDER OUR BUS!”
Like soldiers spurred on in a heated battle, Anoki and Jessica shoved their way through the boys’ indecent ranks and
towards the valued goal of the balcony beyond. In a fantastic prank a boy decided to drop his towel as the girls ran into the
room, revealing boxers underneath so that we’d blush a scarlet red. The carefully planned out immaturity of boys always
make me slap my forehead in pity of their stupidity.
Anoki and Jessica returned a few minutes later with bulging bunches shoved underneath their shirts, making it look like
they were having rather bumpy pregnancies. The screeching had ceased but soon rose up in a tidal wave once the boys
realized that some of their clothes had fluttered off their small, fenced patios and landed in puddles of mysterious liquid. The
boy’s rooms were located at ground level, just across from where the hotel’s dog slept. Ah, the wonder of karma.
I helped Anoki and Jessica re-pack their underwear into their bags as we rolled around the beds and thought up jokes
to taunt the rude boys for their not so chivalrous behavior.
We then ran into the dining room and feasted upon the glorious spread of Nutella, assorted fruits, and croissants that
was laid artfully before us. With our mouths dripping of the chocolate and hazelnut spread, we mercilessly teased our friend
Paul that the yellowish stain on a shirt of his was a result of the hotel’s Saint Bernard and not an effect of his bad washing
technique.
11

The Pains of Grace
by Julie Hackett
Sweat beads on my forehead
lungs burning from the effort
my ribs tucked tightly
into my body,
a supposedly compact missile
of grace.
My legs sting, my ankles groan
my heals ache from the weight
of my thumping, pounding jumps.
My feet, hot and moist,
strain to be perfectly aligned.
My toes, numb from the pressure of size
silently scream their way
through the motions
My shoulders, tense and sore,
my arms, sagging and weak.
But my face—
my face becomes a soft
porcelain mask of ease.
Though the struggles of my body
fill my head,
Giannia Schettini
my calm expression reveals nothing
to the criticizing spectators
12
watching from below.

Hindsight: A Response to “The World is a Beautiful Place”
by Lawrence Ferlinghetti
by Deanna Amoia
Granite held up the roof
that crashed down
onto society last night
when tensions finally boiled over
and broke apart the world
that is now only
rubble under feet
Or ash that covers
everything
but the posts that support
nothing
and are out of place
in this desert
that was a house
a store
a city
A world
complete with
truthless politicians
and companies that pledged good
will
while scraping out the insides of
purses and wallets
and businessmen
selling scruples on street corners
In this free market with
eye contact avoiders
and logic barriers
thousands would
storm shopping centers in search of
long-gone holiday cheer and
thousands would
ignore the man on the side of the
road
whose hat was lost to
wind and rain
Funny to think that
somewhere students studied for
straight A’s
and forgot about their world
their imperfections
and how to
tie their shoes
Isn’t it sad that no one stopped to ask
what were we doing
when the decision was made
to give up on vacations
because they cost too much
to get respectable jobs
so dreams only appeared at night
to walk past the park
rather than stroll through it
to play it safe
instead of live it up
to act just a little bit
human
Julie Hackett 13

Charlie
by Rosie Alig
For Charlie, names mean very little.
The click of the toy train on the tracks is far more compelling than the fact that it is called Thomas, and his capacity
for affection is in no way hindered by his reluctance to express it in words. Yet this five-year-old boy –– smart, lovely, autistic
–– has dug deep inside a mind we know little about and, despite instincts screaming to turn the
other way, has learned to look his mother in the eye and call himself by his name.
Though it seems small, this gesture was an impetus for me to reframe the way I
think about the fortitude and diversity of human intellect. Looking at Charlie, knowing his
extreme introversion, I wondered what it must take for a child whose mind is a constantly
expanding solipsism to open up even further, to bend his cognizance to resemble our
own. The verbal marketplace we take for granted is as alien to Charlie as his need for
self-stimulation is to us, yet he is beginning to assimilate this logocentric mentality into
his sense of the world. Despite the fact that popular perceptions of autism speak of an
utter, almost elective disconnectedness, Charlie’s Herculean effort to learn the rules of
our foreign world attests to the fact that the intellect of the autistic individual is as rich
and varied as that of so-called “normal” people.
Sadly, this is not a universally accepted notion. A popular college level psychology
textbook includes a mere paragraph on autism, defining it exclusively in negatives: an
“impaired theory of mind” and “deficient communication.” This way of thinking oversimplifies
and underrepresents; it dismisses difference as disease, and in doing so perpetuates
the alienation we ascribe to the disorder itself.
Though I am not immune to the inevitable confusion which comes from being faced
with a psychological state so utterly different from my own, I have learned that the line of
thinking which broadly paints autism as an undesirable mutation, a reflection of the sins of
the mother or the environment, does little to make progress towards a cohesive understanding
of the disorder. My experience with Charlie has taught me that if I am to break
down the barriers between him and me, I must expand my intellect to grasp his own.
As I sit with Charlie and his train set, I call out greetings to Thomas and his friends,
labeling everything as if teaching someone English for the first time. I redirect his
behavior, trying to bring his intellect to the common plane. But I also take a
minute to adjust my own, to run my fingers over the tracks and to listen
to the click of the toy. Though he hasn’t asked me in words, I try to
answer Charlie’s tacit request to meet him, for once, in the safe harbor
of his internal world. If I can’t find the bravery to expand my
notions of play and pleasure, language and connection, how can I
ask him to do the same?
14
Brandon Zhao

My Falling
by Sheila Krishnan
Yesterday evening, something curious happened: I began my weekly falling,
and two people walked right through the mess I made.
Every week, I would fall right on that street, because I love the sound it
makes against the cobblestones and the quietness that settles because the people
are too afraid to walk through it. I would pull everything I had together, just so
that I could drop it all once a week and laugh at how all the little humans would
scurry for cover while the trees would smile and open their leaves. And it was
always fun, especially when my friend Flash came over – she loves to dance
down and see how close she can get to the bottom without falling all the way. To
this day, she only fell once, and there’s a little bruise near the bench where she
fell.
But yesterday evening, Flash couldn’t make it, and I just went ahead and
started my falling, humming along with the leaves below. But I almost stopped
when I saw that there were two humans taking a quiet stroll through the clatter,
not bothered at all by the cold. Everyone else had bolted for cover, but these two
curious folk seemed quite oblivious.
Nikki Hennessy
My curiosity piqued, I crouched closer, inadvertently falling a little harder. As
I peered at them, one of the people sidled closer to other, and said in a deep voice, “You know, your mother used to love the rain.
Sometimes, she’d sit outside on that tree stump over there, by the bench, and just listen. She used to say that the trees would sing with
pleasure after a week of nothing.”
I remember that one… she was peculiar, like these two – she would always visit once a week and just sit where Flash fell. Her eyes
would be closed and she would sometimes hum along with me. I used to like her, but one day, she never came, and she hasn’t since.
The smaller figure put a short arm around her father. “Do you miss her, Daddy?” They continued walking slowly through the square,
and I lessened my falling to a drizzle.
The man didn’t answer for a moment, but, upon reaching the stump, he stopped and stroked it. After a moment, he said, “I do,
princess. But I try to remember that she went away with a smile on her face. She always told us to keep moving forward, right? And
sometimes it’s easier to do that when we’re near her presence.”
The little girl mulled that over for a moment, before turning luminous eyes towards his reminiscing face. “Do you think she’s here
now, Daddy? I want to see her…I…miss her!” Her small face crumpled into tears, and I began to fall harder to drown out the heartwrenching
sound as well as my own sadness.
Her father hoisted her up, and brushed away the tears gently. “Oh, sweetheart, don’t cry. Listen, Mommy’s watching us right now,
and she’s sitting right here listening to the rain as she used to. But she’s happy because she gets to see her beautiful little girl! But if you
cry, it’ll make her sad. Here, do you want to sit with her?” She nodded her tiny head, and he lifted her onto the stump.
“There, just like old times, right? With you sitting on Mommy’s lap and me telling the two of you stories…” He trailed off, tears
coming to his own eyes.
“Daddy, don’t cry!” She threw her little arms around him, little fists holding tightly to his coat.
He didn’t say anything, but hugged her close and wiped away the tears from his water-soaked face.
And I could do nothing but watch helplessly. I couldn’t even leave to lament elsewhere, because this little family had my heart stuck
in the middle of their wishful hug. It has always been said that it was wrong to get caught in mortal affairs, but I had tied myself to this
family and their loss without ever meaning to, and the knots were unbreakable.
“Come on, love, let’s go home.” He lifted his daughter up, and her arms clamped instinctively around his neck, while her small head
lay against his shoulder. She did not remove her sight from the stump until they had passed the corner, and I pattered out, empty.
15

Promises
by Veronica Tenesaca
Your words as hollow as the plastic flower in my room
You spoon me lies as sour as lemons
Your deceiving tales
Your insincere smiling face
Your voice so smooth from the practice
Of spawning lies
All the signs that prove to me that you will never
Stay true
Juan Molina
16

