Oakridge Calliope 2014

2014

THE OAKRIDGE SCHOOLLITERARY AND VISUAL ARTS

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Acknowledgements:STAFF CREDITS:

Nooshin Ghanbari - Editor in Chief

Madison Kline - Visual Arts Editor

Faith Poynor - Literary Arts Editor

Madi Kuenzli - Submissions Coordinator

Michael Carovillano - Media Arts Editor

Lauren Buck - Staff Editor

Benjamin Fallis - Staff Writer

Jared Colley - Supervisor/Sponsor

Julie Shaffer - Graphic Designer

Thank youJon Kellam, Headmaster

Butch Groves, Head of Upper School

Jim Andersen, Associate Head of Upper School

Kathryn Evans, Fine Arts Chair

Barry Coe, Upper School English Teacher

Jared Colley, English Chair

Julie Shaffer, Graphic Designer

All the students who took the time to submit their work

2014 R ichard III Colloquium by Benjamin Fallis, Class of 2014

The Richard III Colloquium, hosted in spring 2014, featured selected academic papers from over eight ISAS schools to commemorate one of the bard’s most impactful history plays. High-school students submitted papers on perhaps Shakespeare’s most monstrous depiction of villainy, namely Richard Gloucester of the York house. Students presented selected papers to other high-school students for collaborative discussion and attended workshops on acting and performance as well. See writing samples on pages 4–7.

2013 Dubliners Colloquiumby Benjamin Fallis, Class of 2014

The Dubliners Colloquium, hosted in spring 2013, featured selected academic papers from over eight ISAS schools of the metroplex region. High-school students submitted papers on James Joyce’s influential short-story collection which explores paralysis in the modern city; those that were selected presented their papers to other high-school students to discuss both their work and the text as a whole in a variety of workshops. See writing samples on pages 22–25.

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Barbara Coxby Nooshin Ghanbari, Class of 2014

Barbara Cox became a part of The Oakridge School family in 1982 and has been an integral force in the lower and middle school divisions ever since. Working first as a lower school homeroom teacher, then later in the middle school math department, Mrs. Cox spent the last few years of her tenure as a fifth grade math instructor. “Mrs. Cox shared her passion and

enthusiasm for teaching with so many children,” Mike Cobb, Director of Admissions, says. “Her legacy will never be forgotten.” Students and staff alike are incredibly grateful for her invaluable service to Oakridge; her kindness and unparalleled dedication will most certainly be missed.

Ruth Wherryby Nooshin Ghanbari, Class of 2014

Ruth Wherry joined The Oakridge School in 1990 and has taught three year olds in the Early Childhood Center for twenty-four years. Over the course of her tenure, Ms. Wherry devoted her time to the extended day program as well. “I will always remember her reaching out to current and former students to give a Ms. Wherry hug,” Betty Garton, Head of the Early

Childhood Center, recounts. “Her musical talents were showcased in her classroom through effective use of music and movement to enhance early learning skills. There were days when we couldn’t get some Ella Jenkins tunes out of our minds!” Known for her loyalty and compassion to children of all ages, Ms. Wherry touched the lives of many and will be missed.

Mary Smithby Madi Kuenzli, Class of 2015

Mary Smith became a member of The Oakridge School’s staff in 2002 and has played an essential role as Head Librarian for twelve years. Since her arrival on campus, Ms. Smith provided children of all ages with a bright and cheery smile, sharing her love of a good story with the eager minds of the Early Childhood Center and Lower School in weekly story-time. “During Mary’s years at Oakridge, which followed

a long and successful public school career, Mary showed herself to be a top-notch independent school educator,” Headmaster Jon Kellam states. “I have a deep respect for Mary and was proud to have her on our administrative team.” Ms. Smith’s commitment and joy was indisputable to those at The Oakridge School; her dedication and support to Calliope specifically will be remembered and missed.

Jon Kellam (left) and Andy Broadus (right) honor retirees

Mary Smith, Ruth Wherry, Barbara Cox.

Honoring Oakridge’s 2014 R etirees

Richard III Colloquium 2014

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Amanda Little THE DEPENDENCY OF DAMES

Research EssayClass of 2015

In the play Richard III, Shakespeare uses his female characters in a

way that seemingly conforms to social norms but also provides a commentary of the position and power that women obtained in the late fifteenth century. The societal norm of domesticity and dependence that disempowered women of this period was reflected in Shakespeare’s writings and plays. In Richard III, dependency drives the female characters in the play, and as Shakespeare draws upon reality’s perception of female domesticity, he uses this notion of dependency to define characters such as Queen Margaret and Lady Anne, but he presents Queen Elizabeth in a way that defies the parasitic relationship between men and women.

Shakespeare is believed to have written Richard III in 1597, and during this time period the role of women and female identity was shackled to the family unit and the home. Women were heavily restricted by the male oriented society that bound them. The duty of the woman was restricted to domesticity and familial improvement (Bomarito and Hunter). When Elizabeth I took the throne in 1558, her reign was met with skepticism, and her rule challenged the long upheld opinion of women as the weakest gender. Women who did not have the protection of a crown as they defied conventional domesticity were ostracized or, in extreme cases, excommunicated

for their rebellion (Bomarito and Hunter). Early feminist figures such as Christine de Pisan and Laura Cereta formulated ideas supporting the expansion of the role of women outside of the household, but their opinions were rarely accepted and isolated (Feminism). Witch trials were rampant at this time for women, commonly widows or older, single women, who dwelled on the outskirts of society. Religion did provide women with a stronghold of control and power within their daily lives even if education was restricted. They acted the religious center of the household and were responsible for the morality of their own families. This portrait of female identity surely affected the way that Shakespeare wrote and portrayed women within his own writings.

Although Shakespeare often writes of women who hold a greater degree of power rather than the common household woman, he still depicts his female characters as having the same inevitable and dutiful dependency upon men that was commonly experienced at this time. This dependency is illuminated through the stories of all three female characters in the play—Queen Margaret, Queen Elizabeth, and Lady Anne. Harold Bloom states that, “none of the women’s parts are playable…Declamation is all Shakespeare allows them…” (Bloom 68) After the deaths of husbands and sons, these women were all forced into

an increasing dependence on the very murderer of their livelihood, Richard III. Queen Margaret loses both her husband and son to the York household, and with their slaughter she seemingly witnesses the loss of her own independence. She becomes a charity case relying on the crown. As Queen Elizabeth’s family is plucked from the throne when Edward IV dies, her son’s ascension falls unto his newly appointed Lord Protector, Richard III. Lady Anne remains the most tragic of the female characters in Richard III though. Richard’s manipulation of her is the epitome of the deceptive power he held. After the murdering of her father-in-law and husband, Richard bombards her while she is grieving in order to torment her through manipulation and wit. Their encounter in Act One Scene Two highlights Anne’s weakness and ability to be exploited by men. Richard does not love Anne, but simply wants to use her name and title to assure his ascendance to the throne, and the fact that she despises him makes him all the more excited about his deception as shown when he says, “I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long. / What, I that killed her husband and his father, / To take her in her heart’s extremest hate” (1.2.249-251). In this time period, Anne must inevitably remarry to preserve her own livelihood, but her betrothal to the very man who murdered her family illustrated just how weak Anne really is. Her decisive demise at Richard’s hands is the


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conclusion to her tragic reality, but the fact that even her death was determined by a man embodies her inability to live and die by her own terms. Richard III depicts a womanhood that is completely subservient and dependent upon men, even if such advisement will lead to their destruction.

The dependency and subordination of women are solely subverted in Richard III by the character Queen Elizabeth who is the antithesis to Richard’s villainy. The reader’s first experience with Queen Elizabeth in Act One Scene Three shows Elizabeth talking to Stanley:

The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby,

To your good prayer will scarcely say amen.

Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she’s your wife

And loves me not, be you, good lord, assured

I hate not you for her proud arrogance. (I.iii.21-25).

This quotation exemplifies that not only was the queen intelligent, but also that she was also astute. She refuses to allow the men in the play to be the only participants in the political game, but instead she makes all of her subjects aware that she knows what is going on in her kingdom and will not be caught unaware. Queen Elizabeth embodies this resistance through her refusal to be victimized by Richard despite her increasing dependency on him as he becomes her son’s Lord Protector. She uses her intelligence, status, and courage

to oppose and rebuke Richard throughout the play as she refuses to allow him to marry her own daughter. Elizabeth curses him, and even asks Queen Margaret to teach her to wield curses so that she can harm Richard in his exploits, “O, thou didst prophesy the time would come / That I should wish for thee to help me curse / That bottled spider, that foul bunch-backed toad” (4.4.81-83). Since the English crown was not limited to males, Elizabeth obtains power that allows her to be more brazen in her opposition (Hedrick). This provides her a greater degree of power and control in her own life. Due to her own status, Elizabeth is less dependent than her counterparts, Queen Margaret and Lady Anne, because she is acting queen for the majority of the play (Hedrick).

A contributing factor to Elizabeth’s boldness was that at the time that Richard III was written, Queen Elizabeth I ruled. Since Shakespeare wrote to please the crown, he wrote the acting queen in the play as the strongest opposition to the villainous Richard. The fact that the play’s Elizabeth was so resolute in her resistance to Richard was in correlation to the fact that its author was being commissioned by a female queen himself. If he wrote a queen that was defined by a dependence on men then he could insult the very person who he needed to please. Also, the character Queen Elizabeth is the great-grandmother of Queen Elizabeth I. If Shakespeare had portrayed Elizabeth as weak as the other female characters he would have been directly insulting Queen Elizabeth I’s family. Queen Elizabeth’s inflated independence

in the play is largely in part to her status as queen and the greater degree of control that she held in accordance with her own livelihood.

Reliance and necessity delineate the lives of 16th century women; including the plays own Queen Margaret and Lady Anne. Dependency is a defining characteristic in the play’s portrayal and analysis of women, but Queen Elizabeth narrowly escapes total reliance on men through her crown and status, although she too experiences the encroachment of males into her independence and self-dominion.

Works Cited

Bloom, Harold. Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human. New York: Riverhead Books, 1998. Print.

Bomarito, Jessica. ”Women in the 16th, 17th, and 18th Centuries: Introduction.” Feminism in Literature Vol. 1. Gale Cengage 2005 eNotes.com. 9 Jan, 2014.

