1 MIRAGE2014

Mirage2014

Dana Hall 2

Mirage 2014

Dana Hall School

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“She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.”-- Annie Dillard, The Living

Librarian Liz Gray, who helped to shape Dana Hall School into the institution and the community that it is today, has always been a strong supporter of the arts. She has bought visual artists’ work to display in the library, brought authors to campus, and also pursued her own work as a poet and writer. Mirage has been honored to publish many of her poems over the years. She is now retiring from Dana Hall in order to devote more of her time and energy to her writing. To quote from her own poems, she knows how easy it is to “lean toward a calcification,” but her belief in the power of “memories … love … poetry” is pushing her into new adventures. We wish her well in this new journey, an inspiration to all of us in her passion for the creative arts.

Dedicated to Liz Gray

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Succulents Francesca Stufano ’14 CoverGreenhouse Grace McFarlane ‘16 1Coast Diana Musini ‘14 2Fried Thumbprint Abbey Kelly ’15 4Blanket Macy Sullivan ’ 16 4 Fancy Fish Effie Lee ’17 5Runaway Umbrella Emily Dumont ‘14 5The Jew, the Christian, and the Atheist Sydney Gelb ‘14 6Our Lord and Savior Knowledgerozen Ines Riaz ’14 7A Reflection May Dong ‘14 8Separate Self May Dong ‘14 8Egg Yolk Meaghan T’ao ‘14 9The Return of Hong Kong, 1997 Yileena Xu ‘15 9Mambo Lindsey Cohen ‘14 10Gravity Nisha Phongpetra ‘14 10Untitled Aurora Kim ‘14 11Spirit Letitia (Xuanhe) Zhang ’’15 11 Haven Rose Maalouf ‘14 12Dartboard Monica Sax ‘15 12Lie to Me Gloria Revanche ‘17 13Looking Fiona Unsworth ‘15 13If You Are What You Eat, I Am Nothing Alexandra Blakelock ‘14 14The Bison Ines Riaz ‘14 15Face Leslie Laurie ‘14 16Burnt Toast Isabella Daou ’14 17Jung Olivia Henderson ‘14 17The Glance Lucy Yan ‘15 18Theme Peggy Lao ’15 19Ballad of the Juggernauts Michael Frassinelli, faculty 20The Jug Band Mary Ann McQuillan, faculty 21Stutter Ines Riaz ‘14 22Rumination Justina Zuckerman ‘14 24Dragonfly Grace McFarlane ‘16 25Unanswered Questions Piper Taylor ‘14 26Untitled Janice Chan ‘16 26Natures Past Piper Taylor ‘14 27How to Say Goodbye Liz Gray, faculty 27Harvard Square Salute Alessandra Carpinito ‘14 27Sufi Poem Natalie Ciardi ‘16 28March Nisha Phongpetra ‘14 28Rushing Water Grace McFarlane ‘16 29Cross My Heart Jenny Barrack ‘14 30I Am No Longer That Person Lindsey Cohen ’14 30Happy Isabella Daou 31Flower Olivia Henderson ‘14 31Untitled Holly McHenry ‘14 31Alive, Alive May Dong ‘14 31Snow White Sarah Galligan ‘16 32Lost Isabella Daou ‘14 33Spirits in My Life Lorena Reyes ‘14 33Celebrity Encounter Emily Dumont ‘14 34Miley Makenzie Callahan ‘17 34La Mano Lorena Reyes ‘14 35JediMaster44 Sydney Gelb ‘14 36Stallion Nadia Myers ‘17 36Natural Heterogeniety Cherlyn Lee ’15 37Barbie Anna Reinherz ‘15 38Un Stylo Kaya Reingold ‘16 39Makeup Attabelle Wasniewski ‘16 39The Black Friday Games Helen Luo ‘15 40Eye Dress Design Avery ( Jae Eun) Jeon ‘16 41Gourd Still Life Ye Ri Lee ‘17 41Moonlight Katherine Glass 42Skatepark Fiona Unsworth 43Beneath the Waves Nisha Phongpetra 44Beach Walk Caroline Godfrey Back Cover

Dana Hall 6

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BLANKET

Macy Sullivan

I am tattered and torn.Being abandoned in hotels, planes, and cars has a tendency to do that.The smell of public transportation and endless rounds of laundry detergent never fade.When I first came into this family, I was brand new.Pristine stitching, perfectly They all think they outgrow you, but they never really do.Everyone needs my comfort every once in a while. I hold many dried tears in my fabric. Tears from falls and scrapes, to tears of loss and heartache.I am always there when I’m needed.At first I was their cape, preparing them to fly on their own,

But now I only come out when they’re getting too close to the ground.

Inspired by Sylvia Plath

7 MIRAGE2014

RUNAWAY UMBRELLA

Emily Dumont

“I thought this would be the last time you tried to run away from me!” I screamed at the umbrella as it twisted and twirled down the beach. It took me three tries, but I was sure that I had stuck it in the sand deeply enough so it wouldn’t come out anymore. Apparently, I am not one for judging the stability of a beach umbrella. With one aggressive swoop of wind, the blue and pink top flipped down and the whole thing tumbled out of place. It careened down the length of the beach, barely missing the innocent sun-bathers in its path. “Watch out! Sorry! Someone help me please!” I knew this was going to end badly if I didn’t catch up with this thing soon. I begged my legs to move faster, and my toes gripped the soft sand with every step propelling me a little more forward. Just as I started to close the gap, I fell face first into the sizzling sand. “My luck couldn’t get any better,” I thought while face down. With a mouth full of tiny gravel, I turned over and spit the dirt out of my mouth. I wiped my eyes clean, only to see the umbrella stopped at the shoreline and a tall old man holding it still.

