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Welcome to Magnum Opus! Table of ContentsSince the beginning of Houston Christian High School, students have earned many awards in various educational and community competitions for their outstanding visual art and literary works. HC students, parents, faculty, staff, and visitors have the pleasure of viewing these extraordinary pieces which are showcased throughout the campus. This magazine highlights a fraction of the creations produced by our creative students throughout the school year.

Magnum Opus provides an outlet for student voices and visions and the opportunity for collaboration between departments, teachers, students, and staff members. The publication of an actual product that showcases the high caliber of art and writing from our students also provides the opportunity for real-world learning that many students can take with them as they move on to college and beyond in their careers.

The Visual Arts, English, and Marketing & Communications departments, as well as students from visual arts and English, worked together on Magna Opus with a focus on encouraging: • Students to articulate and vocalize a Christian worldview• A collaborative approach to education (students and teachers are co-authors

in the learning process)• Students to develop real-world leadership skills (learn how to work with peers

and superiors)• Dialogue between students and the greater community

We hope you enjoy these exceptional pieces.

Writing Editorial Staff

Katie Garbarino - Editor-in-Chief

Katherine Allison - Editor

Madison DeLuca - Editor

Meg Goode - EditorArt Editorial Staff

Logan Zoelle - Head Art Editor

MaryEvans Attwell - Editor

Kevin Chin - EditorFaculty Contributors

Sonia Chavez - Marketing Consultant

Susan Henson-Perry - Writing

Lana Roland-Loveland - Art (Sculpture and Pottery)

Sherie Pierce - Art (Visual Arts)

Karen Klasen - Copy Editor

Art And Writing AWArdS 2011-2012

2011 Houston Livestock Show and rodeogold Medal, top 50 AuctionMichelle Jong

1st Place ribbonClaire Hill

2nd Place ribbonAva FinstuenHannah ShearerAnna Witte

3rd Place ribbonAddie EckertRandy Faulk

2012 VASE - Visual Arts Scho-lastic EventsState FinalistAmanda Blanchardregional FinalistAlexandra ConstantinouBucky DesadierJacob Farris

Grace MorrisMorgan Sparrow

2011 nCtE Achievement Award for Superior WritingKatie Garbarino 2011 Freedoms Foundation Essay Contestgeorge Washington Medal of HonorEric HopperDevon SillsKathryn QuandtHonorable MentionMichael Dunn 2011 Being an American Essay ContestTaylor Porchey, 2nd Place in the Central Region

2012 nCtE Achievement Awards in WritingMeg Goode, HC Student Nominee

2012 Letters about Literature Essay Contesttexas State Finalists SophomoresCourtney BradyAlex Duck Lauren DumlerJuniorsRachel BerryErin DollChris EvansDavid HansenPaige HobbsCarl MundtCourtney Smith

2012 Scholastic Writing Awards region 4gold Key WinnersTurner BatdorfMaddy Copello Eric HopperMadeline SneedKarmen ValenzuelaAudrey Wood

Silver Key WinnersKatherine AllisonRachael BarnettMax BrownReghan GillmanTaylor PorcheyKathryn QuandtAdrianna ThompsonAudrey WoodJordan ZealLogan ZoelleHonorable MentionShelby CorderCullen CoscoLeigh CummingsKloe DorsettSarah FlorisKatie GarbarinoKate GoodeAshley MackCallie ParishBeth PowellLauren Schulz

Katherine Allison“Portrait of an Artist as a Young Woman:Logan Zoelle” ..............................................................16 Pace Andrews“Ship Abstracted” .......................................................35

Amanda Blanchard“The Flight of Dragons” ........................................... 24

Henry Britven“Stoneware Cobalt” ..................................................23

Janice Byth“Pants” ...........................................................................7

Alexandra Constantinou“Flores Mortales” ........................................................20

Grace Craven“Expression” ............................................................... 28

Elizabeth Dalbello“Memories Stick to Me” ...........................................12

Madison DeLuca“Masks” ........................................................................33

Kloe Dorsett “Hope for Courage and Try for Honor” ................ 4

Andrew Duna“It’s Gonna Be My Year” ...........................................11

Lauren Evans“I Know These Faces…They Are My Own” ....................................................18 Ava Finstuen“Steeples” .....................................................................14

Katie Garbarino“Nick” ...........................................................................37

Reghan Gillman“Stripes of Color” .......................................................36

Kate Goode“When the Immovable Moves” ............................... 22

Meg Goode“All Finish, Few Run” ................................................ 15

Claire Hill“The Noble Quality of Books” ................................27

Eric Hopper“Temple of Love” .......................................................26

Michelle Jong“Beauty Rest” ................................................................6

Sam Kaestner“It’s Not All Black and White” .................................32

Amy Mack“Ode to the Glove” ...................................................21

Nick Moll“Beneath the Surface” ................................................ 8

Ariana Morgan“My #Hashtag is Better Than Your #Hashtag ................................................29

Grace Morris“Concentration Plant Design” ..................................10

Callie Parish“Life Leaks” .................................................................34“Syrup in a Bowl” ...................................................... 43

Kathryn Quandt“Beyond the Noise” ................................................... 38

Hannah Rae“Sushi Roll” .................................................................40

John Rasplicka“Growing Debt, Growing Problems for Millenials” ............................................30

Hannah Shearer“Venus in Focus” ........................................................13“Believing: Communication is the Key”..................25

Morgan Sparrow“Tour Eiffel” ............................................................... 19

Logan Zoelle“Glasses” ...................................................................... 5“Portrait of an Artist as a Young Woman” ............ 16

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“Glasses”

“I love the

comic/

animation world.

My greatest

dream is to be a

graphic novelist

and to illustrate

my own stories.”

loganzoelle

“I hope to challenge people,

especially with this piece.

I hope it shocks them, but,

at the same time, I don’t

want them to be horrified or

judgmental.”

dorsettkloe

Hope for Courage and try for Honor I’m an animal freak. Anyone who knows anything about me would agree. However, a lot of people disagree with my devotion to my pets, including my mother. When a stray dog shows up, it’s second nature for me to feedhimorher.Whenmymotherfindsout,it’ssecondnatureforher to be angry. However, when a stray dog gets fed, it’s second nature for him or her to stick around. Most of the time, though, strays just come and go. One German shepherd, though, meandered into my yard and wove her way into the hearts of my entire family, particularly my own, and she has never even considered leaving us. When we found her, she was pregnant. Her bloated, balloon-like belly weighing her down more and more with each passing day. The bigger and slower she got, the more I worried about where she would have her puppies. She was anxious, digging holes and searching for dens, but my worst fears vanished even further into the abyss of horrible outcomes when she had her puppies deep inside the culvert beneath our driveway. The only option, of course, was for me to crawl under there. My mother fought me tooth and nail. The house was a warzone. We went back and forth continuously. Every conversation, every interaction, was mercurial. I alternated between the desperate side of my mothering instinct and the furious, indignant side of it. Yet we were still getting nowhere. Finally, she gave in.An explosive, tear-filled tirade anda quiet side-line opinion from a close family friend soon got me suited up and ready to crawl beneath the driveway despite the numeroushorrificcomplicationsthatcouldbeinvolved.Honestly,looking back, I feel guilty for even pushing my mother to agree to such a feat, but she did, and I’m grateful for it every day. When I crawled beneath that driveway, tightly bundled in (continued on page 41)

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michelle

“Beauty Rest”

“Art is important

to me because I

believe that God

has given me

a talent for art,

and I want to

use that talent

to glorify His

name.”