Great Grandpa
by Patrick Moffett
I stood in silence as a throbbing ache passed through my throat. Alone in my room, I
sat and cried, and wished I could have hugged
you one last time. At your wake, I saw you lying
in that bed of death, stationary and lifeless. I
touched your hand, and the dry texture of your
skin clawed at my fingertips. There you lay, in
your suit draped with honorary medals and
awards that you won for your efforts in World
War II. I stood there awhile and dreamed of you
rising up from the casket and embracing me one
last time. There I looked into your lifeless eyes
and wondered why you’d left me. I stood there
and wished for you to come back. I stood there
and wished to smell the peppermint aroma that
once permeated your worn brown sweater, the
one that you always wore around Christmas
time. I stood there and wished to feel the
warmth you once brought with you wherever you
went.
Rose Milando
As I left the funeral home, I felt a sort of desperation
to see you once more, even if you were just lying there, cold and departed. I wanted
to say goodbye, for I had not before. I ran back inside and placed my hand on your heart,
and said my final goodbye. Again, I stood there, but this time, I was at peace, for I knew you
would always with me, as I am sure you are with me even now. Whether you are in my
heart, or in a passing butterfly gliding leisurely above a bit of a green meadow, I know you
are with me, and more importantly, I know you love me still.
17

Taxonomy
by Justin Reiter
Dr. Ernest stared in awe at the perfectly preserved cadaver on the operating table as Dr. Young entered the room. The subject
had been found frozen solid and was easily the most complete specimen of ancient human, the name given to people that
lived before the Great Ice Age in 2012. Upon discovery, the subject had been transported to the Institute of Ancient Human
Studies for examination. The Institute housed all other artifacts of the forgotten race, including the only piece of deciphered
ancient literature: a textbook describing a caste system that placed people into groups called stereotypes based on physical,
mental and social characteristics. Dr. Ernest and Dr. Young were specialists in the field of ancient human taxonomy. So far, they
had successfully classified twelve specimens into their proper stereotype. This one was next.
The body on the table was that of a young man in his late teens or perhaps early twenties. He had fair skin with coarse
brown hair and blue eyes.
“This is a magnificent specimen. It shouldn’t be too difficult to classify him,” remarked Dr. Young as he searched through
the box containing the ancient human’s personal effects at the time of death. As per regulations, the doctors began with an
examination of these items in order to avoid, if possible, conducting a physical examination and compromising the body.
The boy’s only personal effects were his clothes, an iPod, a folded piece of paper, and a driver’s license that identified him
as “Justin Reiter.” His clothes were simply blue jeans and a white t-shirt, not enough to give any real insight into his category.
Dr. Young picked up the iPod.
“It looks like he has a great deal of what was called hip-hop and R&B music on here,” he noted as he scrolled through
the songs on the device. “I think it’s safe to say he was a Gangster.” Relieved that the job had been so easy, Dr. Ernest went
to record their conclusion in the boy’s file when Dr. Young quickly exclaimed, “Wait a minute! That was only one playlist. He also
has alternative and classic rock, pop, and even some country on here. This is insufficient evidence for correct classification. We
will have to look further.”
Sighing, Dr. Ernest unfolded the piece of paper and saw it was a progress report from the boy’s high school. He scanned
the comments, all of which read either “A pleasure to have in class,” or “Gives good effort.”
“It seems pretty obvious that he was a Goody-Two-Shoes,” observed Dr. Ernest. “It seems like he never stepped out of
line—” Dr. Ernest stopped abruptly as he saw the last comment from Justin’s pre-calculus honors teacher: “Justin is a good
student but he talks too much in class. His wonderful sense of humor is at times distracting to the other students.”
“Never mind,” said a dejected Dr. Ernest. “Goody-Two-Shoes were known to be almost nonexistent. This student was active
and engaging in the classroom. At the same time, he wasn’t rambunctious enough to be a Troublemaker or a Class Clown. It
appears a physical examination is necessary.” The doctors slipped on latex gloves and assembled the needed tools.
They began with a visual assessment. The boy was thin but of solid build, with defined muscles. They were not large
enough for him to fall into the Meathead category, but the doctors’ excitement increased; the boy was surely a Jock! They ran
a few more routine tests, and finally initiated the final component of the examination. They made an incision in the cranium and
began to inspect his brain. It quickly became apparent that his brain was remarkably large. Dr. Ernest slammed his fist down
onto the operating table in exasperation.
“Only Nerds have brains of this size! There is no way he was a Jock!” he cried in despair. Dr. Young looked over the body
one last time, intrigued.
“It seems that this subject eludes typical classification,” stated the doctor. “We will need a more sophisticated analysis to
make an accurate evaluation. Let’s take him to the university. There we will figure out who Justin Reiter really was.”
18

Martín Tlalolini
19

Kung Fu Grandma
by Annie Tao
You know those senior citizens that just lug around giant canes, and quiver like collapsing buildings with every step they
take? Maybe once in a while they’ll get up if they have to get some late night cocoa or answer doors, but other than that, they
just sit there in giant fluffy grey couches and stare at TV screens. Sometimes they’ll actually get books from the bookshelf
(something completely random or unheard of), and you’ll walk in the room and they’ll look like they’re reading, but they’re actually
sleeping there with their books open. They’ll probably yawn every five minutes, and their glasses are usually crooked so
when you look at them, it looks like their heads were put on sideways or something. Well, my grandma’s not like that. Let me
put it this way: she’s 93 and she does kung fu.
I mean, you’d think that she’d already be lying there in an old hospital cot, waiting for the day she can escape from this
“hell.” But no, she see’s life much differently than other 93-year-old grandmas. About three times a week, she invites her close
friends over for a couple intense games of mahjong. That’s not to mention the fact that she wins almost every single time,
which explains why her piggy bank is filled to the top and looks as if it’s going to explode.
She goes out the last Sunday of every month with her best friend to get her hair done: washed, blow-dried, curled. She’s
got this sleek white hair. I know it sounds like I’m describing any other grandma’s hair…but her hair is really different. It’s like
a bright pearly white color, so white that when she’s cuddling her little white Maltese puppy, they look related. I’m not even
exaggerating. And when she gets it curled, it really DOES look like a thousand tiny pearls plopped on her head.
Anyway, most other grandmas are babied by their grandchildren, but not my grandma. Boy, am I babied by her; she’s
almost like my second mom…or even better, my bodyguard. If I don’t eat one grain of rice on my plate, she’ll make me come
back to the table and finish it. If I just want to walk down the street to buy ice cream, she’ll snatch up her purse and follow me
there. I don’t think she knows that I’m aware she’s behind me, but I don’t really mind that she’s there; I like the protection.
However, she hates when other people baby her. Even when she’s tired from a long day of shopping, she still doesn’t want any
assistance. One time, my family organized a huge dinner party. The only problem was, it was more than four blocks away—
too close to take a cab and too far for her to walk...or so we thought. We offered to wheel her there in a rented wheelchair. But
she didn’t want to—she wanted to walk. It took us about 40 minutes to get there, but I don’t think she was even the least bit
exhausted. She hardly ever gets exhausted.
Sometimes I wonder if she really is 93. Not only is she never tired, but she has the greatest sense of style. I used to think
that she was just like any other grandma who is too lazy to buy nice clothes, and wears the same puke-colored sweater everyday.
I remember on her 91st birthday, I went to the shopping center and bought two sunglasses: one for my grandma and one
for my sister Alice. I was planning on giving Alice the brown aviators and my grandma the tacky pink glasses lined with sequins.
I thought for sure that grandma would take the bright pink ones right away. But she picked the brown aviators without hesitation.
My sister was disappointed with the glasses I ended up giving her, but from that day on, I had to remember to buy Grandma
the best clothes and accessories.
But perhaps the most impressive of my grandmother’s accomplishments is her kung fu hobby. She goes with a whole
bunch of other people to the nearby park to practice every weekend, wearing her cute little white robe. And every time she
comes home, she teaches me the latest moves. Usually, I catch on pretty quickly, but sometimes the steps are too hard. The
irony is that I can’t do it, but she can. She can balance on one foot for the longest time. It’s so stable that she can probably fall
asleep with a glass cup full of water balanced on top of her head in that position without it tipping over.
20
Sure, my grandma’s a bit different from all the other grandmas in the world. She’s protective like a personal bodyguard,
fit to be a fashion designer and super competitive when it comes to mahjong. But she’s as unique as a grandma can get, and
around her, there’s no need to be afraid of a robber, a crook, or a creepy man following us down a dark alley, because she’s
my kung fu grandma.

