Branches Book

An Anthology of Student Writing by Wildwood School's Class of 2017

Branches

Wildwood School

Branches

An Anthology of Student Writing By

Wildwood School’s Class of 2017

E DITED BY Susan Chung Vanessa Mancinelli

C OVER ART BY Enrique Romero

Table of Contents

Quinn Albert, poems, “The Angels”

1

Jordan Benefiel, short story, “Requiem for a Sunflower”

10

Nora Berkshire, short story, “The Girl in the Tornado”

16

Teyana Brown, article, “Stepping Into a Different Perspective”

20

Polina Chepenko, short story, “The Creeping Amelia”

24

Katiana Duffour, translation, “The Snow Queen”

29

Genevieve Dunning, article, “A Critique of Frank Ocean’s Albums:

37

Channel Orange and Blond ”

Skye Emanuel, article “Let Your Voice Be Heard”

43

Ella Emhoff, short story, “Unrequited Puppy Love”

47

Emma Fresco, screenplay, “Heroes”

51

Matthew Gelbart, article, “Smashing Expectations”

65

Conor Grice, personal essay, “I Remain: Glimpses of the Life of My

68

Great-Grandfather Reginald Stevens”

Avery Johnson, short story, “September 5 th , 2149”

77

Haley Katz, short story, “Switch”

84

Xander Kleiman, short story, “Keptar-5”

89

Nati Knobler, article, “A Struggle for Life”

98

Dani Leshgold, poems, “Ellipsis”

101

Sophie Levy, short story, “Red Wine”

106

Will Lewis, screenplay, “Silverado”

110

Jackeline Lopez-Ruiz, personal essay, “My Abuelita”

117

Julia Luisi, short story, “Leo”

123

Jacob Marcus, poems, “Rollercoaster”

127

Kiona McCormick, poems, “Lightened”

133

Duke Nicholson, screenplay, “Shine On”

138

Emily Norfolk, songs, “Hammer or a Brick and Too Too Sullied

146

Flesh Sheet Music”

Nathaniel Payne, article, “Free Speech and Open Discussion”

151

Elena Rey, personal essay, “The F Word”

158

Khamil Riley, poems, “Responses”

164

Jacob Rockwell, personal essay, “The Escape”

172

Enrique Romero, article, “Third Read”

175

Julian Ruble, personal essay, “Rayze: The Voyages of My Great-

180

Grandparents”

Sarah Shindler, personal essay, “Cholada”

185

Grayson Small, article, “The Mysterious Death of Frank Olson”

189

Miana Smith, article, “Modern Feminist Evolution through

193

Television Program ‘Parks and Recreation’: A Critical Analysis

Sophie Smith, poems, “It’s So Quiet”

198

Selma Spath, article, “Cowboys”

203

Max Spitz, article, “Fantasy Football: An Addiction or an Infatuation?” 207

Adam Stanton, personal essay, “I Love Christian Laettner”

212

Emma Stein, personal essay, “The Lucky Ones”

215

Sophia Stoughton, article, “History and Responsibility: Colonialism’s

218

Legacy in Haiti”

Kayla Streiber, short story, “Transfixed”

224

Mila Stromboni, short story, “Was It Worth It?”

231

Sophie Ulin, poems, “Life in 5 Acts”

236

Dylan Vecchione, research, “Investigating the Neuropsychological Page Affective Responses to Literature and Proposing Further Research for an Innovative Analytical Model Utilizing Digital Humanities”

246

Lilly Weidhaas, article, “Women’s Education as a Solution for a

259

Suffering World”

Summer Wilson, personal essay, “Dissection of Alice’s Adventures

266

In Wonderland”

Acknowledgements by the Editors

xx

Author Biographies

xxii

BRANCHES

Quinn Albert

THE ANGELS

What they don’t tell you about constant sun is that sometimes all it does is burn, and you’ll come to know red tail lighting better than moonlight, but you’ll come to know moonshine when snatched off the shelves of grocery stores and stuffed into backpacks and downed as quick as you can for the sake of anything to get you out of your head. And they don’t tell you how quickly heaven can turn to hell disguised as pills and empty bottles and strangers whose names you won’t remember. They don’t tell you about hollowness, they might tell you about sadness but you don’t hear about how big your small car feels when you’re the only one in it. Sometimes all 503mi² of your hometown only feels as big as your 20ft² bedroom And sometimes you forget that there's a world outside your house and about the devils that wander the city, dripping with fortune,

and that life is bigger than those white walls.

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And maybe red tail lights illuminating your face are the closest you will ever come to a spotlight and the traffic around you is as close as you’ll come to a crowd.

Sunset

Her mornings were bagels and coffee

and where she grew up and her nights were bars on the strip and her first tattoo. She could never find enough smoke or alcohol to fill the holes in her chest

The deeper into the city she got, the further she felt from home. It's dark and it's raining and the streets are flooding like they do in LA and she's not thinking about the road while Frankie Valli sings “I love you baby” and her car skids through the backstreets of Hollywood. And she bites her lip until it bleeds and run her fingers through her hair until strands start to fall out. She locks herself in the bathroom and whispers “Stop tearing your hair out, you’re happy now” and she’d grip the edge of the counter and whisper “stop crying, you’re older now.” And the blood from her lip would fall in the sink and she’d whisper

“stop bleeding, you’re stronger now.” So she’d splash cold water on her face and unlock the bathroom door and the world would be outside,

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the same as before, but the light had changed from yellow to blue and she dug her fingernails into her palms to think that maybe she had to.