jong

Pants I bounce on the balls of my feet, dancing to a throaty high-pitched voice, singing in a foreign language I could not identify. It isn’t the music that I would rock to in my bedroom back in Texas, but I dance to it anyway. The Homestay family, from the rural village in India where my friend and I are staying, stares at me as I perform my impromptu dance. I grab one of the villager’s hard leathery hands and try to pull her up to join me. Even though I only knew one word in Ladhaki, everyone understood that a dance party had just started. This particular night there were no men in the house, so it was a regular sleepover party--Ladhaki village style. I twist back and forth, letting my long skirt swish around me, when I notice the housemother stand up. She is a plump, older woman in traditional Ladahki dress, her dark black hair pinned back revealing a round,weather-beaten face.She flicksher handsupand sways side-to-side as she dances closer to me. I start to copy her movements and improvise my own. I turn around and try to get my friend, who is taking picturesonthefloor,tocomedancewithus,whenallofasuddenIfeelasharp tug on my skirt. I jump in the air like a startled cat. I turn around to see my housemother grinning mischievously. “Oh my,” I giggled, “Mary, she just tried to pants me!” I never, in all of my daydreaming about India, imagined I would be dancing out of anoldwoman’sclutchtopreventmyskirtfallingtothefloor!Duringthatweek, our guides from the National Geographic Student Expedition had been telling us how conservative the Ladhaki people are, and how we need to respect the culture. Once everyone in the room realized what the housemother was doing, they began to giggle in delight and started to join in on the fun. All the while, I kept dancing and squealing my way around the small room as my housemother playfully tried to pants me. Lying in bed that night I was overwhelmed by how the words a person says are less important than the attitude a person projects. It is this sort of universal language that never ceases to amaze me as customs and language barriers seem to fade away. My impish housemother and I were just two people dancing in a living room thousands of miles away from everything I grew up knowing. This is the sort of global communication that I have always considered very important in travel and life. Being kind, good natured, and earnest can have a far greater impact thanknowing how to say, “Let’s dance!”

”I hope that my writing helps

people see the world in a

different light.”

bythjanice

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“To truly connect with

others, all I have to

do is realize that we

share a common

path.”

mollnick

Beneath the Surface I open my eyes drowsily, the fuzzy world coming into focus as I put my glasses on. Suddenly, a glint in the corner of my eye draws my attention. It is the shiny, brazened surface ofmy alto saxophone resting in its stand,my artificial sun,mysource of light, ready at the flick of a switch. I can still recallpurchasing it years ago, waiting expectantly for the package to arrive, longing to play the ivory keys. On the wall above hangs a beautifully decorated leather sheath, long ago once cradling a tool common to much of the world, now the tool turns to art, the wooden handle of the machete polished smoothly by the vendor in San Salvador. I roll over in bed to see another instrument leaning haphazardly against the dresser. The wooden acoustic guitar looks strange in the morning light; the bulging curves of the wooden body look awkward, certainly not capable of creating music.Onmyfirstattempt toplay longago, theguitarseemedgigantic. How could anyone make music from this huge, distorted thing?Now,theguitarfitsperfectlyinmyhands,thesecretsofitssound long since explored and discovered. Sitting on the dresser above,theflashyredofmycamerastrapcatchesmyeye.Pilesof photography manuals, SD cards, and lenses surround the sophisticated looking device, a new undertaking of mine. There are so many booklets and manuals, yet still the camera seems to contain so many secrets, so many lessons still to be learned. The camera lens aimed across the room at the billowing, white sails of the frigate sitting above my desk, guarding against any possible invaders. Below the sailing vessel sits what looks to be the innocent scribbles of a young child; the bold strokes of paint splattered across the canvas evidence of the great joy and eagerness behind the masterpiece. Upon seeing the picture, visitors always assume I am the artist, perhaps a painting from when I was young. However, the artist was not me, nor was he even a human. This masterpiece was created by a young bull elephant by the name of Tucker, who contained a greater zest for the visual arts than I ever had. Sitting on a shelf below rests a shell of a conch, found in the ocean off an island in the Caribbean. Long ago it served as

the home for a dirty creature few people would call appealing. Now, nature’s colorful, intrinsic artwork is revealed; a little polishing was all that was needed. Stumbling drowsily out of bed, I see on the opposite wall a stunning portrait of a ship sailing across a vast ocean, a massivebloodredmoonfillingthehorizon;theworkappearedtohavetakencountlesshours.Shockingly,anartistonthestreets of Guanajuato had completed the painting in less than two minutes before my very eyes. This assortment of items, my collection of mementos, reminds me of the history of things, each item containing a story unique to itself. After a short, mechanical morning routine, drowsiness still clinging to my mind, I grab my car keys, backpack, and sports bag and head out the door. Outside, the sky is black with no hint of an approaching sunrise; even the sun is not yet awake to keep me company. Pulling out of my driveway, I am soon making my way down the freeway, few other cars share the road with me. Where are all these people coming from? What places are they headed towards today? Imagining all the possiblecomingadventuresofmyfellowroad-mates,thecommutegoesbyquickly.Giantbillboards,flashingtheireverimportant messages, brightly illuminate both sides of the freeway; yet they are unnoticed as I drive by swiftly. Past the bright lights and into the dark of an underpass, I see a homeless man, bundled in blankets and shadows, huddled and asleep on the damp ground he calls his bed. What stories could this man reveal? What misfortunes has he befallen to arrive at this point?Yethisdaywillunfoldjustlikemyown,amysterytousboth.MycarpullsintotheparkinglotandIfindaplacetoparkeasily, only a handful of other cars already there. Iwalkthroughthecrisp,darkair,enjoyingthepleasantnessofthenewday.SlowlyalightbeginstofilltheskyasIapproach the track, the harsh brightness of stadium lights grow in intensity. Starting off with a warm up lap around the track, thecoolmorningairfillsmylungs,refreshingandcrisp.Now,mymindissharpandawake,tirednessquicklyforgotten,theominous struggles of the coming day put to the side temporarily. Here everything has a pattern, a set order to things; here itissimplysecondnature,yetstillinvigorating.Ifinishmylapandsitdownonthecoldearthtostretch.Thetensioninmymuscles relaxes, the wind no longer feeling cool against my skin as my body warms up. I take off on my morning run. I pass through the gates surrounding my school and enter into the outside world. Here, there is nothing to separate us any longer: no car windows, no doors, no fences. I run past a bus stop, its lone occupant slowly raising his head to glance up from his newspaper as I pass by. Ahead, a man jogs towards me; slowly the distance between us closes. As we approach, our eyes meet; he quickly looks away. Focusing my gaze on the ground ahead of me, I notice the shoes the man iswearingmatchmyown;thefieryredNikecheckstandingoutinthelowlight.Wepasseachother.Themeetingisover;the brief intersection of our day provides no real meaning or result. I wonder how his day will transpire compared to my own. Where will our red shoes take us? I look back just in time to see the red check dart around a corner. Why had I not said something? I could have at least given a friendly “Hello” to my fellow runner. This is the most important kind of tie, that which is -- or is almost -- passed by unnoticed. I may never know what I missedbynotgreetingmyfellowrunnerthatday,butIdorealizethesignificancebehindthemanIneverevenreallyknew.We may have come from different paths, which may never cross again, but that was irrelevant; it was the small similarities, our love for a common interest, that held us together, even if he may have never seen it. The only way to truly identify with people is to identify with them. We may run in opposite directions, at different speeds, in unique ways, but we all still run on the same path. We all have come from somewhere; we all have somewhere we are going. To truly connect with others, all I have to do is realize that we share a common path. I continue on my run. As Ilookaheadtowardsmycomingpath,asoft,warmyellowglowbeginstofillthesky.

