The Bluestocking 2023-24

THE BLUE STOCKING

Bluestocking 2023-2024

The Bluestocking

In the mid-eighteenth century, the Bluestockings were groups of English women who convened to read and share their ideas about such things as literature. Today, The Bluestocking is Havergal College’s art and literature magazine, whicdhighlights the talents of Havergal students.

Content Advisory

The work in these pages was created by Grade 9-12 students at Havergal College. The writers are just that, writers. They have created characters, plots, and ruminations. They should not be assumed to have experienced the situations they have imagined or to be the characters they have crafted. In these pages, you will encounter death and loss, near death catastrophes, riots and protests, emotional situations, the uncertainty of childhood, the vicissitudes of addiction, supernatural situations, and the horrors of obsession.

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The Blue Editorial Board:

Frances Bai Giulia Bernardini Kelsey Brajer Dominique Cao Sophia Carroll-Leong

Andi Meyerowitz Samantha Needham Callia Newall Hana Nishiwaki Neve Padulo Doris Peng Lily Pettingill Riya Savundranayagam Eshal Shakir Fiona Shen Emerson Southam Aniela Stanek Allison Tanzola Vix Reed-Tassone Prisha Wadhwa Kelly Wang Kaitlyn Windover

Lauren Cheng Rook Crainic Carina D’Souza Ava Daniel Paige FitzGerald Dani Di Giusto Nicole Gong Emma Heydary

Kasey Kim Sarah Kluge Bona Lee Victoria Ma Naomi Mao

Cover Design: Olivia Chapnik The Blue Teacher Supporters:

Jennifer Goldberg Sandra Langdon Laura McRae Kasia Ulbin

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Cathy Li Grade 9 Purple Princesses

Grade 1: My teacher hands us a piece of paper – vast and white; It’s a fresh canvas; a new start; an opportunity to grasp what’s right. My teacher says, “Draw what you want to become,” But I only grip my purple crayon in frustration. My eyes flicker between the blank “canvas” and my crayon; I think – Purple , like those gentle, swaying lilacs I watch in my neighbor’s garden, Purple , like those purple Skittles I always save for last, Purple , like those purple princesses I draw on everything in fact, Yeah , purple is my favorite color.

On the paper, I draw a purple princess.

Grade 2: The bell shatters the silence of our classroom, As I push up from my chair all too sudden, My heart pounds in anticipation to burst out of class,

But then I hear my teacher Call my name to stay behind As last? Her words pry me away from the door and I ask myself – me? I repeat out loud – me? Yeah, you. I must be dumb because I know what I did wrong, Yet why do I feel so surprised and awful and disgusted and angry? Like something’s clawing at my heart or tearing me apart.

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I tell myself, I hate this feeling, I hate it I hate it I hate it and I never want to feel it again.

I really miss Grade 1.

Grade 3: Our giggles echo through the hallway, My friend squeals, “You like who now?” We look like a bunch of fools, laughing our way to class; Our cheeks and ears flush like pigs. But heavy footsteps interrupt our dreamy conversations, They pound – thump thump thump, Getting closer – thump thump THUMP – And suddenly I tumble forwards As I look up to see a boy bounding down the hallway without a glance back, and I hear a laugh stifle from his mouth. I’m surprised – really, that was all I felt. I’m surprised because he didn’t notice, he didn’t hear, he didn’t care, He probably meant to do that. It makes me think,

Maybe not all boys are like those in the books I read, Or like those in the TV shows I giggle about at home. Maybe those were just fantasies ignorant of reality.

Oh, how I miss Grade 1.

Grade 4: New school, new people, new friends, I wonder where my old friends are. I wonder what they’re doing right now, what they’re feeling – are they happy? Sad? Do they miss me? I want my old friends back – the ones I’ve had since Grade 1. I don’t want people whose faces I can’t remember or

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Whose names can’t roll off my tongue like the names of my old friends. Their bitter glances, condescending looks, “joking” remarks, They meticulously pick me apart from the inside out. What happened to our 1st grade friendships? When did it become so complicated?

I wish I could go back to Grade 1.

Grade 5: The news channel blasts through our living room – yet again. “Covid-19… Coronavirus… pandemic… put on your mask… sanitize your hands…” I hear it all the time, too many times – WAY too many times – in the comfort of my couch or the warmth of my bed. Yet I miss the monotonous droning of my “boring” teacher, The obnoxious chatters from my childish classmates and The playground time where I laugh and run and fool around with my friends, My friends who are miles away, My friends who are reduced to a computer screen. I’m scared, I’m confused, and I’m so so lonely. Grade 6: The ticking of the clock irks me – tick tick tick tick. I tap my pencil five times on the wooden desk, My eyes glance up down left then right, I tap my foot three times, and I pick at the chipped corners of my desk twice. Question #11… I read it once more. My brain is a ball of yarn, slowly unraveling; giving up on me because It. Just. Doesn’t. Make. Any. Sense. I’d do anything to go back to Grade 1.

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I read it again… and again, and again, and again, and again – no mistakes , Perhaps it’s my breath that picks up in pace or my eyes that begin to blur with each passing second, As I see two tears fall onto my pencil markings – no mistakes , I swallow hard – no mistakes , I shut my eyes so all I see is black – no question #11, no test, just an endless void of darkness , I imagine a big fat 100% on a stack of papers – no mistakes , I do not open my eyes.