Effi

e Li

Dana Hall 8

THE JEW, THE CHRISTIAN, AND THE ATHEIST

Sydney Gelb

Inspired by The New Yorker, July 30, 2007

There is a popular variation of a joke that usually starts off with a list of people of different religious affiliations walking into a bar together. You know, something like “the Jew, the Christian, and the Atheist.” We’ve all heard them. But have you ever heard the one about the Nun, the Muslim, and the half-naked New Yorker?

Neither had I, but that was before I sat down on the subway this morning. The only thing more comical would have been for the woman in the middle to be a Jew like me. Maybe she was a Jew, but then again maybe she was just an “-ist” like a Methodist, or a Buddhist, or a Masochist, or a Ventriloquist or something.

Now, my favorite thing about living in Manhattan is that the people of this city are so absorbed in themselves that they pay no attention to anyone else around them. This allows for the observant people like me to enjoy the entertainment of these rare situations. See, I do this thing every once in a while when I’m at a restaurant or walking the streets and see an awkward couple, where I narrate their inner thoughts. In my point of view, this was one of those anxious, sleeve-tugging, lip-biting, eye-shifting dates.

As I watched the blonde shiksa sit down between the woman in the burqa and the nun with the cross on her chest that screamed, “in case you couldn’t tell by my outfit, I’m not a Sadist,” all I could imagine was the nun going into cardiac arrest at the very sight of this woman’s boobs. Unfortunately, that’s not what happened; she came face to face with the rack, perfected by the same doctor who engineered the knockers of Hugh Hefner’s bunnies, and averted her eyes. I could tell by her face that it took all she had in her not to genuflect. The blonde woman shimmied her way in between the two fully-clothed, religiously devout women, promptly crossing her perfectly waxed legs. I felt

rather uncomfortable sitting across from her; her sunglasses

were so dark I couldn’t tell whether or not she was staring directly at me. Personally, I think the woman in the burqa

glanced in the other direction because she had some fiery, jealous rage burning inside her chest over the fact that this promiscuous woman was dressed “appropriately” for this heat wave; but then again, maybe she wished she could show off her own tatas, too. The smirk on the blonde woman’s perfectly-rouged lips clearly suggested that she knew she was taunting the two women, and the way she swung her perfectly-manicured foot back and forth toward the nun only increased her amusement and the nun’s displeasure.

“57th Street - Seventh Avenue” the automated voice announced over the speakers.

The blonde woman fidgeted in her seat and the nun’s eyes shifted toward her in the hopes that Judas would leave.

“Jesus Christ, stop staring at me,” the blonde woman snapped.

I couldn’t help but laugh while exiting the train as the nun crossed herself and started mumbling words of prayer.

9 MIRAGE2014

Ines Riaz

Dana Hall 10

A REFLECTION

May Dong

I awoke that morning and found myself surrounded by trees and shrubs; the room had no walls, allowing the sun and birdsong to filter through the window screens. After a moment of peaceful solitude, I padded quietly out of the cabin and carried the kayak to the lake. I paddled out across the dark water, the sun on my back and the breeze on my face.

I was halfway across the lake when I noticed them. There they were, swimming directly across my path. I stopped paddling and let the boat drift. The sun caught the water droplets in their feathers making them glint like bits of broken glass. My attention was diverted from their majesty by an osprey hovering overhead. It was immature, the speckled black on its wings still not yet clarified into the characteristic black-and-white bands of an adult. The osprey fell swiftly towards the water, its wings tucked close to its body. It collided with the surface of the lake, emerging with a struggling fish in its grasp. The osprey flew away, wings laboring to carry the additional weight, to eat its catch.

I don’t know if I could ever pull a Thoreau, but going back to the land is to me a vital enterprise. My life is a busy one. I fill my time with classes and activities and events. And that’s okay. I like being busy, most of the time, but that morning on the lake was a blissful reminder of what it feels like to take a step back, away from society and demands, if only for a day or two.

I reached the other shore, my kayak grating against the rocks as it slid on to land. I looked back and saw that the swans had continued their course, unperturbed. The osprey had finished its fish and was napping in a tree on the shoreline. Humanity had come and gone and left no mark on the water but for the trail my boat had left behind.

May

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11 MIRAGE2014

EGG YOLK

Meaghan T’ao

The night air was rich and hazy from the intertwined smells of Chinese pastries, flowers, and the glow of lanterns melding with the sickly, florescent lights of glow sticks. My cousin pranced along beside the main group, her mouth wide open as if to taste the scented air and her eyes mirroring twin moons. I think that was the only time I saw the moon that night -- in her young eyes.

Our activities for the night weren’t your typical traditional festivities. The abundance of glow sticks in comparison to paper lanterns confirmed that, not that we lacked lanterns. In fact, our outdoor skies seemed to be woven out of one quarter starlight and three quarters lantern‐and‐riddle web. This canopy of puzzles served chiefly to amuse the adults, who scouted around with pencils and paper and occasionally traded answers. The younger children ran circles around our building’s ground floor, screaming like little banshees until their own enthusiasm wore them out. And us? The preteen and teenage girls of our family sat around a trestle table, comparing the number of glow-stick bracelets we each had. I remember the bright rings pushed all the way up to my elbow, and my cousin and I both insisted that we could fit one more, just one more onto the growing stack.

That night, our arms were the hip, young nightclub to our parents’ moonlit gathering.