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grace

“Concentration

Plant Design”

“The main

concept of the

concentration

was exploring

how design

manifests

through nature.”

morris

it’s gonna Be My Year It’s just the same day with the same stuff. Wake up, go to school, come home, do homework. The only thing different is that I’m sick. Nose congested, throat scratched up, and my voice sounds really weird. They might say that I’m depressed. Nothing is interesting anymore;I’ve been going through a lot lately, and that lot isn’t good. Friend issues, grades dropping, lack of sleep, and the rest of it. I still don’t have a clue. It’s all the same, every day, all year. Or at least that’s what I thought. Throughout the year, I’ve been a part of Discipleship Groups (D-Groups), which is an arrangement of small groups of students, led by an upperclassman. Some meetings we just talk, some we play around, but either way, we have a great leader. I’ll leave his name anonymous for obvious reasons, so for now, I’ll call him Leader. Leader is a wide-framed Cuban-Columbian, with short black hair. Ironically, he is shorter than everyone in the D-Group, but even though his height is lacking, we still look up to him. Everybody in the school knows of him; although some people have not personally met him, everyone has heard great things abouthim.Hispresenceemitsthisindescribableenergythatfillsus all with excitement. It was not just a coincidence that he was our leader; we had planned it out. We had known him from band, and we wanted our leader to be “chill,” so during sign up we made sure it was with him. Everyone in the group got closer to each other and to our leader, who would gladly help us in any situation. Even on his terrible days, he was never rude and always positive. This particular day I was feeling very upset. I don’t know why, but I felt stuck in the past, lost in the stress, and just out of it. It’s like my head was physically unable to focus on anything other than what happened. I had a pounding headache, and I couldn’t think at all. It was a Friday, which meant we had a D-Group meeting during lunch. But it was still morning, which meant a bored, tired, and sick me, and all this annoying classwork. All of class, my head was on the desk. No thoughts. I did take notes, but a minimal amount. I just wanted to go home and sleep because I felt like(continued on page 41)

“I hope my audience

remembers an impactful

person in their life and

realize how great it is to have

someone like that.”

dunaandrew

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Memories Stick to Me

O sticky post-it note, thou bearer of words and instructions.In your blank faces,I see images of what I have to dolike I see shapes in the clouds. A hastily scrawled note can last a lifetime,just like a photographtaken with a touch of a buttoncan capture a moment forever. Your smiling faces speak of happier times,a Bible recorded neatly on little lines,times spent with friends and family,past times of love and joy and peace.These images aren’t staticky with age, like an old T.V.,but are transmitted clearly from you to me. ButlikePetalsofaspringflowerscattered everywhere, they are fading memories,leaving smudges oforange, pink, yellow, purple, blueon the gray sidewalkthat serves as a backdrop for life,a canvas for colors to stick on. Other times you glare at me,attacking my brain as an assassin,afloodlightrevealingallmysecrets,a Prison Master on Alcatraz torturing me with the dark deeds done in my past. Your vivid colors mock me with their silent howls,highlighting all my mistakes,all my embarrassment, my pain, my sadness,inconspicuously stuck on my back,exhibiting all the sin buried in my heart. Just like the Israelites, there is hope for redemption;post-its aren’t permanent,forever possessing the ability to becreated, erased, rewritten, and destroyed,taken down, forgotten about, lost--fixedonasurface.and found in new places.

“Memories, both good and

bad, can be created or

destroyed.”

dalbelloelizabeth

shearer

“Venus in Focus”

“I love famous

art pieces, and

I hope that this

one provides a

modern twist on

Renaissance art.”

hannah

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ava

“Steeples”

finstuen

All Finish, Few run I step outside, heart hammering in anticipation of the run. My air-conditioned home recedes in the distance; I do not look back. A heat mirage shimmers and recedes before my whining feet. Every sweating skin pore begs for respite from the ridiculous Texas heat. Every step is an opportunity to do the easy thing - collapse in the shade, forget about the workout. Yet I keep running, because I want to stop. I keep running, because I believe inmakingtoughdecisionsandfollowingthedifficultpath.Of the precious summer vacation hours I possess, why spend one hourdailychargingthroughtheheat,knowingwellthedifficultyofeach step? Running isdoingsomethingdifficult.Thedecisiontodosomething -- to take action instead of defaulting to the path of least resistance -- looms over me daily. If I refuse to take action, I become a passenger, unwilling to drive my own life. When I run, I battle against physical laziness; however, I have learned that mental or spiritual laziness poses the greater problem. During my life’s course, how often will I make the tough decision to stand up for something despite personal cost? I run because, by making that one hard choice, I am empowered to make more hard choices. But not all decisions hinge simply upon endurance or effort. Some choices inevitably affect or emotionally hurt many people. Irreversible choices are perhaps the scariest, like a trainwithoutbrakes.Iremembermyfirstmeetinginhighschoolwith the college counselor. Hands gripping the chair and heart pounding, I stuttered nervously while drawing a list of majors, careers, colleges that interested me, trying to bring my future into focus.Ileftthecounselor’sofficeandfledfromallthoseimportant,irreversible decisions at a gallop. Three years later The Decision looms closer, but I have come to realize that picking the wrong college is not nearly as disastrous as not picking any college; refusing to make a decision because I fear to make the hard decision is the surest way to go wrong. As I force my feet to perform workouts, the awareness(continued on page 42)

“Writing is important to me

because it allows me to think

on a deeper, more deliberate

level than I do when I am

communicating verbally.”

goodemeg

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Portrait of an Artist as a Young Woman:

Logan Zoelle Senior Logan Zoelle has been a prominent artist on the HC campus since her freshman year. From doodles in her notebooks to paintings displayed in the hall, her art can be seen all over the school. Logan has performed well in several art competitions, including placing 3rd in the district for the Congressional Art Competition, receiving a Silver Key in the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition, and winning best in show and a gold medal for the Rodeo Art competition. Recently, I had the opportunity to ask Logan a few questions about her art and her future plans. Logan, what sparked your interest in art? “The earliest I can remember taking art ‘seriously’ is Kindergarten, when I would draw Pokemon characters from looking at the cards. My favorite artistic medium is drawing people, like portraits of celebrities, but mostly I like drawing people out of my own head. For instance, my concentration for my AP Studio Art Portfolio is a collection of satire portraits displaying different characteristics/stereotypes of senior citizens that I created.” What are your career aspirations, and what is the next step for you in achieving those goals? “Since I love drawing people so much, I also tend to make up entire story lines to go along with all of the characters I create. Because of this, I really love the comic/animation world. At the moment, I’m planning on majoring in illustration at the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. My greatest dream is to be a graphic novelist and to illustrate my own stories, or maybe help develop cartoons/movies at Cartoon Network or Disney.” Where do you get your inspiration? Do you have a favorite place to work on your art? “I can get inspired from anything, really. I might want to draw a still life if I see something that I think looks interesting, or I might read a line out of a book that I want to illustrate. But most of the time an image or scene just pops into my head and I just need to draw it out. Most of my ideas usually sprout at the most inconvenient times:duringclass,when I’m trying to finishhomework, or just when I’m about to go to sleep.”

Interview by Katherine Allison

What is one of your favorite pieces?

“One of my absolute favorite pieces (pictured below) is called ‘The Life Aquatic.’ It is a 3x4 foot painting done in acrylic paints. It was for a class assignment where we had to paint a still life on a canvas with strips of tape on top. When we were finished,weweresupposedtotakeoffthetapeandrearrangeittomaketheimagemoreinterestingfortheeye.Intheend,I decided not to take off the tape because I loved my helmet too much. It’s one of my favorite pieces because it’s so different from what I usually do.”

