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Word Flirt 2014 BROOKLYN FRIENDS UPPER SCHOOL

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Page 1: BFS Word Flirt 2014

Word Flirt 2014BROOKLYN FRIENDS UPPER SCHOOL

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Word Flirt is an Upper School activity that celebratesthe literary, creative, and visual arts at BrooklynFriends School. e magazine is published at theconclusion of each academic year. From the fallthrough the spring, the editors, staff, and faculty ad-visors work to encourage students to create and sub-mit their work for publication. e Word Flirt editorsand staff review, edit, and choose work. We thankthose students who have shared their voices and theirtalents in this 2014 edition.

EditorsAnna Emy ’14Sam Miller ’14Fiona Sharp ’15

Staff

Faculty AdvisorsSidney BridgesSue Aaronson

Word Flirt 2014 CONTENTS

1 Summer Nights, Christeline Velazquez ’152 You Listened, Ayana-Kai Whitehead ’144 Segregation of the Mind, Aria Cato ’146 Home Again, Bronwyn Edwards ’157 Goodbye, Olivia Parnell ’148 e Heart, Michelle Li ’159 To My Mother, Eve Bromberg ’1511 Smoked Glass, Jacob Swindell Sakoor ’1512 Unnamed, Sam Miller ’1414 e Closet, Olive Wexler ’1616 Cherry Pie, Tyler Roberts ’1718 La Femme de la Mer, Chloe Burton ’1419 Just Like Sliced Bread, Tyler Clarke ’1420 Untitled, Maalik Dunkley ’1623 e Strange Dream, Monet Massac ’1724 An Autumn Splendor, Evan Novick ’14

Note: Some titles were improvised by the Word Flirteditors, suggested by the student’s work, and somepieces were edited for length.

Cover: Jillian Feinberg ’14

Brittney Edmiston ’15

Kira Barrett ’14Chloe Burton ’14Cindy Chen ’14 Ryan Jones ’15Michelle Li ’15

Lotte Kliros Walworth ’14Olive Wexler ’16Sam Whang ’14Ayana Kai Whitehead ’14

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Summer NightsChristeline Velazquez ’15

Word Flirt / 1

The summer nightsOur dreams are carriedThrough the glittering breezeIn every hour and every secondOf those bitter nightsLittle pieces of usBecome stuck in expectationsAnd we go crumbling downOnly bits of our broken whispers Caught in the wind

The summer night tells meThere are faces and places waiting for meTo finally catch up and grow upBut my chameleon soul perseveres Under the harsh moonlight

On those summer nightsI fall asleep to visions of myselfWith other faces and their dazzling dreamsMemories of them are the only thingsThat sustain me

On those summer nightsI see my own dreamsBecome dashed and divided Like a million stars in the night skyAnd I wish on them over and over againUntil I, too, become sparkling and broken

On those summer nightsThe wet grass, the light whispers,The maple trees, and the kissesBecome who I amAnd I am infinite

On those summer nightsWe sit in the shadows of the trees And sing loudly,Our cracked voices echoing Across the neighborhood

On those summer nightsOur places of sprinklers, ice cream, And laughterBecome the broken and dead places in whichWe store our lost memories

On those summer nightsIf I said I was strong, then I was lyingI would search Through the Polaroid memoriesAnd find myself lost in the vast emptiness

But only on those summer nights,Could I be as wide and wavering as the oceanAnd burn as hot and indefinitely as the sunBecause only on those summer nightsCould I truly be free.

Max Gustavson ’14

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You ListenedAyana-Kai Whitehead ’14

The children stayed silent, and you along with them, the heaviness in the air pressingdown on your lungs a little, and you figured that they could feel it, too, which was proba-

bly why they weren’t talking. It was alright, though, because the adults found things to speakabout, and you found yourself listening in, since there was nothing else to do.

You listened as they told each other stories, their voices sometimes hushed, the tones harshand solemn all at once. You listened as they spoke about the massacres in Adana, when theriots broke out. You listened as they reminisced on the hopes and dreams brought about bythe Young Turk movement, and how the streets had been filled with banners and flags andgleeful faces. You listened as they told about pillaged homelands, about torched houses fillinglungs with thick, black plumes of smoke that reached up to the pale skies and the stars be-yond. You listened as they told about the mass burnings, about the distributed poisons, aboutthe thousands of women and children herded onto boats and thrown overboard into the BlackSea in the middle of the night, and how the bodies would float like pieces of driftwood all theway to Constantinople. And you didn’t want to, but you listened as they told of the Deathmarches, about how scores of people were led out of Deir ez-Zor, barefoot and confused, intothe Syrian desert.