“Feminism: History of Feminism- The Ancient World.” Encyclopedia Britannica’s Guide to Women’s History. Encyclopedia Britannica, Inc. Web. 4 Jan 2014.

Hedrick, Amanda. “Manipulation and True Power: An Analysis of the Relationship between Richard and Lady Anne as Social Critique.” N.p., 12 Nov 2006. Web. 5 Jan 2014.


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Benjamin FallisVERBAL COMPLIANCE IN RICHARD III

Research EssayClass of 2014

Richard III is a perennially surprising character, not

because his great sins are surprising but because he gets away with them. He wears his deception on his sleeve, and only the dullest, such as Hastings, fail to recognize him as a Machiavel; yet instead of stopping him, the other characters seem to have no choice but to comply. The great force with which Richard first manipulates others is his ability to maneuver the social fabric so that any attack on him is an attack on heavily entrenched social norms; and as the play goes on, Richard’s increasingly lazy maneuverings cease their function as a social coercion and simply provide the airs of justification for a monarchy backed only by force.

The stage Machiavel, a figure that contemporary writers drew on in order to create their Richards, presented a problem: because the Machiavel is defined by his secrecy, representing “a radical, unprincipled estrangement of internal truth from external manifestation” (Maus 365) whose behavior is organized on “the difference between what he knows about himself and what others can learn of him” (378) without heed to “publicly accepted laws” (379), it is hard if not impossible to discuss him without involving oneself in the conspiracy. Even Shakespeare, in Richard’s final soliloquy, struggles to describe the Machiavel without miring himself in empty reflexivity--but Richard, a

character with a history of being presented as a stage Machiavel, presents unique problems at every stage of the narrative development. Shakespeare had a difficult task in the opening soliloquy, to produce a Richard that was likeable for an audience that had been trained to hate him, trustworthy for an audience that knew him to be untrustable, and visible enough while not betraying his Machiavel secrecy. So Shakespeare uses the only unproblematic data he has at his disposal; Richard’s sharp inner-outer distinction and his scheming, both traits of the Machiavel in general and the Tudor Richard in particular. By having Richard start the play with an ironic eulogy before telling us of his secret plans, Shakespeare creates a sharp distinction between the public, false Richard and the private, scheming Richard. The ironic portrayal of this public, false Richard and his subsequent discardment are crucial for securing our trust, because the ‘true,’ Machiavellian inner self needs an outer layer to be contrasted with; and by presenting for us an outer and an inner (which already corresponds with what we know of the character), Richard pretends to be putting trust in us, by telling us secrets he cannot afford to have come out. This unexpected and completely false vulnerability prompts us to trust him.

Richard uses these same two techniques to bewitch Anne, who

attacks him for unleashing a bloody deluge upon England and calls for similarly bloody ends to find him. But Richard catches this new characterization of himself as an excessively destructive masculine warrior, and, instead of arguing with it, plays it to his advantage. For, as he tells Anne:

“Your beauty was the cause of that effect,

Your beauty, which did haunt me in my sleep

To undertake the death of all the world,

So I might rest one hour in your sweet bosom.” (1.2.119-123)

Richard does not try to argue with Anne’s characterization of him as excessively destructive; in fact, he gleefully admits to it. But he subverts the meaning of his masculine excess by making its motive self-deprecating; and by claiming that he was motivated by her beauty, he gives her the opportunity to exercise verbal power over him by denying him her love. This revelation of an inner self which seems to give the listener power over Richard bears much in common with the opening soliloquy; and, as with that soliloquy, that power he pretends to offer her is a trap. For Anne, if she exercises this power of withholding, thereby legitimates the false love he has for her and traps herself in a discourse of courtly love, a discourse which


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renders males actives and females passive. After securing her female place in the discourse, Richard ends the gambit by “mockingly [offering] her” “the role of masculine avenger” (Moulton 398), a role she can no longer take and whose refusal “leaves her with no recourse but submission” (398). Richard, once again, is intoxicatingly undeniable even to those with ample reason to distrust him.

Much ado has rightly been made about the ambiguous nature of the support Richard gains from other characters; it is difficult for even the most careful reader to discern whether the other characters are so gross that they see not Richard’s palpable device, or so bold that they say they see it not. But, as Anne’s failures have taught us, approaching Richard with binaries in mind only opens ourselves to deception, for Richard neither solely coerces nor solely deceives. Rather, Richard wins Anne in a verbal coercion that, while physically nonthreatening, carries the weight of the established order behind it. Once Anne lets Richard introduce gender into their essentially political dispute, she

cannot attack him without also rejecting the powerful gender binary and playing the active, male role--and only the most callously anachronistic reader could expect her to do that.

Richard is much clumsier when he justifies the execution of Hastings in Act 3, scene 4; unlike his banter with Anne, which depended largely on the gender binary to trap her, the sexism of the day is used merely as a nominal excuse to execute Hastings when Richard accuses him of conspiring with witches in the court to shrivel his hand (a rather far-fetched claim, if you think about it). In fact, most of Richard’s verbal coercions after he gains power seem to play an entirely different role than those before. Whereas Richard begins the play having to turn the social fabric to his favor, he seems to feel no need of this after his succession (and military might) is secured, and simply uses it as a way to let people “excuse their complicity” (Berger 412) with a powerful, though morally bankrupt, state. Actual verbal coercion becomes mere complicity, and, instead of bending society to his whim, Richard now simply

references it. The scene with the mayor, in which Richard pretends to be too pious to take the English crown, illustrates this best; while it has the essential traits of the earlier verbal coercions--the false revelation of an inner and outer and the dependency on an unquestionable pillar of society-

-the sheer executional laziness makes it completely unconvincing, and it comes off as a weak, albeit bitingly funny, parody of the pious, righteous, and self-denying kings that populate plays such as Macbeth.

The movement away from competent social agent that Richard sustains throughout the play is ironic, considering that he moves at the same time from the societal periphery to the center of English society. This gives new meaning to the often-heard critical claim that Richard shows the limitations of a truly Machiavellian ruler; a ruler who analyses society in purely militaristic terms is bound to underestimate the power that societal norms can have.

Works Cited

Cartelli, Thomas, ed. Richard III: A Norton Critical Edition. New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2009. Print.

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Sarah SchoeningMIDDLEHAM CASTLE

DrawingClass of 2015

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Amal KhanTIGEREtching

Class of 2014

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Cailey CobbONE JUMP AT A TIME

SpeechClass of 2016

2ND PLACE OPTIMIST ORATORICAL CONTEST

Being a kid can be tough, and finding what you have a

passion for can be even harder, but how do you find your passion, and what is it fueled by? I believe if you can find something you enjoy you will spend time doing it and, in return, become great at it. At an early age, I began to try to search for what I held a passion for; for me, I found my passion deep in a love of horses. I met many girls who, like me, loved anything four legged and furry. As I began to get older I watched many of my “horsey” friends quit riding. Looking back, I realize the main reason I “stuck with it” was not only due to my love of horses, but the way each horse I rode had an effect on me. As I got older I began to focus my attention on jumping and dressage. Both disciplines require a unity between horse and rider. This unity required me to learn many difficult lessons about discipline, commitment, and perseverance. Many of these were learned on the ground... After a fall.

Recently my family and I moved to a farm in Midlothian for me to be able to have my horses on our property and to allow me more saddle time. Since then I have enjoyed more time with my horses. But back to my previous question, what fuels such a passion? The

answer, I believe, is a love and enjoyment for something. More often than not, if people find their “passion” but do nothing with it to further themselves or the people around them, they will end up abandoning their passion, letting it remain a dream, merely a childhood hope. I firmly believe that the greatest way to change one’s community is to find your passion and let it change you for the better. Once someone can accomplish this, I find it very difficult not to change at least one person’s life. Just like when I compete, I have to take it one jump at a time. You must as well in regards to changing those around you.

There is no way that you can change someone else if you are not willing to do the same as well. Throughout my life I have been changed by the sport of riding. In return, I have also tried to help change others along the way, and recently I have begun to give young children riding lessons to teach them the basics and share my passion and enthusiasm with them. What I love about this is that their energy and excitement reminds me why I started riding, and it impacts me more. One of my favorite parts of teaching is being able to fuel another person’s fire,

making a change in at least one kid’s life. Even if it is as simple as learning to groom a horse, I still see how having to be accountable to a living breathing animal can have meaningful, positive impact on you. One of the things children have a hard time understanding is that, even though a horse might be big and you rely on it in challenging situations, the horse must also trust the rider. I believe how we change the world is very similar. We rely on the world for what we need in life, but without people to change the world, it will remain a static place. We are, for one, no longer in the dark ages. Through trial and error we have found success enough to change the world. Just like it takes a horse and rider trusting each other to gain success, it also takes trusting people willing to change the world to create a place proud enough to live in.

The path to success is not a straight line. Everyone’s is different, but one thing is certain: if you find something you are good at, something you enjoy, have formed a passion for, and let it change you and those around you in a positive manner, over time, though it will not be easy, you can change the world. One jump at a time.

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Maren Miller GRANDMA’S HOUSE

Personal EssayClass of 2014

In a small town in Nebraska, there is a house. It’s small. Standing

outside of the house, one would think it only has one story, although a closer inspection would reveal a basement and an attic. Cracked white paint covers its outer walls while a simple shingled roof covers its head. Though surrounded by neighbors with similar homes, the house appears isolated, frozen in a time that no one can remember. A major road in and out of town cuts directly in front of the house, bombarding its residents with the sounds of rumbling wheels and coughing motors. At night, however, only the wail of a distant train slices through the silence. Though seemingly insignificant, this house is a monument to a past and the guardian of a childhood.

It is not a long pilgrimage to reach this house. The drive from the airport is short but scenic. There are almost no trees, and any rise in the land is considered a mistake, unnatural even. It is a straight drive. Why curve the road in a curveless land? Grass, tall and thin, blankets the ground as far as the eye can see. Farms dart in and out of the window, some massive, some minuscule. Corn fields turn amber in the light of the setting sun while the large brown eyes of lumbering cattle stare openly at the fleeting car disrupting their normally static scenery. Silos of grain, though regular in size, are giants on the level landscape. Almost too

soon, the town appears, slowly growing out of the plains of grass until suddenly it looms directly in front of me. The car’s wheels shift slightly as they alter their course and within a few minutes, arrive at the house.