KatherineAllison

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i Know these Faces... they are My Own My grandmother, or as I liked to call her, my Oma, died when Iwasfiveyearsold. Ivaguely rememberher,anold fraillady, a devout Catholic with a cigarette in her right hand and a cup ofcoffeeinherleft.Shehadnimblefingers,wrinkledwithcoloredspotsandyellow-stainedfingernails.Shewasnotaller thantheaverage ten-year-old (about four feet) and sat on phone books in order to drive her car. She was like a fairy, petite yet lovely. Although she may have seemed strange, she was my Oma, and I loved her to death. For as long as I can remember, about once every three months, it would be time to go and see Oma again. My father, my brother, and I would pack into my father’s aged BMW and drive thirty minutes to get to her house. Oma’s house was foreign and mysterious to me. My brother and I explored each room, as we pretended to venture into the unknown world. We explored throughout the house, conquering closets and shelves full of pots and pans as my father and Oma sat at the bar in her kitchen and nonchalantly drank coffee as they talked about recent news and distant family. Throughout the house, all the rooms overwhelmed me with creative emotions and adventurous thoughts, yet there was one passageway that always intrigued me the most: the hallway. As one first entered, the hallway was narrow, slender,vacant. It was like a mysterious cave, a dark passage with exceedingly high ceilings and creakywooden floors that to theright led to my Oma’s bedroom. Around the four corners, a white symmetrical trim overlapped the dark walls, smelling of sweet cream and cigarettes. It was more than just a hallway to me; it was aroomfilledwithfaces.Familiarfaces,facesofthepast,facesofa distant time, faces of a different world. Yet, I knew these faces. These faces were all black and white-- antique, yet present. Some displayed the joys of their lives with a delightful beam, while others subtly radiated their true emotions through their inviting eyes and(continued on page 42)

“I could still picture that

hallway even though it was

many years ago, so I decided

to write about that hallway and

the impact it has made in my

life.”

evanslauren

sparrow

“Tour Eiffel”

“The primary

inspiration for

my piece came

from visiting

Paris, France

over the course

of Spring Break.

Hopefully my

artwork and

photography will

motivate people

to travel.”

morgan

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alexandra

“Flores Mortales”

“A big influence in my work is

Dio de los Muertos, or Day of

the Dead. Every year I have

seen people decorating and

preparing for this holiday and

every year I am amazed by

the decorated skulls.”

constantinou

Ode to the glove

Ohfittedglove,thoucurvesfitperfectlytothehand, No bumps, no ridges, just all smooth,MatchingthewaysofmyfingersWithout a trace of doubt.There are no stray strands on that glove,For every thread conforms to the patterns of another. And the Hand judges that glove,Watching it like a hungry vultureJust to make sure that each thread does the exact same as another.The hand is like Hitler in World War II;It tries to create a perfect environmentWhere everything is the same,And everything is perfect. The hand revolves around many objects;It just keeps moving—under the sun, the moon, and the stars.The hand holds the glove back,And that glove cannot be set free.Just like a bird in a cage, it is imprisoned.It is trapped in a free world,And by being uniform, it does wrong,Sinning in the enclosure of the Garden of Good and Evil. But the Cape,ItfliesforeveronthebackofSuperman.Free from worries, free from mistakes, free from judgment.It is a leaf in the wind,And it does what it wants to do.The cape is as free as a bird. The hand, a prisoner,And the cape, a free-spirit;They need each other.That hand is judgmental, and the cape goes against the judgment,Like a rebel child.And that glove can only wish to be as free as the cape one day,But the Devil always speaks,And the glove always follows.

mackamy

“Conformity has become

such an issue in this modern

society, so I felt that I should

write something that would

persuade people to stand out

and be themselves.”

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When the immovable Moves

O rushing tide Crowned with White topped foam; thou power never fades nor fails,The sodden beach, savage, worn, a place where many muddied feet have wormed,And left deep, dark footprints in the sand,A desecration, broken, black, the smooth surface that once was whole,Lies churned and ruined soil. Never to be whole or smooth by its power,The fruitless smearing, sopping mud as hopeless as a falling star to reclaim its radiant Throne.Deep aberrations,Permanent scars,And muck immovable,Hopeless, shameful, tearing, resilient ruts. No Man’s hand can return this mess to its pure form,Though many have come before to shape the Sinful soil.Our beach still lies scarred and marred and worse for all the help,The fruitless pushin--pulling words could never smooth the mud. Shall our beach be forever burdened and destroyed?Willitliesoshamefullikedirtyragsonthefloor?Or do the waves beyond, dancing farther down,Wipe clean the slate that has been forever torn? The tide is running, leaping with excitement and joy,Unstoppable force of pure white water towards the shore, Snowy and glassy with dancing angels--caps roar like trumpets.It can make all things new, smooth over every rock and stone and rift. And then comes, with solemn dignity,A mighty wave like none before,Washing smooth the shore.Its glorious power of clear, clean waves-- Has left this beach spotless.No mud, no muck, no ruts, no holes,All peaceful as a lake,And dancing feet adorn this shore,Ofsparkling,firm,untroubled,sand.What once was dirt is now like the paved roads of heaven.For you, O wave, have washed forever clean our shore.

“Writing about what is going

on in my life is important to

me; it helps me to get past

things and accept hardships.”

goodekate

britven

“Stoneware Cobalt”

“This is one of my first wheel

thrown bowls...No two bowls are

the same in shape or color as I’ve

experimented through the last year

or so developing my own style.”

henry

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amanda

“The Flight of Dragons”

“I hope that through my art

people can see the true

beauty of nature....and help

preserve it.”

blanchard

Believing: Communication is Key ThispastsummerItraveledwithfifteenotherselectedstudentsto China, where Beezus, our tour guide, challenged me. “Break a leg? Jesus heals,” he taunted us, “Family member dies? Jesus comforts.” Beezus, a tiny man with harsh words, pierced my core beliefs. “Christians place Jesus where the most hurt lies, just to make themselves feel better,” he concluded. There I stood on the other side of the world, unable to reply. Yet at that moment, I understood. If I take Jesus Christ seriously, I should take His commission to spread the truth about Him seriously. The issue is not just believing; I must be able to communicate my beliefs. Before my trip to China, I viewed myself as a great debater. In truth, I was actually more of a talker, an arguer, and a hardhead. My teachers viewed me more favorably, defining me as a strong leaderwith passion and integrity, so they chose me to visit China. I anticipated a land filled with exotic dragons, but instead I discovered how toeffectively express my beliefs--beginning with listening. Consider my conversationwithBeezus.Icouldhavespokenfirst,blurtingoutphraseslike “Jesus heals,” and “Jesus comforts,” phrases that would have only confirmedhisone-dimensionalviewofChristianity.Surprisingly,myrarespeechlessness had taught me an important lesson in communication. I need to respect others and listen to their views before speaking. But my biggest mistake came after Beezus spoke. I remained silent. Christianity should be like riding across the Gobi Desert--I want to tell everyone about it. So what held me back? I confess. I hoped someone else would reply. Fear had muted me, fear that Beezus would ridicule my answers--and me. In a way, Beezus’ statements rang true. I was being self-centered instead of God-centered. SoIamlearningwaystoexpressmyconvictionwithconfidenceand composure. In “Christianese” terms, I must put my trust in God who can do all things. Sometimes I need to be like a sneak preview instead of a full-length movie, arousing curiosity about my beliefs with a few words, such as when I told Buddhists that I attended a Christian high school in America. At other times, communicating to skeptics requires actionsnotwords,suchaswhen IshowedBeezus theselflessnessofChristians. After remembering that our tour guide had commented on howtheChinesegovernmentrewardsoneyuan(aboutfifteencents)forevery twenty water bottles collected by a citizen, I organized the group to give our empty bottles to people on the street. Sure a few cents was not much, but our actions portrayed the love of Christ better than any eloquent speech. I acknowledge multiple belief systems in this world. I still have much to learn, but I would never have guessed that a Buddhist would make such an excellent teacher. I now know that my purpose is not to bash nonbelievers’ heads with Bibles, but to communicate Christianity effectively.

“My trip to China really

impacted me to write about

my personal beliefs after

experiencing such a contrast

to my religious freedom in

America that I constantly

overlook.”

shearerhannah

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temple of Love It was after hours, and it was summertime. He probably wasn’t there, but I wanted to check anyway. I rushed up the stairs and down the hall to the last door on the right. The lights were out, and the door was locked. I sighed in disappointment. It was the firsttimeIhadcomeinnearlyamonth.Ipeekedthroughthetall,narrow window adjacent to the door. Despite the dim light, I could tell everything was in place. I glanced to the left at the whiteboard spanning the entire wall. Still written there amidst all the mathematical garble, apparently untouched since the last day of school in May, was a short message in the neat uppercase letters of Mr. Mellor’s hand: “This Is A Temple Of Love.” I smiled. Funny name for a calculus classroom, but I could only agree. I turned my eyes to the back left corner. On the wall each class had a decorated poster. I could see my thumbnail of a picture on the Class of 2009. I smiled with pride. I missed that class. That was when math became exciting, when numbers gained their charm. And that charm never left; it stayed right here in Mr. Mellor’s room. And I always felt myself coming back. Before class I studied here. At lunch I ate here. After class I tutored here. There was always a new question to ask, proof to share, or student to help. It was a place where I found love in learning, love in sharing, and love in teaching. I withdrew from the window, turned around, and walked backtothestairs.Thefirstdayofschoolwassixweeksaway.Sixweeks till I could come back to The Temple of Love.