The Ottoman troops who stood idly by wouldn’t offer them food nor water, and the people,your people, were left to the scorching heat of the sun, and the starvation, and the soldiers’cruel desires. Hundreds of thousands were lost. That was more than you could count on yourfingers and toes combined; you’d need more of you, even more than a hundred of you, morethan a thousand. It was a number that made your head hurt just to think about it.

And in the middle of all of this death and destruction, in the middle of numbers that were toohigh for you to count or even imagine, where were you headed? You weren’t sure. There wastalk, amongst the adults, about the children who had been “given up.” Were you one of thesechildren? “Given up” sounded like such an unkind pair of words, especially when youthought of your mother, your kind, loving mother, who was doing this for your sake—couldonly be doing this for your sake. She hadn’t given you up, she was saving you. Saving you in-stead of saving herself. And in that moment you felt the need to speak out, to defend yourmother, as well as the countless other mothers who were trying to save their own children bysending them away, but your throat was suddenly dry, as though it was full of sand, and thewords shriveled in your throat. You kept quiet, and turned to stare back at the children’s faces.

They had been saved, too, though maybe they didn’t realize it, yet. Maybe they wouldn’t. Youdid, and despite the heaviness in the air, pushing down on your shoulders like a soaked quilt,you brought up an image of your mother in your head, and you smiled.

2 / Brooklyn Friends School

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Ayana-Kai Whitehead ’14

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Segregation of the MindSPOKEN WORD

Aria Cato ’14

It’s like a constant patternA constant circle we put ourselves inRotating and never endingBecause of the stereotypes and victimizations

Placed on our peopleSolely based on pre-judgements and assumptionsThe rivers of Africa are drying at our anklesBecause no one wants to connect to their roots any longer

And because that intelligent black girl speaks proper EnglishShe’s white, white in the eyes of her own raceAnd she puts herself in a positionNot to educate these people, but to prove them right

And that black boy speaks on howBlack women are crazy and insaneWith no respect for themselves or othersAnd he wants white women only

And people categorize themselvesAs light skin, brown skin and dark skinLight skin being the “best”And dark skin being the “worst”

It’s like sickness and disease spreadingSpreading across Mama AfricaSpreading through the cities of The GambiaWhere young girls sit in poverty and desperation

Where fathers walk out on their wives and childrenWhere black men and women kill each otherIt’s like a fight to the finishA fight to be finished, diminished

Living in a world whereThere are more black men in prison than in collegeAnd even in a classroom with white and black kidsThere is still a divide

4 / Brooklyn Friends School

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A divide based on socio-economic classA divide of skin color and privilegeA divide of knowing one’s true beauty versusTaking in what the media portraysThere is still a divide

We can’t keep blaming the shackles and whipsWe can’t keep blaming those long nights and early mornings spent on plantationsWe can’t keep blaming lack of integrationBecause integration sits on the back burner if our own people can’t get alongThis idea of self-hatredAnd lack of unity of our peopleWhose responsibility is it to put that back together?Whose responsibility is it?

Is it the responsibility of the young girls going to schoolWorking two jobs trying to help their single mothers put food on the table?Or is it the responsibility of these young boys forced to give up their youthAnd become a man faster than they would have imagined?

Because we seem to use guns much quicker than we use wordsAnd we use profanity more often than we give hugsAnd we attack more often than we supportAnd we cut deep more than we heal the wound

So like I said, whose responsibility is it?

Word Flirt / 5

Sean Allen ’14

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Home AgainBronwyn Edwards ’15

Thomas Wolfe wrote, “You can never go home again.” I have searched my whole life for a

reason to return to that brownstone on Bond Street between Bergen and Dean. I’ve tried

to come up with excuses to see it again, to sit under the magnolia tree in the front yard and

walk across the creaking floorboards or carpeted stairs. I want to see what they have done to

my room. Is the night sky wallpaper still there? Probably not, but I can dream and I could

dream under those stars, too. I want to step on the tiled floors of the kitchen and look out into

the backyard. Is my swing still attached to that large tree that I used to climb? Is the rock still

there – the rock that my dad and I used to lift and search for bugs underneath? I don’t know.

And I will never know. It’s just something I like to ponder when I lie awake at night and

think of home. My first home. I will never go back. I will never walk those hallways again. I

will never see the place that I hit my head on the coffee table in the living room. All of that

took place in a past life. It’s gone forever because you can never go home again.

6 / Brooklyn Friends School

Sam Miller ’14

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GoodbyeOlivia Parnell ’14

Collapsed like some distant corpse,it’s like when you can’t find that last breath.Your fingertips collide, and scattered,scratch at the surface, fatally.You’re soft in the middleand gone in an instant.