What Will We Become?

As the days grow old and our hearts grow weary, what will we become? When love turns to bitterness, turns to nostalgia, when my skin becomes something that you have never touched, when our souls grow apart, and our minds are no longer something each other can recognize, what will we be but memories? When long nights beside each other could be mistaken for dreams, and whispered confessions of a love for each other so great that it was all that

surrounded us blur with books we once read, a storybook romance that will not be told, what will we be but lost in the shuffle? Is love like this meant to be lost like this? Will the pain that came from this subside as we have? As the lights grow dim, what will we become? As our skin grows thin, what will we become? As our lives go on, what will we become? What will we become?

Tiptoes

I'm sorry

if my attempt to find strength was seen to you as weakness, I've spent years searching for happiness I thought I could find it on the bathroom floor.

I know I talk about pain a lot, I’ve been told I know it better than most people do in a lifetime.

I'm sorry

if my search for security was seen as selfishness, I spent years planting flowers at the feet of people

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who never stayed to see them grow. I find it hard to balance myself with the weight of the world on my shoulders, but I’m trying not to think about weight anymore. I know I've spilled my heart to people that haven't deserved it, if it came off as a greedy need to be wanted, I'd forgotten what it felt like to have my mind and body in the same place. I think I tried too hard to find myself in others.

I'm sorry

I’m sorry that the way I grow

Is different than what you know, believe me,

I tried to make myself fit into the shapes you carved But my legs got sore from sinking to your level my shoulders ache from shrugging it off

I’m standing on my tiptoes to be the bigger person

I’m not sorry

that I’ve given my heart to people before knowing their eyes I’ve learned not to be made of cellophane I’m no longer packaging myself with Styrofoam I’m not sorry for putting myself at the center of my own world.

PCH

It’s nights in October when you’ve forgotten to replace the washer fluid for the dashboard and it’s getting harder to see what’s in front of you. The Santa Anas have been your mom’s biggest worry for as long as you’ve had the consciousness to recognize fear, and when your car shakes on the highway, you grip the steering wheel tighter and try to focus on the road ahead instead of the silence inside. The cars seem to challenge you to press your foot down harder on the pedal and you can’t help but wonder how the same feet you learned to dance with have gotten you here.

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But it's also nights in January when the ocean looks like glass and the sky above it looks like the shower walls after the temperature leaves imprints on the plexiglass door. Driving down PCH at 5:30 on a Tuesday, the steering wheel turning like choreography to a dance you know by heart. The sun is dipping below the horizon and the cars along side you seem to be chasing the light, and you're one of them racing for daylight on the long drive home. And you think about how the highway creates your best poetry, and you've never understood why your parents warn you to be wary of it

because for you it's the backyard you first learned to play in. It's where you first saw above the trees out your front window and got your hands dirty with the thrill of the solidarity.

Seven Seventeen

And we laughed-

whole heartedly at one in the morning, dancing around the kitchen in our matching pajama shorts singing the anthems to our femininity at the top of our lungs. In the back seats of our cars with the music loud to match the noise of the voices in our heads. Over the spilled tears of our losses and our damages and our breaks

as we stay together and move together across these hallways and through these streets. And we laughed, god, we always laughed. we loved the music, we loved the songs that we sang loud and we sang constantly. we loved the places that came to be ours. we loved all of the days that we spent together. all the first days of school,

And we loved-

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all of the lasts, all of the friday afternoons and wednesday nights. we loved with sacrifice. we loved with vulnerability. we loved with one another.

And we lived-

simultaneously and in synchronicity, somehow together even when miles divided us. we lived so alive, with light in our eyes and desperation for adventure in our heads. we lived with each other by our sides.

we laugh together. we grow together.

we love. we live. we are.

Armor

Remember that heaven is only what it’s been written to be and the sky above us may really only be sky.

Remember that dirt under your nails is the earth wanting to be closer to your hands and that the body under your clothing doesn’t belong to a man.

April is only 30 days long, it will come and go and the sadness it leaves in you will fade with May.

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Remember seventeen is only twelve months long and high school is only forty eight months,

You grew up with the weight of the world on your shoulders and you’ll soon feel like you’re in the world instead of sinking under it.

Remember your skin is only part of your armor

but it’s the first one the world ever gave you

and it bares your bruises no matter how many times you’ve fallen to your knees.

An Apology to My Body

I’m sorry that I haven’t loved you as well as you’ve deserved. I know that your hands are capable of creating artwork and your chest has a heart in it that keeps beating even when it breaks. I’m sorry your lungs have started to burn, that I didn’t do anything to stop it. I’m sorry for all of the bruises you bare on your knees,

that I didn’t catch you before you scratched your elbows. I know the pain in your rib cage is a result of things I did to make it that way, I know that I am the reason

you can’t breathe. I didn’t grow up wanting to leave these scars

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on your ankles, I am so sorry for all the times I’ve made you bleed. I hope I can learn to love you right, I hope you grow to be better than the love that I gave you.