“Writing serves as a sort of

litmus test for the rationality

of the idea I am trying to

express.”

hoppereric

the noble Quality of Books I believe in books. I believe in the feeling of the pages as theyturnundermyfinrsandthenew-booksmellofinkandglue.I believe in the weight a novel creates in my backpack, making its presence subtly known and quietly holding its secret mysteries. “There is no frigate like a book,” as Emily Dickenson says, to take you to far off lands, far off worlds… books can become time machines to either the familiar past or the uncertain future, whichever strikes your fancy. Hidden in the pages lie fantasy, adventure, friendship, love… and truth. There is so much truth in books. Whengadgets like theKindle™ andNook™first cameout, I understood their use, but I wasn’t that interested. Sure, it’s hard to take five or six books on a trip; digital readers helpeconomize on space and weight. Sure, it’s cheaper to buy ebooks than regular hardbacks or paperbacks (though the electronic readers themselves cost a pretty penny). Ebooks are useful in their own way, and practical in certain situations. However, in my eyes, they will never replace real books. If, given a choice to pick up a book off of my bookshelf or an electronic reader, I would choose a book every time. There is something too enthralling, too deep-rooted, too noble about tomes to resist. Each time I look at the books in my room, I notice something different about the familiar tales that stand straight and tall on my shelves or lie peacefully and patiently in the stacks on my dresser, waiting for me to read them. Each book has a different tone and each delivers a different story, but each carries its own story proudly between its covers, displaying the title and cover blurb with dignity. They are like soldiers, my good little books, ready and willing to do their duty and inspire me or cheer me up, depending on the day. They do it gladly; their stories are too important, too wonderful to put behind a screen forever. Not just stories inhabit books:memoriesofthefirsttimesomeoneeverpickedthebookup, stickers proclaiming ownership inside the front cover, and that comforting feeling I get when I hug a book to my chest all belong to the novel. In my eyes, that is something too precious to take away. I will not let them take my quiet noble friends away. They are too dear to me. I need them too much. I believe in the noble quality of books, and I believe that they will endure.

“The many books I have

read over the years

inspired me to write

this piece. I hope that

because of my work,

people will realize the

value of books.”

hillclaire

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grace

“Expression”

“My primary

inspiration

was the nature

around me,

primarily the

flowerbeds

in the school

courtyards.”

craven

My #Hashtag is Better than Your #Hashtag Tweets are a lot like warning labels. Not many people actually read them; yet, companies will forever cover products inasmanymandatorydisclaimersaswillfit inthewarningbox.Likewise, people continue to share their not particularly noteworthy adventures with incredible enthusiasm, despite the fact that no one seems to actually pay much attention. Tweets (and other social networking posts) also have the tendency to be stupid, comparable to the large majority of moronic warning labels. For example, a group in Detroit that collects silly warning labels quotes a disclaimer for a children’s scooter: “This product moves when used.” Another for a baby stroller reads, “Remove child before folding.” Tweets are no better: “The bananas aregrowingbrownspots.Theraceisontofinishthebunchbeforeit’s too late! (I hate mushy ‘nanas!),” or “One of the lights in my house was on. I decided that I didn’t need the light on any longer. I pressed the switch thereby turning it off.” What has the world come to? Seriously? People think the world cares if they turned the lights on or off? Social networking has come to represent the mentality that the world revolves around the self. Humansarenaturallyselfish;wetendtonoticeonlythethings that matter to us. When people constantly publish their life (most of us do, including myself), as if the world wants to know, it makes sense that most tweets and other social networking updates go unread. But what does the trend of excessive self-publication mean for the world? It means that modern generations are becoming so focused on the self that they tend to forget what other people may be thinking. In comparison to older generations, younger generations have forgotten the importance of privacy. Older generations would have been disgraced and shamed at most of the information and thoughts that younger generations share through social networks. Sharing too much information used to be a violation of proper social conduct. Now, we have as many rules of proper Facebook and Twitter conduct as they did for personal conduct. The line between appropriate and inappropriate has also been blurred; girls post pictures of their cleavage, boys take chest shots, and middle-aged women complain about aging. It used to be considered pornography to look at a picture of a girl in a bathing suit (or the equivalent); however, such pictures are now commonplace. Will the line of social acceptance continue to recede?(continued on page 42)

“I hope to humor my audience

and convince them to put

more thought into their own

Tweets.”

morganariana

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growing debt, growing Problems for the Millenials The greatest challenge facing today’s young Americans is the staggering national debt that has been amassed through America’s desire to help others without balancing cost. The implication of this challenge is that this group of very privileged individuals, born between 1980 and 1995, who have the power to change the American course towards disaster are at the same time very apathetic due to the environment in which they have been raised. The wars in Afghanistan and Iraq have contributed to massive government spending; the government must pay the soldiers,payfortheequipmentwithwhichtofightthewar,andpayfor the operations. With each of these items considered, as well as many others, defense spending accounted for $689 billion in 2010. However, this is only one way the government must spend money; it cannot leave out health care and Social Security. Social Security and health care, once beneficial toAmerica, are now increasingly detrimental to the economy: as our nation’s average age increases, so do Social Security payments. Social Security was begun as a “pay as you go” program when the ratio of workers to retirees was high; as the U. S. population agesandtheratioofworkerstobenefitcollectorsdeclines,SocialSecurityaddstothefederaldeficit.Furthermore,thehealthcaresystem, plagued by increasing utilization as the population ages, also contributes to the national debt due to heavy government spending in to Medicare and Medicaid. Social Security, according totheUnitedStatesCongressionalBudgetOffice,isthesecondlargest expenditure in the governmental budget at $701 billion in 2010. The premise of the Social Security system is to provide retirement funds for the retired, income supplements to the disabled, and money to the surviving family of a deceased Social Security worker. While all of these are good ideas in practice, the massive spending needed to support Social Security is augmenting federal debt. Similarly, health care spending on Medicare and Medicaid has reached extremely high levels; according to the CongressionalBudgetOffice, it topped the list of governmental

“The primary inspiration for

my piece was the fallout of the

recession of 2008. I hope my

audience will be not only more

informed about the problems

facing my generation but also

be inspired to do something

about them.”