“Give me the one with the egg yolk!” A sudden screech signaled the one thing everyone had

been waiting for all night: the mooncakes. As suddenly and violently as a hawk swoops in on its prey, my cousin launched herself at the plate of cakes and snatched a large piece before promptly stuffing herself. I could swear I’d caught a flash of orange in the lotus seed paste.

“You didn’t...” I growled, taking the little girl by the shoulders and vainly peering over the top of her head at the plate of mooncakes. Each perfectly stamped cake was divided into four pieces, two of which were missing from each. No orange. No salted egg yolk. A sudden impulse led me to search the faces of all the children in the vicinity. They confirmed what I’d feared the most; the best part of each mooncake was now in the possession of a little brat. Resigned, and not entirely willing to pry open each slobbering mouth to inspect or confiscate the contents, I reached for a plain piece of the lotus seed cake and nursed it sadly. Beside me, my cousin smiled widely, revealing a mouth full of orange mooncake mush. There was something extremely insulting about the action, and she wouldn’t stop lording it over me for the rest of the night.

“Shut up,” I told her, waving my glowing right arm in front of her face, “I still have more bracelets than you.”

Yilleena X

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Dana Hall 12

MAMBO

Lindsey Cohen

I feel centered with a saddle underneath me, reins, two ears, and a head in front of me. The horse and rider dynamic is a powerful one, horse and rider’s muscles tensing and relaxing simultaneously, horse’s ears swiveling back and forth, listening to his rider, rider, kissing and talking to her mount. A shift off the rail, too far into the center of the arena, is a challenge to the rider’s horsemanship, but it is one I accept. A stride left out before a jump tests the rider’s composure, but I know I cannot let it affect the rest of my course.

Wind brushing past my face, I turn a corner to a long-run jump. I feel invigorated and free. All my concerns file away into a little cabinet in my brain, one I need not access while I am on my horse. When the wind stops and my horse comes to a halt, I feel connected to every fiber in his being. He can sense when I’m excited, when I’m nervous, when I’m angry. He centers me.

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13 MIRAGE2014

SPIRIT

Letitia (Xuanhe) Zhang

She died.She grappled with her liver cancer for

four months, yet unfortunately, there was nothing the doctors could do at such a late stage.

In bed, she held her husband’s hands and told him to be strong, and those were her last words. And she closed her eyes.

So the man lost his deeply beloved wife.

Fearing her husband would follow her steps, she begged God to stay a while longer. He granted and warned, “You have to leave for heaven, where you are supposed to be, before midnight of the fourth day. No souls can sojourn for any longer.”

So for those days, the spirit did not move a single step from the man. On the third day, he held the funeral. He dressed in a black suit , standing alone before her grave. Rain wetted his clothing. He said slowly, “Don’t worry about me sweetheart. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. It’ll… be fine.” The spirit was then

assured — the man would live toughly.

Her time was soon to come. The moon rose

outside the window and lightened the bedroom. She watched him falling asleep. And all the while ticks the ruthless clock.

It was time.She left his bed. Before she turned the

door handle and walked away, she looked back for the very last time.

She saw him weeping in his dreams.He frowned. His hands gripped the bed

sheet like a helpless child. Then she walked back.She wiped his tears.He uttered her name.She kissed him.The church bell struck twelve times.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.She kissed him.The church bell struck twelve times.

Aurora (Ji Yeon) K

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Dana Hall 14

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HAVEN

Rose Maalouf

Chaos stops short at the double doors of the quiet library. It dissipates into thin air as I enter my second home, the familiarity of the bookshelves providing a comforting retreat from the constant motion outside. Passing by the librarian’s desk, a place I have proudly sat for two years as a library page, I wave to the librarian on duty and venture past, through the library offices, and into my safe haven of the media room. The swift push of the heavy door as I cross the threshold signals my solitude at last, my freedom from the constraints of work. It’s a place that friends and I have inhabited for years — since Middle School — the place where The Writing Club began, and where anyone is most likely to find me residing after school. The fog in my mind clears, just for a moment, when I’m sitting in the old, blue swivel chairs, letting the heavy, worn out bag slip off my shoulders, taking my troubles with it. I can just sit for a moment here in this quiet, taking a minute to breathe and unwind, for Student Affairs never seems to stop running, the next round of clockwork, chaos, and activity starting again.

Although I am surrounded by others in this space, it feels like I am alone, free in my thoughts, moods, and song choices in that moment. I am not worrying about the mayhem around me, thus allowing myself to dive into the mayhem hidden inside my bright blue backpack. As companions walk through the door, entering the sacred space, we share greetings and reminisce about the day before throwing ourselves into books and playlists. If I could spend my nights in the library, I would, staying up all night in this room, hidden amongst bookshelves with countless stories and characters much more interesting than the life of my own. In the library, I can throw myself into a new world and immerse myself in its wonders for the next few hours, or I can sit happily in the comfort of my solitude; that is, until someone comes along and takes part in the undeniable feeling of retreat that makes this room my haven.

15 MIRAGE2014

LIE TO ME

Gloria Revanche

Sharing all the love you have for yourself with someone else, wanting someone, but not needing them to the point that you lose yourself, coexisting without consuming the other, that is love. In the love poem you write for me, I want you to love my individuality, celebrate my being with music, and sing my praises from the rooftops.

Embrace my weirdness. When you perform this poem for me, let me know that it is okay that I sleep like the dead. Let me know that the fact that I think everyone should be friends is quite special; say that you like my weird morals. Despite my openness to some things, I can still be quite closed off to people, and I would like to be alone. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my own head that I start talking to myself. Tell me that you find that marvelous. Let me know that you will be patient with my difficulty to give and receive affection. Alone so often, I sometimes forget how to be with someone else. Please don’t be judgmental like the others; instead, sing my praises.