Seventeen

Tonight I've been thinking about how there aren't enough surfaces in my bedroom to fit all of the flowers that I want to buy and that I wish my friends could see how pretty they are when they're laughing that I wish I got over my fear of the night sky sooner than the age of eleven so I could have spent more of my life looking up at the stars

This morning I was thinking that the light on the mountains was the perfect introduction to spring and that I've spent too long cursing April about how this is the greenest I have ever seen LA and how I wasted sixteen years not appreciating sunshine.

I’m thinking about Thursday afternoons on San Vicente with our hands out the window and ‘Fifteen’ blasting through the speakers a month before my 18th birthday that seventeen has been better than I’ve given it credit for and sunrises are a reminder that today is new I’m thinking about time and how cliché it is to say that it moves too quickly but I wish I could go back to my favorite memories and appreciate them before they ended that high school hasn’t always been easy on me but I’ve learned that loving myself doesn’t mean loving someone else less and being alone doesn’t have to go hand in hand with loneliness.

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Author’s Statement: Quinn Albert

Los Angeles and I have a complicated relationship. The expansiveness overwhelms me, and yet it still feels small. Growing up here is different than anywhere else. I am not someone who usually has trouble finding something to say, but trying to explain my feelings about growing up here had me at a loss for words. The closest I’ve come to explaining it is in these poems, which embody all of the feelings and difficulties of being young in such a big city. These are the poems about my friendships, love, loss, vulnerability, heartbreak, and about my love-hate relationship with the City of Angels.

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Jordan Benefiel

REQUIEM FOR A SUNFLOWER

I. The sound of shoes scuffling against a waxed floor riled me from my sleep. Where am I , I wondered. Lazily rubbing my eyes, I stumbled to my feet. Sunlight filtered into the room through rose colored blinds, driving most of the shadows into the corners. I took a step forward, taking note of the IV currently wired into her arm. She had gotten out of the car crash with only a few minor cuts and bruises. The worst of it was a gash on the side of her temple, currently wrapped in gauze. What really struck me was her once piercingly green eyes, now grey and unfocused. “Lillie…” I muttered in a shaky voice. She just kept staring. No change in expression. No words. II. A year had gone by since the time I saw her in the hospital. She was practically mute for six months after the accident. I visited her as much as possible. We wouldn’t do much; sometimes we would watch TV, sometimes we played cards. I was just happy knowing I could be there for her even if she didn’t open up. Since starting high school she hadn’t interacted with anyone except me. Honestly it was starting to become worrisome. I’m sure she will get better, I thought as I looked at her from my desk. I made up my mind to talk to her so I got up. “Lillie!” I yelled as I approached her. She looked up at me blankly and cocked her head slightly to the side before dragging herself out of her seat. I put on an encouraging smile and we went off to lunch. As we walked to our usual spot in the shade behind the main building, I noticed her acting a little weird. She kept staring at her shoes and fidgeting with her hands. I pretended not to notice as we sat down. The truth was the accident caused her severe mental trauma. So severe that the doctors didn’t even know the full extent. Strange behavior like this wasn’t uncommon, in fact it happened frequently. What caught me off guard were not the actions themselves, but the look on her face. In place of her normally blank expression was a pained look. “Hey…. Eric,” she said in a quiet voice, as if my name was hard to say. Opening her mouth to speak again, she stopped as if something was caught in her throat. She looked towards the ground in a bashful manner that was

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highly uncharacteristic of her. It was then I noticed the bags under her eyes. Had she been having trouble sleeping? I had no idea she was hurting this much. “I’m… I’m…. I’m sorry Eric.” With that she burst into tears. I had no idea what I should do in a situation like this. I awkwardly wrapped my arms around her and stroked her hair. “It’s ok Lillie. It’s not your fault. Everything’s okay now.” For some reason these were the first words that came to my head. It seemed to calm her down a bit but her tiny body still shook every so often. I kept stroking her hair until she fully calmed down. Eventually she moved her head from my lap and looked up at me. I gave her the warmest smile I could muster. What I didn’t expect were the corners of her lips attempting to form one of her own. III. I cracked my eyes open a bit. A pleasant warmth touched every part of my exposed skin. I looked around: a field of sunflowers spanning as far as the eye can see. Then I saw her, the radiant beauty bathed in golden sunlight. She smiled at me and I felt my heart stop. “What are you gawking at? You look like an idiot.” I blew sunflower petals out off my face and responded, “I was simply admiring the scenery but something ugly’s blocking it.” It'd been a couple months since she started opening up to me. We’d gotten a lot closer in that time. She still had severe social problems but now she was completely fine around me. “Asshole!” she yelled before getting up and throwing a handful of petals at me. I chased her around the field for a while but we both ended up getting tired. Both of us gasping for air, we collapsed onto a bed of flowers. “Hey Eric. Thanks for bringing me out here.” “Well you seemed a little despondent lately. Beauty always clears my head and this was the most beautiful place I could think of.” “Well, this is definitely what I needed.” We reveled in the comfortable silence for a minute before I spoke again. “Hey Lillie.” “Hmm?” she said turning to face me, her expression inquisitive. “You act normal with me but can’t so much as hold a conversation with anyone else, yet you refuse to get any kind of psychiatric help. We both know that isn't normal. I think you should try seeing someone.” She gave me a sheepish half smile and looked towards the ground like she always does when uncomfortable. “I... I just have a feeling that if I do, I’ll lose everything that's important to me.”