I imagine I am in Grade 1.

Grade 7: Am I happy? Sad? Scared? Mad? I question myself, Because what do I love, what do I like? Tell me, because

My hobbies have turned into a phone and My free time has been long postponed. I try to search and seek For something I can love; For something that will speak to me. I’m grasping for a star that’s simply not there (or perhaps the sky is too polluted for me to see) Because… I say, “I want to be an artist!” They say, “It’s an unstable career.” I say, “I want to be a writer!” They say, “You won’t persevere.” I say, “I want to go into STEM.” They say, “No. No, because a girl like you, a girl like you can’t do that.”

I whisper to myself, I miss Grade 1 .

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Grade 8: I finally understand.

I’ll never be a purple princess when I grow up, I’ll never make a mistake again, I’ll never find someone I love, I’ll never find a real friend, I’ll never take my family for granted, I’ll never forget the day I didn’t get an A, and I’ll never answer in truth when someone asks me what I want to be after my youth.

And so sometimes, I wonder, When did the 1st grader I remember, Who loved the color purple, Disappear?

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Irene Mantas Grade 9 Uncle Vanya

His mind once was a city Full of colour, light, and love Now, his mind is lost and empty His heart devoid of all emotion

What was once Paris has been reduced to a ghost town Mice and rats taken over People absent

The Eiffel Tower stands alone Cowering beneath the sky’s formidable presence

No lights Just black and white shadows, Lurking in the alleys like Thoughts that should not and Cannot be entertained

The city of love left loveless As if Paris was just an abandoned shack

A shack in which he resides Searching for an answer A search he knows is futile So he sulks

The shrill wind shrieks like laughter at his pain, goating him Pushing him over the edge until

BAM BAM

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He hasn’t noticed that His city His ghost town His shack Has burned to the ground

Now, all that is left is to wait for peace

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Lauren LaCalamita Grade 10 Nostalgic Winds

Summer’s sun beaming down Time ran slow, almost in my favour Yet faintly, I knew it was counting down I didn’t want it to end, the thought made me waver All good things must end But here I stand, sand between my feet Feeling younger, I see myself as an old friend Old naivety tastes so bittersweet The clock hands will truly move one way only Yet through their consistency, I feel no speed No urgency to leave and return lonely To leave my memories and declare myself free To live in the past would be bliss Something I know we all wish Our memories spiral into an abyss The winds of nostalgia make the trees swish Moving on, growing up, packing boxes Boxes filled with plastics holding moments Old belongings holding onto the past’s paradoxes Materialistic components Maybe it is my time to stretch my arms far out Farther than they can reach Time to grow out of the past and all my doubt It has given me lessons I now must teach

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What is a watch without its maker? What is a human without its purpose? What is a purpose? A tragic nature.

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Dylan Adler Grade 11 Head For Sale

You seemed to have dropped this It doesn't belong here Rotting on the ground, Staining the cream carpet In little red whorls of imagination And even if you picked it up Placed it neatly on your Severed spine Your eyes Would never look at me Again

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Dylan Adler Grade 11 Music At The End of Humanity

I used to watch leaves fall. I used to watch them, Carried by the wind. I used to breathe in salty air And skip over sidewalks And balance on my toes In worn, sparkly sneakers. Dripping between each Yellow-painted handprint Shivers, creamy snow Hovering up goosebumps Shimmying along the walls Black spider arms Creeping across the floor Peeling out of the window Rolling through the mirrors And puddles and sweet Delicate things I bleed the blades Of tomorrow A butterfly Not a scream Trapped Behind white, chipped bars Looping over Loose, ivory stitches on Icicles Pop, pop, pop

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A violent Red beast.

I wear the tears Of yesterday Like diamonds Like scars Like yellow jewels

And lollipops Gone sticky and cold.

I speak the song of Evening When light is pulled back Like a tide to sea Burning into black Midnight ash Its embers a mighty

Twinkling blanket To swaddle me up And lift me gently To The Moon.

When time slows, creaks And tumbles to a pause I shall hang onto humanity’s edge And I shall hear music Faintly The music never stops.

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Dylan Adler Grade 11 Falling Stars

Have you ever felt the whole weight of the world on your shoulders?

Tightened with the bloody rage and need of the thousands who are a part of you, splint into broken pieces colder With trauma, resilience, and the hurt of being abandoned by those who’ve chanted on every January twenty-seventh That never again will a Jew fall victim to genocide, mutilation, persecution, and ignorance, by heaven We swear that never again, never again, never again will history upturn itself like a fresh pile of new laundry Clean, fresh and ready to be stained by blood, dark as a red sun, dark as an armband tied around an infantry The fire of a longing for belonging, a desperation for respiration and a need for the Jews to bleed so that we may seed A new line of pure, soldiered children, marching down the rolling suburbs, past screaming victims and weeping mothers They are beyond the bloodshed. They are beyond the pogrom. They are tumbling through a history that mutters Of hate, a cruel, beastly thing that devours fear and spits out in furious feats of rage the fire of greed

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It’s truth; Never again, but again and again and again

Because never again will hate spread blindly, with chaos and doom

Unless it is the Jews.

My people of blue stars and mumbled, honey-sweet prayer, Spiced in sugar and salt. I sing every day for the end to this nightmare And that they will never end us all.