Devil’s Daughter
by Vivian Lee
If God exists, he just might smite me for not going to church on Sundays. You might say that I am religiously
confused, stuck in the limbo between the principles of religion and reality. When I was younger, I
always wished I could say I was Catholic, or Jewish, or Buddhist. I remember when I was six years old, and
was asked by a fellow first grader what church I go to. All I could do was look up at my mom and silently
beg for an answer, and all I got was a disgruntled stare, forcing the words “We don’t go to church” out of
my unwilling lips.
It all stems from the contrasting backgrounds of my parents. My father’s side of the family is a passionate
bunch of devout Christians, ones that went to church every Sunday and sent their kids to Bible study. My
mother’s side, however, is full of nonreligious “heathens” who insist that religion is not a necessary institution
in life. I was created from the clashing of these heavyweight battering rams, an anomaly in a world
defined by religion and faith. When the children of these two unlikely families got married, ironically “in the
presence of God,” the believer was suddenly cut off from the heavens by the “devil” known as my mother.
Because of this identity crisis, I have often been looked down upon by friends of all races and all religions.
Oh, but how about those Koreans? Every Korean family in my area went to church, and every Korean
teenager in my school was in a Christian youth group where they praised the Lord every week or so. I, on
the other hand, spent my Sundays leisurely brunching with my parents at All-American diner. In the eyes of
many, we were not a typical Korean family. It was not until I reached high school that I realized that we
weren’t barbaric, uncivilized pagans. We didn’t have to be a typical Korean family to peacefully exist in this
universe.
Without religion, I have the eyes of the world. I float freely through existence, addressing issues from
all angles. I can look at the world through the eyes of a Catholic, Muslim, or Rastafarian. This flexibility isn’t
limited to matters of religion, but also to practical aspects of life, from the everyday problems of an angstridden
teenager, to the most difficult of situations. My upbringing as a “wild, pagan child” seems to place
me in the center of things, right smack in the middle, where I can observe
Sarah Song
my life from every angle. From my
rather comfortable and convenient position, I can see the ability for peoples of all religions to coexist, to
understand the beliefs of one another.
Maybe someday, I’ll find my niche in the realm of religion. For now, I hold onto the title of “the devil’s
daughter,” but just in case, I stay inside during particularly violent thunderstorms.
21
Sarah Song

Beloved: A Love Story
by Rosie Alig
Like any good suburban child of liberal and
literate parents, I have always had a certain
degree of intellectual confidence, deserved or
not. But though, growing up, I had enough
curiosity and aplomb to raise my hand regularly,
I tended to believe unequivocally what I was
told in response. When I was learning to sound
out words, this deference was enough, and it
was enough when I had to memorize multiplication
tables and the fifty states. But when the
work progressed and I began to deal not with
rigid fact but the infinite subjectivity of language,
it was simply not enough to absorb what
was announced at the front of the class.
Unfortunately, this is exactly the easiest thing to
do. Even for me, a “reader,” the way to
approach English class was identical to any
other. Our system teaches to a test, and so I
learned to it.
Then, in tenth grade, I was introduced to a
book that awoke in me the strength of mind to
break away from this self-limiting trend. After I
adored reading The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
in class, my teacher recommended I try another
of her novels, Beloved. And I was sunk.
Isabel B arrie
Both blindingly haunting and intensely beautiful,
the plot of Beloved is a fiercely contested combination of literal and symbolic propositions; there just doesn’t seem to be a final
answer. Though this may seem like a frustrating setup, Morrison’s prose is laden with so much meaning that the details of the plot
become almost irrelevant. Her prose reads like music, multilayered with refrains that produce the same primal comfort I drew from
my mother’s voice reciting a nursery rhyme. Like when I was an overwhelmed three-year-old with a mind reined in only by the familiar
lilt of a story, I once again settled into the solace of words.
This time, however, I was an unimpeded vessel, absorbing the exquisite sentences directly, making of them what I would. I was
stunned by the experience of these words, powerful and beautiful in their architecture and implications, the way they roll off the
tongue and tug at the heart. Though my mother had long since stopped reading to me, I was floored by the experience of relating
so viscerally to a text recited this time by my own internal voice.
Likewise, I was surprised to find myself so academically involved in a book not required for school, as I googled terms like “aesthetics
of Toni Morrison” or “critical analysis of Beloved.” When I went to talk with my teacher about my findings, it was not a lecture
or a lesson, but a discussion in which my interpretations were valued as much as the ones mentioned in class or in the criticism
I found at the library. Given the chance and motivation to explore my own thoughts further, I fell in love with reading anew.
Now, I can approach texts academically without an agenda, emotionally and independently. I can marshal my thoughts into
cohesive papers and defend my ideas in a class of college students, but more importantly, I have found the means through which
to seek out my own truth in a text. There is nobody telling me what I am supposed to find, and so what I glean from the words is
purely my own.
22

The Ruination of Irish Dancing
by Kiera Brady
Jigs, hornpipes, reels.
If you close your eyes and imagine, you could be on the west coast of Ireland, feeling the moist breeze on your face as it
blows off Galway Bay. Listening to the tunes and hearing the clicks of a hard shoe jig, you are transported.
But, when you open your eyes, you realize you are sitting in a high school auditorium in Queens, New York, and you are
at a feis, an Irish dance competition.
I followed my two older sisters into Irish step dancing. There were strict restrictions on what we were allowed to wear, and
the level of competition determined what kind of dress we were to compete in. A beginner would wear a skirt; a novice and
prize winner, a school uniform; and a preliminary and above, a solo dress.
I started dancing as a five-year-old beginner, and dressed in a skirt and blouse with a ribbon tied in my curly hair. I worked
hard and could not wait until I was able to move up to novice, and when I won three first places, my dream came true.
When I began competing with other novices, we all proudly wore our school uniforms. The one requirement of the dresses
was the embroidery had to reflect what appears in the Book of Kells, which is an ancient manuscript of the four Gospels,
transcribed by Celtic monks. Of course we had to have our hair curled.
It wasn’t easy sleeping with 65 sponge rollers poking me in the head, and I can’t say I liked playing my softball games
looking like Lucille Ball, with curlers sticking out from under my batting helmet. But if I had a feis the next day, that is what
needed to be done.
By the time I was nine years of age, there was a subtle shift in the Irish dancing world. I qualified to compete in a major
competition, the Oireachtas, which is a feis for champion dancers. My friends and I gathered in a ballroom to practice the night
before the competition.
Girls tried on their dresses and posed for photos. That is when we saw it. The Celtic design had disappeared replaced by
a silvery-blue dress featuring characters from The Wizard of Oz along the bottom and on the cape. In our little nine-year-old
world, this was scandalous. It was the first dress that anyone could remember that did not feature the required traditional
design.
I was too young to realize that this was a turning point in Irish dancing. A year, and many feises later, I was back in
Philadelphia, once again at the Oireachtas. As I grew older, I understood the intense pressure to perform at the highest level.
Honestly though, nothing prepared me for the chat I had with a friend from a competing school. She had a problem with bending
her arms when she did her slip jig, so her mother decided the best way to handle this problem was to splint her arms. My
friend seemed relieved, but we both knew this was against the rules. Her mother swore me to secrecy and was furious with
her daughter for telling me. My ten-year-old self was shocked, but assured them I would keep their confidence. I didn’t agree
with my friend’s mom, but I didn’t want to cause any further problems for my friend. Her mom put way too much importance
on winning a trophy.
We were ten-year-old girls dancing on a stage in front of three very stern-faced judges. We all worked so hard and practiced
until our feet bled, but it was something that you had to love in order to continue doing it. We were all in this together,
celebrating and congratulating our wins, and hugging and consoling our disappointments.
23

Back in Philadelphia for my third Oireachats, I was eleven years old. Right before I was to go on stage, my teacher
stopped me and started pinching my cheeks because I wasn’t wearing any blush. It was then I realized that most of the girls
in my competition wore a full face of makeup. It was very bizarre, but nothing compared to what was to come.
The next stage in the evolution of Irish dancing was fake tanning. There is no denying the fact that feis competitors
were mainly all Irish, and when you are Irish you are generally very pale. With the fake tan, the girls were hoping to glow as
they ascended the steps to the stage; sadly, however, most sported an odd orange hue and combined with their fully madeup
faces and their elaborate dresses, Irish dancing had taken on a whole new look.
The Celtic designs were nowhere to be found. What remained were dresses that could be compared to figure skating
outfits: short with bright neon colors, feathers, and rhinestones. Rhinestones were now even glued onto the socks and shoes.
Glitter and glam had moved in on what was once quiet and traditional. But, it wasn’t over…
There was one last change to come. Wigs. Part of me was relieved because wearing a curly wig meant that I no longer
had to endure the pain and indignity of rollers. Sadly though, this too was taken too far. Not only were girls wearing wigs,
but suddenly everyone was blonde. Brunettes and red heads began dying the top of their heads blonde for the sole purpose
of the competitions. As I sat beside the stage waiting to go on, a girl sitting beside me asked, “Your hair looks so real, how
did you get to look so blonde?” After staring at her for a minute I responded, “I actually have blonde hair!”
This girl summed up every change that occurred in my dancing career. I took a step back and gave her a long, hard
look, from her pink rhinestone socks to her matching fuchsia dress, to her hot pink lipstick. Looking at her face, I saw that
her eyebrows were a dark brown, in contrast to her hair, or more accurately, her wig, which was light blonde. She looked
like a life-sized Barbie.
I do not regret for one minute the eleven years that I danced competitively. I made many friends, and gained an appreciation
for my Irish heritage. That said, however, I do not think competition has had a positive impact on Irish dancing. There
is too much focus on what a dancer looks like as opposed to how a dancer dances.
I still dance, but I only do shows, and am very busy in the month of March. I also am an athlete and have a full appreciation
and understanding of the importance of competition. I must confess though, standing on the stage ready to dance,
the last thing on my mind is marks. I listen to the tunes, rise up on my toes, and I am transported.
24