rasplickajohn

spending at $793 billion in 2010. Just like Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid are good theories, but in practice have only exacerbated the federaldebt.Medicareprovideshealthinsurancecoveragetothosewhoareovertheageofsixty-five,undersixty-fiveanddisabled, or meet other criteria. Medicaid is a health program that provides those with low incomes or disabilities with health care.Massivegovernment spending into eachof theseprograms (Medicare specifically) is also contributing to federaldebt. Defense, Social Security, health care--all contribute to federal spending, which, according to Senators Jeff Sessions and Olympia Snowe, has exceeded tax collections by over $1 trillion in each of the past three years. The United States isborrowing40centsofeverydollaritspends.SomeportionoftheAmericanpopulationwillhavetopayforthisdeficit;Ibelieve a large amount will fall to those Americans born between 1980 and 1995, not the policy-makers who are creating the deficit. The Millennials were (and are) in a society in which defense spending runs rampant abroad; Social Security and health care, domestically. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan as well as Social Security and health care spending exemplify each. However, the government cannot afford to continue this spending activity, as shown by Senators Sessions and Snowe. Because they have been raised in a society that promotes these government handouts, Millennials will neither recognize theproblemofgovernmentspendingwiththecurrentsystemnorattempttofixit.The“OccupyWallSt.”movementseemsto be about the Millennials in the 99% getting more government handouts by taxing the 1% at a higher rate. There already isanincreaseinthefederalbudgetdeficitthattakesawayfromspendingonnecessities;ifthementalitythatgovernmenthandouts are necessary continues, then even less money can be put into necessities, especially education. Government spending on education is critical; an inadequate education renders anyone seeking employment not competitive in today’s global market. Thisincreasehasmanyramificationsbesideseligibilityforemployment,specificallyinrelationtopublicschooling.Evidence of failing school systems is evident throughout the country; debts at the state level are affecting the state university, secondary,andprimaryschoolingsystems.Asaresultofthis,themoreaffluentaregravitatingtowardsprivateschools,which only increases the gap between the one percent and the ninety-nine. This evidence of failing public school systems startswithprimaryandsecondaryeducation,whichisaresultofstatedebt.Recently,aroundthenationandspecificallyinthe state of Texas, teachers were cut from their jobs at all levels of primary and secondary schooling in an attempt to balance budgets. Jonathan Kozol reported on the very poor state of America’s education system in in his book Savage Inequalities in 1991; one must shudder to consider how savage these inequalities must be twenty years later. Furthermore, university systemshavebeenaffectedbydebtdeficits.Take,forexample,theUniversityofCaliforniasystem,whichhasproducedthirty-seven Nobel laureates in its history. President Obama’s debt deal, however, will lead to a decrease in funding for university research and graduate education. Because of the national debt, budget cuts are going to be imposed on a college that is one of the largest producers of Ph.D.s in the world. Government spending on war and health care and Social Security decreases spending on education with deleterious effects on the educational system in America at all levels. In summary, the biggest problem young Americans face is the looming federal debt, which is caused largely by government spending on war, health care, and Social Security. Furthermore, the debt negatively impacts crucial elements of America, such as the educational system at all levels. Increase of government funding to defense, Social Security, and health care diminishes spending to education, which is where the most money should be spent. It is only with a proper education that Millennials will be competitive in today’s global market.

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sam

“It’s Not All Black and White”

“The inspiration for this

sculpture came from my

imagination, initially a

simple chess board with

a basic checkered pattern

on top. I just kept adding

new patterns, texture and

designs.”

kaestner

Masks “Again.” Step-ball-change and pivot and turn. “Wrong foot.” Step-ball-change and pivot and turn, to the left. “Look unified! Again.” Step-ball-change and pivot andturn. Step-ball-change and pivot and turn. My director claps out the beat with harsh, staccato emphasis. Does this mean anything? The microphone tape residue that never comes off, the blinding theater lights on my face, the meals eaten hurriedly off plasticware on linoleum floors, theoil-based makeup spilled haphazardly on gray counters, the semidarkness of backstage, the expectant nervousness of people linking hands before closing night? Why? Step-ball-change and pivot and turn. As a junior in high school, I was cast as one of Joseph’s eleven brothers in the musical “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” without knowing what the role would entail. I was unprepared for the effort required of me--every night for two months we practiced, learning harmonies and dances, discussing character motivation and blocking scenes until I wanted to hide in the prop closet. Despite the stress and exhaustion of seventeen-hour days, I enjoyed rehearsal, forgetting my bruised knees and steadily declining social life. I was painfully nervous during the initial practices, afraid to sing out or be ridiculous, and I liked the other brothers because they weren’t self conscious. They embraced their characters, drilling exaggerated stage punches and singing in off-key Caribbean accents. By assuming the elaborate (and sometimes grotesque) mask of their characters, they became real, inspiring me to overcome my anxiety. As the schedule grew more rigorous, the brothers demonstrated the value of good attitudes. Our collective sense of humor and camaraderie as we impersonated French bar patrons and cowboys and 1950’s gangsters resulted in a cohesive, (continued on page 43)

“The musical taught me about

letting go of insecurity and

embracing community, and in

my piece I hope that I can do

the experience justice.”

delucamadison

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Life Leaks Ibelieveinphotography,inmomentsthatdefinetheveryessence of who we are and in the imperfections that make us unique. At seven, I believed in Fisher Price®. Fisher Price® gavemeone ofmy first and favorite toys: a red and blue andyellow camera with an oversized black neck strap and blinding flash. Although the camera provided joy, my pictures alwaysappeared blurry, blinding, and confusing. They weren’t pretty, and they weren’t easy to look at. Sure, my parents would claim, “Oh honey, these are so good!” But I knew the truth. My childhood photographs weren’t masterpieces; they were clay molds, waiting for my inner Michelangelo to sculpt them. Atthirteen,Ibelievedinallthingsdigital.MyfirstNikon®digital camera cemented the belief that taking pictures of myself (also called “selfies”)was thepinnacleofmyexistence.I documented sleepovers, bowling parties, and late night movies withblindingflashes,drawingridiculefromothers,butfillingmeand my friends with joy. Again, my pictures were not generally pretty: they contained silly faces that only my friends and I were able to appreciate. Peers and strangers alike judged my cherished photos as immature; at the time, their judgement upset me because I wanted social acceptance. Today,atseventeen,Ibelieveinfilm.Aftergoingthroughmy Fisher Price® and “selfie” stages, I discovered a love forvintagecameras.Picturescapturedwithfilmaremoreraw,moreexposed. The colors aren’t quite as perfect and life-like as my digital or as blurred as my Fisher Price® camera. In order to use afilmcamera,onemustwork,andtheprocessisn’tassimpleasthepicturesseem.NotonlydoIhavetotaketimetoloadthefilm,towinditforward,andtounloadanddevelopit,butbecausefilmliterallycapturesrawmoments,Ioftenfindlightleaks(foggyspotsonaphotographcausedbystray light thatseeps intofilm fromholes in the camera). If too much light leaks, it can ruin a picture. But usually, there’s only a tiny bit. The tiny bit of light that shines(continued on page 43)

parishcallie

“I was inspired to write about

what I believe in: I believe in

photography, in moments, and

in imperfections.”

andrews

“Ship Abstracted”

“From a chosen

ship image,

I adjusted

the colors in

Photoshop and

painted the

resulting image

on a canvas. I

painted back

through and made

the optical illusion

effect.”

pace

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“Stripes of Color”

“I hope to challenge my

audience to see the color

in life, instead of simply

seeing the black and

white. I want them to see

the in-between.”

reghangillman

nick I’m sitting in a hospital, at 9:00, on a weekday. The sun is weak through the window, hidden under a layer of clouds, and I lay my head on the armrest of the puke-blue colored couch, completely exhausted. I imagine being somewhere else, anywhere really. Cancer (kān’sər) – n – a malignant and invasive growth or tumor, especially one originating in epithelium, tending to recur after excision and to metastasize to other sites. I have not seen my sister-in-law Andi in almost twelve hours; she is always in there, next to her husband, my brother, as he continually struggles for breath. It is hard to imagine, as I bite my nails and pull my sweatshirt tighter around me, that only a few days have passed since I last went to school, since I was among the living, and not the dying. Palliative (pāl’ē-ā’tĭv) – adj – Relieving or soothing the symptoms of a disease or disorder without effecting a cure. He’s on a lot of painkillers. His eyes dart back and forth, half closed, and his moments of lucidity are tempered with long stretches of complete confusion. Time passes, and people come and go. My mother sits across the room with her sister beside her; two ladies from church bringlunch;familyandfriendsfileinandout,hugging,joking,crying. Disaster (di-ˈzas-tər) – n – a sudden event, especially one occurring suddenly and causing great loss of life, damage, or hardship. It is darkening outside when I finally stand up, stretch, andspread a puzzle out, sorting the edges out and trying not to cry. People start to say goodbye, to go home, to see their families, to keep on living, andIstaysittingthere.Itgetsdarker.Ifinishtheedgeofthepuzzleandbegin on the middle. Others occasionally stop and help, but I’m in a daze, putting in piece after piece, thinking of how long I’ve been there, how I wish it all would end, yet how I desperately want to stay there. Because at this point, leaving would mean something unthinkable. Belief (bə-ˈlēf) – n – conviction of the truth of some statement or the reality of some being or phenomenon especially when based on examination of evidence. Suddenly, it’s already past midnight and my whole family is gathered in the room. I join them. Andi is there, lying next to him, holding his hand. They have been married for nineteen months. We all stare; I am more lost than I have ever been for a moment, completely without convictions. There’s a bible on the bedside table, and my dad hums a hymn. I leave and sit outside on chairs near the door, feeling choked. Then, while I sit, the unthinkable happens, and I am called back in the room.He’sverystill.Theroomisfilledwithremorse,anguish,andpain.Yet from some amazing source, behind the sorrow, and bitterness, and grief that has only just begun, I feel a pinch of hope. He’s gone to be with God. In a time where I believe almost nothing else, this I believe.