You never thought you’d be the vulnerable oneYou never thought you’d have to let it goand the bellowed, buried shoresof ancient times,grip you hard and you can’t seem to forget,although you may want to.It’s sticking harder and harder,haunted by that memorywhen you say goodbye.

Word Flirt / 7

Old roads are like steel platesshattered by that tasteless joy,and now it’s stinging at your feet.you look down at the dirt that surroundsthen up and to unknown planetsyou swoop to the sunsetand you are gone.

Elinor Hills ’14

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The HeartMichelle Li ’15

The Heart—beats, pounds, inside her chest—

Threatening to explode—

Tainting the walls—sliding, smearing—

But—still beating, pounding—

The sight, his scent, his touch, his taste—

As if a pin—pulled out—

Triggering fear, panic, and thrill—

Her Heart—goes into overdrive—

The Heart is beating and pounding—

Faster, quicker, harder—

The trigger set, the countdown starts—

The Heart—shatters, bursts—

8 / Brooklyn Friends School

Eloise Seda ’15

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To My MotherEve Bromberg ’15

The day Eve’s grandfather died, she knew hewas going to die.

Trapped – she felt trapped in the chair in thestudy. She was supposed to be meeting friendsfor a birthday, but she couldn’t stand up. But thetime, the time, the time, it kept on moving for-ward quickly – an hour till 12, 45 minutes, 30minutes – she continued to sit. Sweat was col-lecting around her knees, which always hap-pened when she sat on the exercise ball chair. Tomiss out on a friend’s birthday celebration waslow, but to leave her dying grandfather would beworse. He was suffering too much for her to befar away. She could be at Bergen Street, steppingon to the F train, and he could die.

Mesmerized by her anxiety, she gave in andcanceled on her friend. But the feeling wasn’tanxiety, having experienced it so often that sheknew she felt more; this was Nixon-esque para-noia. Her heart wouldn’t stop beating, and herknees wouldn’t stop sweating. Any suddenmovement and it could all be over – everythingfelt too much in her hands.

Papa had been sleeping in till noon, evenone. Eve juxtaposed this with the man she’dknown all her life: the man who felt inadequateif he woke up five minutes past seven. When heawoke, he would carefully dress. He wasn’tfashionable in the eyes of Vogue, but to her, hisIzod gray long sleeve polos and belted trouserswere as chic as could be.

His cleanliness was impeccable: never aspeck of dirt under his nails, which were alwaysproperly filed by what he called “an emoryboard.” A short man, he stood tall and walkedlike a dignified diplomat.

Next would come breakfast, where he satwith Eve’s granny and they drank orange juice,with no pulp, and ate toast. Here would markthe beginning of what was to be multiple intel-lectual conversations of the day. They’d each

read a section of the paper: commenting and in-serting their opinions, or noting an unknownfact, a rarity.

From there, they’d go about their business,enjoying the blissful life of retired profession-als. Granny would run errands to the localshops, Sahadi’s being a staple, and Papa wouldwrite emails to his millions of relatives.

Here they lived this happy life, filled withwhat they wanted: intellect, routine, love, inter-ests, but most conveniently, Eve and companylived across the street from 306A—her grand-parents’ home. Eve’s mother (Philippa) did thisto stay close, but also because there was a beau-tiful brownstone for sale and she longed for do-mestic bliss in Cobble Hill. And so, they residedthere.

This led to a never-ending friendship be-tween Philippa and her parents, and a deep re-lationship between Philippa’s daughters andtheir grandparents. Eve visited often, and onceshe was old enough to walk home alone fromschool, she made it her quest to go for tea atleast once a week.

Visiting her grandparents wasn’t just visit-ing old people who were related to her—shehad the utmost respect for them. Her grandfa-ther was a beacon of knowledge; there wasn’tanything he didn’t know. From JFK to the BoerWar, he knew it all, and had an opinion on it.

Word Flirt / 9

Kira Barrett ’14

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He came from South Africa, born on a farmto a quiet father, three sisters (one was his twin)and a mother who died when he was 13. Inschool he excelled academically, and playedevery sport available to him: track, soccer, andhorseback riding. He did it all and well,throughout his life, there wasn’t anything hewas bad at. He went to university to be a doctor,which is precisely what he did. He married Eve’sgrandmother at the age of 23.

The system of apartheid in the South Africangovernment was the cause of the family’s immi-gration. After being an active participant in theanti-apartheid movement for years, he came tothe conclusion (with his wife), that if they didn’tleave soon they would be killed by the govern-ment, leaving their children to serve as soldierswhen the time came. They underwent a longodyssey through Europe, but he brought his wifeand three children to America.