Make me move. If you serenade me, I will just laugh. Trust me when I say that I don’t want some ambiguous Emily Dickinson-type poetry. Instead, I want you to spit the truth to the beat of a drum. Musical and bluesy, my poem should have rhythm. In your words and in the inflection of your voice, I will feel your emotion. Rather than being shallow, your poem should be like looking into a pool of opaque water, too deep to see the bottom.

If the music moves me, I will cry. Make me famous. Usually shying away from attention, I would find something appealing about having you perform this in front of people. Confirm your love for me in front of others. But do not be too cheesy. Let it be in a restaurant. Not a fancy one; the kind that is family-owned with mismatched chairs. Then

you get up with a knowing smile, and I look at you with a pleasantly confused smile as you make your way to the center stage of the restaurant. And then you launch into your bluesy, musical poem to me, and you take everyone’s breath away, including mine. Yes, I want you to call me out.

Consume my whole being with this poem and touch my mind, my heart, and my toes. During your performance, I want you to celebrate all my quirks, to a beat, and I want you to declare your love publicly. In return, I promise to love you fiercely.

Fiona Unsworth

Dana Hall 16

IF YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, I AM NOTHING

Alexandra Blakelock

“You really want to eat right now?”

The voices come at me from every corner of my brain, mocking me.

“Maybe you’d be pretty if your thighs were smaller. Guys like girls with thigh gaps.”

The conversation is endless, although I rarely get a word in edgewise.

“Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

I’m finally home, after a long day of tests, quizzes, shame, and pressure from every angle.

“You’d look perfect if your hip bones were protruding more.”

It’s nine at night, and I haven’t eaten since my breakfast of Diet Coke.

“That pain in your stomach is your inner skinny version trying to escape.”

I peek into the fridge and take the leftover BLT my mom made.

“I wonder how you could get your thighs to be the size they were when you were 11?”

I remove the bacon.

“A second on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.”

And then the tomatoes.

“Sure, bread’s fine, if you want to stay fat.”

And then the bread.

“Great! But there are still some calories in lettuce...”

My friends tell me I look great.

“They’re lying to you.”

My family says they’re starting to worry.

“Ignore them. You’re stronger than them. You don’t need to eat.”

But all I hear are the voices in my head.

“Don’t eat.”

I put away my plate with its untouched lettuce.

“Don’t eat.”

I get a water bottle.

“Don’t eat.”

17 MIRAGE2014

Ines Riaz

Dana Hall 18

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19 MIRAGE2014

BURNT TOAST

Isabella Daou

I was 10 when I learned the smell of disappointment. It was burnt toast wrapped in a piece of tin foil, tossed in my lap on the drive to school. The sound of disappointment was later that evening — glass shattering, door slamming, car starting, gravel crunching. The taste came soon after, biting my lip so as not to cry — sweet blood and salty tears. I fell asleep with my forehead pressed against the window, waiting for the crunch of the gravel and the slam of the door.

The morning began with the smell of forgiveness-of pancakes and bacon and eggs and toast that wasn’t burnt. It sounded like Stardust -- Nat King Cole and Ella Fitzgerald humming softly on the radio. The taste was sad-sweet apricot jam on the slight crunch of the toast.

I was 14 when I learned the smell of hatred. It was spilled vodka on my sweater — stinging my nose and eyes. It sounded like sirens and a knock

on the door. The taste was bitterness — vomit and tears. I fell asleep hugging the toilet, my forehead pressed against the cool porcelain, waiting for the crunch of the gravel and the slam of the door.

I was 17 when I learned the smell of regret — turmeric and cardamom permeating through the pages of his family’s cookbook. The sound was a phone call that rang in my ears, the crunch of gravel and a knock at the door. It tasted like cool menthol — icy inhales.

Daddy, what does denial taste like? Is it burnt toast wrapped in tin foil?

Years spent wishing for pancakes and Nat King Cole and apricot jam.

Olivia H

enderson

Dana Hall 20

Lucy

Yan

21 MIRAGE2014

THEME

Peggy Lao

The instructor said,

Go home and writea page tonight,And let that page come out of you —Then, it will be true. In this foreign English class,I wonder if I exist.The stars on the American flag rise up in the sky,surround the moon that asks and guides.Dark embraces the stars, attempting to obscure their voices, yet I see their wisdom and their joy.They shine, they blink, and they flourish,without concern, without fear.

I,this foreign spot in the sky, cannot shine nor speak. Stress has pushed me to fall into silence.Looking at the stars’ beauty, I envy, I admire. They see me asthis clumsy cloud.I stretch my arms and raise my head,striving to cover their brightness. But my voice cracks and my eyes drop. No, I don’t belong here.That night, I rain.

Rain saddens people, yet rain brings life.Even with this foreign rain,leaves can grow greener, flowers can bloom brighter. At night, rain scatters on the plants.In the morning, the sun brings rain back to the sky.

Dew, now that is my name.I revive, and I rise back to the dark and tricky sky. I am foreign, yet they are foreign,like the spread-land with colorful starsUnder our beauty,Hester loves, Douglass runs, and Gatsby laughs. We are foreign, we are one.

I am the unessential spot on the American flag,yet I am part of this foreign class.