Title
by Giannia Schettini
Best friend, acquaintance, mom, dad; every person goes by a different title in life. But all these titles perplex
and confuse my already clouded mind. My father stands tall at five feet nine inches. He has chocolate
brown skin and black and white hair like a panda bear along his beard and the top of his head.
Should I not need him for guidance? Was he supposed to be there when I fell down those cold
gray stone steps? Carry me inside the house to wash and clean my injury? I had no
injuries that can be seen by the naked eye, yet I internally bleed, weep like a
silent waterfall, and yearn to be wanted.
All I got was that call once a month, with that distant
“Hello,” from a far place that young naïve little me didn’t
know. In his presence, I must be that perfect porcelain
china doll, making sure I only say things that shall bring
his white teeth to a big grin like a Cheshire cat. I feel as if
a cold front is pushing me further in the back of the ranking
line among his five kids. I wave my small, long fingered
hand to get attention and any remaining scraps.
“Hi Daddy…I love you, too,” I repeatedly replied with that
plastered-on smile, that doesn’t move out of place. Daddy, that’s
what my young mind was taught to say.
The successful man walks around with his head held high boasting of his accomplishments.
He is known as a caretaker, the all-knowledgeable doctor.
The form before me says write your mom’s name: Mercedes St. Cloud. Then write
your dad’s name. I hesitate, stopping all movement throughout my body. Yegues
Schettini; a doctor to all, a dad to some, but only a father to me.
25

Rabid Smog
A Response to “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver
by Julie Hackett
You must sink
sink to the cold damp floor
of the earth you once
considered yourself a
messenger for.
Crawl through the dank swamps
that were once the cool, rushing
waters of your veins.
Disintegrate, and beg for mercy.
Scream your sorrows through the winds
and my smog will choke and silence them,
pumping from my fingers of
iron and steel.
Meanwhile, the world turns its
sad, sluggish spins,
twirling into oblivion.
Meanwhile, the rivers run obsidian,
the mountains crumble under the
slate clouds of hatred,
the forests’ flame,
the skin of atmosphere tears and rips.
I know who you were,
the supposed mother of life
and yet you are so inconsequential and minute
that I cannot see your light
straining to shine through my
smoke of greed.
Fall and decay,
like a leaf in winter
for you are not welcome here
in my city of things.
26
Emiko Chisholm

Neighbors
by Regina Argenzio
Nicole Healy
Jake and Jack. Jake and Jack with the house that scares little children when they have to fetch the ball from the other
side of the fence. Jake and Jack with hearts bigger than their garden, from which they so generously offer us their fruits and
vegetables. Two brothers in their 50’s who never married and who never found the glory in fatherhood. Rather, they live with
their mother and father and are constantly visited by their sister and nephew. This is quite enough for them. It’s everything
they’ve ever had, all they’ve ever known
Jake and Jack do yard work for our 87-year-old neighbor for free.
But slowly, we see Jack disintegrating, as if someone flipped over an hourglass and labeled it with his life. Paralleling his
downhill descent are Jake’s worsening drinking problems. Soon we learn that these are the results of their mother’s newly diagnosed
cancer, and that it is she who has been given the hourglass.
We know the time is coming. Slowly, suffering, ailing, she passes. Now it’s just Jake, Jack, and their father. Six months
later, a car accident, and now it’s just Jake and Jack.
Still they don’t forget to leave a Christmas gift in the mailbox for me that year.
Every day they pass my house, lugging hedges, pushing a wheelbarrow. Last winter they decided to shovel our driveway
in an angry blizzard.
Always I look at them and wonder…
I see Jake at the store and say hello. I go out of my way as he wasn’t really anywhere near me. The next week I find him
on my street and I stop to talk to him. He says, “You know, you can really make someone’s day just by saying hello to them.
Thank you.” He thanks me for saying hello to him. Thanks me for saying hello.
A day comes when all hope has vanished. Even my subconscious being that usually tells me to “push on” doesn’t exist.
A day when I wish that it was my hourglass that was about to run out of grainy little specks. A day when there is no possible
way to change my train of thought; this is it, this is the way it’s going to be. This is hell. Time for me to lie down, admit defeat,
and stop believing.
And then I see Jake and Jack pass right in front of my window. Jake and Jack with hearts bigger than their garden, even
though everything they have ever known has vanished.
When Jake and Jack pass by my house, I decide to stand up again.
This is not to say dark days won’t ever come around again, but when they do, I just look out my window and see Jake and
Jack.
27

Falling From New Heights
by Taimy Thomas
Donna Grasso
28
I fell off the Eiffel Tower. At least, that’s what it felt like.
I’ll be honest; I never liked heights. So from early on in life, I realized that something that high and that fast could not be good news.
Just looking at the Log Flume rides set off tiny alarm bells in my head when I was six. A year ago, I did not believe I had ever, in my entire
16 years, been so scared, distressed, or frightened as I had been that day when I went on that terrible ride.
I changed my mind last May. The concept of Physics Day excited me. Actually being at Six Flags did not.
What, exactly, was the point of creating a place full of potential death traps? How could anyone associate the term “amusement park”
to that miserable place? And could someone please explain why a wooden rollercoaster would seem like fun?
But of course, I seemed to be the only one experiencing this absolute and mind-wrecking fear. And of course, the people who dragged
me there with them, the people I call friends, did nothing to lessen that fear, but rather added on to it with promises of height and speed.
I suppose no one else saw the documentary that was Final Destination 3.
Thank god King Da Ka was closed. Unfortunately, the other rides weren’t. And since I was surrounded by people who wanted to die
via derailed rollercoaster, I just had to go on one. But they were kind enough to let me choose which one we boarded.
Looking at the little map that Six Flags gives you, some of the coasters really don’t seem that bad. So I decided to pick one that, at
least from the diagram, didn’t seem dangerous at all. You know something? The map LIES.
I learned this the hard, terrifying way: If King Da Ka drops at a 90 degree angle, then Nitro has to drop at an 85 degree angle. I could
swear I was going straight down, all 215 feet. I also learned this little tidbit of information that all of my friends conveniently forget to tell
me: Nitro was the fastest rollercoaster at that cursed place. And that yellow thing that they put on you to secure you to your seat? It’s not
nearly big or secure enough – while the bottom half of me couldn’t escape, the top half of me was attempting to press back into the seat
so I didn’t tumble over.
And of course, the idiot sitting behind me just couldn’t help screaming, “OH MY GOD! IT’S FINAL DESTINATION 3! WE’RE ALL GONNA
DIE!”
To my great surprise, however, the rollercoaster didn’t derail. I didn’t fall out of my seat; I didn’t go flying in the air to meet a horrible
and ugly death. And when I closed my eyes, it felt invigorating. I felt the sun shine more powerfully than ever before with the cold wind giving
me a break from the heat. What I had imagined were screams of terror around me became squeals and shrieks of delight. And before
I knew it, I had added my voice with the others.
In the end, I was more than a little shaken, and the adrenaline rush wouldn’t let my heart rate go down for the next few minutes, but
I was okay. Heights may not be my friend, but I learned to deal with it. And I think in a year or so I would be excited to go to Six Flags again.
I’ll still be a little nervous, but I like to think I’ll go on more rides then.
No, it wasn’t the Eiffel Tower. It was Nitro, the fastest rollercoaster in the park, and it was exhilarating.