Eve thought about all of this. Granny haddied 88 days ago, and she knew that, from thenon, her grandfather’s life would never be thesame—for old people can’t live apart (just lookat Bacchus and Philemon). She also remem-bered the terrible surgery he went through in2003, causing him to be hard of hearing, andimproperly balanced—less of himself.

He had been hanging on for years, but it wastoo much now. At 89, he could barely walk upthe stairs, and for whom did he have to do it fornow that his wife was gone? He said he lovedhis family, but it wasn’t worth going throughthe suffering, and for them to see him suffer.He had made his mind up weeks ago to die. Evewent to see him, and because she had been pre-pared to go and celebrate her friend’s birthday,she wore lipstick. When she greeted her grand-father she refrained from kissing him; shedidn’t want to stain his cheek. She sat next tohim as he greeted her and apologized, but hecouldn’t keep his eyes open.

She joined the group of family in thekitchen, a room once filled with granny’s cur-ries and papa’s wit, now composed of gauntfaces and worry. He died in the evening –around 11. But before this, his children sat byhis bed. On the bed was the yellow duvet withembroidered flowers in blue and pink, againstthe yellow they always looked in such harmony,especially next to the yellow walls of the bed-room.

His last words were about everyone in thefamily. To his absent granddaughter who wason her way back from England he regretted thathe didn’t get to see her once more but said: “Ihave her in my memory.” Philippa came homefor a bit, to sit with her children, until she wascalled back again, this time not just as a daugh-ter but the decider—to see if he had stoppedbreathing.

Eve entered the room with her mom anduncle. There was a body under the duvet. Whenthe covers were lifted she saw what seemed tobe her grandfather: but he was pale, so so pale,and almost yellow, and his skin hung like itwould melt away. Philippa held his jaw shut,and Eve came close to the body that once be-longed to her papa. She kissed its head, overand over and over again—it was icy cold.

10 / Brooklyn Friends School

Kira Barrett ’14

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Elinor Hills ’14

Smoked GlassSPOKEN WORD

Jacob Swindell Sakoor ’15

I’m sitting here consoling you,I’m sitting here holding you.What is it we hold onto,Is it still the past?That we could never get past?You were my mirror, my other half,Instead we’re more like a looking glass.But damn girl you switch up fast,Taking any baton on life’s track.Why is it that you’re back?Your friends that had your backBecame snakes in the grass?Yes you reply, then you look up and askAs to why we couldn’t last.Maybe ‘cause you’re bad as Apollonia,But selfish just like Scott’s Ramona?So I’m no longer on ya.Yes Ms Shakespeare sonnet,I’m through with your lustful tonic.Gone.

So I apologize,A million times.Never meant for you to cry,But us or we, is suicide.So I apologize,A million times…A million times.

And I admit itI was in itSo I’m just as wrong.That’s why I wrote this song.A quick one six.‘Bout how I missedThe mark from the start.I left you in the dark.So let’s clap on for the situation.

All of my lofty statements,That surely had you waiting.They were ‘bout how when I make it,I’ll make it back to you.A plastic lie,Surely see-through.That’s the problem with us.We confuse love for lust.We confuse passion for a crush.Told secrets don’t equate to trust.So can we hang it up?I guess only time can tell...I’m just afraid to see you with somebodyelse…

So I apologize,A million times.Never meant for you to cry,But us or we, is suicide.So I apologize,A million times…A million times.

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UnnamedSam Miller ’14

A man comes up to me with my brother’s soulwrapped in a blanket.His shoes kick the dust that lay onall the fractured bottles on the street that look like broken messages,as sharp as the rocks that carve secretive initials onto concrete steps andI see him walk by and see him wide-eyed and close-mouthed,his legs straight and eyes pointed forward.He tells me the clouds resembling his mother’s face werewhisked away in time.His sad eyes teared as I remembered mine.His face is carved like hills, carved, and still, as by cold chills.He tells me, “In timeit changed and is now warped green in fear of approachingendless reams of names from overseas.”

On a puddle, red with the blood money from deaths of honest souls,floated a picture of my brother’s face on a boat,A boat that no longer sways,A boat that once rocked, brightly red, floating in the way....

And he held up a glass of wine, Lit in the dark by rain-bent light,Which spilt into the puddles of memoryand splashed out droplets like paintThey painted my memories of him.He gave me a five minute poemWhere time (stored like an invested currency)froze for five minutes more.He must know the time spent, that time isn’t free.He asks, “Like how this poem changed us, and shows him,It changes thee?”His hands obstructed the warm light of the streetlampprojecting rainy shadowsshadows on the wall.