Inspired by Langston Hughes

Dana Hall 22

THE BALLAD OF THE JUGGERNAUTS

Michael Frassinelli

Now the story can be told of how we started up the bandThat grew into a legend (or just got out of hand)Just sitting having lunch one day, in that big ol' dining hallA dumb idea, a conversation started it all

Mama Derezinski, she could carry her a tuneAnd Fraz played the accordion (or else he would be soon)Enlow was good at music, as he was at teaching mathThey made a plan to go down that old time music playing path

The Juggernauts were born at a lunchtime long agoWeren't no way of knowing then how far this thing would goJust playin’ music, havin’ fun ain't hard to understand—That's why we all keep playing in this thing called The Jug Band

The first year was a lot of fun without a place to playWe'd meet at Maple Manor after teaching on FridayMs. Shah was learnin' banjo, and Rob Ayre s was on guitarAnd Suby went electric—he was born to be a star

With Ms. Ryan on the washboard, Ms. Bloomberg on the funnelWe played "You Are My Sunshine" and “The Wabash Cannonball”Ms. Gunning played the cowbell, on the jug was Mr. NeumannWhen we played “Stairway to Heaven” they applauded in confusion

Mr. Lloyd and Lindstrom, Littlefield and Dr. KeelyJoined to add the bass and drums, guitar and ukuleleWith songs like "Hell" and "Coal Tattoo" we'd keep the people guessin'Even dumb pop songs by Taylor Swift and One Direction

Ms. Lechan played the washboard and Ms. Hanig brought her fiddleThe band would practice hard but sometimes we’d get lost in the middleBut having fun was still job one, and the band was sounding greaterEven when we broke up and came back a minute later

With this motley crew of teachers, and Eliot on the drums,Librarians on tambourines, some old folks and some youngFrom folk to rock, bluegrass to pop, we've got the bases coveredWe ain't the best, but I confess we still all seem to love it.

We won't go down in history, but some of us might teach itIf there's a note that we can't hit, we'll try our best to reach itToo many stories, songs and chords for one band to rememberBut still in June we'll hear a tune and try it next September

23 MIRAGE2014

Some say we shouldn’t bother,That old music is dead,That Blues and cigar box-guitars are done and gone they saidWe may be folk-rock dinosaurs all living in the past,But unlike all they play today these songs are built to last

And now it’s many years gone by, since that fateful dayWe still get off on Friday afternoons to sit and play.A horn section? And t-shirts? By God, who could have known?And now we’re even making up a folk song of our own.

Well thanks a lot, you’ve all been swell, for putting up with us.We’d better keep our day jobs and won’t buy that touring bus,But we will make a joyful noise and enjoy it quite a lot,And call ourselves The Jug Band—if we play the Jug-or-not.

The Juggernauts were born at a lunchtime long agoAnd year by year we’ve watched this dumb idea just grow and grow‘Cause playing music, havin’ fun ain’t hard to understand—

So we’ll see you all the next time when we come to play...THE JUG BAND

Mary A

nn McQ

uillan

Dana Hall 24

25 MIRAGE2014

Ines

Ria

z

Dana Hall 26

RUMINATION

Justina Zuckerman

I stand at the sink. My hands are covered with my bright pink dish gloves as I methodically pick up dish after dish, scrubbing with the sudsy water. In less than six months I am going to college. In less than six months I am going to leave home, go half way across the country, and live in a state where I know no one. I will be forced to make entirely new friends, and restart a life and an identity for myself in a place where I have no idea who I am and what I will be. I am going to be meeting tons of new people, and I’m going to have to try to make them like me. For some people I’m sure this is exciting, and I mean, I can’t say I didn’t sign up for it because I was fully aware of what I was doing when I pretty much only looked at colleges across the country, but now that the reality has hit me, I have no idea what I’m going to do. I hate meeting new people; after a long day I just need to be alone, and sometimes wearing pants makes me feel claustrophobic.

I am basically a mishmash of idiosyncrasies. I constantly make up songs to describe my situation. I have major problems sharing food, and these problems often transform into unwarranted aggression. And, I get overly attached to fictional characters to the point that I sob uncontrollably if something happens to them but ironically, if something happens to somebody I know, I’m suddenly unable to come up with anything to say, and occasionally I run away. I can’t imagine that new people will be very understanding about these quirks.

I also have no idea what my family will do without me. I don’t mean to sound conceited, but I play a pretty important part in the family dynamic. Who will stop the fights between Malcolm and Jocelyn and my parents with an appropriately-timed hilarious comment? Or tell Jocelyn to take a shower or brush her hair when her resemblance to a forest creature starts to get out of control? Or call Malcolm out when he pairs a floral shirt with plaid pants? I can just see me leaving and my family descending into an anarchy of fashion disasters, unhappiness, and tangly hair.

Furthermore, what will I do without them? Yes, they’re a motley bunch, but they’re mine. Who will be there to lovingly make fun of my occasional ditziness? I mean I’m not worried about lack of people to make fun of me, but who will be there to do it lovingly? Who will listen to me complain without judgment, but still dope slap me afterward to let me know how ridiculous I’m being. Who will give me a hug, or stick up for me, or love me? Most importantly, who will identify my unidentifiable rashes? I know I will make friends eventually, but what about the in-between? What will I do then, without my Mom or Dad or Malcolm or Jocelyn to be there to love and annoy me?

The bubbles that fill the sink are red from the tomato sauce I have been scrubbing; inside the gloves my hands feel wet and sticky. Well, if nothing else, at least there will be no one there to make me do dishes.

27 MIRAGE2014

Gra

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Dana Hall 28

Jani

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UNANSWERED QUESTIONS

Piper Taylor

I remember watching you stoically sit,The waves crashing and the sun shining.I was five when you taught me to skip rocks,I was the student and you were the teacher.You were always gardening, but youWere much more than a man with a shovel.I didn’t understand before your passingWho you truly were and what you truly meant.I thought of you merely as a grandparent,To visit and love unconditionally.I’ve wondered the places you went,people you knew, challenges you battled.Being young, I didn’t know the questionsI wanted to ask. I wish I had.