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Cheryl Chen Grade 11

7 Ways of Looking at Sand

I. The dip between your toes with skin kissed damp, still by the beach Your fingers brush through—

II. In and among the

crevices of sidewalk molecular tumbles of the sea, idling like a bird’s breath on a Sunday afternoon

III. Miniature medieval empires and the way promises are kept when wet IV. The waxy wrapper of the yellow crayon and how sand is the same flush as the sun every time

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V. Soft plink of glass when you pinch time by her waist and the sifting doesn’t stop

VI. When you want to wetten these words but soon the waves will wash

VII. The night after a day out is like

a sigh against your back. You shift in the blankets

Sand on the patch behind your knee reminds you that some skin needs touch to exist

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Cheryl Chen Grade 11

A Retrospective: Season 1 of The Walking Dead After Carmen Maria Machado

Disclaimer - Parents Guide for Sex & Nudity:

Careful. Like the living, the dead are naked. Later, clothes will start to fade and skin will not matter. Later, skin will start to fade and flesh will not matter. Later, flesh will start to fade and—bone. Bone the color of cream and the ashen scene. Bone will remember the body, once wrapped around it like a fist. I can tell you this: Names will not matter. A man and a woman in the woods. He licks her stomach, but you will not see her body. She is left wearing her underwear, but you will not see her body. Later, he will try to rape her while she is reading, but you will not see her body. A deer is standing in the woods. It is perverse, both animal and healthy. Later, its body will be a blood-flume. Later, its body will slow a bullet for a boy. Its ghost will stay with the boy for the longest time. Every time, it will block the bullet. Every time, it will grunt at its failure to block the grief. “Days Gone Bye”: It begins with two men in a car. Good Cop, Bad Cop. They love each other, but not in the way you expect. In a graceless hospital room, Bad Cop will take Good Cop’s hand and later, his wife. Later, in nightfallen field, Good Cop will stab Bad Cop’s heart like a Victorian lover. Above them the moon, terrible. Behind them the boy, terrible. His tiny hands shoot Bad Cop when he rises from the dead. He does not tremble. For now the two men love each other with their teeth. Like the walkers, bone-bared and snarling. “Guts”: A man is handcuffed to a rooftop. Good Cop will not kill him. Instead, he gives him a body. The man, in chains, screams. Later, 20

he takes a hacksaw to his right hand, animal. Later, they will be in awe.

“Tell It to the Frogs”: The boy, wide eyes and a shy smile. Later, he will wear his father’s sheriff hat, gold star beaming above his head. He will hold a gun, face quizzical. He will shoot a walker and then his mother. A deer will haunt him. Later, he will have a body to bleed from. He will turn his face to kiss the grass, lips brushing a frog’s smeared and untainted body. He will whisper, lucky you. “Vatos”: A hole-digger digs because of a dream. His skin, feverish. His hands, wire-like and trembling. He dreams of tinted windows and bowls of soup on wooden dinner tables. He dreams of a curtain, covering. He dreams of his own body, suddenly not his own at all. He dreams of hunger. He dreams of death with dignity. Even as a ghost, he will know what to do with his hands.

“Wildfire”: They have been cold for so long.

“TS-19”: Unborn flames are looking for stomachs to lick, souls to light on fire. We learn the story of another dead wife. A CT scan shows her body, writhing. Three choose death in the fire. They are said to have lost the most human thing. Some say it is hope. Later, the boy and his deer-ghost return for the bodies. They find none.

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Mia Liang Grade 11 proof 1: impact a screech of rails and a jolting break and a mother lays prone in the track on west 4th her last breath was “no,” but he didn’t know or care when he pushed her in so he collects her daughter and walks it back home;

just the toll of mothering.

a rush of orange and the stink of smoke and a dozen mothers are dazed by light their last breath is the stale plane air but they chose to die there in somerset county with the bounty of their children but not the blood of the pentagon;

just the toll of mothering.

a flash of white and a flash of blue and ten thousand mothers stain the sea scarlet their last breath is their evaporated promise; to be good, to be stood with their sons in their little new haven, with raw flesh bathed clean by tired water that instead swallowed them whole;

just the toll of mothering.

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2: erosion a hundred thousand feet have smoothed the stone pavement in someone’s mother’s old town: “there’s not a lot of science to it.” “there is, honey. there is.” every single day we dog-ear our skin with fists and then we flatten in sleep and then it’s like nothing was ever amiss; when the dog finally gets up again, stump leg now shielded by fur and the new stairs of the burnt cathedral finally start to dent in the middle and the children finally return to the square where the chrysanthemums edge into the cracks of a wall mottled by bombs.

3: proof

glow, bomb, glow like

a shooting star at a sunset parade, bomb can you smile for me? peep out of your pocket-slot in time and give me a wink, tease me, bomb because how will i know you’re still there? because i want to know if you will end me, stain my

pretty outside with my ugly insides and lay me down in a plywood box

but mostly i want to know if you’ll end my mother, whose

love is the red in my blood and the red of my sunset

that pumps my tired heart and soothes my sore eyes

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because if you ever end my mother

a mother i will never be.

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Shirley Ren Grade 11 Sonnet for a Sheep

The red sun glares upon the wrinkled rocks, Standing sturdy, immovable, and smooth. Not higher than thirty from the sea docks, Out tumbles from my gums, a pretty tooth. Trying to glue it back on again, I Can’t help but cry for how things were before. Observing them eat the black sand so dry, I cry for the seagulls along the shore. She wept for her mom and begged for her dad. Not a pigeon could bring the old her back! She asked the sky, "but why are you so mad?" A bone and a reason she would still lack.