The paint is a bright white, despite being blistered by sun and damped by rain. Massive flowers, colorful and nameless, dominate the beds surrounding the front porch. The driveway is gravel, and it crunches underfoot as I approach the back door. The front door is for appearances only. Everybody uses the back door. Another porch surrounds the house to the back. Wooden, unpainted, unbuffered, always available to scrape unprotected hands and knees. A small forest, completely surrounded by tall prairie grass, can be seen to the right. To the left, there are windows with sun-faded curtains and crude drawings, made with love, taped to the inside. Wooden steps bridge the way from the ground to the top. One. Two. Three. Planks creak and moan beneath feet while the haunting sound of a bell announces the presence of a visitor. The door is thrown open and the memories begin.

Every meal prepared and eaten in the small, tiled kitchen comes rushing back. Memories of baths in the sink, burned turkeys, and cups with silly straws flicker in and

out of mind. Sleeping on couches and playing make-believe games with toys that are no longer sold. The large wall is covered with old photographs, dominated by the portrait of an unknown woman whose eyes, beautifully terrifying, seem to judge everyone in the house. The smell of Tide and garlic. Strangely soothing, its loss is always mourned once the visit ends. Food is everywhere. Sauces boil and bubble on the stove while the scent of baking bread slowly wafts out of the oven. Being Italian quickly becomes associated with a full stomach. Then there are the stories. Family members, long dead, are resurrected in seconds, their tales passed on once again to the new generation. Caressed and cocooned by old and new memories, time slips away, but every journey must end. Too soon, the wheels of the car shift again; only this time they turn away from the house.

In a small town in Nebraska, there is a house. The paint is probably still cracked and the forest is probably still there. It has not been visited in a long time. Shrouded in memories, it is hard to say whether going back would be enjoyable or disappointing. People change, places change, but memories do not, and I am comforted in knowing that this house will preserve these memories as long as I am left to remember them.

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Gretchen LefflerSLOTH

SculptureClass of 2015

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Amal KhanLANDSCAPE

PaintingClass of 2014

Madison KlineHYACINTH

Polymer and FiberClass of 2014

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Madi KuenzliBLUE FOOTED BOOBIE FEET

PhotographyClass of 2015

3rd place, photography, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show

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Lauren BuckSECRET GARDEN

Ink DrawingClass of 2015

2nd place, black and white drawing, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show

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Madi KuenzliSERENDIPITYPersonal EssayClass of 2015

Imagine that one day you decided to venture outside for a stroll on a

crisp autumn day simply to admire the beauty of the changing leaves, when suddenly you happened to glance down to find a ten dollar bill lying on the ground in front of you. This happy accident you have just experienced is called serendipity. Serendipity, by definition, is the occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way (Oxford Dictionary of English). In other words, serendipity is the discovery of something that is useful or pleasant while not specifically searching for such a thing. There are myriads of ways in which serendipity can find you in personal, scientific, cultural, financial, or even culinary situations.

If one were to read the sixteenth century Arab tale “The Three Princes of Serendip” in which serendipity has its origins, the definition would be different to that which would be commonly used later. This definition of serendipity signals the ability to single out ‘correct pairs’ of observations that may have nothing in common except that they can be meaningfully related; the word serendipity by this definition is simply a capability not an event like it will later be used. The year 1754 marked the first noted use of serendipity in the English language, a term coined by one Horace Walpole, an English writer, art historian, and politician, in a letter that he had sent to a friend,

Sir Horace Mann. Walpole formed the word after reading and being impressed by the Persian fairy tale “The Three Princes of Serendip.” Walpole did so by remarking that the tale’s heroes “were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things they were not in quest of.” The term itself, though inspired by this tale, is derived from Serendip, a formerly used name for Sri Lanka, from the Arabic word Sarandib used by Arabic traders.

Numerous aspects of personal experiences and human existence as a whole can be traced back to serendipitous events. My mother and I, for example, had long discussed holidaying in England together, and finally found time to do just that, which was where our serendipitous events would take place. The two of us arranged our stay in various cities and towns and coordinated several activities to provide an educational air to the stay. Just before our departure to Jolly Old England, my mother recounted a story about my grandmother and her experience at a showing of a murder mystery at an old theatre in London. She and I acquired at the airport, and read on the plane, the Agatha Christie play, Mousetrap, which was the play that my mother and grandmother saw together, and when we landed and flagged a handsome cab to take us to our hotel, we found a flyer on the seat for Mousetrap. We could not believe it at first. We quickly took

note of the dates the performance would be taking place, and it was the week we were to be in London, and at the original theatre for the fifty-eighth year at that! We decided to inquire about tickets at the concierge at our hotel, and we booked the last two tickets. The circumstances as a whole were all unintentional and pleasing--the discussion beforehand, the reading of the play, the discovery of the flyer in the cab, and the booking of the last tickets--which provided the two of us with a moment of serendipity.

Various intellectuals discuss the role that serendipity can play in various fields of medicine and science. One aspect of Walpole’s original definition, often overlooked in modern usages of the word, is the need for an individual to be “sagacious” enough to link seemingly innocuous facts to arrive at a valuable conclusion. Several scientists have successfully harnessed luck and made discoveries due largely in part to serendipitous events. For example, Charles Goodyear hardened a substance by treating it with sulfur at a high temperature, or vulcanized rubber, because he unintentionally left a sample of rubber mixture with sulfur on a hot plate. In a second example, Percy Spencer invented the microwave oven because he simply stood in front of a magnetron power tube at Raytheon Corporation and noticed that the chocolate bar in his pocket

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melted because of the radar waves. A third example of a serendipitous invention was that of Penicillin, made by Alexander Fleming. Fleming made his discovery because of a runny nose and a pre-discarded, contaminated Petri dish with a mold from another scientist’s experiments.

In addition to scientific advances, several culinary and cultural advances can be attributed to serendipity as well. In 1930, Kenneth and Ruth Wakefield purchased a toll-house located outside of a small town, near Boston, Massachusetts. The Wakefields decided to transform the toll-house into a lodge, and they called it the Toll House Inn. Ruth Wakefield baked for guests who stayed at the Toll House Inn, and she gradually began to improve upon traditional recipes, which led to her decision to cut a bar of Nestlé Semi-Sweet Chocolate into tiny bits and to add them to her traditional cookie dough, expecting the chocolate to melt. Instead, the chocolate held its shape and softened to a creamy texture. The resulting creation became very popular, and soon she approached Nestlé, and together, they reached an agreement that allowed Nestle to print what would

later become the Toll House Cookie recipe on the wrapper of the Semi-Sweet Chocolate Bar.

Fortunate accidents in financial situations provide yet another form of serendipity. A number of years ago my mother had an uneasy feeling about the abnormally high stock market prices. Due to her uneasiness, she requested her broker sell all of her stock in several companies on a Friday. He did. The following Monday was to become known as Black Monday. She had gotten out before her stocks became worthless and came out on top of the situation by having sold all of her stocks at top dollar right before the market crashed without any financial acumen whatsoever.

Over time the meaning of serendipity became popularized and has gradually expanded and shifted meanings. While the original use of the word serendipity was to describe an idea or a situation as unintentional discoveries due to sagacity where an individual recognizes the circumstances in which a discovery was made, or to single out correct pairs of unrelated observations, the word today simply is used to describe any fortunate mistake

whether recognized by the individual or not. Some individuals, however, especially during the holiday season, have expanded on this idea and take part in presenting forms of serendipity towards strangers by simply paying forward at coffee shops, or by leaving bank notes on car doors or windows without either knowing the individual or expecting anything in return.

Most of the people who are blessed with serendipity are willing to attribute their success and any discovery to a serendipitous happenstance, shying away from reluctance in sharing the fact that their success was brought about unintentionally. Usually individuals are eager to describe those fortunate circumstances which led to their discoveries or successes. These individuals realize that serendipity does not diminish the credit given to them for making the discovery. Happy accidents, whether recognized or not by the person experiencing them, are serendipity, and society as a whole has Horace Walpole and his admiration of a Persian fairy tale to thank for the coining of the term and the subsequent definition and interpretation of the word.

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T ianjie PeiBLUE BIRD3D Ceramic

Class of 2015

Amal KhanPEACOCK

Mixed MediumClass of 2014

Madi KuenzliFLIGHT OF THE FRIGATE BIRD


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T ianjie PeiTHE EYEDrawing

Class of 2015

Gretchen LefflerPORTRAIT OF A GIRL

Graphite SketchClass of 2015

Amal KhanSHADOW BOX

CollageClass of 2014

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Sarah SchoeningHEART

Color GraphicsClass of 2015

21

Taylor AlexanderKIPEKEE


Sam HoltmanWINGS


Dubliners Colloquium 2013

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Caroline Boyd-Rogers MANHOOD

Short StoryClass of 2015

A boy and his friends were crowded around a robust

statue situated in the middle of the square. The name of this figure was lost with all of the other dates the boys had learned and forgotten in the midst of their newfound freedom obtained every Saturday night. School was unable to cage them forever. Each had been able to finagle money out from their parents to finance the journey to venture to the city at this hour. Their laughter met the glares from the men leaving work as the group of boys shrugged off the weight of stress and due dates for a few moments of irresponsibility. Failed catcalls to pretty passersby and loud shouts to satisfy young testosterone formed a brotherhood between these boys who were at the crossroads of childhood and adulthood, the peak of life. Each was invincible, all convinced that they would never have to participate in the monotony of working careers; they were free from the stress of trying to survive, allowing them to live for a brief moment in life without the hangover of reality.