29 MIRAGE2014

HOW TO SAY GOODBYE

Liz Gray

Listen to the crunchOf ice crystals under your boots,Look at the winter blue skyEmbracing the snowy fields,Walk the paths you’ve walkedSo many times before.They’re not going anywhere.Do it slowly, like a length of yarnUnspoolingInto a soft pile on the floor.Stand still and turn in every direction.Think of all the peopleWho will still think of you.Do it with intention, forIt has to be done, and youWill have to do itOver and over again.Know that you will gather that yarn andWeave it into a new fabricTogether with other colors and textures,Each one a memory and a blessing.

Don’t forget to leave behindEssential instructions andThe directions to your heart.

Piper Taylor

Alessandra C

arpinito

Dana Hall 30

SUFI POEM

Natalie Ciardi

I will not resent a man for not giving me what I desire. Cast aside the fault that gnaws beneath all human hearts and look closely into the eyes of the universe.

The birds will stop cooing one day. Maybe not for a thousand years, and yet, perhaps it will happen tomorrow. Someday the swell rivers will go limp and trickle away into the greedy crust of sand. The pure air of a flower garden will be tainted with wildflowers, weeds, and the looming shadow of a storm spelling out its demise. All of these pleasures offer a temporary embrace, a precarious tango with uncertainty. But only a fool would deny that it cannot last forever.

In the pits of our hearts we all know it to be so. A minute comes and is gone the next. Is this a missed opportunity, or a time for reflection?

Do not fill your head with such despairing questions. The answer has always been there - in the sweet birds, in the alluring river, in the tempting garden, but most of all, in you. The only eternal vow in this world is His love for you and me. Let your bottled emotions go, and be sure not to drink down others’. He and the bond between you will make you timeless. And when the time comes for the birds to drop, the river to dry, and the garden to wither, you will be in His arms. They were given a chance, but only you were devoted enough to take it. Wish them well.

Nish

a Pho

ngpe

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31 MIRAGE2014

Grace M

cFarlane

Dana Hall 32

I AM NO LONGER THAT PERSON

Lindsey Cohen

I could see them crowding around her cell phone. I knew who they were texting. I knew it was someone or maybe several someones they had hung out with last weekend. The way they talked about their weekend, giggling at seemingly inappropriate times and mocking one another made me think it was not the kind of weekend I had had. The girl whose cell phone it was used to be my best friend. That changed when she started hanging out with this new group of people. We still talk sometimes, but she always says to me, “you’re so nice!” I liked that compliment at first, but now I am left to wonder if the reason we no longer spend time together is because I’m “so nice.”

As my friends and I were texting the boys from last weekend, I noticed my old friend glancing at us a little too often. I saw her sweet, puppy dog face staring at us, and I pitied that face because I knew she did not have the kind of fun my friends and I had. At times, I think I should invite her to come along with us. But then again, would she even come? Probably not. Her idea of fun was spending time with family constantly. I love my family, too, but there is only so much time I can spend with them. There is only so much time I can spend away from my friends. Our ideas of fun are simply so different.

But in reality, I used to be her. I used to spend time with her at school. I used to want to hear about her family, but then I changed, and she — well, she just stayed so nice.

Jenn

y Ba

rack

33 MIRAGE2014

ALIVE, ALIVE

May Dong

To be alive, to live, to breathe,To dance, golden, under the sulfur glowOf the light on a city street

To feel the cold, to let your handsTurn to sinew and bone,To let them fly through the airand be turned to ice

To be alive, to watch car exhaustAs it turns into smoke and mist,To feel the flight in your feet as they WalkDown TheStreet

I love this living, this pulsing, gentle, willful life,And I have a hunchThat it loves me back.Yeah, I think it loves me back.

HAPPY

Isabella Daou

And this is what makes me happy. No destination.

My phone had died hours ago. Maybe they were up -- pacing, worrying -- maybe not.

“Tell me about Vienna,” he laughed, pulling me to the ground to sit beside him. The sun began to rise.

The sprinklers began then. Soaked from every angle. He jumped up, swearing in German

and motioning toward the dry sidewalk.

It started to rain.

I laughed and stuck out my tongue to catch the rain drops. Happy, happy, happy…

Olivia H

enderson

Hol

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cHen

ry

Dana Hall 34

Sara

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allig

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35 MIRAGE2014

LOST

Isabella Daou

Excuse me, sir, I seem to have misplaced my innocence. Have you seen her? She was here not too long ago. And you, ma’am, could you help me? She really can’t have gone very far. You see, I saw her here just last night. I was turning the corner and she was there, perched on a park bench — waiting for me, I thought. But when I approached, she vanished, and I’m really in a hurry; oh, can you help me?

Please sir, did you see her? Here, maybe I can draw you a picture — a flyer or something to hang up on telephone poles. About 5’3” with long brown hair and blue eyes that sparkle. Oh no, you see, she’s not like me at all.

She smiles and laughs and makes grand exclamations like, “I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life!” and “Oh, how marvelous!” She skips instead of walks, sings instead of talks, excited at the possibilities of each new day.

No, she may look like me, but we have not walked side by side for many years.Oh, sir, please help me. I really must find her. If I had known that that glass of wine, that that

argument would sever the last threads of connection between us, then I would have thrown the glass to the floor and hung up the phone. I miss her, truly, sir, I do.