Dimentico
Lines after “Recuerdo” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
by Dana Mingione
He was very glum, he was very mellow—
He had spent all evening playing the cello.
The hall was airy and open and wide
But all desire in his heart had died.
He sat in his chair and attempted to breathe,
When he really sincerely just wanted to leave.
He was very glum, he was very mellow—
He had spent all evening playing the cello.
His fingers were moving quite free of his thought,
He felt very stiff in the new shoes he’d bought.
The moon rose higher, the night grew long;
Nothing had ever quite felt so wrong.
He was very glum, he was very mellow—
He had spent all evening playing the cello.
He bid farewell to the other musicians,
The ones with the talent and dreams and ambitions.
Merrily they called, “Good night, my good fellow!”
And he walked out with sadness and heartache and cello.
Brandon Zhao
29

This I Believe:
Better Odd Than Boring
by Elliot Halpern
There’s nothing I hate more than boredom. It’s a plague sweeping the nation, the number one cause of drinking,
drug use, and delinquency among my peers. It needs to be eradicated off the face of Earth. And for the past 17
years of my life, I’ve made that cause my number one goal.
But Elliot, you ask, how does one go about wiping out boredom? Well, through the antithesis of course: the
embracing of all things colorful, offbeat, and frankly odd. I’ve found that people always strive not to standout. A well
worn cliché is the TV sitcom teenager who prays for nothing more than a whirlwind to sweep away his/her crazy
friends and parents and replace them with completely average, run-of-the-mill people “just like everyone else.” Every
day, for the past 60 or so years, the American public tunes in to be entertained by these characters and their wacky
lives. Together, we laugh at the antics these “crazy”
people get into. But we never seem to realize that
instead of sitting slack jawed, letting some fictional
story entertain us, perhaps we should strive to inject a
little wackiness into our own lives ourselves. We need
to stop putting normality on a pedestal as our amusement
is taken care of by others, embrace weirdness,
and actually go out and do something, because when
it all comes down to it, the weird characters—the
Kramers, the Peter Griffins, and the Homer
Simpsons—always seem to be having the most fun.
So next time you’re bored, turn off the TV, stand
up, and think of the weirdest reasonable activity you
can: sword fighting with pool noodles, making instruments
out of garbage, even exploring the woods. Get
some friends together, and go out and do it. Even if it
ends up being miserable, at least the story you tell
won’t be boring.
30
Kevin Qian

Catherine
by Theresa Flynn
Sarah Song
Her skin is tanned, and her hair is black and silky. Her tail is darker than a black hole and swings from side to side as
she walks. Her tiny paws barely make a sound as she prowls the halls. Her purr is cute, twinkly, high-pitched.
This girl does not notice me. She’s too concerned with the friend the friend at her side whose hand she holds. They
whisper in low purrs, scheming of the next mouse to catch.
I am mesmerized.
I want to prowl with the cats, although I am smaller than a mouse – overall unnoticeable,
And not worth knowing. I am the rodent that people chase out of their kitchens with fly swatters and brooms.
I want to prowl with the cats. I want to walk the streets at night with them, causing mischief, all while remaining sleek,
sexy, majestic.
Suddenly she turns. Her bright green eyes make contact with mine. I quickly look away. For a second, her pupils
became slits.
For a second, she had looked more like a snake than a cat.
31

Wicker Memories
by Julie Hackett
Julie Hackett
The small wicker baskets dangle precariously over my head as I sleep each night. They bow loosely from the edges of a
dusty wooden plank, mounted on my lemon wall. The tails are thin, silky tassels of milky beige. The faded ropes that held them
proudly in an earlier time are now tattered and tired, wilting from the strain of the eternal bearing of weight. The once exciting
blue stripes stretched across the swollen belly of the wicker are now haggard and confused, dulled.
But the smell…the smell resonates down on me each night, resting softly in my nose like a seductive wisp of smoke: a
thick mixture of vanilla, peppermint, and tobacco. This heavy aroma sprouts a set of feathery, infantile wings in my mind, soaring
my conscious thought to times of Christmas Eve, warm on his lap, or ginger ale, which we would drink together, the amber
bubbles dancing to the top of each glass. Though my room is dappled with mementos of him, the lingering and haunting scent
is what lulls me to sleep in the foggy haze of his musky memory each night.
32

Ambivalence
by Chelsea Hano
I hate you
Who the hell do you think you are?
Peppering your sentences with words like “shall” and “thou”
Your red hair makes you look soulless
Unforgiving of other’s flaws
I could rip your stern judging eyes
From your self-absorbed skull
The girl made out of tissue paper
I love you
You are precious to the universe
I love the way you speak
The very definition of a “fiery redhead”
Trying to take care of everyone
I could teach you how to be free
From the chain you think is yours
Pull yourself away from the mirror
Look in the mirror and see how infinite you are
Long enough to see the people who love you
Give yourself a chance
Everything you do has secret intention
When we touch it’s as if I am being punished
When we touch it’s as if I am being blessed
You were a mistake
I love making mistakes
Kevin Qian
33

Integrity
by Deanna Amoia
34
“I love you, sweetheart,” she said from the seat next to mine.
“I know, Yiayia, I know. I love you too,” I answered, automatically. I guess it becomes that way when you repeat something
over and over and over. Grandmas tend to do that, so what does it matter if I’m not truly sincere every single time I respond?
I had wanted to do this. I remember saying it: “Yeah, Mom, whatever, I don’t mind. It’ll be like her other appointments, so
I’ll just do homework in the waiting room. Really it’s not a problem, it’s not like I have anything else to do on Wednesday.”
It was a bitter Wednesday at that. No rain thankfully, but the sky threatened to cascade down at any moment – a steel
gray sky with gusts that reached 35 miles an hour. I drove cautiously. Well, as cautiously as one could when being pestered by
a grandma in the passenger seat.
“I’m so glad the will is settled. You know Uncle Jimmy…”
Yes, I know Uncle Jimmy, the sorry excuse for a relative who weaseled his way into the money you were given. I’m glad
it’s finally over, too, but haven’t I heard enough about him during the last five years?
“What did you do today, darling?”
Nothing important, or at least nothing worth mentioning. I’m sure it’s the same with you so I won’t even bother asking.
“I have no idea where we’re going,” she said. I sensed a smile in my peripherals, but I didn’t sense the resignation, not
until much later. “Ever since I stopped driving I just completely forgot! I’ve lost my freedom!”
No, no Yiayia, you still have freedom, I thought, grudgingly. Freedom through me.
“Who am I going to see today again?”
“Dr. Zebrak,” I gave a real answer to that question, stopping my internal dialogue for a minute. “For your teeth, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
Soon after that, the drive became blurry. I zoned out, mesmerized by anything, anything that passed by. Anything to get
away for a few moments, and I still had the waiting room to deal with.
At last the ride was over, the five minute ride that took 30. As I pulled into the parking lot, I noted that the building was
just a one-story converted house, just like every other doctor’s office I’d ever taken her to. Just like any other time I’d been with
her.
It took awhile for her to turn around in the seat, to put both feet on the ground, to close the door, to walk far enough away
so I could move apart and park. I took my time parking, then turning off the car, then gathering my homework, then picking up
my book. I took longer than she did getting into the office.
The waiting room was, in essence, my bathroom. The wall that sported a sink and countertop was replaced by chairs and
a small closet for coats; the jacket she wore everywhere was already inside. Somehow, the bathtub had been swapped for a
magazine rack and the wall constantly stocked with towels was where I spotted her, signing in with the middle-aged secretary.
I sat down in the chair closest to the closet and looked around, making sure I had enough around me to occupy my time.
She hobbled to me once she finished, her silver cane strangely sturdy as it crawled closer. With a triumphant grunt she plopped
herself down into the too-small seat and turned to me with a smile. I giggled accordingly.
“Look at me, I’m a mess!” she laughed, a very hoarse laugh that turned into a hack. Her asthma must have been acting
up. “I’m falling apart!” she continued.
“No, don’t be silly, you’re fine.”
“I guess so, with the hip replacement and all. I’m doing pretty well for my age!”
“Of course you are, Yiayia.”
The entire time I looked at the rug – a solid navy blue mass intersected by dotted diagonal lines. Mahogany and gold went
particularly well with the background color, I thought, and it must’ve taken some time to match the rug with the seat upholstery.
It was perfect. I wondered if anyone had noticed before.

I suddenly realized that the air was silent. I turned left and saw her looking down at her hands in thought. Then she
laughed, as if she were alone and something embarrassing had happened.
“…I know I’m ranting, you can stop me whenever you like. You can rant too if you like!” Her crinkled face turned hopeful
and bright, while my own filled with a nervous smile and a light shade of red. Had I been too obvious in my daydreaming?
“Yeah, I know, Yiayia, but it’s okay. I like to listen. I’d rather do that.”
“Okay, but you just tell me if it’s too much. So…”
So she didn’t realize after all. I sighed my relief and paid attention, just to be sure she wouldn’t catch on.
“Jimmy called me the other day, you know, to make up. It was nice.”
“That’s good. He is your brother after all.” I myself was very skeptical of the lawyer-turned-human.
“Yes, yes, and at my age you gotta hold on to everything you can grab!” We laughed together, mine dragging out into a
sigh, hers turning into the ever-consistent hack. It went on for longer than usual.
“Yiayia?”
The hacking continued. I was brought back to my own days of torment, when every sneeze wreaked havoc on my
headaches and every cough felt like my lungs would come out of my mouth. I was looking around for a phone when, thankfully,
it stopped.
“You okay?”
“Yes, darling, yes. Sorry about that.”
“No, don’t worry about it.”
“You know if I’m ever really sick you gotta get me to a doctor, not like your Papou…” Images of coin collecting, working
out in the garden, and hearing war stories popped into my head. That was my grandpa.
“He was always so stubborn, you know, and I’d ask him about things and he would just ignore me,” she said, “I know it’s
silly, but I thought that he didn’t like me anymore, that I was too old!”
“That’s crazy, of course he liked you. It was kinda late in the game for anything else.”
“Yeah, you’re right, of course you’re right darling, you’re so smart,” she beamed at me. How did I get pinned with the
Favorite Grandchild Button? “Yeah but still, he was so stubborn, and never told me anything, nothing about work or anything
like that. I guess he just didn’t want me to know, but you can’t do that when you’re married, you have to share. Good and bad.”
“That makes sense, but that was just how he was.”
“You know, at the end, I knew he was having problems. But you know he hated the doctor, hating having things wrong. I
mean, he wouldn’t tell me anything! He was always trying to protect me. But you can’t hide stuff like that, right?”
“You shouldn’t, but he did.”
“Right, right. You know I always thought, this is silly, that it was almost my fault.” She laughed nervously again and didn’t
look up anymore. She just stared at that rug, like I had, in her own world. “It was like that was my chance to protect him, you
know? And I missed it.”
The silence afterwards became awkward. The secretary kept stealing glances over her countertop – she must have been
eavesdropping. For a second I thought we were on a hidden camera and I waited for someone to jump out and say, “Nice delivery
Yiayia! You stunned the crowd!” but nothing so abnormal happened.
I finally found some words. “Yiayia, you can’t say that. There’s no way it was your fault. You didn’t know anything for sure.”
“I should have done something though.” She paused to exhale. “But you’re right, you’re right. It doesn’t matter now though.
It’s alright.”
I decided to go into the exam room with her, something she really appreciated. The dentist, as it turned out, had seen my
family members for over 30 years.
“Not to be cheesy or anything,” he dragged out, “but there’s something to be said about a family when grandchildren go
into the office with a grandparent.”
The wind gusted outside as he began the procedure. I nodded my agreement to myself, but couldn’t help my stomach
from sinking. There’s something to be said about that.
35