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I didn’t know how to respond. Was she afraid of remembering the incident, afraid of the pain in confronting the past? Or was she afraid that if she was cured and made new friends I would leave her side? “I’ll never leave you Lily. Ever. You don’t have to worry about that.” We held eye contact for a minute before she looked away. “Alright. I’ll do it.” “Really?” I let out a sigh of relief. I slight breeze blew past us, prompting her to push the hair back behind her ear. She forced a smile. “Yes. I promise.” Content, I closed my eyes once more and embraced the sunlight's gentle caress. IV. After a couple of weeks Lillie started going to therapy. It seemed to have been going well, but she refused to talk to me about it. “Doctor patient confidentiality,” she had said with a mischievous grin. Lately though, that grin of hers hadn't been making an appearance. All I wanted was to protect that smile anyway I could, but I didn't know what to say. I was able to muster up the strength to voice my concerns during lunch one day at our spot behind the main building. The green trees rustled in the wind as the faint sounds of a busy courtyard could be heard from a distance. I stared at the blue sky. A single cloud drifted by. How I longed to be like that cloud, without weight, without problems, aimlessly drifting through the vast firmament. Yet, I was grounded by my concern for this one girl. I often wondered, why is it that I care for her so much? Why is it that I’m drawn to her ? However, that thought drifted out of mind as the cloud drifted over the building. I turned my attention towards Lillie. Her eyes, downcast yet focused, paid no attention to me. “Lillie you’ve been acting strange recently. You haven’t been smiling, you’ve barely been talking. I know this is because of the therapy. What’s going on, you have to talk to me.” After my heartfelt, yet forceful remarks she finally looked up at me. “Do you ever ask yourself why it is you keep going? Why you exist at all?” Taken aback by this strange question, I decided to humor her with a response. “Question my existence? Existence is all there is. If I put that under the microscope my entire being has no foundation.” “Interesting answer... I was under the impression that it’s a very human thing to question one's existence. Might even be the most human thing.” She was starting to scare me. “Why are you even asking me this?”

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“Because I was told to.” Shocked and confused I decided to drop the topic. We finished our lunch in silence. V. I closed my eyes for a moment. Taking in the music of the city, I walked side by side with Lillie. It was after school and I was walking her home. In the past few weeks, the distance between us had grown, but I hadn’t lost heart. I decided I might try to start up a conversation again but was interrupted. “Let's take a different route to my house,” she said calmly. I didn’t say a word and just followed her. Severely deviating from our normal route, we ended up at a trail I’d never seen before. Large oak trees cast ominous shadows on the path leading up the hill. I kept following her, now acutely aware that she never intended to go home. When we finally reached the top of the hill, I took in the full view. Fields of green populated the horizon, contrasting the sun’s multihued farewell. “The sun. It looks like a sunflower,” I remarked offhandedly. I paused for a couple seconds, but no response came. “Why did you bring me here?” “I’m so sorry Eric.” “Huh?” I looked up to see Lillie staring straight ahead at the sunset. The corners of her mouth twitched with emotion, betraying the resolve in her eyes. “What are you talking about? What’s wrong?” She pretended like she didn't hear me. “The therapy sessions have been going well. Shrink says that many of my issues can be treated with medicine. But some... some she says have to be confronted on my own.” A white hot flash of pain resonated in my skull. Terror. I could see she was holding back tears. “She says that progress can’t be made in other areas until I take care of this.” She hesitated before continuing. “I have to get rid of my... my best friend.” The pain suddenly stopped. I didn't yet understand, but for some reason an emotion quite different from terror or joy began to calm me down. “Best friend?..... What do you mean.” “He died in a car crash we were both in when I was 15. But... he’s been with me ever since.” “I don't understand...” “Yes. You do.” A flash of that strange emotion blinded my senses. “Eric, where do you live?” “Where do I? Of course I.. I uh.. Where do I live?” “What do you do when you aren’t with me?”