That moment now, though, was too far-gone. The boy looked to the clock tower. His laughed stopped mid breath. His lightened heart now sank as though it were made of lead. Apprehension caught in his throat as he realized who would be waiting for him when he arrived home. His father had spoken to him on this subject before he had handed over the money needed for this adventure. He had been stern, and claimed that the next

time he returned home after the tenth ringing of the bell he would be in for it, and he had a good idea of what “it” might be. The black Roman numerals on the clock pronounced his fate, as the bell rang, he paused to count. With each passing clank, he felt more and more dread. All hope was lost after the tenth ring reached his ears. He still had to take a ferry back home; he would be very late. He bid his friends good night, trying as hard as he might to keep an outward composure as not to lose face with his mates. He walked away leisurely, but when he turned the corner out of site from his piers he started sprinting. With each passing minute, he knew his father’s wrath would steadily climb. He weaved in and out of the late night crowd, chasing after lost time. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the dock. He shoved money into the hands of adults and jumped onto the boat, out of breath. He found a place to sit quickly and tried to calm himself. He was seated in between late night workers discussing the busy workday with their neighbors. He felt as though he could scream. Finally the ferry started to move towards home. His heart pounded at his ribs, faster than the boat would ever move as he tried his best to avoid the thought of the sting his father’s whip would surely bring him. He shivered, although the night was warm. The woman beside him turned to the boy and inquired about his frantic behavior. He sighed, but decided to tell her. It might, he reasoned, calm his fast beating heart; so he recounted

the entire story. He did not realize how loud he spoke due to his rushed actions, but when he had finished, he realized that the entire boat was staring at him, some with looks of pity, others with scorn. He went red as he shrank back into his seat, trying to make himself invisible to the judgment of the group. The lady beside him had a look of sympathy on her face. She was one of the few who did. She gently put her hand on his shoulder, his muscles tensed. One day, she claimed, he would miss this. He would miss the age where he feared his father and cared only about meeting with friends and causing shenanigans. His face was full of doubt. She consoled him that it would not be too bad; he would survive it. But none of her words penetrated his mind very deeply. He was preoccupied with strategy. He needed a good excuse, a phenomenal excuse, but what? The woman seemed to read his thoughts, “Don’t you dare tell a lie to your father, boy, you want to be treated like an adult, then you go in and own up to your punishment just like a man would do.”

He bowed his head in shame for trying to weasel out of it. He wanted so desperately to be let into the club that was titled adulthood, to join the group of people society called “men.” She touched his shoulder again.

“There, there, dear. It will be all right. This is part of life.”

He wanted to sink on the boat deck and bury his face in his hands,


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but instead he took the woman’s advice and clenched his jaw. He puffed out his chest and lifted his chin. He was resolved to face his father as an equal, not as a scared child. The boat docked; he thanked the woman, and marched towards home. It was only a few minutes away now. With every step his adrenaline pumped faster and faster. He tried his best to swallow it. He practiced hiding it from his face and internalizing it. He used

it as the push driving him forward towards his punishment. He finally reached his door. His newfound bravery did not stop him from pausing a moment, staring at the ominous handle he had never given so much thought to until now. He was fighting to maintain the resolution that had come over him on the boat. He could feel it slipping away like water through open hands. He feared he would choke if he did not soon act. He

reminded himself of the woman’s words, but the idea of manhood seemed petty to him now. Every fiber of his being told him he didn’t want to do this, but somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he must. He took a few deep breaths, and then he yanked opened the door before he could change his mind and walked in. His father was waiting.

James ComanTHE ENDING OF “ARABY”


Knowing that the bazaar was soon to close, I became

frantic. I ran like an insect, my coins jingling, to a small lit booth a short distance across the hall. It was a lamp vendor that remained mostly out of reach for my remaining coin. After a quick pass of the store, however, I discovered a small and dusty lamp without a shade. It was daintily painted, with a small pink rose and green ivy vine encircling the pear-shaped body. I thought it reflected her well, both being colorful and beautiful. I did discover a small though rather unnoticeable chip on the bottom, which I did not consider to be important. Even without a shade, it seemed to be a rather cheap lamp; I thought nothing of this at the time, and I decided to buy it directly from the elderly shop keeper. He smelled of drink and handed the lamp to me without another word, only going on to scratch his withering face. Rushing back out into the cold night, I received a glare from the doormen for staying too long past closing time. It was getting rather late,

and not wanting to worry my aunt, I boarded a train of bazaar goers and drunks, which was otherwise empty. Much unlike the inward journey, the train took off without delay and arrived to my station ahead of time for it being so late in the night.

In the morning, I polished the grime off of the lamp and matched a spare lavender rectangular shade embroidered with red flowers to it. I was determined to approach her that morning and present her with the lamp. Despite my having talked to her previously, I could not bring myself to do so for several days and instead assumed my usual position by the window sill. Eventually, I did manage to come forth and present her with the lamp. As I approached her, however, I realized how stupid I had been! I thought a lamp! What a silly and unforgivable gift! Darkness overwhelmed me, and I wanted nothing more than to just pass her by as if she didn’t exist. She however asked me if I had enjoyed the bazaar, as she stood in the light letting it catch her figure in a handsome glow. I

managed to force out that I had enjoyed it, though I had not seen the whole thing due to arriving there so near closing time. When I noticed her eyeing the lamp I seized my opportunity to present it. She seemed surprised at first with such an obscure gift. She replied sincerely that it was lovely and that she would put it up in her room. I congratulated myself for my taste, though I wondered at her surprise, did she expect something else!? She placed it in her bag and then mentioned that she had to go to the station. I bid her farewell and went about my way, relieved, catching her wonderful perfumed scent that warmed the crisp air as I passed. I encountered her again by the railing a few tedious days later, asking how the lamp suited her room. She answered that the wiring had been bad and she would pick it up from the shop later today. My heart sank like a stone dropped in the ocean. What chance had I now? I had a simple task and had failed so miserably; a gift with faults is no gift at all. I was morose for failing when I thought I had done so well.


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Maren Miller THE ACCIDENTAL MUSES: HOW IRISH SOCIETY AND ITS TREATMENT OF WOMEN

AFFECTED THE CREATION OF DUBLINERSResearch EssayClass of 2014

In 1914 James Joyce published a collection of short stories

that revolve around daily life in twentieth-century Dublin. As the only link between these seemingly unrelated narratives, the city of Dublin acts as much as a character as it does a location, often intruding in the characters’ lives in ways they do not understand. Eveline Hill, the protagonist of the short story “Eveline,” along with her real-life female contemporaries, was the victim of this intrusion and was forced to live a restricted life by the society in which she was reared. The only women able to escape such a life were those who left Ireland, such as Joyce’s longtime companion and eventual wife Nora Barnacle. Joyce’s exposure to female confinement in the city of Dublin, as well as the women in his life, strongly impacted the creation of “Eveline” as well as other stories in Dubliners.

When Joyce first sent Dubliners to a publisher in London, he described Dublin as “...a capital of Europe...,” the “second city of the British Empire,” and “...nearly three times as big as Venice” (Maddox 66). Despite these accomplishments, no one until Joyce had ever attempted to set a major work in its city limits. Born and raised in Dublin, Joyce knew the city well and was the perfect candidate to describe the city to the rest of the world. However, Dubliners is not an ode to Joyce’s birthplace but rather a requiem for what Joyce saw

as an ill and dying city in a static and confused country. During the eighteenth century, Dublin had been a prominent city of the British Empire but began to decline after the Act of Union of 1800, which formally brought Ireland under the direct rule of the British crown (Bowker 23). The Great Potato Famine of 1845 caused a mass movement of the rural poor into the city, eliminating jobs and stretching the city’s resources far beyond its limits. By the time Joyce was born in 1882, the city was also a center for the conflict of Irish independence. It was these confusing times that Joyce used as a backdrop for his stories in Dubliners.

Joyce’s earliest exposure to the confinement of women in Irish society came from his mother May Joyce, whose life serves as a perfect example of the problems plaguing many Irish women during the twentieth century. Before dying of cancer at the age of forty-four, May Joyce gave birth to twelve children. A devoted Catholic, she disapproved of contraception, a trait she shared with her son, even after his rejection of the Church (Maddox 70). Her husband, John Joyce, was an abusive drunk and frequently beat her along with their children. While Joyce was still a young boy, May attempted to leave her husband but was sent back home by her furious priest. She never attempted to leave again. Stanislaus Joyce, Joyce’s favorite brother, who became far more

anti-Catholic and anti-Irish than his older brother, was appalled at his mother’s passivity. He later wrote, “She ought to have rebelled but in that hateful country and hateful times in which she lived it would have required very considerable strength of character, which she did not possess” (Maddox 33). In the 1900s, there was no law in Ireland protecting women from any form of abuse from their fathers or husbands. Divorce in a country whose population was almost eighty-seven percent Catholic was unheard of while legal separations were possible to obtain but were very rare (Maddox 33). The abused wife motif appears often in Joyce’s work, especially in his Dubliners short story “Eveline.” Eveline Hill’s mother, whose death is described by her daughter as the result of“...palpitations...” caused by “...her father’s violence...” (Joyce 32) is most likely modeled after Joyce’s own mother (Maddox 54); the protagonist Eveline, along with the circumstances of her story, is based on Joyce’s eventual wife Nora Barnacle.

James Joyce and Nora Barnacle first met on June 10, 1904, a date a future biographer of Joyce would refer to as the day “A master... stumbled into his Irish muse” (Bowker 2). From the moment they first met, Nora Barnacle served as an inspiration for Joyce’s female characters in Dubliners. The death of her childhood beau Michael Feeney and the jealousy Joyce felt for his dead rival for


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the entirety of their relationship can clearly be seen in the closing pages of “The Dead” where Gretta Conroy tells her husband about the death of an old sweetheart Michael Furey (Maddox 15). Her girlhood attempts to reveal her future through superstitious games can be seen in “Clay,” while the frustrations created by the birth of their son and Joyce’s aspirations for greatness are best described in “A Little Cloud.” Nora’s inspiration, however, is seen most clearly in the story “Eveline.” In “Eveline,” the young female protagonist has been given a chance to escape her verbally abusive father, who she fears will soon become physically abusive. Her lover, a sailor named Frank that she has only known for a few weeks, has offered to leave Ireland with her. After hours of debating with herself, Eveline eventually flees to the docks of Dublin with Frank, only to become so paralyzed by her indecision that she is unable to board the ship. When Joyce first published “Eveline” in September of 1904 (Norris 66), he was expressing his concern and anxiety for his own relationship with Nora. Several weeks before the story was published, Joyce had decided that it was time for him to leave Ireland. Though he had left once before, financial troubles along with his mother’s illness brought him back to Dublin. Determined never to return to Ireland, Joyce acquired a teacher’s position for himself at a small school in Zurich. He also asked Nora to leave Ireland with him, though he openly informed her that his offer did not include a marriage proposal. By 1904, Joyce was openly anti-Catholic, and in a country where civil marriages were nearly impossible, he was therefore

anti-marriage. If she left with Joyce, Nora would have no legal protection to prevent Joyce from abandoning her, and she could be publically disowned by her family. Though the couple eventually wed in a civil ceremony after being together for twenty-seven years, it was impossible for Nora to know what her future held as she considered her options in 1904. It was the anxiety surrounding her decision that may have inspired Joyce to write a story where a young woman, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions, is unable to leave her home to start a life with a man she barely knew. Joyce’s concern, however, was unnecessary. On October 8, 1904, Nora Barnacle fearlessly waited for Joyce on the deck of their ship, and together they left Ireland.