Atop linen sheets she stressed without sleep, The night sky whispered, "start counting the sheep!"

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Anonymous Grade 12 Self-Sacrifice

“Where am I? Who are you? Why have you taken me?” The blindfold covering his eyes felt rough, as did the material tying his hands and feet to the surface under him. The cold stone under his head was smooth, and his fingers grasped at the edge of the surface, feeling along the sides to find another ledge. Around him was silence. “If you don’t let me go, they’ll come looking! They’ll find me and burn everything down!” This was a bluff. No one was coming for him. He worked alone, and always ha— something was coming towards him, moving across the stone. “What’s going on? What do you want?” The blindfold was removed, revealing an empty stone room. Figures wearing red cloaks lined the outside of the room, some holding baskets. One figure, wearing thorny antlers around its head, stepped next to his head. It raised its arms. “He has been revealed! The ceremony can commence!” At this, the other figures began to stomp and chant. The main figure spoke again. “In darkest night, in deepest shroud, with the worship of the willing, and the blood of the infidel, we pray for your return!” The chanting grew louder and one of the figures holding a basket stepped forward. The leader reached into the basket and pulled out a bottle full of red liquid. The attendant holds open his mouth as the leader pours the contents down his throat. It’s bitter, making him choke and cough as he swallows. The leader then retrieves a knife, long and ornate, from its belt. The chanting grew even louder.

“What the hell is going on ?! Let me go?!” The leader raised the knife above its antlers.

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“Take our sacrifice, Dark God Azazel! Take it and return this

world to the image of your kingdom!”

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Anonymous Grade 12 starling: inspired by The Scare in The Crow by Tammy Armstrong

a starling shall be taught to speak alone in the dead of night using stolen voices, scavenged from corners of the world

a starling sings a broken song, with no tune or rhythm, a collection of sounds none belonging to it

a starling cries into the night, shrieking in a foreign voice atop an old spruce, creaking in the wind, never knowing its true sound

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Anonymous Grade 12 rest:

allow me one more dream, as i succumb to the will of the earth,

to smell morning dew clinging to freshly-cut grass, kissed by the rising sun—

encased and buried, i welcome silence and forget life

as dandelions bloom from my dirt-caked fingernails, and roots burrow

into a body, with nothing left to give

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Anonymous Grade 12 adapt:

i am everything, hidden in peripheral vision glimpses nearly caught, escaping into the dark

i am everything, lurking in the night

free, wild and howling enchanted by the moon

i am everything, smooth skin turned full coat towering over trees, distant and weary embraced by the mountains

i am everything, singing sweet tales of darkness luring sailors to watery graves, ensnared by the waves i am everything, bones stretching, skin taut, the pains of growing too fast, too much

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Domi Cao Grade 12 picasso’s “the soup,” reinterpreted

standing in the hallway now / my dream daughter / with you my skin is sown on right / my neck bent low now / lower than my body can rationalize / hunger hurts / hungry ghosts die / and are reborn / into this human realm / a cyclical desperation / my hands in your oil soaked hair now / hot soup dribbling down my chin / like dirty teardrops falling to the ground / it is not enough / it is more than enough / maybe we are hungry ghosts / maybe we are dogs. — when the Columbia admissions officer asked me about my mother i told her Jun is bound to me by the thick winds of Zhejiang ( 浙江省 ). she is kind of a recluse. she has gentle black hair brutally slashed by many streaks of gray. she, like me, liked to wear a thin layer of red lipstick. rum raisin red. she smelled of dumplings all the time. her frail torso roams around the house, imbuing every dusty, lonely corner with the sturdy scent of China. she watches very closely at what i do. my diligent guardian. Jun often tells me after i move to new york she will return to China and retire.

“but you’re not even working.” “yes, i am, ungrateful child. i work every day to take care of you.”

to my admissions officer, i also talked about how hard i thundered in Jun’s womb. how i clamoured in the fragility of her body until she hollered a thunderbolt of her own. with my tiny feet and tenacious limbs i kicked a fissure inside her hefty porcelain urn. when she gave birth to me, my face was as red as steak done medium rare. i smothered in her red string. the beautiful gore of her ancestry. the red hue of the matriarchal

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figures that have ruled before our time. they, too, have cut open their soft flesh to show us the cerise fruit of their labours. when i got accepted into Columbia, Jun told me that all she expects of me two years from now is for me to land a good internship. she grew up in a rural town in China where she scrubbed her mud-soaked arms with calloused fingers in river water. where the greatest gossip in town was the date of the next big exam. where everyone tallied the rest of their living days with white chalk on parchment paper. Jun, your American dream is my own now. our dream. “and after you make your own money, you better fly me to new york, child. invite me to breakfast.” i don’t know much. but i do know about the Confucian concept of filial piety. was i privileged to think that a soup alone cannot suffice for all the years Jun has spent as a giver?