“ Little Sisters”
A series of haikus
by Alexandra Marks
Some little sisters
Will enjoy the great outdoors
While you do homework
Some little sisters
Are quick eavesdropping ninjas
Those mischievous fiends
Some little sisters
Find their selfish wants fulfilled
And cry otherwise
Some little sisters
Interrupt conversations
Just to interrupt
Some little sisters
Mimic the words that you speak
In high pitched voices
Some little sisters
Will steal clothes from your wardrobe
Never to return
Some little sisters
Will sneak into your bedroom
Steal your diary
Some little sisters
Are simply misunderstood
For they envy you
36
Nicole Healy

Eyes
by Jennie Conway
Amanda Grinvalds
Eye colors are not simply blue, green or brown. No, they are colors worthy of a
Crayola crayon: sea-foam green, sapphire blue, dark chocolate brown, and so on.
My mom’s eyes are a warm, cozy brown that reminds me of hot apple cider on a
snowy day. Most times they melt, and glow like freshly brewed hot chocolate, yet they can
harden like her favorite Hershey bar; still, all variations remain undeniably delicious. Her
eyes are a solid ground that, no matter how tread upon, will never waver, even under nearly
unbearable weight.
My eyes, a fuzzy hazel that cannot seem to decide which shade it prefers, will lean
towards the green side of the shade, probably because I am a plant, finding the ability to
grow and nourishment from the helping hands of the solid ground.
37

It Will Always Come Back
A response to “The Coming of Light” by Mark Strand
by Alyssa Lam
Unexpectedly it intrudes,
without a warning
Even if you neglect it
it will always come back
like an annoying
buzz in your ears.
Even if you
deny its existence
a little voice
will trigger a painstakingly
clear realization—
an epiphany.
You can’t say no.
Tenderly opening its
Fruit
it will
blossom with
razor-sharp petals.
L-O-V-E
drops upon you
most intrusively.
Sarah Song
Cradle the feeling,
rather than resist—
it is futile.
38

Cynic
by Sheila Krishnan
hey dreamer,
i see what you’re doing,
and i see it’s not working.
stop pinching yourself,
because, dear, this ain’t no
nightmare, it’s only real life.
stop holding your mud-colored
hair and thinking flaxen,
because, honey, it ain’t no
golden thread, only real.
stop painting stars by your eyes,
because, love, they ain’t
gonna sparkle more, they’re only real.
stop lying on your roof
and imagining that someone’s gonna
name a star for you,
because, sugar, you’re only real.
but mostly,
stop stringing together
meaningless letters and trying to find
truth amidst chaos,
because, child, this ain’t supposed
to make sense; it’s only real life.
hey dreamer,
i see what you’re doing,
and i see it’s a valiant effort.
Chris Cassidy
stop shaking in fear,
there ain’t no monster under the bed,
stop wasting your time wishing
no creep ’round the corner,
for something better when you’ve
and no murderers in your room;
got what’s good, because,
dear, this is only real life.
sugar, it ain’t getting better when
you don’t love it already; it’s all only real.
stop looking at yourself in the mirror
and hoping to be someone else,
but mostly, stop doing amazing things
to be more normal,
and hating them, stop writing in
to be perfect, because,
ways that inspire people, painting
honey, this ain’t no high school drama,
pictures that strike something inside,
and it’s okay that you’re only real.
and thinking it’s all mediocre,
because, child, you’re a wonderful
stop drawing eyes all over your things,
person, and not everything’s easy,
hoping that someone will finally
but much is good; it’s only real life.
wake up and see you,
because, love, they can’t
see you any more [than they do now]; you’re only real.
39

Windex
by Vivian Lee
Vivian Lee
There I stood, facing one of the biggest challenges of my life, armed only with my black belt, my bare feet and hands, and a
bottle of Windex. My muscles pulsed with pain and my face dripped with sweat as we lined up, preparing for battle. Four men and
one girl against the vast, glaring landscape. Every soldier in our small army pointed his weapon, and fired. Then we unleashed our
secret weapon: the newspaper. The mirrors never knew what hit them.
One wall of our small Tae Kwon Do school is all mirrors, from the blue, padded floor to the crumbling ceiling tiles. After every
class, I would always watch the older boys slave away at the grueling task of wiping down the mirrors. Greasy handprints and
splashes of sweat marred each mirror as they begged to be cleaned. The boys would proceed with their chore as I skipped to the
door, put on my shoes, and walked into the beckoning fresh air. That is, until I was recruited at the tender age of ten.
Scrubbing down the mirrors was always supposed to be a job for boys. It was already hard enough to spar with boys (who
were practically men) twice your height, and three times more aggressive. This explains why I was legitimately confused as to why
I had to become a part of the cleaning crew. I was simply handed a bottle of Windex and expected to get down and dirty. It isn’t
that wiping mirrors with pieces of crumpled newspaper pages was terribly difficult; it was the fact that I found the job to be terribly
demeaning. In my book, I deserved special treatment because I was a girl, and it was common knowledge that boys have to
do everything for girls.
From that day forward, I was part of the firing squad, the token female in a legion of boys and men. When vacuuming was
added to our list of chores, we would fight over who was stuck with the exhausting task. For years, they insisted that I shouldn’t
have to do it since I was the only girl, and the youngest cadet. Eventually, I realized that I should fight for the vacuum. Why shouldn’t
I vacuum when I could kick all of their butts in sparring? When I finally did get my turn, I stepped up and vacuumed like a pro.
All of this wiping and vacuuming has become a daily habit of mine. It almost comes close to eating dinner or doing my homework.
With years of practice, I’m probably the best mirror cleaner/vacuum-wielder that anyone will every meet. (Note that this is
coming from the girl who did not start cleaning her own room until just about last week.) This simple task humbled me, slapped
me across the face and told me that equality is much better than being treated like a dainty, but weak little princess. Although I
initially almost fainted at the idea of cleaning, I now thank my master for forcing me to spray that violently blue mix of strange
chemicals and for helping me prove that I am equal to my male counterparts.
40
My inner princess still lives within the pink castle of my soul, but when the situation arises, the hardened warrior within will
rise and handle the toughest of situations. After years of being the only female, I am proud to announce that I have successfully
recruited three more butt-kicking girls to fight the continuing war against grime and to continue the female legacy of fight.