“Loss is almost impossible

to express; but writing has

helped be come the closest.”

garbarinokatie

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Beyond the noise Balloons and confetti. Twister and Limbo and Pin-the-Tail-on-Whatever. Cheese pizza and Diet Coke® and chocolate cake and ice cream. Laughing and screaming and singing and shouting and crying and clapping and clanging and whizzing and booming and--I can’t take it anymore! Myfive-year-oldselfruns,handsclaspedovermyears,fromthegame-filledlivingroomintoadesertedpartofthebirthdayboy’s house. The colors, the excitement, the noise is all too much for me. I take deep breaths, just like my mommy told me to do, and try to quiet my overwhelmed senses. I don’t like it when this happens, when I go to birthday parties and there’s so much going on that I can’t focus on anything, and my head starts beating. But I can’t help it. How am I supposed to handle all the noise? It’s as if everybody’s trying to get attention by being the loudest! They’re still out there, shrieking and giggling and stamping and bashing and--Knock! Knock! Knock! “No!” My mommy leaves me alone. Ten minutes later, my head stops beating, and I return to the living room, ready to play again.… … … … “Do you know what she did? She smiled at him! She likes him! I can’t believe her! I liked him a whole hour before she did! I’m never speaking to her again.” Sympathetically, I put my arm around Bailey’s trembling shoulders. We’re at Julia’s house for a normal, junior high movie party, but Bailey has been venting to me for nearly twenty minutes about how her best friend Anne stole her crush. We had been watching the movie for a while, but Bailey kept getting so distracted byAnne’spresenceinthesameroomandtheaction-packedfilmthat she pulled me to the bathroom with her. After a few more minutes of crying and talking, Bailey regains composure and sighs heavily. “You know, if I wasn’t best friends with Anne, I’d be best friends with you. She can’t shut up long enough to listen to me. And even if she did want to listen, I’m sure she’d get too distracted

quandtkathryn

“This piece came from a

portfolio collection I created

my senior year...”

to listen to everything I said.” She pauses thoughtfully. “I feel better now, though.” We go back into the TV room, where the movie has just progressed to the climax. Even with the speakers blasting, I hardly pay attention to the screen; I rub my lightly pulsing temples as I sort through all the drama that I have just absorbed. It’snotthefirsttimeI’vegonetosocialeventswheregirlsconfessallsortsofthingstome(Annehadgivenmehersideofthestorytwohoursearlier),butit’sthefirsttimeI’verealizedhowstrangethisis.ThoughIamneitherBailey’snorAnne’sbest friend, each turned to me for a verbal catharsis... Should that even happen in the realm of best-friendship? Regardless of whatever the answer is, I decide then that being a “good listener” is acceptable for me. Having no dramaofmyowntocontributeanyway,Ifinditeasiertolistenattentivelytoonegirl’sstoryatatimethantopayattentiontoa pandemonium of emotional anecdotes all at once. Not only does it hurt my head less, but it allows others to open up and trust me more. It helps me understand more about the other girls, even though I know I’ll never be more than an open ear to them. I think I’m okay with that.I return my attention to the movie.… … … … Surrounded by his circle of friends, Mike cracks a joke, to which they all respond with euphonious laughter. He checks his cell phone and then makes an even funnier comment—my ears perk up. Mike waves his friends good-bye and walkstowardthehighschoolparkinglot;Ifollowhim,dodgingtheflowofstudentsstillpouringthroughthehallways. “What happened?” Mike stops abruptly but doesn’t look at me. I walk around to see his face, but his eyes are closed, his breathing quick and shallow. I grab his arm and pull him into the less-crowded library, where we sit at a table. Voice struggling to remain level, Mike tells me that his aunt, to whom he is extremely attached and for whom he is composing a song, is on her death-bed. This isn’t Mike’s only tragedy: his grades have dropped, his girlfriend dumped him, and his father never seems pleased with him. By the end of his speech, a tear has fallen; Mike looks at me desperately. But I don’t know what to say. He begins speaking again... After nearly an hour of talking, Mike turns to me. “You know, when you asked me what happened, I felt like my life was just as crazy as the hallway we were standing in. I thought you might freak out if I started crying about my aunt. But you didn’t.” He smiles. “Thank you for caring.” When did I tell him I cared? As Mike leaves the library, my mind wanders. I remember a birthday party when my situation seemed out of control, lost in the commotion of the celebration, when I ran away from the noise. I remember a movie night when two girls thought their worlds were collapsing amidst blaring distractions, when I decided to embrace the noise. And now, I think listening is more than hearing noise altogether. Listening, in its true form, isn’t listening to the words that a person says; it’s listening to the things that a person doesn’t say. It’s the tone of someone’s voice, the restlessness in someone’s eyes, the quiver of someone’s lips, all wanting to be recognized and accepted. Listening is the experience of an argument, a plea, a demand, taking shape and begging to simply be understood, to be calmed, in spite of the noise. I believe in experiencing that argument. I believe in calming the noise. I believe in listening.

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“Sushi Roll”

“Art is important

to me because

it serves as a

way to channel

my feelings in

a creative and

constructive

way.”

raehannah

“Hope for Courage and try for Honor” (continued from page 4)thick layers of clothing and a frog-suit (a waterproof jacket and pants combination), an unknown fear of tight spaces quickly reared its ugly little head. Time after time, my legs would scrape against the roof of the tight, dark tunnel, or my hips would drag against the sides a little too much, and the panic would jump up inside of me, ready to whisk me off to a land where I wasn’t in control, where I wasn’t going to get out of that tunnel. The panic was always there, evident in my racing heart, my terrifiedbreathing,andmyshakinghandsasIclawedmywaythroughthecolddarkness. When I found the puppies, they were afraid and silent. It was a struggle, moving the seven little boys out of the way of the Tonka truck I had brought and then loading them into it. Their warm, squeaking bodies trembled and wiggled in my hands, but they were obviously healthy. Plump little butter-balls, they were more like a batch of piglets than puppies, but theirsilkyfurbeneathmyfingerswasliketheredeemingtouchofwatertoasinner.Theygavemeapurpose;theyquelledthe panic lurking inside of my chest. Even after I had them securely in my possession, getting them out wasn’t easy. Eventually, I got stuck. A rock that was in our path made the tunnel even tighter, and I wasn’t as small as the puppies, nor was I as indestructible as the truck. When my ever-burdensome hips tried to get past it, there was just no going back. It wasn’t happening. The panic made my vision go black, and I couldn’t feel the stab and slice of the rocks and the rough concrete as Iflailedabout,screaming,convinced,thoughnotresignedtothefact,thatIwasnevergoingtogetoutofthedank,crampedtunnel. Nonetheless, I was talked down like a horse that had been spooked, and I got myself and all seven of the pot-bellied puppies out of the tunnel. Their mother, who had been pacing frantically the entire time, was overjoyed and refused to leave their sides. Three days later, it rained. A lot. To this day, I am absolutely certain that those puppies would have died had I not gotten them out. Of course, I’m no meteorologist, nor can I tell the future. What I am, though, is loyal and devoted. When I took in the hungry, pregnant German shepherd, I made her a promise, whether she understood it or not. I told her that I would take care of her, and that encompassed a lot more than just feeding her. My mother commended me for facing the majority of my major fears to save the puppies, though she still chastised me for doing it. Nonetheless, I learned a lot of important things in the tunnel. I learned that loyalty, to both humans and animals, is one of our greatest gifts. It’s the thing that makes people heroes, the thing that distinguishes the brave from the craven. Loyalty is the key to happiness; integrity is the key to respect and affection.