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Danielle Di Giusto Grade 12

They got married in September. The ninth month of the year. The eleventh day of the month. In 1999, not 2001. In Chinese culture, the number nine represents longevity and eternity. Something they wanted to be. Each of them was like one of the twin towers. They were strong and built to last a lifetime. There was concrete and steel at the core of each tower and clear glass on the exterior that reflected the sun’s rays making each tower sparkle. The two towers were admired by all who saw them. The sun’s reflection off the shiny exterior is pretty, but it masks the cracks that form over time. They decided it was time to build a third tower. Another one would change the twin towers forever. They would no longer be “the twin towers”. Could they become a trilogy? A family? Instead of a third building, what about an airplane? Planes soar through the sky, helping people get to where they need to be. A plane could fly by the twin towers, and its image could be seen reflected off the glass windows of both towers. The plane was not a third tower, but both towers loved the plane and were happy to see it fly. I was the plane, and one day I crashed through the windows leaving splintered glass scattered around. My family was the shards of glass, broken and forever changed. I thought I was helping by flying so close to the towers, but I destroyed everything. The twin towers became rubble, and I disintegrated. So many lives changed that day. Now that they no longer stand side by side, my face is wrinkled like an unironed shirt from clenching my eyes shut to try to catch a glimpse of the way we were—and what we could have been.

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The twin towers are gone, and I am reaching inside my heart attempting to hold onto the pieces of them that made a home inside me, a home I have destroyed. I sit here isolated with my teeth clenched and head hung at my knees, wishing I could go back in time. Had I never tried to ask for help to keep myself safe from him, this never would have happened. It was selfish to ask for help; no one cared I was hurting: I should have kept my mouth closed. Why do I destroy everything? My mouth has been sewed shut, each stitch a piercing reminder of my mistakes. I have learned now not to ask for help; I have to ‘grow up’ and deal with challenges on my own. She was eleven. I am grown now, but that scared child left alone in the rubble has made a home inside of me now. I protect her now. People say the best way to move forward from a traumatic event is to forget about it and move on, but I never want to forget them—our family. I never thought that I would have to continue on without them together by my side, one on each side of me. New towers stand where the twin towers once rose from the concrete streets of New York. Now, there are twin reflecting pools in the memorial plaza. The pools of water reflect the planes that continue to fly by the new towers. The new towers are a reminder that things change. Everyone remembers and feels sad that the twin towers are gone, but life continues. The plane continues to exist. The plane is different, as are the towers; things change and that’s okay.

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Juliane Guo Grade 12 Death is the end of love.

Sally knows this as a fact. When death comes and separates two people in love, it replaces the swirling passion and pink skies with grief, sadness, hatred, a tinge of unexplainable numbness, and eventually acceptance. Soon the other person’s face would be blurred in one’s memory, their smile faded like a sun-baked photograph, their name reduced to a familiar chime to the ears. Mar hasn’t been in Sally’s life for six months. Her witty sarcasm and ill-timed jokes, occasional impulse of jokingly ordering six shots of espressos in a big cup and nothing else at the café, late-night philosophies accompanying lofi-hip-hop music in the kitchen at 3 a.m., all reduced into a snapshot of who she was, taken in a split second. A short-statured figure wearing a ruby red coat, dyed-gray ginger hair peeking out from below a hood, lips curving up to the camera like a half-smile. Flattened into a simple background of the red-coated figure’s photo were classrooms at morning time, the coffee shop down the street, long bus rides through the city. Conveniently, Sally moved away, leaving any possible retrieval signals of memories far behind her. Sally used to keep Mar’s photo on her table, a time when she would stop and stare at Mar’s face once in a while, her own vision often blurred by tears. When the ice melted in Spring, she took Mar’s photo with her on long walks in the park, straddling through mud mixed with cherry blossom petals and rainwater. She would close her eyes and smell the flowers, and pretend Mar was next to her, doing the same. In summer she wrote letters addressed to no one, then made paper airplanes out of them and tossed them into the sea. Then she 35 Everything has an end.

put the photo in her drawer, saying it was a safe place to protect it from the sun. Even as the days became shorter and dried-up leaves started crackling outside her window, she never took the photo out again. And when nights were more than days and pale white snow covered everything, she sat in her room under the dim yellow lamplight and watched the world from her foggy window, her past all in a blur. Sally tried loving other people too. The barista at the coffee shop next to her new school had her hair tied in a pretty ponytail, her face decorated with delicately-painted mascara. How about starting a conversation that’s not about the weather? Instead, Sally flashed a brief smile, took her latte and left. Maybe some inner urge that she managed to control was telling her to order six shots of espressos in a big cup and nothing else. The boy in her History class often wore an Oasis T-shirt. He has a similar musical taste, why not talk to him some more beyond group assignments? Sally wanted to say something that’s not “hello” and “let’s work on our presentation slides,” but her mouth dried up when the Oasis song rang in her head. And so Sally can wait / She knows it’s too late / As we’re walking on by. She remembered, despite how distant it was, that Mar often listened to this song on a MP3, sometimes with her as well. It’s my total favourite, such a great song, don’t you think? Mar would comment sometimes, ah I love the guitar riff. Sally wasn’t really a music fan, but she would smile and say, I don’t know a lot, but it sounds nice. Sally could barely remember how Mar used to sing this song while awkwardly strumming a second-hand guitar, and how Mar winced as the steel strings bruised her fingers but smiled just as hard. She almost couldn’t recall that Mar performed this song at a school talent show, who played with such unbelievable proficiency and sang like an When love ends, it’s time to move on.