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“I... Well I... I don’t know...” “Eric, you don’t exist except in my head. I made you to cope with losing him. To cope with the guilt I felt for having you with me. But you don’t have to do this anymore. You don’t have to take care of me. You don’t have to be a slave to a memory of someone who died a long time ago.” I looked at her for a long time. I couldn’t process any of this. I had never questioned the nature of my existence; in fact, I don’t think I was capable of it. There was one thing I did know, one thing that became crystal clear to me: that strange new emotion I felt, was love. So, I did something I don’t think she expected. I smiled at her, and, even though I didn’t understand what was happening, I nodded. “Goodbye Eric.” She walked up to me and gave me a little push. I stumbled back and fell back. I kept going and going. There was only darkness. Feeling myself fading I reached out into the abyss, hoping for something solid to hold on to. But there was nothing. Nothing except the sweet smell of sunflowers. Reading and writing have always been passions for me. Though I enjoy reading more than writing, I tend to be very interested in different character archetypes and the way they are written. When I read I like to pin down what archetype the character is and notice how that type of person acts in different situations. That interest led me to read the psychology of Carl Jung, the father of archetypes. Armed with new understanding of the nuances of the human mind, I set out to write this story. My aim was to play out the relationship between the archetype of the innocent and the caretaker, then turn the audience's expectation on its head by having the caretaker actually be responsible for her pain. When I first learned about this project, I sat down to figure out what I wanted to write about. Knowing this project could take many different forms, I had a hard time deciding. Frustrated, I decided to blow off some steam by doing an activity I find cathartic. I loaded up my browser and opened the writing-prompts subreddit. Looking through the many choices, I located one that caught my eye. Reading it and re-reading it, I was swept away by a burst of inspiration. I started scribbling notes and outlines for a story, switching up the premise to make it my own. This is how I came to write “Requiem for a Sunflower.” The reason that my interests were initially piqued was because of the aforementioned slant towards psychoanalytical novels. The human mind, with its endless mazes and shrouds are endless fuel for literary writing. This is Author’s Statement: Jordan Benefiel

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the first story of its kind that I’ve written. Though I know there is endless room for improvement, I hope that I captured at least a little magic of the human condition.

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Nora Berkshire

THE GIRL IN THE TORNADO

All I see is darkness. Why can’t I see anything else? I am trapped in a black hole and I feel cold. Two bright slivers begin opening. I feel tired, but the room has grown bright so I can’t go back to where I was. I’ll get used to it soon, this is how it always is at first, I think. Blink. Blink. Where am I? I wonder. I lay staring up at the dull ceiling when a man leans over me blocking my view. He is talking aggressively, almost at a yell but not quite. I can’t hear anything, but I see the urgency on his face. He is in a sweaty white tank top with a short sleeve unbuttoned shirt over it, and jeans. Where am I. I turn my head best I can to look around, a cement room, dirty and only containing us and a pile of blankets under me in the middle of the floor. A weak light keeping the room from being black, typical , I thought. Focus! I need to wake up. The dead silence rose to a loud ringing as I slowly gain back my hearing. Staring at his face I thought hard on focusing on what he was now yelling at me. Ringing. Ringing. I slowly start to catch every other word when it suddenly comes all at once and I can hear his cries. “You have to go now! Quick they will come soon! You don’t have enough time! Hurry you have to snap out of it!” he yells pointing to the one door in the corner of the small room. SNAP. That's how quick it all returns. Jumping up onto my elbows I begin coughing like crazy. I can feel everything, all the pain in my body. All my senses shock awake as if woken by mint. My eyes are darting around the room, searching for information to fill all the blank space in my mind to no avail. I push myself up, at last sitting upright, and turn to the man who now sits quietly. “It is time to go,” he says quietly to me. “What is your name?” I ask. “Abhay, miss.” He bows to me whilst I stand up. Wobbling I quickly correct myself back to my tall stance. My long gray hair falls and my purple dress shifts down. It is resting on my neck, just as always. I grab it and its blue light engulfs me, expanding from my being. I scream as I fall back to my knees, the touch was exhilarating. I feel complete . I stand back up and look down at Abhay still bowing at my feet. “I’m off,” I say. My bare feet feeling the cool cement as they leave the island of blankets and lead me out of the room. IN AN INSTANT I take in all information surrounding me. Calmly I begin walking down the dirt street in India, knowing everything about it. I

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know everyone who has ever walked this street and ever will, so I wave farewell to Abhay who cheerfully waves back. I wonder why I awoke with him, I thought he was killed, then again maybe that has yet to happen. Computing my surroundings, I close my eyes to go to somewhere else. I continue walking, now entering my English class that I have for 3rd period in the boarding school I attend in Iowa. The teacher and other students can’t help but notice my inappropriate attire, so I throw my hand up and take my seat now wearing the school uniform. With purple socks of course. The teachers and students avert their eyes back to their own doings now that I have corrected myself. This is a boring boarding school, same as all the others, that's why I leave so often. At least it’s safe to come back here, I remind myself. I need to hide out here for a while but someone will be here soon to talk to me, I’m certain. This is how it always goes, right? Right? Walking from English to math class I accidently summon a force that blows everyone down in the hallway and knocks over the trophy case. It is loud and of all the students here walking to class, many fall and many dropped their books. My eyes begin glowing a piercing blue and my hair flows around me while I am standing in the middle of the commotion. My peers look up at me from their spots on the ground for a brief moment, then simply gather their scattered items and continue heading to their classes. This is a pretty common day so far, same old same old. So tired. “Come with me now,” says a man dressed in black showing me the distinct mark tattooed on his palm. It’s one of them. I oblige with a look and follow him to a special room, for I was taught to trust that mark, even when I can’t trust anyone else. Once we enter the room and close the door, we sit in chairs on opposite sides of the small table within. “What is going on here?” I ask. Knowing why I had come to this room but not understanding the rest of the events taking place in my normal day. “You jumped,” he says. “Yes. When did I leave?” I ask. “Thursday,” he answers with a little concern. “Oh I see.” That’s why I was so weak. “You must take better care of your health Miss, I will send the doctor for you this evening,” he responds. With that the man stands up and exits, leaving me alone in the dark room. Why India. Hmm. What’s happening. It will come back in time I assure myself, scrapping pieces of memory together. I jumped. Now in a large room of an open house nicely furnished. I walk in and sit at the dining room table in the natural sunlight that covers the room. Turning my head left to look out I admire the cracking trees blowing. I’ve always liked these trees. I hear myself come running in babbling with a dolly my mum made me. At only 2 feet it’s hard to see myself over the table. I