“it’s gonna Be My Year” (continued from page 11) absolute trash, and I didn’t make much of an effort to hide it. When lunchtime came, I only felt a bit better because I was going to a meeting, which is always fun. In today’s meeting, Leader was sure to keep us focused, but not too serious. This was a good thing to do because our group was made up of hyperactive kids. We were like dogs, paying attention to what was being given, but then getting distracted within seconds of the beginning. “Most of the time when people are upset, it is because they are stuck on what happened. They refuse to move on,” Leader caught my attention. This made me think, what is the point of worrying about the past? It’s not like the past is going to change. The only thing I should be worried about is the present and the future. Maybeitwasn’tmyweekend,butit’sgoingtobemyyear.Ifigureditout.IwassosickofwatchingalltheminutespassasIremained in this bottomless pit of sadness. Sure, every school day is the same, but it’s up to me to make each day its best and treat it as if it’s my last. I don’t need a reason for this pointless drama; it happened, it’s over. This is going to be my year. No, these are my years. No matter what past experiences have led me to, this is the only chance I’m going to get to live. What I have to do is take it, and run. Leader made a great impact on my life, not only in this redeeming moment, but also throughout the rest of the year until now. Whether it’s being up in the front of the chapel with him while the Praise Team is playing, going crazy on my tenors whilehe’sconducting,orfocusingmyselfonmyworkwhilehe’stutoring,Ifindhiminfluencingprettymuchmyeverymove.The indescribable energy from him has fully installed itself into my heart, and I’m spreading it, too. It’s like some sort of sweet disease has infected us all, but this disease is the cure. continue on page 42

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For the second half of freshman year, I made an effort to be more like him and less of a past dweller. I’ve talked to more people. I’m not as self-conscious. No matter how down I feel for whatever reason, nothing is going to change the past. Now, it’s about the future. Now, I’m stuck on this moment, living it to its fullest, and putting all my energy into every forward move I make so that nothing can hold me back.

“i Know these Faces...they are My Own” (continued from page 18) solemn smirk. The pictures themselves all looked about the same age, yet they all represented different stages of life: in the center,acoupleatthealtar;underneath,ayoungmanasateen;totheleft,agrayhairedwomaninherfifties.Theywereall different, different from who I was, yet, I knew these faces. They were my own. The nose of the man standing at the altar with his bride is my grandfather’s nose, my father’s nose, and now mine. The shape of the young lady’s chin, the bone structure of her petite yet resilient face is mine. This hallway is short, no longer than ten strides on my little walking legs, yet the photos make it last longer than many decades. Many years passed throughout these halls--years full of triumph, years full of sorrow, years full of pain, years full of gladness. Time has passed through these people, time I have lived and time I have not lived. Yet, I know these faces. I don’t know their feelings, their personalities, what makes them “them,” or what their lives were like. I don’t know their ideas of the Christian faith, their favorite hobbies, or their dreams, but I know one thing; I know these faces. The hallway is poorly lit, unfamiliar, all embracing; yet, this hallway is my family. I know these faces. They are my own. As time passed, I grew older. Oma eventually passed on, and these frames came into my father’s possession. Each frame, black and white, aged and worn, hangs on the pale brown walls that lead to my father’s bedroom in the same position and order as they always have been. Looking back, I now realize that these pictures are a part of me. My family, where I come from and how I have been raised, all determine who I am today. I now gaze at these pictures and see my Oma’s face in many of them, young and active, just as I am today. Her smile radiates from the picture, her softly curled hair placed perfectly on her head. She had changed a lot from those pictures, and as I look back, I can’t help but think how these people in every one of these pictures, although their names and stories are unknown to me, have shaped me into the person I am today. I share physical traits with those in the pictures, and many personality traits of those people as well. They have set moral standards that they have taught my grandparents, my father, and now me. Although I am unaware of their names or how they acted, I know that they have made an impact on my life, a type of impact I think many fail to see within their own lives. As I look through these hallways, I realize that I know these faces: they are my own. Because of this, I will be thankful for my inheritance from them. The inheritance of my family’s wisdom, my family’s looks, but most of all, I will be thankful for the inheritance of my family’s love.

“All Finish, Few run” (continued from page 15)that I could stop dogs my every step. But workout plans and personal resolve matter nothing if I cannot stick to my decision through the sweat and sun. What good is a marathoner’s training if the race is not completed? Whetherrunningthroughsummerheatwavesorleafstrewnstreetsinthefall,Imoveforward.Everystepfulfillsapromise made to myself amidst the optimistic hum of an air conditioner. I chose red cheeks over idle hands, trickling sweat over whirling ceiling fans; I made the hard decision to move, to act, to run. Though a tough decision to make, I have never regrettedchoosingtorun,neverregrettedtradingtheplushfluorescentecosystemoftheapatheticandthrustingmyselffarther into the world of earth and sky and sweat. I have never regretted choosing the hard path.

“My #Hastag is Better than Your #Hashtag” (continued from page 29)Another possible motivation for the incessant posting of social networkers may be competition. We always want to post the best stories, look the best in pictures, start the best hashtag trends. But who are we comparing ourselves to? All the other competitive network users? That’s real cool. My mother is a Facebook user. Because the exploitation of self-privacy and increase in self-importance may now be considered socially acceptable, network users will continue to only read posts that catch their interests or apply to their life (there are some that only read posts inwhichtheyor theirsignificantother(s)arehashtaged), just likeconsumerstendtoreadwarning labelsonly forentertainment. So why bother posting?

“Masks” (continued from page 33)unified,cheerfulgroupofpeople.Wedidn’tcomplain,evenwhenchoreographerslecturedusonminutedetailslikepropersnappingtechnique;wristflicked,fingerstaut,elbowextended.Mymaskcouldcommunicateworryorsorrow,butbehinditI was genuinely happy. Our tireless work inspired me to accept only my best effort. As the show approached we practiced constantly, drilling rhythmsoffstage,clarifyingdancestepsinlinefordinner,evensacrificingourmuchneededsleeptimethemorningbeforeopening night to restage a number. But our persistence was realized in our performances, and as I left the dressing room each evening I was proud. Our carefully designed masks--makeup, costumes, lyrics, sets and props--were liberating. So, yes. I believe in microphone tape residue that never comes off. I believe in the lights and makeup and limitless feeling of the pre-show circle. I believe in theater. I rely on the ability of people to unite over something greater than themselves.Thebrothers’relationshipprovedthevalueofhumor,perseverance,andloyalty,principlesthatdefinemylifetoday. They made me a better singer, dancer, and actor, which was tangible in our performance. But more importantly, they made me a better person. Sometimes I have to look through the eyes of my mask to see things clearly.

“Life Leaks” (continued from page 34)through is fantastic, even awe-inspiring. Ibelieve inmoments.Camerascapture themoments thatdefineus.Andfilmcamerascaptureevenmore rawmoments. Light leaks, which are indeed an imperfection, are beautiful. That’s why I call my imperfections life leaks. Life won’t always be perfect, it’s blurry and quick, like my Fisher Price® and digital cameras. I will be judged throughout life, but that’s okay. My imperfections make me beautiful; my life leaks make me stronger.

“Syrup in a Bowl”

by Callie Parish

“Although I chose to draw

syrup dispensers, this piece

is inspired by tradition: the

tradition of family breakfast and

the bonds that come with it.”

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