Across the Pond
by Connor Teahan
The grassy green meadows flow for miles until they reach the horizon and then fall off earth’s surface. The cattle
graze on the silage, just served to them from the back of a big red rusty tractor. The sound of the sheep is heard all around
as new lambs slowly make their way into the world.
My vision is filled with flashes of black and white as the dogs dart around the yard, chasing their tails and each other.
The soft aroma of freshly peeled potatoes, cabbages soaking in a stainless steel pot, and the slab of corned beef on the
countertop waiting to be cut, slowly makes its way around the house, inadvertently announcing that it’s dinner time. The
brogues fill the air as my family crowds around the table, talking about Paddy down the road and Paddy up the road and
just about every other Paddy in town.
It is my second favorite place, my second sanctuary, and a place where I know I will always be welcome. Where my
childhood memories will never be buried and will never be forgotten, and where there will always be someone who is one
of my own.
Emiko Chisholm
41

It.
by Grace Gorenstein
Reaching for It.
Again.
I know I shouldn’t.
But I have to.
Just a little more.
Then I’m done.
Guilt. Shame.
“You’re weak”
He tells me.
I don’t want to be this way.
Really.
It pulls me, though.
It feels good.
It feels bad.
Staying away feels worse.
But once I ignore It,
The voracious desire dissipates.
I can run away. I can be strong.
It is no longer staring at me, taunting.
He yelled again.
It’s not my fault.
“You messed up – again.
You’re useless.”
Guilty Pleasure:
I’m back.
Take me away from him
Or fear
Or failure
More, just a little more of It.
Empty infatuation
And so the ugly cycle continues.
Round and round.
Smiles clouded by excess
And joy drowned by hate.
From the depths of a binge
Comes him. A new him.
Beautiful? Me?
I don’t want It anymore.
I don’t need It.
I need his embrace
Comfort.
Is that a smile in the mirror?
How have I gone so long without It.
A new It.
Love. It. Affection.
I’m beautiful.
I don’t need the dark It.
Love is gone.
I guess she is more beautiful.
I can see why.
She never had a murky It.
Hello, old Friend.
Miss me?
42
Sarah Song

Paper Planes
by Aditi Kothari
And to think it all started with dehydration. This past summer, I was in India with
my family; we had just finished touring the country. As we stood in the crowded
Mathura train station, the temperature read approximately one hundred and fifteen
degrees. Perfect, just what I needed. Suddenly, my grasp on my surroundings loosened,
and my vision began to blur. I propped myself up against the wall to make sure
I didn’t hit the ground. All this time, my mother frantically tried to steady me, pouring
water on my face with one hand and fanning a newspaper with the other to cool me
down. That’s when we both saw them for the first time.
I slowly slid along the side of the wall to preclude my fall. When I put my hand
down on the ground to steady myself, rather than feel the smooth texture of the concrete,
I felt a bag. Looking to the corner I was near, I saw another knapsack beside a
baby, probably not even six months old, lying down on the station platform with a tattered
piece of cloth separating her delicate body from the hard, dirty ground. All she
wore was a tiny undershirt; from the waist down, she was exposed. Her sister, about
five years old, was in a similar condition. From their home in the corner, they watched
Jenna Mrozinski
the bustling world around them, hundreds of people pushing and shoving to cram onto
a single train. Even though this image of two defenseless children caught in the center of mayhem was disconcerting to us, all
they needed to see were the familiar faces of their mother and each other to feel protected. My mother turned to me, “Dee,
look at the difference between you two! You’re both in the same station, heat, and horde, but while she is impervious to everything,
you can’t even support your own weight!” As much as I hated to admit it, she was right. But this comparison didn’t end
our captivation with the sisters; we just couldn’t make ourselves look away.
Suddenly, we watched the mother walk away, leaving her five-year-old as the only guardian. Immediately after, when the
baby started to cry, her concerned sister lifted her off the cloth and offered her cheeks and chin to the baby’s mouth. The baby
seemed to recognize the game as she tried to latch onto her sister’s face. Both of them started laughing and I felt myself smile.
Then we saw the older sister gently put her sister back down and run off to see where their mother had gone. Simultaneously,
once she was out of the safety of her sister’s arms, the baby started to cry again. Her sister rushed back to her and the same
episode occurred a couple of times. Every time the older sister returned from her search, I could see the anxiety building on
her face, not knowing where her mother was. My mother and I looked at each other in earnest every time she returned alone.
The third time, she came back fully transformed, the trepidation wiped off her face, relief and excitement taking its place. As I
felt every muscle in my body relax, I turned and saw their mother walking towards them with two slices of bread and one bowl
of soup for the three to share.
Watching how content they were with so little evoked a great deal of emotion. Quickly turning my back to my mother, I let
the silent tears fall. Since she had seen India’s poverty for twenty-five years, I assumed she would think I was being unnecessarily
sentimental. I took a few moments to compose myself before I turned back around, and when I did, I couldn’t believe
what I saw: my mother had been crying the whole time. As it turned out, this was a unique situation that neither of us had ever
witnessed before. It wasn’t that we had never seen people living on the streets begging for money before, but it was the fact
that this family wasn’t begging that pierced our hearts. Although they didn’t have adequate clothing or a roof over their heads,
they had each other.
The whole time I was crying, I was thinking of ways to help their family and about how unfair life is. Here I was, waiting to
board a first class, air-conditioned train cart for a few hours, while the family lived in that insignificant corner of the train station
every day of the year. My mother then answered my unspoken thoughts, “We should give them whatever we have.”
Reaching in her wallet, she took out all her money, not caring whether it was in dollars or rupees, and told me to give it to them.
Without hesitating, I took the money, tapped the mother on her shoulder, and said in Hindi, “This is for your daughters.” Wiping
away yet another tear, I walked back to my mother and hugged her, realizing that the people you have in life are more important
than the things you don’t have.
43

Home
by Alexandra Marks
The youngest daughter of an army officer, I was forced to deal with the pains of constantly moving from one home to
another throughout my life. I changed houses faster than I switched my favorite color. Left behind were friends, companions,
and neighbors whose doors I would knock on every Saturday bright and early in the morning, yearning for an adventure.
Although communication became stifled, my memories of these people and places were not.
The home that has left the largest impact is a three-story building complete with a gate and guards — in the middle
of Cambodia. When I think of Cambodia, the distinctive scent of our garden flowers comes to mind, a smell different from
the usual roses and other flowers that I smell here in New York. It is soft and does not sting. I think of a broken country, where
our large home was built alongside a beggar’s shack. I think of unpaved streets, where gunshots echoed outside of our closed
windows and shut blinds. I think of the hot weather, where distinction between summer and winter was nonexistent. I think of
a packed house, although more than half the rooms remained vacant, dusty, and lacking furniture.
I see six figures. They sit around the dinner table, where a head of stringy, unkempt hair nods alongside black permed
curls and sticky gel. Stringy Hair sits on her knees in order to reach across and take her turn in the intense game of Pictionary
before them. No one is in college; no one is leaving. It does not matter that it is 100 degrees, or that the country is unstable.
It does not matter that relocation can occur any day, leading to hysteria and cardboard boxes. Nothing else is important. Youth.
With no obligations.
I see a family.
Ashley Glazer
44

Imaginary Games
by Julie Hackett
Picture this: a girl, prancing about her lawn in her mother’s old blouse and shorts, dirt smeared across her palms and
scrapes on her knees, eyes bright with excitement, hair wild from exertion. Now, picture the same exact scene, only replace
that little five-year-old with a 13-year-old. That was me.
Growing up with two older sisters, it was natural to engross myself in the imaginative worlds we created. Though we had
our various forms of entertainment and exploration, nothing could surpass our “imaginary games.”
Every Saturday morning, my sisters and I would wake up, eat breakfast, and race each other to “the wardrobe.” This cabinet
consisted entirely of old ratty outfits from my mother’s preppy college years, and bizarre clothes from my father’s
mullet, head-banging years. All of these elements combined to create a hodge-podge of mothballscented,
mud-stained apparel that would give us our new identities. We would pour ourselves
into these costumes, and immediately adopt the persona that came
with the outfit. Jess was always an elf, towing a leather satchel
and holding a stick with a horse’s head between her legs, galloping
about as Arwen from Rivendell. Jaclyn was somewhat more dramatic,
usually the wife of a soldier at war, tending to her house and
caring for the children—the sad effect of what Lifetime television network
can do to a child in her prime.
I was always the fairy animal-caretaker; I would strap on my plastic
wings from the costume of Halloween past, my mother’s old white silk
blouse, and a pair of torn shorts. I never ever wore shoes—the product of
hippie-blooded tree huggers, even at a young age. My role in the games
was to watch over everyone’s pets and animals. I would display my stuffed
creatures, each with its own little scarf to cuddle in, and prance about the
lawn collecting twigs and berries for them to eat. I would dance my way
through the grass, twirl among the trees, and jump and leap high enough to
reach the branches.
Eventually, time brought the ugly truth to my eyes of fantasy: I could not play
dress-up forever. I was forced to admit that I needed to officially grow up, and live
my way through reality as opposed to playing my way through fantasy. The time
came when it wasn’t appropriate for me to dress in old clothes and run around pretending
to be a fairy anymore. One day, on a crisp autumn morning, I marched to my
trunk and packed up my clothes, the garments that allowed me to assume the identity
of anyone and anything, one last time. Distraught, I wept for a few minutes, having
a moment of silence for my imagination and childish joys.
That was when it struck me, like a brick to the head. Who made the rule that growing
up meant abandoning creativity and fun? I could still be as creative, goofy, and childlike
as ever. Perhaps I’d have to wear my own clothes, and shoes when necessary, but I
didn’t have to change or lose a part of myself as I grew. Today, I still dance my way through life, only now in studios, and with
shoes. I play and work with animals every spare chance I get. I create worlds of adventure, romance, mystery, and excitement
through my writing and artwork. But secretly, I sit up late at night allowing my brain to roam through its absolute limits as I picture
that bright-eyed, messy 13-year-old still prancing about in her mother’s old clothes. As I sleep, I dream of my years of fantasy
that used to be, and my years of adventure that are to come.
Sarah Song
45