Despite Joyce’s depiction of the limited choices available to women in twentieth-century Dublin, he was not an advocate for social change; in fact, Joyce famously stated in a letter to a friend that “[he hated] intellectual women...” (Maddox 36), and though he never hit Nora, he was hardly an exemplary husband. Though “Eveline” was clearly inspired by the most significant and strong-willed woman in his life, out of all of the characters in Dubliners, Eveline is the most affected by her inability to act and the limited choices offered by Dublin. “Eveline” is also the only story in Dubliners told through the eyes of an adolescent female, an occurrence that is not coincidental. Unlike the other protagonists, who ruin their lives after a series of poorly made decisions, Eveline in the end cannot bring herself to make a decision on whether to stay in Dublin or leave with Frank.

Even if Eveline had made the wrong decision, it still would have been her decision, and Joyce, like the city of Dublin, cannot even grant her or her real-life female contemporaries the ability to make decisions for their own lives.

Like all great writers, James Joyce chose to write about what he knew, and it is for this reason that his female characters in Dubliners bear strong resemblances to women in his life as well as reflect the social pressures of his time. Irish women in the twentieth century were rarely given options that did not include marriage or a convent. Joyce was exposed to these conditions first hand, not only through his mother and Nora, but also through his aunts, sisters, neighbors, and friends as well. Today, though conditions have long since improved, readers can still be reminded through Eveline’s example how important it is to make conscious decisions and not to be swayed by the actions of others. It is because of Joyce and his accidental muses that this lesson is never forgotten and to this day can still be seen and heard throughout the pages of Dubliners.

Works Cited

Bowker, Gordon. James Joyce. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2011.

Joyce, James. Dubliners. Lexington: Empire Books, 2012.

Maddox, Brenda. Nora: A Biography of Nora Joyce. New York: Ballantine Books, 1989.

Norris, Margot. Suspicious Readings of Joyce’s Dubliners. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003.

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Gretchen LefflerDOG AND THE MONKEY


Best in Show, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show and

1st Place, 3D, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show

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Gretchen LefflerGIRAFFESculpture

Class of 2015

Best in Show, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show and

1st Place, 3D, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show

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Amal KhanCERAMIC POTCeramics Pottery

Class of 2014

Madi KuenzliPERUVIAN PARROT


Gretchen LefflerSCOTTIE #2


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T ianjie PeiZHOU ZHUANG


2nd Place, Painting, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show

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Caroline Boyd-RogersHOW MY PASSIONS IMPACT THE WORLD

SpeechClass of 2015

3RD PLACE, OPTIMIST ORATORICAL CONTEST

Italian Renaissance philosopher Giovanni Pico Della Mirandola

once claimed that “To [man] it is granted to have whatever he chooses, to be whatever he wills.” In a teenager’s life, it often seems overwhelmingly difficult to decide what it is we will ourselves to be and the characteristics we choose to covet. Every individual has a desire to influence the world, to make a name, and to be remembered. But before possessing the ability to look ahead, it is essential to determine what is inside. Gymnastics has taught me who I am, my love of European history has shown me the impact that even the smallest of choices can have, and my passion for psychology is how I hope I can use these skills to impact the world.

A four inch wide piece of wood, sixteen feet long, and four feet in the air— this is the object that has taught me more about who I am, who I work to become, and how I handle an infinite number of psychological antagonisms. This is the balance beam, the apparatus that turns young girls into hardened gymnasts. The sport has shown me how I react to gut wrenching fear, overwhelming pride and elation, extreme pain both physically and mentally, and the liberation of effortless flight. Gymnastics shows its athletes what they are like when exposed to the most basic human emotions in a controlled environment. A gymnast

knows exactly how she reacts in the face of perceived danger or pain and is not only made aware of that reaction, but also is given the opportunity to overcome it. From this sport I have learned the practical knowledge of being able to emotionally detach myself from a situation when frustration becomes overpowering in order to look at the scenario logically. I have also learned that over-analyzing my skills when having a really amazing practice is not the greatest tactic to take. Instead it should be viewed as an opportunity to let diligence pay off with the feeling of freedom and invincibility. The purpose of life is to enjoy the fruits of labor, to find happiness wherever it may reside for each individual, and to laugh as often as possible.

In gymnastics decisions are made in a fraction of a second. Wrong decisions can lead to personal injury. When studying history, however, wrong decisions can lead to the slaughtering of thousands. Every war, treaty, marriage, and execution were a response to an event that caused a chain of events that shape the world we live in today. AP European History my sophomore year was the course that reinvigorated my academic drive and passion. I find it fascinating that one event can be seen from so many perspectives. The French Revolution can be viewed through opinions of different social classes,

age groups, countries, and time periods. Viewing history through so many lenses can minimize the effects of man made boundaries in areas of race, religion, country, and language. Education is the best antidote for a close-minded population and the key to peaceful relations.

Peaceful relations start in the household. As a daughter of two psychologists, I would come home from elementary school and, like most kids, complain about a bully in my grade. Instead of getting the general parental responses, my parents provided me with a fountain of insight into the other child’s behavior. Growing up, I was given the tools to see that children emulate violence from external forces rather than an internal one. Instead of viewing a classroom bully as an evil entity, I began to see the insecurity and pain behind perceived confidence. It is this insight that sparked my passion for psychology, and more specifically, deception. Forensic psychology is the science of interviewing criminals to observe micro expressions, body language, and diction in order to understand guilt, motivation, and anger. These tools will perhaps one day help me identify both criminals and bystanders in order to aid the justice system in punishing the guilty and protecting the innocent. By studying history to see the effects of different decisions and

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the ability to look at a situation from multiple viewpoints, and with the tools gymnastics has given me to look at an emotional situation logically, I hope to protect and save the lives of families who may never know my name from criminals who may never remember theirs.

While I am confident in my career choice in forensic psychology, it is never certain that the path of maximum potential has been chosen. I can only hope that my future endeavors are meaningful to those around me. Choices are the compass into an individual’s most basic makeup. I desire those

around me to view me as confident, hard working, open-minded, and dedicated to helping people. As JK Rowling once wrote “it is our choices that show who we truly are, far more than our abilities,” and like the rest of the world, I hope that I choose wisely.

Faith PoynorWORDS

ProseClass of 2014

If only words came as easy as dreaming.

I sit and wait for the words to come, but they won’t. I could wait all night with nothing but a blank page to show for my efforts in the morning. What to write, what to say? How to make a person listen when every word I say could get twisted around another way?

My muse has forsaken me. Words no longer come easily to me. With the loss of confidence comes the loss of creative ability. I want so much to make everything right. Broken lives and broken hearts could be healed with the right words. But how do I find them? Every time I try, I fail. In the darkest moments of our lives, words have the power to kindle a flame of hope inside us. If only I could find the right words and arrange them the right way, I could do anything.

Words can deceive, harm, kill. Empty promises whispered in trusting ears, lies told in love, soul-crushing despair. All things

I’ve faced before. Ugly emotions of contempt, jealousy, and anger twist words around in spite. What is true, what is false? I need to find a way.

It is all in my mind: a feeling of being worthless, untouchable, broken. An illusion created and destroyed by words alone. I will not stop until I have power over these words and can force them to do my will. I will not stop until this is finished. Strength and courage needed to succeed lie within me, waiting to be discovered and exposed to the world. Where do I go from here? I need to change. I must walk through the fire and be reborn from the ashes.

A few words on a nearly blank page call for help.

My friend is in need, but I don’t know how to help. Where to begin? All these questions must be answered. Time slips through my fingers, precious seconds are lost in the confusion of life. The harder you try to hold on, the more you lose your grip. I feel so lost, not

knowing how to right the wrongs and heal the suffering soul. I will never let her light burn out, no matter what it takes. She will never be alone. Dreams shattered, we fall to the ground. The hardest thing is taking breath to live. We all fall down, but it takes courage to stand back up. Take a deep breath, pray for peace, and get back up.

Strength. At last.

With a new sense of purpose, I pick up my pen and begin putting words to paper. A loyal assurance of friendship, an earnest whisper of love, a spark of hope in the eyes of the hopeless. Have faith, and let the words flow. Words that will save my friend. Words can be so very powerful. Words can change lives, nations, worlds. But the problem is knowing how to phrase and shape those words to create, inspire, save. And I finally know.

Suddenly, the once blank page is filled with beautiful, terrible words.

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Cynthia IbarraTROPICAL FLOWERS


Madi KuenzliCOCKEREL CELEBRATION


Madison KlineCOIT TOWER

PaintClass of 2014

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Tianjie PeiHARMONY


2nd Place, Painting, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show

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Madi KuenzliHOW DREAMS LEAD TO SUCCESS: THE FUTURE BELONGS TO THE DREAMER

EssayClass of 2015

1ST PLACE, OPTIMIST ESSAY CONTEST

People’s imaginations are capable of incredible feats,

painting beautiful pictures and dreams in their minds, regardless of what is occurring in their lives. Their mind then processes those dreams repeatedly, inspiring them with a passion, arousing strong emotions of desire, happiness, determination even. Henry David Thoreau stated, “If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with success unexpected in common hours.” With confidence and the desire presented to them, dreams propel anyone into a new reality, often to some place better, with the momentum driving individuals to discover new ideas, to desire great things, to achieve success, and even to redefine reality. Such success may be tangible, one that others can celebrate, fulfill, embrace, and admire, or success may be something abstract which only the individual can privately laud.

If you cannot imagine your dream, you cannot create it. If you have no passion, no ambition, then your dreams will fall fallow. While some individuals dream and aspire, they lack drive and initiative to achieve their vision. Many others, however, who dare to dream with purpose often achieve great feats by propelling their visions into reality. Dreams, when they lead to success, can impact those associated with and those affected by the reality

with wonder and curiosity and incite a sense of reverence or zeal. When dreams lead to action, the influence is distinctively auspicious towards elevating the level of discussion in the public sphere.