Snow began to fall Softly spilling the silence on the walls.Peaceful dark enjoyed its arts.Was his mind frail and shattered?As much as my brother’s ship may havebeen missile-battered?

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Max Gustafson ’14

So I ask,“How, really, (as I hate to say) did he die?”He looks into my eyes, grieving in his, butfrom his mouth comes no reply.Between red streetlights and ticking clocksI count all the steps that I have walked —

We, standing in the rain and puddlesand amongst dying memories of long-gone brothers.We hear short-lined poemsto force remembering that we used to know them.So when the man came up to me, with his hand on my shoulder,and said “In time we changed,” I knewhe had walked the distance of loss tooand was talking about us, drenched in our clothesmaking us colder and older too.

He hands me my brother’s soul byhanding me the blanket and thenleaves in the cold;My feet in the mudand a soldier’s paper poemwith a lost brother’s versesgetting drenched by the rain.

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The ClosetOlive Wexler ‘16

When going anywhere, my first rule is to dress for the occasion. When going into my ownmemories, I prefer to wear a tutu. The tutu is a joyful article of clothing, flouncing and

prancing around as a small child does on her birthday. When going into my own memories, Iwear my bare toes, wiggling on the wood floor. I wear my hair up, because although I know itlooks less pretty that way, I am travelling alone.

The physical place I am heading for is not hard to find. In fact, I peek in there everyday. How-ever, climbing into my closet and sitting cross-legged with the door closed transports me to aplace where I can’t be found.

***

The first time I saw my closet, I had no idea that its dusty blue carpet and white shelves wouldbecome a sanctuary. The first time I was in the apartment, I curiously opened the door, and myMom scoffed. “These are not quality shelves, we will have to get rid of these,” she said. I didn’tsee what was wrong with the closet, except that it was dusty. It got less dusty after a few monthsof living there, and I turned it into my hideout.

***

At age seven it became home to my adventures.“C’mon Wendy! Hook is coming! Quick intohome tree!” I shouted way too loudly at my friend Rachel. She was wearing my blue dress thathad been designated as “the Wendy dress” a long time back. I wore pants and a piece of thickjump rope around my waist. We clambered into my closet and shut the door. I tied the jumprope to the handle and held the other end. “Time out,” Rachel announced, making a T sign withher hands. “Let’s pretend that it’s night and we have been here for a really long time.”“OK, and we are scavenging for food!” I added, always hungry. “OK, Time in.”

Later on, when I had grown out of pretend games, the closet became a place to hide. “8, 9, 10...”My brother called from the kitchen as I scoured for a hiding place. I remembered from movies,and previous hide-and-seek experiences, that no one ever looks up. I raced towards my closet andhoisted myself up to the highest shelf and curled up into a ball. “Ready or not, here I come!”I could hear him bustling around, and I tried not to sneeze as I inhaled and exhaled dust thatI thought was long gone.

***

When I was small, the closet was a haven, a magical rabbit hole. Little Olive Wexler, sitting on aworn wooden stool that has the letters of her brother’s name in different colors, surrounded bybooks and clothes and nonsensical items. She and her friend could both fit easily, and turn offthe lights to hide from villains of their own creation.

Now, when I climb into my closet, my magical rabbit hole, the metal bars grind into my back,and I can hardly close the door.

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Word Flirt / 15

Lotte Kliros Walworth ’14

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16 / Brooklyn Friends School

Bodies and minds going empty. How are theygrowing, yet skipping all their meals. Food goesin, never staying in. Hurt goes in, gets digestedand spread around.

That ice cream and those cookies are a therapistand friend. Then they’re an enemy when theythrow them back up again.

The cafeteria becomes a minefield, the onlythought is “When can I purge again?” Yet theygorge themselves on hate and hostility. “She’stoo fat.” Or “I heard she wears a large?!”

Insecurities are exchanged, sliced and servedlike cherry pie. The cherry pie that is not okay to eat.

On blogs and message boards, a combo meal ofhate comes packaged. Hot, fresh, slathered withinsecurities and fried in emptiness.

And women, of all ages and races, buy thesemeals by the dozen. We call them billboards andcommercials, trying to sell us a “product,” buthow can a company sell you something you’vealready bought?

Furthermore, what if that product is an idea? A mindset, feelings, desires. What if, little girlsstood in the mirror, slowly dying while usingthis product?

I’ve noticed when you buy a product, there’s always a number to call if you’re dissatisfied. I’ve been told that, if a product’s harmful, I should call the manufacturer.Hildi Gabel ’17

Cherry PieTyler Roberts ‘17

Every time I look around, I see girlsshrinking, going through a period of mental and physical osmosis. Taking thebad in and leaving the good out.