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angel. Sally was close to not remembering it at all, that Mar proudly said into the mic that this song was for her. Sally wasn’t originally called Sally. Her real name is Yujing, one that she switched after moving to a completely new city, in hope of starting a new life with a new identity, as a new person. But she still picked Sally, because of Oasis, because of Mar, because it reminds her of how gently Mar sang her name again and again in her song. In their song. Maybe it was a futile attempt for her to escape into something new as a means for healing. Death is the end of love. This is what she had always tried convincing herself with, but she could never make herself believe it. Maybe someday she would meet someone just like Mar, with the same ginger-but-dyed hair, arrogant posture, witty sense of humour, and an MP3 that only contains Oasis songs. Maybe she would fall in love and finally run away from her pain. Maybe by then her heart would be pounding again and she would truly be happy.

But until then, love will be the end of death.

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Kasey Kim Grade 12 The Dead Fish Near the Tidepools

My body is in the shallows, bobbing with the waves. I perform a one-step-forward, two-steps-back dance, the rocky beach my stage As my scales peel away and the smaller fish tear at my flesh, let my existence spread. No longer recognizable. People recoil when they see my tattered body, beached on the stony shore as the tide retreats. To them, I am unfortunate. The remnants of what once was living. But I know that when the water returns, it will gently lift my body with its cold embrace. We’ll dance like we do every night, as darkness consumes the sky. Tendrils of torn flesh a wispy, white garment I don only when I am held by the sea. Moonlight illuminates our performance, while the sound of waves crashing keeps us in tempo. We sway, immersed in the other. Over time,

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I will disappear. Decay and consumption will slowly take from me, until only bleached bones remain. But right now, I am happy. I am held, I am wanted. That makes me feel very beautiful.

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Kasey Kim Grade 12 Saemangeum

Twice a day it visited, whispering a shushing lullaby. We had relied on its presence, our lives intertwined with the bi-daily cycle of salty water flooding our home. But no longer did I feel its cool embrace nor hear its song. Only the tormented wails of the wind and the crashing of foaming fists pounding against cement echoed across the tidal flats. Oblivious to the reason why we were abandoned, we turned to the remaining moisture in the sand to save us. “It’ll come back; it will bless us with its refreshing waves once again,” we whispered. But the surface stayed inhospitable. Dry sand cracked, baking in the heat of the sun as the air wavered. The days passed, and as the remnants of the sea slowly leached away from the ground, we burrowed deeper. Darkness enveloped each day, our dreams filled with the past. On the last day of waiting, the sand softened, turning dark with moisture. We rushed to greet the sea, digging through to the surface to meet it one last time. It wasn't the sea. The sky was weeping for our misfortune, but the grief didn’t last. The clouds soon cleared, leaving us bare to the harsh sunlight. Wait for the tide as we might, the only thing that came closer was the end.

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Camryn Nowak Grade 12 Comparing Jane Eyre and Hamilton Through the Feminist Lens

French socialist Charles Fourier brought attention to the importance of feminism in the 19th century and called for women to break free of the chains the patriarchy has locked them in. The idea of feminism was just starting to grow when English novelist Charlotte Bronte’s novel Jane Eyre was published. Bronte’s novel was revolutionary from a feminist literary perspective: it is told from the perspective of a strong woman who, despite being a working class governess, fights to be released from the limits and expectations of gender and class of her times. This bold feminist approach can be contrasted with Hamilton, the musical by Lin Manuel Miranda, which is a modern retelling of the story of Alexander Hamilton and his role in the American Revolution, where female’s voices are not as present. Though Jane Eyre and Hamilton both uphold the patriarchy through presenting the stereotypical idea of women, and challenge it by including strong-minded women, the details of the characters and the time period they were written in demonstrate that Jane Eyre challenged the patriarchy the most. Blanche Ingram is an example of a stereotypical woman in Jane Eyre. “Miss Ingram” and her high society mother and sister are invited to stay as guests at Thornfield-Hall. Miss Ingram is described as a beautiful upper-class woman. Miss Ingram is presented as Mr. Rochester’s love interest and a woman suited to marry a man of his stature. Jane criticizes how fake Miss Ingram is with Rochester, “Surely she cannot truly like him. If she did, she need not coin her smiles so

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lavishly; flash her glances so unremittingly; manufacture airs so elaborate, graces so multitudinous” (Bronte 1: 277, ch.xxi). She is a traditional one-dimensional character who more accurately represents the stereotypical woman in 18th-century England. Miss Ingram relies on her beauty and class in pursuit of her only goal which is to marry a wealthy man. When she is tricked into thinking that Mr. Rochester is not wealthy, Gypsy said, “I told her [Miss Ingram] something on that point about an hour ago, which made her look wondrous grave: the corners of her mouth fell half an inch” (Bronte 1: 259; ch. xix) Ms. Ingram was disappointed and lost her taste towards her lover which represented women in a way that made it seem like they only care about money. Her character was no longer a part of the story once this was over, signifying that there was not much substance to her other than this. Thus, she serves as a representation of a one-dimensional woman. In contrast to Miss Ingram, the protagonist of the novel, Jane Eyre, is anything but a stereotypical woman for her time. Throughout the novel she exhibits traits of a strong-minded and outspoken individual, unafraid to speak her true thoughts and desires. For example, after Mr. Rochester tries to win her love, even though he seems ready to marry Miss Ingram, he calls Jane a frantic bird when she is getting upset. She boldly responds to her master saying, “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will; which I now exert to leave you” (Bronte 2: 18; ch.xxiii). This demonstrates that Jane is a strong woman because she chooses self-respect in this moment, and does not just go along with what her master wants. Jane seeks equality at a time when women were far from equal. Jane bravely refuses to be put in a box, even challenging the idea that women should be content to do household chores. She says: Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, to absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making 42

puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex. (Bronte 1: 139, ch.xii). Jane’s views of equality between men and women regarding their intellect and ambition were striking for the time. Even though in the end Jane falls into a nurturing role abandoning some of her passionate beliefs, in general she is a driven and empowering female character. Like Jane Eyre, Hamilton is set in a time when women were second-class citizens who were confined to roles as wives and mothers. They had no vote, few worked outside the home and they held no power. It is not surprising then that in a musical that retells the historical events of the American Revolution, the female characters reflect the realities of women of their time. Mariah Reynolds is an example of one such stereotypical woman. Her character reminds the audience of the value placed on women: they are sexual objects who have no voice and no backbone. She and Alexander Hamilton engaged in a sexual affair manipulated by her husband. When Hamilton received a letter from Mr. Reynolds blackmailing him, he angrily approached Mariah and the only words she could say were, “No sir! Please don’t go sir! I don’t know about any letter. I didn’t know any better. I am ruined. Please don’t leave me with him helpless. Just give him what he wants and you can have me. Whatever he wants, if you pay you can stay'' (Miranda, 1:31:59-1:32:26). Back in the time period of Hamilton, women were submissive, complacent and supposed to just go along with what the men in their lives wanted. Mariah fits into that description because whether or not she knew exactly what she was doing, she was being used as a pawn for her husband to get what he wanted. After this one song, Mariah never speaks again. She is seen on stage expressing a sorrowful look, especially when she is reading “The Reynolds Pamphlet” that Hamilton published expressing details of their affair without her consent or knowledge. Mariah’s voice is almost non existent. 43

There are moments in Hamilton when it looks like Miranda will free women from this mold of the stereotypical woman. Angelica Schuyler is an example of such a female character. The first time Angelica is onstage, she turns down Aaron Burr’s advances and starts sharing her dreams for the future. She sings, “We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal, and when I meet Thomas Jefferson I’m gonna compel him to include women in the sequel” (Miranda, 16:59-17:08). A call for equal rights! However, this moment and the possibility of a true feminist character is lost when she locks eyes with Hamilton for the first time. After this, she no longer speaks of feminism or anything other than love. She is love sick for Hamilton, singing “When I fantasize at night, it’s Alexander’s eyes. As I romanticize what might have been if I hadn’t sized him up so quickly. At least my dear Eliza’s his wife. At least I keep his eyes in my life” (Miranda, 39:03-39:27). Miranda falls back on old female stereotypes of women whose only goal in life is to meet and satisfy a man. This is both surprising and disappointing. Characters like Mariah had almost no voice, and important historical women like Thomas Jefferson’s slave Sally, and Burr’s lover Theodosia, had no voice at all. Only Eliza flipped the narrative by representing the shift of what women could achieve, but this comes at the end of the musical in the final scene and feels like an afterthought. One may have thought that Miranda could have highlighted more women in a more powerful way. Hamilton and Jane Eyre showed examples of one-dimensional women and powerful outspoken women, but the time periods they were written in suggest that Jane Eyre challenged the patriarchy more than Hamilton. Jane Eyre was written in the 19th century, and challenges the patriarchy and women’s stereotypes more so than Hamilton which was written in the 21st century. Hamilton is a retelling of history that is credited for making history inclusive and relatable with racially diverse casting. Why then are the roles of women not recast? Miranda could have been more brave: he could have cast women in male roles and given his female characters greater 44

voices. If modern works could be as bold as Jane Eyre was in its time, maybe we could advance even further as a society in terms of feminism, and continue to challenge rather than uphold the patriarchy.

Works Cited Bronte, Charlotte. Jane Eyre. Vintage Classics, 2009. Miranda, Lin-Manuel. Hamilton. Disney Plus, 2020

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Fiona Shen Grade 12 Mother, mother!

Character: Macduff’s Son Current Event: School Shooting

The context and purpose of your soliloquy/monologue: Macduff’s son has already been slain but his ghost form experiences a school shooting.

Mother, mother! I’ve become as free as a bird!

“As birds do,” I’ve found my flock (4.2.36), They remind me of my innocent childhood days, The laughter that once filled our hallways, All severed with a stab and a thud, Now those hallways are stained with our blood.

Have our deaths gone in vain? Or were they simply a source of endless pain?

Mother, mother! We all suffer the same fate! Gunshot ringing. Nowhere to flee. Panic ridden eyes and head tucked in knees. A daughter, a son, a beloved one, the likes of me, Their lives cut short. The ultimate cost. But at what cost will the senseless assaults exhaust? How many more must die before violence is tossed?

Mother, mother! I was right!

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The liars and swearers are “enough to beat the honest men”(4.2.62), Fame and wealth have manipulated words,

Engineered headlines now so absurd, The stories twisted and turned around. When confronted, they are nowhere to be found. Mother, dear mother! My father was no traitor, nor liar! In a world overpowered by lies and deception, My father, Macduff, is the only exception,

Like him we must remain steadfast, In our fight and become unsurpassed, Like him we must stand by our morals, Be strong and never rest on our laurels. So let the liars ramble and let them rave, Let’s all watch them dig their own grave.