Dreams know no boundaries. They can be scientific, political, religious, social, artistic, even intergalactic. Salman Khan, graduate of Massachusetts Institute of Technology and Harvard Business School, had the dream to provide a free world class education accessible to anyone anywhere via the Internet, and he made his dream a reality, a success. Lady Bird Johnson had a passion and a dream to beautify all of our nation’s highways and byways with native wildflowers which we enjoy to this day thanks to her initiative. Together, Nelson Mandela and then South African President F. W. de Klerk had a dream that they would see the dismantling of the system of apartheid in South Africa. By acting on their joint vision through years of exerted, dedicated pressure upon the status quo, they succeeded in achieving, in a peaceful manner, critical change for a new social and political order for their homeland. Carl Linnaeus, the eighteenth century Swedish botanist, physician, and zoologist, had a passion for order and classifications for nature which resulted in his aspiration to establish a binomial nomenclature for botanical and zoological entities. The minds

behind the Hubble Telescope had a dream that, although it does not affect the public directly in a short-term fashion, still presents long-term benefits of exploration, curiosity, awe, and fantasy which better the world for all. Women’s rights to suffrage and equal opportunity have long been a dream of women the world over, and although achieved in some areas and in some nations, women of other nations still strive to have this dream recognized, to be acted upon, to achieve their equality and essential right of self-determination.

Quieter instances of success due to the possession and realization of dreams are usually more personal but still make an impact in society and on individuals. Smaller things that are more individual in scope such as writing a novel, moving to a new country, buying a house, taking a trip to a new place, returning to school to further one’s education, or changing careers can all be dreams that when acted upon can lead to success. They may seem pedestrian, but they still move a person’s life to a higher plane. Sometimes a dream does not come to fruition or it may change in the course of its fulfillment. By no means does this constitute failure, but rather it simply sharpens the focus or strengthens the resolve of the dreamer. How much better it is if one fulfills one’s dream by challenging the limiting response

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of “Why?” with the limitless query of “Why not?” These quieter achievements or even redirections are paramount to our collective well-being and balance.

As Rainer Maria Rilke once aptly said, “Again and again some people in the crowd wake up.

They have no ground in the crowd and they emerge according to broader laws. They carry strange customs with them, and demand room for bold gestures. The future speaks ruthlessly through them.” Thankfully, dreamers aspire to achieve new and different things, to reimagine the world in which

they live for the better. Where the masses lack the will to act upon their aspirations, these dreamers who have stepped away from the throng have the determination to motivate themselves and others toward their goals which will ultimately lead to a better and brighter future for all.

Christopher BronnerLIKE CLOCKWORK


Anh NguyenYELLOW FLOWERS


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Caroline Boyd-RogersTHE BEAST

Personal EssayClass of 2015

I take in the scene around me as I enter the place in which I spend

countless hours of my life. Bodies are in every direction, flipping and turning. Coaches’ voices are echoing, demanding the best from their athletes, their warriors disguised as little girls. The smell of sweat, chalk, and a hundred dreams fills my lungs as I proceed further into my territory. There is one section of my haven that is made conspicuous not because it is located in the middle of the gym, but because of the ever-ominous shadow cased upon it by the involuntary death glares of the gymnasts surrounding it. It is the event that turns teammates into sisters far more thoroughly than any trust exercise or sleep over, for it is a fear that is shared by all. Only gymnasts can understand the pain it brings. It is the least physically demanding of the four women’s events, while simultaneously the most mentally infuriating. It quickens the rate in which these little girls grow up and learn how to choke down their doubts and fear into nonexistence.

It is the balance beam.

I stand by the beast. It is intimidating, not by its size, but by its lack there of. It is a scarce four inches wide and a towering four feet high. My hands grasp it, and my thumb runs down it feeling every line and crevice of the material surrounding its base, making it as individual as a thumb print. Powdery white

chalk covers the surface, a small comfort in an effort to supposedly reduce slipping, but ultimately all gymnasts have accepted that they must bend to the beam’s will. This chalk gets onto my palms, evening out the lines that run through it, taking away my individuality, for the beam treats everyone the same. Some days, the beast insists on acting as though it is an old and loyal friend. Standing on it— four inches seems like a sidewalk— the gymnast feels invincible and throws her body ever so willing into the air, confident her friend will be there to catch her again. There is comfort and pride, and the athlete and her beam work as one to accomplish pure magic.

This magic is the source of the frustration for every other practice. More often than not four inches feels like a tightrope strung between two cliffs. Every breath not perfectly timed throws the gymnast off of the animal, and she finds herself on the mats looking up at the monster with a fountain of animosity flowing from her lips as she curses it. For only yesterday, the beast was making her feel as though she owned the world. The beam is like a snake in the grass, waiting until its prey is most vulnerable before it strikes. It can smell trepidation, stress, self-hatred, a lack of humility, and high hopes. It is these days that the athlete loses herself in the air, and the beam seems to outright disappear from the world only to return just in time to scrape down

her legs and bruise her stomach and ribs as she clutches to hold on to her “old and loyal friend.”

While the beam appears a seemingly abusive entity, it is but the first complex layer of its sociological game playing. The beam is given so much power because it has the ability to know a person deeper than she knows herself. The beam sees every tear hidden from teammates and coaches, every drop of sweat as a skill is repeated for the umpteenth time, every millisecond of a pause that a gymnast questions the sanity of her skills before she does them, and every drop of blood drawn from the beast in an effort to make its little girls the warriors their coaches expect them to be. The beam endures every hard landing, every slap of frustration, and every screaming match between gymnast and coach over its actions, for it is on the beam that a gymnast can hide nothing from her coach and herself. The beam acts as a guide to a gymnast’s soul, at first taking away her individuality in order to show her the best and worst parts of her buried deep inside. It allows her to work through her weaknesses and throw her body and mind into the unknown, to come back steadily stronger with every “what the heck” moment its gymnasts act upon. The days that feel like torture are the real magic behind the days that feel like flipping on clouds. It is tough on its girls, yes, but the beam causes a young woman to be tested on

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levels so harsh that those who love her cannot bare the thought of subjecting her to them. The beam is personal on a level that no external force could recognize, that no coach could teach. There is a spiritual element to it that creates a feeling of complete solitude, just the gymnast and everything that stands in her way, for success or failure on this event can be blamed on no one but the athlete through both her best days, and her worst. This torture is not endured for the sole purpose of learning a new skill,

but for the mental strength and the purging of doubt it represents that is required for her to succeed.

So while every gymnast may hate it, those who recognize its teachings can be seen giving it a pat of respect at the end of a long practice. Those who thrive on its teachings take on a certain look in their eyes, buried underneath the initial loathing as they take in their training partner. Those who claim the beam is an inanimate object show their ignorance to

its livelihood. It is a relationship meant to make the tough tougher. Only those stubborn enough to refuse allowing the beast to break them will fully take in its lessons, individual to each. It is the beam’s job to be cruel, for a gymnast must face her limits everyday in order to push herself to become the warrior tough enough to slay her life’s biggest demons, the ones inside herself, as she will forever have to face them. Alone.

Maren MillerODE TO THE JACKAL

PoemClass of 2014

Eulogy to Sydney Carton, the Dickensian Anti-Hero of A Tale of Two Cities. Carton, a drunken, misanthrope sacrifices himself at the conclusion of the novel in order to save the husband of the woman he’s loved

unrequitedly for years.

There comes a time in every life When prior success is met by strife And dead dreams drip from fate’s old knife And everything is ash.

When daytime only enhances sinAnd drunkenness becomes your kin Redemption’s grace cannot begin When every chance you dash.

And yet that day you did behold Mercy’s angel wreathed in gold And to Her your heart was sold Though you had none to sell.

So at her alter you did prayWhile she gave purpose to each day And for this kindness you did repay By keeping this angel from your hell.

But still you swore upon your knees In the only way you knew to please That if Death one day she must appease Any love she had you would replace.

And in her light she let you baskNever forgetting your forsworn task And only she saw beneath the mask The beauty of your natural face.

And when that fated moment cameYou claimed as yours her husband’s nameChanging your role in life’s great gameTo ensure your Lady Light had won.

So with fear and self-hate torn asunderAnd deafened by the tumbrils thunder The mob beheld in muted wonderThe greatest thing you’ve ever done

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Gretchen LefflerGOLDEN RETRIEVER


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Emily AllenMAYBE THESE ARE MY GLORY DAYS...

Mixed MediaClass of 2015

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Madi KuenzliUNIQUELY HERSELF: MY ABUELA

EssayClass of 2015

“Don’t talk to me until I’ve had my second cup of coffee,”

said the bent, wrinkled old woman in her floral nightie sitting at the old oak table every morning as I came bounding gleefully from bed chattering away. Despite this less than inviting morning appearance, this woman had time and enthusiasm for everything--family, strangers, crafts, travel, adventure, the absurd. This extraordinary woman defied all pigeonholing. There was no one archetype that defined her; she was simply Liz — my Abuela.

For the seventeen years I had the privilege of being graced with Mary Elizabeth (Liz) Singleton Cullum’s sharp wit; her unique appearance never seemed to change. Her striking chocolate brown eyes shrewdly assessed all people in order to uncover just what made them tick. Her oval face, etched with lines from eighty-two years of laughing, smiling, and adventures in the sun, was framed with thick shoulder-length, black hair with a heavy grey streak down the left side. My Abuela’s hands were wrinkly, arthritically crooked and bony yet gentle, and soft, the tips and insides of her long fingers stained with the yellow from about sixty years worth of cigarettes. Her many years smoking like a chimney left a perpetual cloud of Misty brand Slims, and this crooked spined woman was rarely ever seen without her trademark items in her hands or lap: books and Misty Slims.

As I would come into her home, as anyone who knew her quickly learned, she welcomed a firm handshake over a hug, and if ever coffee came into the conversation, which it inevitably always would, she would remark with a cut of her eyes and a grin, inviting you to enjoy the joke, that she took hers,

“Black as night, hot as Hell, and strong as a good man’s kiss.” As a skilled hostess, she was very adept at making others feel comfortable and at home. Often her guests would share, to the delight of her and others there, stories they had never intended to tell. She often took on “challenges,” or people who were not the friendliest or most open or self-appreciating of individuals, and would spend weeks, even months attempting to draw them out of themselves and to be happier, as she did with one cashier, Joy, at Safeway.