Waistlines shrinking, appetites shrinking.How can it be that girls’ stomachs aregoing empty, but they are growing full?Full with worry and anguish.

Anger going in, hatred going in. 24/7 girls are eating, yet they grow smallereach day. Meals going untouched. Bonesgrowing brittle. Hair falling out. Teethrotting, throats burning.

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Anna Emy ’14

And I think we might be addicted. Generations of addicts, slaves to this mentality. Little girls born to be addicted. Old ladies die in the throes of addiction.

But if they can have Alcoholics Anony-mous and Narcotics Anonymous, whycan’t we have Objectified Anonymous?Maybe it’s because we just don’t have aspace for the 158 million women in thiscountry.

Or maybe because, as females, we’re toobrainwashed or afraid to detox.Like the cliche goes, “I can stop wheneverI want to.” And the whenever is now.

But I don’t know, I don’t quite have the number. I dialed the operator and asked tobe connected to “AMERICAN SOCIETY,specifically the sexualization and objectifi-cation unit,” but they said there was noone by that name.

And I don’t think the company who madethis product will hear my feedback. And ifI write a letter, the postman won’t mail it.

It’s funny, when you watch those antidepressant commercials they alwayssay, “May be habit-forming.” I’m, I’m justnot sure we can stop using it.

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La Femme de la MerAFTER JOHN KEATSChloe Burton ’14

18 / Brooklyn Friends School

Why wand’rest thou, lone fisherman,So lost, bewildered and forlorn?

The dawn breaks in the boundless sky,Thou must set forth.

Why wand’rest thou, lone fisherman,So wasted, anguished and bereft?

The fish do call from boundless depths,Gulls do soar and cry.

Upon thy chalk white ashen faceWith trembling lips and hollow eyes,

Appears a torment oceans deepWith aching cries.

I gazed upon a maiden fair,Who shimmered in the morning light,Whose form and face did stop my heart,

Ah! A wondrous sight.

I gave to her a precious pearl,And seashells rare, and trinkets old,

She took my hand and whispered low,“Thou must be bold!”

I set my sail and forth we wentUpon the clear and shining sea,

Beyond the rocks, a cave appearedWhere we would be.

She welcomed me and held me fast,And sang a love song sweet and new,Her loving eyes bewitched my heart

“Be ever true.”

I pledged my troth and we did kiss,A passion grew and lingered long

That none could ever break this bond,My love grew strong.

I dreamed a while within her arms,But lo! A troubling darkness came,

So fearful, strange, love seemed no more,Ah! A flickering flame!

I saw her ‘twined with lovers new,These phantoms moaned and cried aloud –

“Never love La Femme de la Mer,She’s Death’s dark shroud!”

Their flesh did melt away to bone,As fire consumed their hopes and dreams,

I woke with such a fear and fright,Is this what it seems?

O, this is why I wander here,So lost, bewildered and forlorn,The gulls will cry forever more

On this grim shore.

Ayana Kai Whitehead ’14

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Just Like Sliced BreadAFTER E.B. WHITE

Tyler Clarke ’14

Iam pondering the use of this cell phone in my apartment. It came in the mail this morn-ing from one of my readers. He wants me to write about the endless opportunities that this

phone offers. As of now I cannot even turn on the device. It is packaged in a small rectangu-lar white box. It seems as if the entire phone is made of glass.

This reminds me of when I gave my father sliced bread. He could not fathom the fact thatthe bread was already sliced before I bought it. I felt as if the same experience was happeningto me. I did not understand how a glass rectangle was supposed to make my life simpler. Ipress the big round button at the bottom of the screen and nothing happens. I then press thebutton on the top of rectangle and then a bitten, white apple appears on the screen.

I am staring at this bitten apple and then suddenly sixteen squares appear on the screen.How is a stocks app any better than the newspaper with the stocks listed? How is the calendarany better than my calendar in my kitchen? My frustration reminded me of my father. It washard for him to accept the fact that sliced bread symbolized great change in his future. It washard for me to accept the fact that this iPhone by Apple was the great change in my future.

I decide to go out and make use of the iPhone. Turtle Bay was just a part of the Manhattangrid so the iPhone should be able to navigate me around it. I click the square that had a mapin it and I type in Times Square. Within a half hour I was in Times Square. I am surprisedthat this phone knows my whereabouts and is able to direct me. I spend the next few days fig-uring out its different capabilities. I find out how to take a picture of myself without turningthe phone around. Checking the weather became much easier and I was able to research in-formation more quickly. The iPhone was surprisingly useful.

My father soon acclimated to the idea of sliced bread. I soon acclimated to the iPhone. Iguess the cycle will continue. Maybe my son will acclimate to the idea of a phone that canslice bread.