I Am My Memories
by Sara James
“Sare jahan se acha.”
These words were repeated every morning by my eight-year-old self. A chorus of little voices would accompany mine as we sang
the rest of the anthem in our classroom. The rest of the song, however, has slipped into the far unknown depths of my memory where
it has stayed for the past nine years of my life. Much of what I learned back in India has been forgotten in a similar way since I moved
here. What remains is what I consider to be the most important:
I remember my mother’s purple sari blowing in the wind as it hung from the clothesline tied around two innocent plantain trees
outside my house. I remember my brother picking me up and running to Sunday school before the last church bell would ring and
before the nuns had a chance to yell at us for being late yet again. I remember the birthday parties with multitudes of cousins running
around outside and the sweet aroma of the various foods people would cook for the lucky person who had gained one more year
on this Earth. These memories have always remained a part of me and they are recalled every time a feeling of deep nostalgia takes
hold of me.
I honestly believe that these memories are what has made me “Indian”; not the fact that I was born there or because my parents
were born there, or even because all my official documents list India as my country of birth. I am Indian because of my experiences.
Now, however, the words that used to start off my day have been replaced by, “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United
States…” My mother’s dresses are now lost in a giant pile of swirling clothes in the dryer, my brother now drives me to church on
the rare occasions that he visits home and birthday parties seem to have been replaced by birthday “dinners.”
Nevertheless, the memories that I have gained since moving here have helped to shape me just as much as those from my childhood.
I remember going to baseball games and feeling the intensity of the crowd that vibrated from the bleachers. I remember the
succulent taste of my first hamburger and the massive amounts of red ketchup I poured into it. I remember traveling in a subway and
the excitement I felt as we crept through a seemingly endless dark tunnel. I remember the emotional hysteria that engulfed my senses
as I looked down the long white slope while gripping onto my ski poles with all my might. These memories, along with those
acquired from my childhood, have built up my personality and created my identity. I am American because of my experiences.
Truthfully, I feel as though I can no longer label myself as wholly Indian nor American, but as multicultural. And while I no longer
belong to a particular society, I have joined a new, yet growing group that embraces every culture and longs to make new memories.
46
Aarati Akkapeddi

Speaking
by Elliot Halpern
As an infant, I once scared an elderly woman just by speaking.
Let me explain. I was born in Miami during Hurricane Andrew, by far the most powerful storm to decimate the American
coast in the 20th century. I’d hear horror stories from relatives all the time. Tales of yachts being heaved out of marinas by the
155 mph winds into backyards miles away, houses and residential areas being completely flattened as if a giant had come
down from his beanstalk and stomped them into the soil. Fun stuff like that. It was the storm’s sudden and chaotic changes in
pressure that left me with scarring in the right side of my brain and cerebral palsy for life, with the left side of my body being
permanently weaker and less coordinated than my right. I didn’t really learn to walk until just before kindergarten, and even
then it took years of physical therapy to remove my severe limp and choppy gait.
So what does a little boy who can’t walk do for fun? Well for one thing, I spoke. I learned to speak while I was still an
infant, with full, relatively complex sentences by the time I was 18 months. And believe me, I spoke a lot, be it about my clothes,
my toys, my room, my family, and of course, myself. I always loved introducing myself to whoever I saw, be it family, familiar,
or complete stranger. The thought of making a new friend or learning something new from these encounters always made me
excited.
So I was a baby in the shopping cart at the
local supermarket with my mother at the time, I was
about a year and a half old, when this older madam
rushes up to the cart and stops us dead in the middle
of the aisle.
“Oh, what an adorable baby! You must be so
proud!” she cheers, absolutely thrilled by my infant
chubby cheeks and little fingers. She moves her
face close to mine and begins to baby talk to my
infant self, not expecting any sort of solid reply
besides an occasional “goo” or “gahh.”
“Aren’t you just precious? Yes you are, yes you
are! What’s your name, little boy?”
Before the final word had left her mouth, I felt
compelled to answer as loudly and cordially as I
could muster. Of course I didn't know that I was
going to scare her at the time, I was just trying to
meet a new friend and learn something new about
the world around me, two qualities that have made
me who I am from the day I started talking at such
Aarati Akkapeddi
a young age to today, and definitely forever on.
Nevertheless, what I shouted in this woman's face,
and her subsequent shriek of terror and startled lunge backward, has become a running joke in my family. They said it's their
first taste of me being me, and I agree.
“HI, MY NAME IS ELLIOT HALPERN. WHAT’S YOURS?”
47

The Mirror
by Ashley Thompson
She is my best friend, my idol and my inspiration. Every time I look at her, I see myself. Coffee-colored eyes, caramel
skin, thin eyebrows—almost as if pencil drawn. When she smiles, her eggshell white teeth shock the audience, but when
she frowns it is as if the whole world has grown black and grey. She has a sense of style just like I do. We sing our favorite
songs together and we are comfortable dancing in front of each other. She is a great listener. I can sit and talk to her for
hours and she understands me and never judges me. She is all I have, the only one who is not a phony, a fake, or into the
whole drama scene. She loves me just as much as I love her, but there is just one problem. Every time I reach my arms
to hug her, she does, too, and I cannot feel her. Every time I ask for advice, she has nothing to say. I realize that I’m the
one always talking, dancing and singing and she just follows everything I do. She isn’t anyone but a reflection of myself.
The dancing is me, the singing is me, the crying and the laughter is all me. It’s just me and the mirror, and she is me.
Victoria Hardy
48

Ode to My Acne
by Dana Mingione
O, blemish! How falsely named are you!
While others may lament in your presence
I see past the festering oil!
I overlook the patchy skin!
The bulging whiteheads,
The blackheads dusting the nose like the devil’s pepper,
These are naught but adornments in my eyes!
You are my truest friends,
Only a glance in the mirror away.
You share my anguish and my joy;
You can never do me a wrong.
And even in my lowest moment,
When I must face the masses
Defenseless and alone,
There you are.
Throwing me a surprise party,
And inviting all of your friends!
Is this not the mark of a true comrade?
To rally the troops, to stir them,
To bring them forth, into the eyes of the world?
I strut proudly into the daylight
Knowing that my pustules stand with me.
Can you not see my mighty and numerous army?
Full of life and energy,
Bursting at the very seems,
Fluorescent with power and swelling with pride.
Ah! See, they break over my very flesh!
They simply cannot be contained!
And when I see when others smother you
In creams and gels and masks,
I cannot help but gasp and shudder!
And my horror can never be contained
When my eyes behold the utmost evil
Those two ghastly fingers
Closing in to seal your doom.
I turn away, and a tear falls.
So may those porcelain-faced dolls be forgotten!
Those smooth faced cherubs scorned!
And may the pimple-graced Pizza-Face
Be crowned as a king.
Jessica Lynady
49

The Sun Rises
Just For Me
by Theresa Flynn
Putting on flip-flops, I simply walked out of the house into the cool morning wearing just my pajamas and sweatshirt.
I passed the pool, the floaties and the toys still bobbing in the water, and traveled through the gate and down
between the dunes. Excitement bubbled inside me at the fact that I had left the house so early in the morning with
no one’s permission.
I’m not one to live life on the edge; defying my parents is not something I normally do. I call my parents after
school to ask if I can stay after. I plan my days in advance. The most bad-ass thing I’ve ever done is put my plate
in the sink without finishing my dinner. So going out at the crack of dawn on my own terms was a big deal.
The beach, as far as I could see, was empty. I couldn’t keep the smile from crossing my newly freckled face as
I padded through the cool sand to the water.
I was alone. Free. I didn’t want to think about all the things that were bothering me. For once, I was really and
truly happy.
The tide came up, wetting my feet. I giggled at the water’s feel on my skin, the excitement whirling in my brain.
I surveyed the peaceful land before me – the brown sand, the miniscule, almost invisible crab skittering across
it, the houses, still with the lights off, and the water rising and falling like a sleeping child’s chest – when a bright
light caught my eye.
My jaw dropped when I realized it was the sun.
I gasped, mesmerized by the majestic ball of fire, bright orange, glowing and huge. It was the most amazing
thing I had ever seen. It was powerful.
I had never been one that connected with nature. Many times my mother had said, “Look at the moon!” or “Wow,
do you see those stars?” but I had never made any connections. It was all just another stop on the tour, a sunset on
the cruise. But this was different. This was all my own.
I wanted to walk to it. Become a part of it. After taking a few steps, I realized this was impossible. I admired
its power from my small paradise on Earth.
Within moments, it was high in the air.
I don’t know how long I stood there. I was reluctant to leave the beach, because I knew once I did, it would never
be the same.
As I walked up the beach, I looked back at the glowing god. I smiled, despite the knots of sadness that had
formed in the pit of my stomach, despite the fact that a pivotal moment of my life was ending. It is something I will
remember as long as the sun rises and sets.
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Danielle Acevedo