If ever I sought comfort or nurturing, I knew better than to go to her if the husband whom she adored, my Poppa, was around, for she was never one to show a tender or weak side; however, if adventure, trouble, truth, or a creative endeavor were what I sought, she was the gal to go to. She expected others to be strong and to take control of their lives and emotions as “you can’t control others or circumstances, but you do have the ability to control yourself and your reactions to them.” One would not ever want to nor could ever change her, or so I thought until the addition of

a fledgling feathered fiend came into her life. Within minutes, her life-long aversion to birds vanished with her introduction to a certain aptly named turkey poult, Wiggles, who wiggled his way into her heart and under her hair where he would sleep while she read.

Abuela had a full range of hobbies and leisure activities. She was a voracious reader, often finishing a novel or two a day. For the years that I knew her, she lived with my grandfather on the ranch, in the underground house they built together, defining the hobbies for which I most knew her. When she was not reading in her little navy blue, leather swivel chair in the corner of the living room, she was cooking, arranging the wildflowers that she and I had collected earlier in the day, among other things. She was a walking encyclopedia, especially where wild flowers were concerned; she had committed to memory many of the scientific and all of the common names, after personally identifying over three hundred species of flowers, grasses, trees, and shrubs. She cooked for pleasure more than for show, and she occasionally created, by accident, interesting concoctions that were not always edible, along with the more common delicious traditional family recipes. Often times, the aroma of freshly baked pies, red-hot apple sauce, plum jelly from the wild plums we had picked together, and dove, quail, and bass that my grandfather had brought

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home filled the thousand square foot underground house. She never could do just one activity; instead she would recount story after story from her numerous trips around the globe or would sing a little diddy or phrase, as she had one for almost everything.

As a child marked by the Great Depression, she was frugal to say the least, using used envelopes as notepads and refusing to throw out a pair of jeans, after one of her much loved spaniels chewed a rectangular chunk out of the waist, saying that she “wasn’t going to let a bite out of the back ruin a perfectly good pair of jeans.” Because of the character shaped by the depression, she took great pride in living sustainably by getting by with very little, and this may have influenced the organization of her filing system: P for paper, I for important, and O for other. This unique approach to filing meant that putting overflow

cookie recipes in the barbecue envelope made perfect sense because “who has barbecue recipes for heaven’s sake?”

Abuela loved adventure, visiting with people from other countries and therefore other cultures, whether indigenous natives of Mexico and South America or the Maharaja and Maharani of India, and teaching others all she could. She was an excellent natural-born teacher and mentor and she taught for the entirety of her life. Abuela taught art, swimming, flower arranging, English, and Sunday school to both children and adults. She delighted when her students excelled and was very good at drawing the very best out of her students. Two of her favorite teaching positions, she once told me, were teaching many children to read and when she was given the opportunity to teach English as a second language to elementary students and adults who had

immigrated to America from Vietnam.

My Abuela lived each day to its fullest and relished finding the funny or absurd in people or situations, preferring to highlight the gaffs and goofs of an often serious situation as opposed to the highlights most would have described. The perfection of it all. It was these gaffs and goofs that made the story worth retelling. Even a more serious moment like the prayer before dinner was concluded with Abuela inserting immediately following the “Amen,”

“Brother Ben...,” to which Mom would say, “Shot a goose...,” and I would finish with “Killed a hen,” which was always the phrase that signified the commencement of

“Happy Hysterical Hour” that was dinner. Liz was an unconventional, strong, independent woman whose many traits and experiences made her one of a kind and my Abuela.

R yan FitzgeraldCHAMELEONSColor GraphicsClass of 2015

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Lauren BuckDRUMLINE

DrawingClass of 2015

2nd place, black and white drawing, University of North Texas Health Science Center Annual High School Art Show

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Kyndall HuntMORNING AGAIN


Cynthia IbarraDREAMING


Sarah SchoeningBOOTSDrawing

Class of 2015

Gretchen LefflerLAYERS

Mixed MediumClass of 2015

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Mike CarovillanoPYRRHIC

EssayClass of 2015

NOMINEE FOR 2014 NCTE ACHIEVEMENT AWARDS IN WRITING

Some like to view life as a series of constant battles in which

you must overcome the obstacles placed before you. Sometimes the obstacle can be as formidable as an opposing army; other times it can be as simple as winning a game. The word pyrrhic is defined as “achieved at excessive cost; costly to the point of negating or outweighing expected benefits.” When one achieves a pyrrhic victory, one’s goals may have been achieved or objectively completed, but the success came at such a high price that the victory is tantamount to defeat

The etymology of the term pyrrhic originates from the story of Pyrrhus, a Greek general and statesman of the Hellenistic era. He ruled over Epirus and the Molossians in the third century BC. Pyrrhus was one of the strongest opponents of the early expansion of Rome and even invaded Italy. With an enormous army consisting of three thousand cavalry, two thousand archers, five hundred slingers, twenty thousand infantry, and twenty war elephants, King Pyrrhus attacked, marching to subdue the Roman threat. His army met the Roman legions and defeated them on multiple occasions. In 279 BC, however, Pyrrhus faced the Roman commander Publius Decius Mus in the Battle of Asculum, and it is from this battle that the word pyrrhic takes its definition. While the Greek general and ruler emerged from the battle victorious,

his army had suffered tremendous losses. Plutarch gives his account of the event writing, “The armies separated; and, it is said, Pyrrhus replied to one that gave him joy of his victory that one more such victory would utterly undo him. For he had lost a great part of the forces he brought with him, and almost all his particular friends and principal commanders.” It is from this vicious victory, this atrocity of an achievement, this caustic conquest that the word pyrrhic emerged.

There are copious other examples throughout history where battles were fought and victory achieved, yet no cries of celebration rang through the air, no joyous festivals held. The Battle of Stalingrad (August 23, 1942 – February 2, 1943) exemplifies a pyrrhic victory. In the battle, the Soviet Union lost 1,150,000 men, women, and children in a brief tragic moment in history, fighting over a single city. Germany’s forces suffered 850,000 losses and were defeated after months of grueling urban warfare. Despite the victory, none of the Soviets could truly consider the battle won, after seeing the immeasurable consequences. In Gettysburg, The Union’s victory over the South came at such an incredibly high cost that the Gettysburg Address, given by Abraham Lincoln, was not a victory speech, but rather a remorseful letter to those who had suffered on both sides. The speech was

addressed to the nation, both the North and the South that had suffered so deeply. The kamikazes during World War II provide another historic example of pyrrhic victories. Although they achieved their goals of inflicting maximum damage on the enemy, their victory came at the cost of their own life. Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD) is the theoretical scenario in which a full-scale use of weapons of mass destruction by two opposing sides would result in the annihilation of both the defender and the aggressor. Although the enemy may be defeated, the victory was pyrrhic, with the victor having suffered too greatly to consider it truly a victory.

Despite its origins in the theater of war, the word pyrrhic can be applied to less militaristic scenarios as well. Nikola Tesla was a brilliant Serbian American inventor, electrical and mechanical engineer, physicist, scientist, visionary, and undisputed genius. He worked tirelessly throughout the entirety of his career with an unmatched work ethic. He chose to forgo much of what he considered to be distractions in life, such as sexual interactions, in order to better devote himself to his work. With rare exception, he ate alone, choosing to focus upon his work. He helped pioneer myriads of new scientific fields, including radar, x-ray, electricity, magnetism, cryogenic engineering, radio waves, and much more.

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While Tesla’s contributions to the expanding field of science were enormous, his victories were achieved at a tremendous cost. Tesla died broke and alone in a hotel room in New York City. His body was not found for days. He had been living on milk and crackers. His only friend for the last few years of his life was a single pigeon that he had nursed back to health, for he believed that the bird had light beams emitting from its eyes. While he triumphed greatly, his sacrifices and suffering were even greater.

My grandmother suffered a stroke about three years ago. She was found on the floor of her apartment alone, paralyzed, and dying. An emergency medical team rushed her to the hospital where a group of doctors worked tirelessly in an

attempt to stabilize her condition. After hours of tottering on the edge, my grandmother was pulled back from the brink of death by the team of doctors. A great victory had been achieved, and my grandmother had survived. The costs, however, were enormous. She was no longer the same person after the stroke. She was paralyzed on her entire left side, unable to speak, and was in a constant state of agony, but she survived. We soon moved her to a nursing home in Texas near my family where she was cared for and loved and visited every weekend by the whole family. Nearly every day her loving son came to take care of his mother, as she had taken care of him for so many years. She could not get up, she could not move more than just her left arm, she could not talk,

and she could not tell her son or family that she loved them, but she was alive. The battle against ever looming death had been won, but it was a pyrrhic victory.

A pyrrhic victory is a victory with such a devastating cost that it is tantamount to defeat. Pyrrhic is when one achieves what is deemed to be a victory, yet feels empty or incomplete. Pyrrhic is winning the great fight, yet feeling complete and utter desolation, be it in the soul or in the body. Pyrrhic is when one looks upon the glorious trophy, which has required countless hours of dedication and devotion to achieve, and one sees an endless stream of blood, sweat, tears, and every last bit of strength and effort one can muster. One looks upon this trophy and weeps.

Madison KlineSPRING BLOSSOMS-BLUE ROOM


Chloe MathisLAVENDER ORCHIDS


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R yan FitzgeraldPEACOCK


Jillian BradleySOCHI


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Sam HoltmanTHORNS

Mixed MediaClass of 2015

Madi KuenzliSALLY LIGHTFOOT CRAB


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Nooshin GhanbariCALAMITATIS ET MISERIAE


There was just something about New York that drove her the

tiniest bit insane, Leilani thought.

Or maybe it wasn’t the city at all. Maybe it was the way she had felt when she had first found herself surrounded by metal and brick and glass instead of things she associated with home: clear blue water, a salty Hawaiian breeze, the sound of dolphins chattering away in the distance. As she had leaned her head back and stared up at the buildings that really did seem to scrape the sky, Leilani had found herself getting progressively more overwhelmed.