Word Flirt / 19

Kamal Goulbourne ’16

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20 / Brooklyn Friends School

Raised and born in society’s brutal normsCouldn’t afford,Anymore brand names than the Lord’sGotta get this out of my systemOr be trapped in my own mental prisonAs the purpose of me living Is too hard to envisionWhat’s to expect from being raised by myMother and my sisterMy pops ain’t never here so my heart’s Colder than the winterBut that’s coolI’m raised to be a sinner pulling triggersDrinking swimming pools of liquor I nowDive into like aRiver as I shiverBut My innocenceDoes not make me ignorant

Of the flaws of my pigmentation, Whether it’s forced by us or this nationBut it’s just fuel to our hatredOf ourselves and those with white facesBut can you Blame usWe justI justWant something, something for my brothas and sistasmy familyour maybe just for meSomething for my identitymore than just slave shipsWho to call for your crack fixWho gets the first tip ormy crazy hook shotmore than Biggie and TupacI’m not saying that's bad though, I do listenTo kats like J. Cole and K DotBut I just want something more for us,or maybe just for meSomething for my IdentityWho are you Maalik?Likes a girl each weekToo weakChanging like Meek’sFlows, Too deepDown a riverSign sealed my angst is deliveredBut whetherOr not I’m talking crazy like my jaw brokeor this is realest I ever wroteJust a strange little boy,With some stubble thinks he’s too grownGave his heart away when he was 11 years old

UntitledSPOKEN WORD

Maalik Dunkley ’15

Sage Meade ’15

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Word Flirt / 21

Man was he a foolthinking he could find love in schoolespecially when he’s black He can’t have thatNot blond haired and light skinned No sweet voice just chocolateHe’s blackBlack and nappy headed with a forced smile Hasn’t been happy for a whilebut that ain’t style or my fashionGotta be rash, forget my rationIf I f up, things happenWanna help people but haven’tFruits of my labor, gotta grab itbut I’ve had enough y’all can have itI remember back when things were happenin’I was still in We were still friendsHad no troubles andMore progressNow I’m trapped inmy own messNow I’m stressedI don’t know what will happen nextWhat’s the point of this beating in my chestIs there more to my existenceThere’s so many questions Left Right before my eyesCuz the laws worldwideCould be crime in disguiseAnd they use god’s name to sell them piesBecause it takes a lot of truth just to sell that lieAnd as for I, I cannot fathom whyAll I know is that life’s a b**** and then you die

Olivia Hart-Kobel ’15

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Lotte Kliros Walworth ’14

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Word Flirt / 23

With her flawless skin and her soft strawberryblonde hair, Madeline Patterson is the defini-

tion of perfect. With her 25 friends constantly trail-ing after her, she is certain to become the promqueen. Her perfectly white teeth, naturally pink lips,and shiny green eyes always make people turn theirheads as she walks by. Her sparkly laugh and longeyelashes make everyone beg to be her friend.Madeline is constantly chatting away with her ad-mirers, and she throws parties every day after schoolat her parent’s colossal mansion.

***I started hating Madeline at the beginning of

freshman year. On the first day of school I acciden-tally spilled soda all over Madeline’s new shirt. Thepeople around us gasped and laughed. Madelinepulled me towards her and warned, “You will payfor this!”

The day after that horrible morning, we were inscience class and I apologized to Madeline for theone thousandth time. She just grinned. The teachertold us to wash our hands before we started to dis-sect a frog. As I washed my hands in the sink, Made-line came over and dropped a box of dead frogs ontop of me. The whole class burst into laughter. Icould not get the smell off for days. I became thenew high school freak—all because of Madeline.

Another day when I got home, I ran up to myroom and looked outside my window. A bunch ofgirls, including Madeline, were staring at my openwindow. They lifted up their hands, full of colorfulwater balloons. Before I could close my window,they threw the balloons and water splattered every-where. My clothes were soaking wet; my wholeroom was a disaster. The girls were laughing below,one holding a video camera. “I am so posting thison YouTube!” she squealed.

***I have finally had enough. This has been going

on for too long. This hatred against Madeline andher friends has been growing inside of me. I yankout a notebook and write down everything that Ihate about Madeline. I write about all of the namesshe has called me. I count – there are 27. Then Iwrite down plans to ignore her for the rest of mylife. Soon I change my mind and write down plans

on how to kill her. My plans are detailed and clever.I smile – writing everything down really helps. Aftera few more minutes of scribbling in my notebook,I drift off to sleep.