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don’t like little me; she doesn’t understand anything. Still innocent. She throws her dolly up on the table and climbs into the seat across from me grinning ear to ear. As my late “mother” walks in little me tries her best to position herself on the chair so that she won’t fall off like little children always do. I simply sit looking at the child, beginning to grit my teeth into a small smile. “You’ve come back? Why do you bother,” says Claire, the dead woman, as she sits down in the seat next to the child entranced by her dolly. “Am I not welcome?” I say mockingly. “I just don’t understand why you come back here if you only are going to stare at her until your cheeks begin to bleed.” “What’s the harm of looking into a mirror, a mirror where I see nothing of myself, my face alone,” I say. “Are you weary child?” “Refer to me by my name.” “Are you tired of jumping, tired of coming here to see yourself before, tired of your loneliness? Are you tired or...” “Enough!... Refer to me by name,” I shout back at her. “Monster,” Claire says under her breath. I am doing it again, summoning a force. This time I shatter the windows and frighten the child with my piercing blue eyes. Her name is, my name, Alice, or so it used to be... now I am referred to by many names, a common one, Rhea. The child grabs our dolly and runs out of the room with Claire’s embracing arms following close behind. That dead woman, oh how I loved that dead woman. I continue to sit in the shattered room until the sun sets and the trees sleep, caressing the smooth edges of my necklace. I came again to cool my head, I tried to understand but I couldn’t even make that work. I jump back to school. I said I wouldn’t do it, but I had upset myself again. I am in second to last period but want the day to end. I flick my fingers and it begins raining outside. The class sees me do this and begin calmly gathering their things. One girl is very annoyed with me because she is in the middle of presenting, but I couldn’t care less. I want to go back . Where I don’t know. To a year, a place, a time when things were different. Should I move forward? Can I move forward. The storm quickly darkens the sky turning grey clouds to black, whirling winds through the trees surrounding the school. I lay back in my desk and look out the window, twirling my finger, creating a small whirlwind out in the yard. The teacher slowly stands up to put on her bag and walks over to the door, the kids follow her as they evacuate the classroom. They don’t bother taking me, I do this on occasion and they know the drill. Everything goes silent once again, I begin to enter a daze as I watch the forming tornado eat the rouge benches out in the field. Pretty. I jumped, now outside facing the tornado twirling round and round. I walk slowly to the

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center of the base of the whirlwind, the wind blowing strongly pushes and shoves me but can’t move me. My necklace begins glowing, my eyes turning to that piercing blue. I close my eyes and walk into the bottom of the tornado with ease and stand, looking up, in the center up to the sky. I feel it all around. I close my eyes and stand feeling the blustering wind, I throw my head back and my arms up preparing myself. For what? CRACK. All the sound returns in a ripping moment, for just a moment. The sound is overwhelming. The tornado vanishes, I open my eyes and am no longer in the field outside of my school. I fall to my knees exhausted from the energy I exerted. I dart my eyes around. That wasn’t me... I didn’t jump. Where am I, who brought me here? I feel cold. Could it already be the time? All I see is darkness. I am a passionate about this project because I enjoy having the chance to better understand my own story and creative process. My story, “The Girl in the Tornado,” is one of my many strange dreams that I have written down. I saw this project as a great opportunity to delve deeper into the creative process by challenging myself to expand on an idea that began in my dizzy subconscious. My intention for this short story is to give the reader the same experience I had when I dreamt it for the first time. The story is meant to be thrilling, fast paced, and confusing. When experiencing the dream, I saw everything as the girl with gray hair in the purple dress, and was feeling the strange urgencies that she felt. I was able to completely understand why, how and what was happening with myself and emotions towards my surroundings in the story. However when I awoke I felt confused about the story and what was happening, I no longer understood the urgency I felt as the girl. Translating a dream into a short story required that I add in certain elements such as a name for the main character to help make the story more accessible to readers. Although I expanded some parts, I did want to stay as true as possible to the dream experience, so you, as the reader, may still feel a bit confused and curious about what exactly is happening. Since having this dream about a year and a half ago, I have had four more dreams that relate to it. My plan is to eventually expand on the plot and create a full story that encompasses all of the related dreams. Author’s Statement: Nora Berkshire