But Leilani was in New York for a reason. As her daintily heeled feet carried her across the grand stage of Carnegie Hall and up the risers for seemingly the hundredth time in just three days, she allowed her mind to wander back to her first day in the massive space. She was used to it now, to the sight of what had to be a thousand tiered seats—a thousand blank yet somehow anticipatory faces—in the audience; but in that first, unfamiliar moment, Leilani remembered trembling, her breath catching in the back of her throat as she assembled on the risers alongside people of all ages, of all walks of life. Like second nature, they had arranged themselves in perfectly crafted lines without instruction or conscious thought, soprano alto tenor bass. They sang until they became breathless and the sounds of the old Victorian chanting echoed and distorted around them—and Leilani loved it.

The memories were so vivid that she soon had trouble differentiating between what was past and what was present. The difference didn’t really matter, though; the concert, the fruit of their labor, was finally beginning and Leilani was already burning under the intensity of the stage lights. Her long black dress swished around her ankles as she swayed anxiously and rifled absentmindedly through her music to busy herself with something, anything, even nothing—just as long as she didn’t have to look out into the audience.

She knew that, if she did, his would be the only face she saw. Lost in a sea of singers, she would be drowning and he would be there, watching. Staring. Just like he had done the day they met.

Closing her eyes to block out the real world, Leilani allowed herself to remember one more thing, one last time.

---

Through tired eyes, Leilani watched as everyone around her filed offstage and dispersed with excited whisperings of going sightseeing at the usual places now that rehearsal had ended: Times Square, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty. But regardless of the appeal they held, Leilani wanted something else. She wanted a little something to remind herself of home: a stretch of beach, maybe, or an open-air market with fresh fruit and vegetables. It was

with the latter in mind that she stepped off the side of the street and hailed a cab, rattling off an explanation to its driver of how she really wanted to go to the nearest farmers market, wherever it may be.

As the driver took off and all of New York City soon became a blur, Leilani thought with a sour smile of the girls she had passed on her way out of Carnegie Hall—those stereotypical haole girls who had peered at her through their fake eyelashes and colored contacts as they fawned over the fact that she was native Hawaiian. “So you surf a lot, right?” they had asked. “Isn’t that dangerous, all of the sun exposure? Don’t you worry about melanoma?”

Minutes passed like seconds, and Leilani was soon gazing out the dirty cab window at the small market. For the first time in too long, she found her lips curling into a gleeful grin. Quickly paying the fare, she eagerly skipped out of the vehicle and onto the bustling market floor, her long black ponytail swishing like a horse’s silky mane behind her. It was exactly the setting she had craved, just outside the city; while she wasn’t averse to the prospect of big urban life, she had been raised with nature as a part of her ohana, her family, and that was not something she figured she would ever give up—nor did she want to.

As she scoured the aisles of organic greens and freshly picked berries, a juicy and delicious nectarine in hand, Leilani found herself falling

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into a rhythm of her own, separate from that of the outside world. Her new tan oxfords were already scuffed and muddy from all the walking, but she didn’t care. To her, the marred leather provided tangible evidence of the day’s events, a remembrance of times past, lest she begin to feel as if she had imagined it all.

Before she realized what she was doing, Leilani started humming the Libera Me to herself. It startled her a little, the fact that her conscience had prompted her to think of that specific movement and none of the other six. If she believed in anything of the sort, she would have wondered if it was some sort of absurd foreshadowing—but that was surely a crazy assumption, and soon, she was singing it under her breath, over and over again: Dies illa, dies irae, calamitatis et miseriae. Dies illa, dies magna et amara valde. Her eyes fell closed of their own volition as her blood thrummed with the swell of the music coursing through her veins, but even shrouded in her own personal darkness, it was like Leilani could still see...everything. Around her, the sun peeked from behind fluffy white clouds and streamed a select few sunbeams down to the earth. The market gave off an intoxicating smell, one that had her pining for home all the more. Homesickness twisted and roiled deep in her belly as Leilani thought of cooking kalua pig and mango salad with Malia—Malia, her hoahanau. Her cousin and best friend.

Some time passed, but Leilani’s eyes were still closed when she felt it: an unwavering gaze fixated on her from somewhere nearby. Her skin prickled, the fine hairs on the

back of neck rose to attention, she blinked...and there he was.

A couple yards away, a young man around her age was lounging in the bed of a beaten up red truck with peeling paint that didn’t look like it belonged anywhere near progressive New York City. Briefly, Leilani wondered how long he had been watching her before she realized it didn’t matter; he had averted his gaze and wasn’t paying attention to her anymore, so she could just leave. She could back away.

For some reason, Leilani did the exact opposite.

Unable to look away, even though there was something about him that was more than a little unsettling, Leilani took a step closer, eying the colorful bracelets that were spread out in the back of his truck. She figured she would get one for Malia; that was the only reason she continued advancing, right?

Unconsciously, her grip on the nectarine tightened, bruising its soft pink-orange skin. As she continued nervously humming the Libera Me, her voice trembled then cracked. “How much are the bracelets?” Leilani asked, forcing the somber tune out of her mind. It was then that she placed it, the reason the boy looked so...off.

His eyes were heterochromic, one blue and one a titch greener; she wouldn’t have noticed if his gaze wasn’t suddenly burning into hers.

“What were you humming?”

Her dark eyes widened. “Oh, nothing. Just some choral piece I’ve got stuck in my head.”

“What is it?” he asked again, his head cocked to the side as he looked at her more fully. It was almost like he was comparing their features, in some odd way: her straight black locks for his curly light brown ones, her high cheekbones for the sharp ridge of his brow, her sun-kissed and slender frame for the corded muscles on his tanned arms and back. “I’m fairly certain I know it. Libera Me, right?”

Leilani blinked, clearly shocked—and a little impressed. “Yeah, that’s the one,” she said slowly. “How did you—”

“Do you know the translation of the Latin lyrics?” The nameless boy hopped off his perch on his truck and came to stand closer to her. Leilani remained silent, for she had the feeling he was about to tell her, regardless of her answer. And she was right. “Deliver me, Lord,” he continued without pause, “deliver me from death on that terrible day when the heavens and the earth shall be moved when you come to judge the world by fire.”

“Wow. I’m...surprised. Not at the meaning,” she clarified, “but I’m surprised that you knew the translation. Have you performed it before?”

“No,” he deflected without elaboration. “You?”

“I will be,” Leilani answered, forcing herself to look away from those strange eyes. “I’m not from here,” she explained after a beat. “I’ve been staying in NYC the past couple days for a nationwide program that selects students to sing in Carnegie Hall.”

“That sounds incredible.”

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“It definitely has been. Overwhelming, too. The concert is tomorrow night; I can’t even believe the experience is almost over, you know?”

“I can imagine.” He smiled then and it was unsettling again, but this time it had nothing to do with his eyes. Rather, it had everything to do with her. For as long as she could remember, she had been the good girl; she was cordial and sweet, loved to socialize and make new friends. But this? This was very, very different.

Out of nowhere, a pang of panic began to seep under her skin, chilling her to the bone. Good God, what was she doing? Why had she gone against her better judgment and divulged any information at all to him?

“How much are the bracelets?” Leilani repeated, her eyes darting around them like she needed an escape.

“Four dollars.” There was a pause. “But for you? You can just take one,” he said with a grin, holding out an intricately braided cobalt

blue bracelet the color of the Pacific.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly do that.” Almost frantically, she reached into her pocket and shelled out the four bills, before backing away from the truck like it was going to suddenly slide out of park and hurt her.

She was already halfway back to Carnegie Hall in a cab when she realized she had never even asked for heterochromic boy’s name. She expected she would find out soon enough, though. Somehow, she just had the sinking feeling she would be seeing him around.

---

It was towards the end of the concert that Leilani finally gave into that macabre temptation and looked away from the conductor’s baton to scour the faces of the audience members. There was the woman with the perfectly coiffed hair, the man with the handlebar moustache, the young children sitting obediently though they looked unquestionably bored.

But, just as she had expected, there was someone else, too.

There, in the middle of the huge hall, she swore she saw him, staring back at her as the Libera Me came to an end and led into the lighter soprano cadence of In Paradisium. Dizzy with confusion, Leilani blinked hard and looked back into the audience for a second time, wondering briefly if that nameless boy knew the meaning to these lyrics as well—

—But he was no longer there.

Even as Leilani stood in the midst of a hundred singers, she suddenly felt devastatingly alone. Perhaps the most crushing feeling of all, however, was the sensation that her conscience had betrayed her; and for the second time during her New York stay, she found herself doubting her sanity. Had she completely imagined his presence?

The internalized question was all it took for Leilani to convince herself that what she had expected all along was true: there really was something about New York that had driven her insane.

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Sarah Schoening 8

Amal Khan 9

Gretchen Leffler 12

Madison Kline 13

Amal Khan 13

Madi Kuenzli 14

Lauren Buck 15

Amal Khan 18

Madi Kuenzli 18

Tianjie Pei 18

Tianjie Pei 19

Amal Khan 19

Gretchen Leffler 19

Sarah Schoening 20

Taylor Alexander 21

Sam Holtman 21

Gretchen Leffler 26

Gretchen Leffler 27

Amal Khan 28

Gretchen Leffler 28

Madi Kuenzli 28

Tianjie Pei 29

Madi Kuenzli 32

Madison Kline 32

Cynthia Ibarra 32

Tianjie Pei 33

Christopher Bronner 35

Anh Nguyen 35

Gretchen Leffler 38

Emily Allen 39

Ryan Fitzgerald 41

Lauren Buck 42

Kyndall Hunt 43

Gretchen Leffler 43

Cynthia Ibarra 43

Sarah Schoening 43

Madison Kline 45

Chloe Mathis 45

Jillian Bradley 46

Ryan Fitzgerald 46

Madi Kuenzli 47

Sam Holtman 47

Amanda Little 4

Benjamin Fallis 6

Cailey Cobb 10

Maren Miller 11

Madi Kuenzli 16

Caroline Boyd-Rogers 22

James Coman 23

Maren Miller 24


Faith Poynor 31

Madi Kuenzli 34


Maren Miller 37

Madi Kuenzli 40

Mike Carovillano 44

Nooshin Ghanbari 48

Visual Arts

Written Submissions

5900 West Pioneer ParkwayArlington, Texas 76013

817.451.4994 www.theoakridgeschool.org

Oakridge Calliope 2014

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Transcript of Oakridge Calliope 2014