***I am awake, outside in the pouring rain, wearing

just pajamas. I do not remember how I came downhere. Oh! I see now, I am sleeping. This is all just adream. I walk a little outside. I look around. I seethe old dock, I see my house, and I see Madelinecoming out of her favorite clothing store. It is dark,close to midnight, I suppose. What is Madelinedoing out so late? I walk towards her – she rolls hereyes and flips her hair. I grab her dainty arms usingall my strength. Her mouth looks like it is gasping,but I cannot hear a sound. I yank her, and she stum-bles. I drag her close to me and start pulling her tothe old, creaky dock. Her lips move as if she isscreaming, but I hear nothing. She flails aroundwildly, kicking, punching, and scratching me withher long, perfectly painted nails. But I do not worryabout it, because this is just a dream. I see Madelinewith tears in her eyes, mascara flowing down hercheeks. She is limping. Her perfect hair is tangled.I yank her arms one more time. She is unsteady andbarely standing.

***I am done with my dream. I start trying to wake

myself up. I slap my face a couple times. I pinch my-self a few more times. I pull my hair to wake myselfup. Then I realize something:. I did this. I, JennJohnson, have killed Madeline Patterson.

The sound of police cars blare in my ears. Ikilled her? I killed her. Me. I did it. I DID IT. Am Imad? No. Yes. No. YES. A sharp ringing noise hitsmy ears. I AM MAD. I am the freak. I am the weirdgirl. I am the killer. I drop on my knees.

“Hands in the air!” a policeman yells. I sit andstare. “I said, hands in the air!” he repeats. I standslowly and my hands tremble in the air. A differentpoliceman dashes towards me – he grabs my wristsand stuffs them into handcuffs. Then everythingstarts to go in slow motion. I hear my heart beatslowly. I have killed Madeline. The policeman letsgo of my hands for a split second and I make a runfor it. I run towards the end of the dock and jump.I see the dark blue sea, and then—darkness.

The Strange DreamMonet Massac ’17

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Ihave come to find that autumn is my favorite of the seasons. The brisk, chilly air oflate October is always a gentle reminder of its return. This of course leads to my dig-

ging out my dusty old bomber, an annual ritual that is as enticing as it is euphoric.Truly nothing is more enjoyable than throwing on an old, battered coat, and walkingamongst the leisurely cascading leaves of red, orange, yellow and green.

The backdrop that is Mount Vernon is particularly ideal I might add, as it holds aserenity that is unmatched by the frantic agitation of urban life. The day a burgher putshis feet up will be the day I put my pen down. Placidity and simplicity are truly two oflife’s greatest pleasures, and two that I hold very near and dear to my heart. The tran-quility of a New York fall is a tonic for these tired eyes.

It was only last week, however, that the turmoil of urban life invaded my humbleabode. I received a package about the size of one of my young piglets back in Maine. Itwas a mysterious parcel, and one I approached with great caution. I stared down at it onmy front porch with an obscure mix of trepidation and intrigue. I noticed no return ad-dress on the creaseless and evenly positioned mail sticker. My intrigue quickly began tooverpower all feelings of trepidation, and I swiftly picked up the box and brought it intomy home.

As I placed it down on the living room coffee table, I took a whiff of the box’s man-ufactured cardboard exterior. It had quite the distinct odor that began to quickly fill theroom. However, it never quite overpowered the pleasant aroma of the sweet autumn air.I began to open the box, first on each side, bare-handed. Inside, was a small, metallicdevice: A cell phone.

To say I was disappointed would be quite the understatement. I would expect that ifany other lucky mail recipient were to find themselves in my position, they would beoverjoyed at the idea of receiving such a parcel. I did not have such a response. As Istared down at the device, I couldn’t help but feel a blatant sense of disgust. I began towonder what I had done so wrong to receive such a punishment. But I digress, for I didappreciate the gesture. However, I am a man of life. I am a man who cherishes both theconcept and practice of human interaction. Why include a middleman in such a sacredpractice? I am a man who lives to preach carpe diem, and I will let nothing—man or ma-chine—stop me from doing so.

As the days went on, I came to love my new cell phone. I began to take walksthrough the autumn leaves talking to friends and family miles and miles away. Al-though it initially felt unbearably awkward and downright blasphemous to do so, I soonbecame accustomed to the equilibrium I had established for myself. I can even recallthe times where it would be the high point of my evenings. I would put my feet up, mypen down, and chat merrily into the autumn night.

An Autumn SplendorAFTER E.B. WHITE

Evan Novick ’14

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Anna Emy ’14

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BROOKLYN FRIENDS SCHOOL375 Pearl Street and 55 Willoughby Street, Brooklyn, NY 11201

718.852.1029 / brooklynfriends.org

Julia Greenwald ’14

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