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Teyana Brown

STEPPING INTO A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE

When I was a little girl, my parents used to always tell me that I could dance before I could even walk. I would dance in grocery stores, in malls, at restaurants, etc. All I needed was space and music and I would put on a performance for everyone to see. I’ve participated in many dance recitals and programs from kindergarten to eight grade. Most of the recitals I was willing to participate in, while others, I was forced to do. But either way, I still enjoyed every minute of it. Sadly, it all came to a pause once I started high school. The workload I had for all of my classes became overwhelming, so I was no longer able to continue dancing while also trying to manage my schoolwork. However, anytime I didn’t have a lot of work to complete, I would practice old dance routines in my room. Doing that allowed me to relax and do something I enjoyed very much. The styles of dance I usually do are hip-hop, jazz, contemporary, and sometimes ballet. But there’s one dance style that I never tried, but always found very fascinating. That dance style is stepping. I’ve attended many that ended with a performance of people step- dancing. Every time I watched it, I always wanted to learn and be a part of a team that steps. The first dream job I had was to be a professional choreographer, so I could form my perfect team and perform for the whole world. As I got older, my dream job changed, but my passion for step- dancing was still there. In the future, I feel that I will eventually get the opportunity to learn how to step-dance, but first, I want to use this research to begin my experience by sharing my learning about Stepping. Stepping or step-dancing is an important part of African American cultural heritage. Stepping is a style of dance that uses the body as an instrument to produce rhythm and sounds through a mixture of hand claps, footsteps, and spoken word. 1 It originated from the African foot dance called the Welly “Gumboot” dance. Gumboot was mainly used by miners in South Africa as a substitute for drumming because it was banned by the authorities. 2 This style of dance was used as a form of self-expression for workers who

1 Taproot foundation, "What Is Stepping?," Step Afrika, accessed December 15, 2016, http://www.stepafrika.org/company/what-is-stepping/.

2 Taproot foundation, "What Is Stepping?," Step Afrika.

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were mostly targeted because of the strict laws that were passed. It gave the miners comfort and hope for survival through the tough situations they had to face. Working in a gold mine is exactly what you might expect it to be. It is exhausting, long, and boring. Racism was present in this time, which meant that blacks were slaves to white people. The black mine workers were forbidden to speak and often punished physically by white workers in higher positions if they did. The mining work was coming to an end, and the disgraceful working conditions resulted in the death of many of the workers. In addition, the mines would often flood causing shin damage to all the workers. Because of the black workers’ skin irritation, Caucasian bosses provided rubber gumboots so productivity would not slow down, making it easier for them to drain the mines and continue working. This major situation provided uniforms for the workers to avoid this problem. The uniforms contained heavy black wellington boots, jeans or overalls, and bandannas to absorb sweat. Apart from the work, they were also forced to sleep in confined spaces, and the workers were divided based on their ethnic background to keep a division between different African workers. Because of the racism and segregation at the time, workers found ways to get through their pain by making traditional dances and rhythms with their boots and bodies. 3 Stepping drew from dance routines from various rhythm and blues groups such as the Temptations and The Four Tops. The dance style is usually performed by both individuals and groups that resemble a military formation. In the 20 th century stepping came from other elements such as break dancing, tap dancing, marches, Caribbean dance, and different stunts as an individual part of a routine. They also include different props such as blind folds, cans, or sticks. The beat determines how fast the steps should be so the performers can get a sense of the sound they want. 4 The roots of stepping, as it is understood today in the United States, started on the campus of Howard University in Washington D.C. However, stepping at Howard University first began in fraternal groups and later became popular in the entire university. Individuals from the military would join fraternal groups after returning from World War II. Step-dancing then became a way to show pride for one’s 3 "History of the Art of Stepping," Art of Stepping, last modified 2006, accessed December 15, 2016, http://www.artofstepping.com/about-a-o- s/history-of-art-of-stepping/. 4 Wikipedia Contributors, "Stepping (African American)," Wikipedia, accessed December 15, 2016, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stepping_(African-American).

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fraternal group. As time moved on, stepping was no longer only a ritual practice by African American fraternities and sororities in the early 1900s. Today, stepping has expanded to other places such as high schools, churches, cheerleading, drill teams, and other community organizations around the country. It has also spread to the Latino, Asian American, and Greek organizations. 5 Similar to hip-hop music, stepping stemmed from the African American community finding ways to encourage themselves to keep pushing through their struggles. With all the hard work they had to do, stepping was their only source of entertainment and happiness. It gave them a voice when they weren’t allowed to sing or speak to one another. I personally find it intriguing to see how they used their resources, but what I valued the most is the aspect of inclusivity. This particular dance style shouldn’t only be used in the black communities, but in all communities. As the years have past, stepping has brought in more inclusion with different races and ethnic groups all over the country. I believe that that is why I am so passionate about this dance style. For most people, it’s all about the clapping, stomping, and chanting, but for me it goes a lot deeper. It’s not about what’s going on, it’s about who is doing it. Those stomps, claps, and chants all come together as one. It always starts and stops at the same time. That’s called team work. Step dancing forms the greatest teams of all. Being a part of something like that would bring me so much joy. That is why step-dancing will always be something that I will continue to look forward to in my future. Works Cited 1. Wikipedia Contributors, "Stepping (African American)," Wikipedia, accessed December 15, 2016, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stepping_(African-American) . 2. "History of the Art of Stepping," Art of Stepping, last modified 2006, accessed December 15, 2016, http://www.artofstepping.com/about-a-o-s/history-of-art-of- stepping/ . 3. Taproot foundation, "What Is Stepping?," Step Afrika, accessed December 15, 2016, http://www.stepafrika.org/company/what-is- stepping/.