Lorena Reyes

Dana Hall 36

Mak

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CELEBRITY ENCOUNTER

Emily Dumont

“Attractive people are always getting into cars in a hurry or standing still and statuesque, or out of sight.” It was pretty easy to find them that way. Today, Ryan was moving swiftly into his brand new Porsche, so I almost missed him. But he couldn’t get away from me that easily. I had been waiting outside the Gosling residence for the past three days, waiting for him to make his move. We were meant for each other, so it was only a matter of time before he emerged from that caged-up fortress and professed his love for me. I was wearing my “Mrs. Gosling” t-shirt, hand made last year when I flew down to Florida with him on vacation. I remember looking at the back of his head during the whole flight. That perfect, beautiful hair was begging me to touch it. But the three rows of seats and six bodyguards were preventing our love.

I watched him intently as he darted from the left-side door of his home to the open right-side car door. It was an angelic movement that only he could perfect. He glided into the smooth black seats, and the car started to pull out of the driveway. The steel gates opened with a slight hum, and the car was crossing the threshold. Now was his chance, my chance, our chance to be together at last. I thrust myself out from behind a green bush and made a B-line for the car. “RYAN!!” I ran to him with open arms, but all I got was a not-so-friendly hello from a large man hitting me from the right and a friendly introduction to the hot pavement.

Inspired by F. Scott Fitzgerald

37 MIRAGE2014

Lorena Reyes

Dana Hall 38

JEDIMASTER44

Sydney Gelb

“Mother!” Paul screeched as he readjusted his position on his Anakin Skywalker covered bed, “Come down here, I have something to show you!” He reached into his pocket and extracted a thin tube of cherry Chapstick, then proceeded to carefully line his thin, cracked lips. His wispy, chocolate brown hair, parted down the middle, acted as a curtain to his oily, unwashed forehead. His bulbous nose protruded out of his small, clustered face, a shelf to his abnormally large glasses that magnified his small, beady, green eyes. The computer screen reflected off the lenses as his pudgy, liver-spotted fingers typed ferociously on the keyboard.

“MOTHER!”“Paul Michael Whitmore, so help me, if you scream

for me one more time I’ll-”“Look, look what I found.” The excitement in his

eyes was unbearable to ignore, so his mother walked over to him and knelt down beside him. On the computer screen was a list of 2013’s top-played video games, and his favorite, the one he’d mastered, Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope video game was listed as Number 1. Paul looked up at his mother, a childish look plastered across his greasy face, hoping

for a compliment on his skills in such a popular game.

“I just wish you’d get out of the house once in a while,” she said shaking her head as she got up.

“I’m going to the store, care to join me? If only to see natural light like the sun as opposed to your light saber night-light?”

He stared at her quizzically as if to ask, “now why on earth would I do that?” bowed his head, and went back to surfing the web.

Then, the doorbell rang. “MOTHER!” Paul yelled through strings of brown

hair. “MOTHER, THERE’S A HUMAN AT THE DOOR!”

It then occurred to him that his mother had left just 10 minutes earlier to buy groceries. Muttering to himself, he removed the computer from his lap, and using every ounce of strength he had, pushed himself off the bed and waddled over to the one window in the basement. He peered through the small square, squinting as the authentic light gleamed down upon his glasses.

“Um, hello?” A voice said from above the window, “is someone down there?” A girl of about eighteen years of age got down on her hands and knees and looked through the tiny window. In an attempt to swiftly disappear from the girl’s line of vision, Paul clumsily plopped down on the ground, causing his display of action figures to tumble to the tiled floor.

Nad

ia M

yers

39 MIRAGE2014

Cherlyn Lee

“I can hear you,” the voice echoed. “I just need your signature for this package and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“This is it,” Paul thought, voices running frantically through his mind about the endless possibilities that could happen if he opened the front door, “she’s gonna press a button and I’ll be trapped, awaiting my death by Rancor in Jabba the Hutt’s chamber.” Then he remembered something; he was JediMaster44, ruler of the galaxies. He was invincible to the powers of a mere earthling. With amazing strength, Paul hoisted himself up off the floor, walked straight up the stairs, and flung open the front door. In front of him was the girl with shiny brown hair in braided buns on either side of her head. Her mud-colored eyes stared back at his, large and helpless. She was holding a large package in front of her chest with an electronic pad resting on the top of the cardboard box.

“Sign here,” she said, gesturing to the pad. There was something familiar about her that Paul couldn’t seem to put his finger on. He reached timidly for the stylus, and scribbled his name on the screen, all the while maintaining eye contact with the girl, who shifted positions in discomfort.

“Thanks,” she said as she placed the box on the ground. Just as she turned to leave, her Han Solo shirt caught Paul’s eye. “Leia.” The name escaped his Chapstick-coated lips. The girl stopped. She turned around, smiling. “Princess Leia,” she said.

Dana Hall 40

Anna R

einherz

41 MIRAGE2014

UN STYLO

Kaya Reingold

I am light, thin and composed of material goods,But don’t let my hard exterior surface fool you,For I am filled with a purpose.Most of the time I lie frozen,A sword unsheathed,Long forgotten, waiting patiently for your victorious hand.When you draw me from your side,And charge forward with determination,My pungent black blood starts to course through my small veins.

Now I am slippery from your sweat as we are at battle,Waging the wars of the horizontally-lined.Hand in hand, soldiers of war, we fly across the battlefield.You are my guide in my greatest endeavor.Now, I have said too much. My engine starts to slow, starts to sputter.I begin to bleed for you; I am your crusader.I am weak, and tired, but you shake me, and push me through it.In the end, you are a valiant war hero,

and I, once again, fade into that stuffy enclosed case, surrounded by my replacements.