Work Cited Diaz, Jaclyn. “27 School Shootings Have Taken Place so Far This Year.” NPR, 25 May 2022, www.npr.org/2022/05/24/1101050970/2022-school-shootings-so far. Shakespeare, William. Macbeth. Oxford University Press, 2015.

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Fiona Shen Grade 12 The 8th Chair

A dining table for eight always missed the last chair; it took the full time job of staunching itself between the front door and its handle. With this guard at the front door, the handle didn't budge – No one could enter or exit. When it was off duty, chalk-textured streaks revealed themselves on the black door. Outside, the house is a gloomy gray. Neighbors complained about how the design made the neighborhood look somber, miserable even. Inside, the house was veiled in darkness, each window adorned with a bleak blind. Day or night. Sunshine or rain. The blinds were never open. When the occasional beam of light seeped through the cracks of the curtains, the cat would play with its fragmented shadow. Even the cranky cat wanted out. The house belongs to Wei who lives with her daughter Hang. There was no sinister plot brewing. Wei and Hang were not concocting a secret potion or spying on their neighbors (although occasionally curiosity got the best of them). Just a worried mother and a fearful daughter. What could possibly be sinister about that? Wei worried. Wei worried about Hang. Wei worried about Hang talking to strangers. Wei worried about Hang walking to school. Wei worried about whether Hang could make friends and feel included. Wei worried about the things Hang's teachers taught in class. Wei worried about the boys who turned to look at Hang. Wei Worried. Hang feared. Hang fears the people she sees on the streets when they walk past her. Hang fears talking to kids at school because they are strangers after all. Hang fears boys because Wei tells her that they will

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sell her off to gangs. Hang fears group projects because that would mean speaking to a teacher and peers. Hang fears looking people in the eyes when talking to them. Above all, Hang fears Wei. Wei worried about Hang. Wei worried about Hang’s fear of talking to strangers. Wei worried about Hang’s fear of talking to teachers. Wei worried about Hang’s fear of talking to peers. Wei worries. Without realizing it, Wei had become the 8th chair. The 8th chair staunched between the front door and Hang.

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Maia Simmons Grade 12 I Don't Believe Forgiveness Exists

I don't believe forgiveness exists. Idealistically, we can forgive people and move on with our lives, although, unwittingly, we carry resentment with us. We can say to ourselves ‘I forgive them’, as if it were an affirmation, a manifestation of something, some feeling going away. Although, when we see this person, this person who we have theoretically “forgiven” our hearts plummet to the tips of our toes. Our hearts sink and for some reason we feel a wave of guilt crash over us. But what are we guilty for? Guilty for not living up to our envisioned manifestation of forgiving this person? Guilty because after all this time we simply can't let that thing go? I can't tell you not to feel it, this involuntary feeling of discomfort when you see the person you thought you forgave. All I can tell you is that forgiveness does not exist. We just forget, until we’re faced with the realization that what we thought was forgiveness was simply distance. I don't believe forgiveness exists.

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Kelly Wang Grade 12

Waffling

Laughter. Blue skies. Children trailing each other. It was a cold, windy afternoon in Amsterdam and the clouds had fogged up. Nearby vendors sold freshly made waffles, with a dab of homeyness and the smell of your grandmother’s kitchen wafting through. You zip up your coat because the wind has suddenly grown stronger. Fierce. Intense. Hands in your pockets searching for warmth but only to find the crumbles of your leftover snack earlier on the plane that morning. Thinking of the plane makes your head throb. Mind feels groggy. Sickened. Whoosh! Someone almost knocks you over on your way to the cafe. Would a faceplant have made me famous? You quickly dispel your inane inner thought. They apologize, subtly using their palms, but not as impassioned as your fellow Canadian neighbour would. You feel lost. You look through the selection of items on the rack: peanut butter, stale sandwich— ooh! Tomato soup. You looove tomato soup. Your stomach gurgles with excitement (or is it pain) at the impending inhalation of liquid tomato. Your nostrils flare as the irresistible scent swiftly encapsulates your entire being, your soul, spirit— which are instantly lifted. You forget it was a cold day. You forget about the remnants of the cookie in your pocket. All you could feel in that moment was home.

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Rowan Woloviec Grade 12 Crow

She resembled her favourite bird, the way her haunting beauty intrigued me. Deep ebony wings spread out to create a canvas full black against the melancholy sky, each feather falling perfectly into place, shimmering against the dampened sun. Her features, some mundane sublimity, were perfectly sculpted so that, should you have a moment of time, you could admire the way each mark was purposefully placed, each line on her face having a distinct purpose to add to her overwhelming exquisiteness. The way her flight was controlled- intelligent, each flap of her elegant wings carefully considered beforehand, her pattern seeming to be almost weightless. It was her piercing gaze, just sharp enough to catch your attention yet soft enough to keep it, the way her stately brown eyes seemed to sparkle when she got excited. Perhaps it was her eerie call, slicing through silence like a hot knife, the dull thrumming of monotonous speech coming to a grating halt at her voice. The way she commanded respect in the most mellow of ways, her proud demeanour second only to her own goodwill. The crow was a magnificent specimen, something so alluring about her simple, distinguished beauty. My love resembled her favourite bird, the way that she so effortlessly ascended high above all other creatures, not flaunting her ability nor hiding it. She resembled her favourite bird, the way that I couldn’t look away.

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