5 "History of the Art of Stepping," Art of Stepping, last modified 2006, accessed December 15, 2016, http://www.artofstepping.com/about-a-o- s/history-of-art-of-stepping/.

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Author’s Statement: Teyana Brown

My passion has always been dancing, but step dance specifically captured everything I’ve always wanted in a dance style. It not only has the rhythm and steps, but it brings together the bond between everyone in the dance group. My passion for stepping mainly comes from the powerful and exciting feelings that I take away from it, and every time I watch a group of people perform it. My intentions for this research paper/personal essay is for the readers to not only be more informed about stepping but to also gain a perspective into why dancing means a lot me. To realize that it’s not only about the hand motions and foot work, but most importantly, the different people who come together to make it happen. The dance itself would not exist if there was not that one person or group of people to create it. In order to fully understand this piece, the reader should be open-minded about different styles of dance. It’s more enjoyable to read if they are willing to explore something new.

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Polina Chepenko

THE CREEPING AMELIA

Strong winds flew across the field, shifting the note pages in front of me. I have kept this diary for more than eight years. From a young age, I enjoyed writing about my experiences, but recently, my entries have communicated a more somber tone. When Marie was taken, Amelia placed herself inside the wheat field to reflect on the bygone days. However, we are only figuratively carried away, concerned with the food shortage that arose in Western Missouri. According to Amelia, her sister Marie does not address the relocation from Georgia to the Northwest correctly. It isn’t surprising. Amelia doesn’t seem to like anything. Amelia wants to go away . Once I closed my diary, I walked down the hill and through the fields, brushing against the desperate stalks of wheat. The drought had been pervasive. All the memories of golden leaves, sparkling raindrops, and flourishing gardens were now useless. Even our house looked malnourished. As I turned towards its front porch, I saw Marie emerging from the doorstep. “It’s time to eat,” she yelled. I ran through the dying plants and into our dining room, hoping that she would at last discuss why we moved away from our parents, why there is a drought, and why our food is terrible. But all I heard from her was silence. She carried my plate of soup to the table, put it down, and looked at me. I wanted to yell, “Tell me, what happened?” but all I could do was stare back. “Eat the soup,” she whispered. I slowly lifted my spoon, but suddenly, I felt a strong emotion take over. “No Marie, take it away, I do not want your food!” I yelled. I saw her turn around and walk away. “Don’t you understand? I am confused,” I heard myself saying. And then her usual response. “We aren’t going to discuss this.” She didn’t even ask me why I felt confused. On that day, I still lacked Marie’s attention to my questions, but I did make a very important decision. Since my sister had once again shown no interest in our parents, I was going to go back to Charlotte myself. All I had to do was collect food. Under the bridge, my neighbors had grown all types of vegetables, from carrots to corn to winter squash. That is where I wanted to go first. Then, I would reunite with my parents, they would tell me everything, and we would live with plenty of food and water. Amelia, I thought, needs to travel. Taking out my diary once again, I imagined my

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escape. Amelia is slowly opening the door. Now she is exiting the house. Now she is passing the hill outside her window. She has passed. She has succeeded. After Marie went to bed, I crawled out of my bedroom and walked into the outdoor air. I actually passed the uncomforting thorns of wheat and collected my favorite vegetables. Within three hours, I secured a ticket to Charlotte, and my hair began to flow with the wind from our bus. The people around me seemed a bit suspicious that such a juvenile girl was travelling alone. However, concerned with their own travels, they eventually reasoned that I must look young for my age. While I was on the bus, I passed the moving fields of corn and the growing patches of soybeans. The sky was very lively, as it often showed a bright, blue color. However, the smoke from other cities began to approach, and my journey became more difficult. Only my diary could calm me. The days of corn, carrots, and clear skies are over. Now, there is only sadness and despair. I miss my house, the people I knew, and all the interesting moments I have experienced. They are no longer here. These changes bring back memories of my sister. Don’t think about the drought, don’t ask me what happened, and eat your dinner, she had said. She didn’t seem to be concerned about my need to know. Therefore, I refuse to return home, and I will continue with my journey. When our bus stopped to load more people, a man sat down next to me. He introduced himself as George and asked why I was alone. “Where are your parents?” he added. I explained my reasons for travelling to Charlotte, and the man smiled and said, “I can help you.” His offer seemed to be very good. George and his friends promised to look for my parents in exchange for help. They wanted to have a successful business, but simply couldn’t find anyone to pack sandbags to deliver these goods. Amelia, I thought, could be that person. The conversation about the deal followed. I made my decisions very quickly, but I was somewhat satisfied with the agreement. I would be going to a new residence. It’s somewhere in Georgia, they said. I simply needed to create bags of sand and collect them in my apartment. I wasn’t looking forward to my work, but the offer allowed me to begin looking for my parents. So I went with them. Soon, I will reach the sycamore branches, palm trees, and oak trunks. This will be my new home, and I will stay there. I do want to go back to Missouri, but I also remember why I left. I must keep moving. The palm trees sifted in the wind, matching the serenity of the rising sun. Below, grains of sand rolled with the waves and scattered onto the floors of the apartment. I sprawled my blanket outside the property, sat down, and enjoyed the view of sycamore trees between the apartment building. My new

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