Inspired by Sylvia PlathMAKEUP

Attabelle Wasniewski

I am a cover, a camouflage one may say.I am here for when she needs reassurance of fitting in,Though I do not mask the pain she feels inside.I mend what she wants fixed,And with one stroke, a flaw disappears.She and I both know it is still there,Only hidden.I wish she would realizeShe does not need me to feel accepted.

She is matured now,Aware she does not need me, but wants me.I am paint, varying in colors and textures,And she is my canvas.She wears me for herself,Not for others.Why fit in, when you were born to stand out?A form of artistic expression,

I am a key for individuality.

Inspired by Sylvia Plath

Dana Hall 42

THE BLACK FRIDAY GAMES

Helen Luo

WASHINGTON – What’s better than taking the family on a bonding trip at 5 a.m. in the freezing cold after an overstuffed Thanksgiving dinner? Definitely not sleeping comfortably in the safety of one’s home, but according to 45-year-old Walter Hemmings, the co-manager of a top-notch investing firm, “Black Friday is the perfect chance for some family bonding! The kids love lining up in front of Best Buy warming their half-frozen hands over the electric portable heater – they say it’s better than camping! Not to mention my little one loves joining in on the stampede, it’s a family tradition!” The Hemmings family is one of the few hundreds who’ve chosen to spend Thanksgiving night camping outside of various department stores such as Macy’s, Best Buy, Walmart, etc., in hopes of being the first to snatch up the once-in-a-lifetime low prices for high end goods on Black Friday. 70-year-old Martha Jennings is one of the first customers outside of Best Buy. “Yes, coming early has become a tradition for my husband and me, we have to get a good spot or else the discounted XBOX 360s and Wii games my grandchildren are anticipating won’t show up under the Christmas tree. Not to mention I must get my hands on the ‘it’ Christmas gift this year — limited editions are priceless!”

Not even an ant could dodge the influx of ecstatic customers piling up on the streets. Similarly ecstatic store clerks are now squeezing through the crowds, high-fiving and greeting the millions of customers that have turned up – no doubt anticipating being stepped on and pushed to a pulp once the doors open. “No worries, I’ve got insurance,” Manager Richard Johnson remarks, flashing a wide grin, before edging into the store. Though the streets are more crowded than Noah’s Ark, no one will be waiting forty days and forty nights for the doors to open. There is a bustle of activity outside of the stores, as families deflate air mattresses and bring out grills for a barbeque party. It doesn’t matter if it’s hailing, snowing, or raining cats and dogs – the party never ends!

The celebration heightens the moment the doors open signaling the start of the yearly stampede. The energy and excitement teleport people back to prehistoric times as barbaric discount-thirsty savages descend upon the store. Battle cries and screams fill the air as store clerks flatten beneath the stampede of bargain-hungry civilians. With Christmas music blaring in the background, people go around snatching, stabbing, and pushing as they fight

their way towards the prize. Kids embrace the holiday spirit clapping as they watch a neighborhood grandmother being pushed onto the ground, squealing at the sound of bones cracking. Store clerks are shoved aside, crashing into the now empty shelves. Crying kids are left along the sidelines, carrying their own battle wounds as they clutch the new Nintendo D.S. in their small, bleeding hands.

Jackie Johnson, holding a small can of beer — while dodging flying people and objects — remarks “This is even better than the Super Bowl,” as he waits for his wife who is currently tackling people and hauling Gucci handbags to the register. Oblivious to the bloodied corpses lying silently in the wake of the crowd, Black Friday continues. “We’ve all got to make some sacrifices,” 34-year-old Richie Arnold states with a shrug before stepping over a limp body as he takes the last plasma-screen TV.

This intense kickoff to Christmas shopping has been one of the most anticipated unofficial holidays ever since the 1960s. Originally the name came to describe the ruckus that would occur on the streets of Philadelphia right after Thanksgiving, but then came to signal the changing of ink on accounting records from red to black, with red as an indication of loss and black as profit. So, as the nattily dressed accountants sit down to fill out the company records with black ink, blood will be shed outside their walls as money pours into their pockets. On this historic holiday, where war and violence is the norm, businesses pocket the mass increase in earnings while consumers smile at their now empty wallets – what a perfect way to welcome the incoming new year. The winners will smile, crowned and praised by their loved ones, enjoying the newfound possessions while they rest up on a nice and comfortable hospital bed, whilst city workers wash out the blood and bury the dead. As if the “hunger games” had befallen America, department stores will become a battleground until the ring of 12 o’clock, in which backs will be patted and those who’d been clawing at each other only a minute ago will become hearty friends. As the sun rises the next morning, stores will be abandoned because according to Johnson, “Shopping just isn’t fun when your life isn’t on the line.”

43 MIRAGE2014

Avery Jeon

Ye Ri Lee

Dana Hall 44

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Staff Page

Co-Editors:

Art Editors:

Literary Editors:

Design Editor:

Staff:

Faculty Advisors:

Lindsey CohenOlivia Henderson

Cherlyn ( Jieun) LeeInes Riaz

May DongJustina Zuckerman

Katherine Sun

Julia AlbertNicole BarrosLily GarberJacqueline Hayre-PérezAbigail KelleyErin (Chae Yeon) KimTiffany LauEmily MartinGloria Revanche

Michael FrassinelliMeg Perkins

Printed by Watson Printing Wellesley, Massachusetts

Fiona Unsworth

Dana Hall 46

Nish

a Pho

ngpe

tra

47 MIRAGE2014

Dana Hall 48

Car

olin

e God

frey