mosaicvolume12issue1

Mosaic

A Magazine for the Literary and Visual Arts

at Holderness School

Winter 2014

volume 12, issue 1

3

Mosaic Volume 12, Issue 1 Holderness School www.holderness.org

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the winter issue of Mosaic, the literary and visual arts magazine of Holderness School! Over the years, Mosaic has grown significantly. The first issue I created in 2009 was only 24 pages; it is now 32! We also used to print the whole magazine ourselves on the cantankerous printer on the second floor of Livermore where I became an expert at pulling sheets of crinkled paper from between the rollers. Thanks to a small in-crease in my budget, nowadays I am lucky enough to be able to quickly upload the magazine to an online printing firm and have it delivered in neat packages just a couple weeks later. It’s been exciting to be a part of Mosaic’s growth and increased sophistication! This year I was also lucky enough to have 35 literary submissions to choose from for this issue (the number has usually been closer to 15). Of course, while I was grateful for all the submissions, they did require me to seek additional help. English teacher Doonie Brewer thankfully volunteered and has helped me read submissions and select pieces for this issue. It has been a pleasure working with her, and I appreciate the additional help. This issue is filled with pieces created by students from New Hampshire to China, from ninth grade to twelfth grade, from English classes to history classes. The subjects of the pieces are varied as well. From fiction to non-fiction, from poetry to prose, from analytical to introspective, each author has a unique perspective. There is even one mathematical love story! (Check out Lea Scaralia’s “Roots” on page 30) There is so much variety in this magazine, everyone is sure to find something to entertain and enlighten. We hope you enjoy this issue! Emily Magnus, Director of Publications Doonie Brewer, English Teacher Cover Art by Qianyi Zhang ’15

Mosaic Winter 2013

Volume 12, Issue 1

Alan Chabot ’16 Alan Chabot ’16

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Doorway Poems

This fall, students in Mrs. Lin’s class wrote poems based on Pat Mora’s “Sonrisas” in which the poet describes standing in a metaphorical doorway between two "rooms" that represent the two vastly different cultures with which she identifies. In their own poems, Mrs. Lin asked the students to consider a "doorway" in which they themselves stand, peering into two rooms -- a way to describe two distinct cultures they inhabit in their own lives. The students were instructed to pay attention to imagery and capture the vivid details of the two rooms. Also included in this section are photographs from the Photography I class in which they were asked to write about a first memory and design a parallel contemporary visual experience.

I live in the electric field

between two panels of capacitors. I see

black ink and white paper with differential equations,

linear localization, discontinuous functions

Silence permeates the air, with

frowned brows, distorted lips, puzzled faces

Numbers stand taller than words

Answers weigh more than solutions

On the rigid table stands a cup of water,

without flavor, without sugar, without color

In the polar coordinate of that room, x, y, and z

remain quiet, fearing to disturb the chemical reaction of

rationality.

Silence.

I peek

in the other room

languages, paints, music sheets

shine in brightness

words are spoken by different tongues

faces with delight are painted with blue, yellow, and red

Look!

the grand piano is vibrating under the command of fingers

Stories stand taller than facts

Process weighs more than results

On the soft round table stands a bottle of chocolate milk

dancing with Chopin’s Nocturne in C Minor

curved with the following inscription:

ars gratia artis

Art is the reward of art.

? Zihan Guo ’14

THE ROAD TO EASY STREET GOES THROUGH THE SEWER.

Chris Hyland ’15

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Seasons Taylor Mavroudis ’15 I live in a doorway between two rooms. I hear Yiayia yell “Tayloraki, Benjamino, Damonako!” as we hustle through the airport doors. I run into her soft embrace as tears fall happily down her face. It’s been a year. The heat greets us as soon as we step outside. “Ti kanis, agapi mou?”* She says as she pinches my cheeks. Overweight men in dirty wife-beaters sip ice-cold frappes while they sit around a white plastic table. They wait for Yiayia to walk over, she hands them a Euro for the parking. As we finally drive through the busy town of Limassol, we pass by dozens of cafes, people of all ages sipping their coffee. Children carry armbands as they try to sprint down the road to the seaside. As we drive down the same familiar street of Takitou, I know we are home for the summer. I peek into the other room, as the smell of tomato sauce and meatballs engulfs me. Nanny shuffles over to me as I brush the snow off my shoulders. She gently hugs me, short but very warm. “You’ve grown so much taller,” she whispers. It’s been a year. Mum and I lug the bags upstairs, Nanny continues to stir her pasta. We come back and the table is set. “You’re still playing the violin I hear? You’ll have to serenade me later,” she says hopefully. I nod, spaghetti twirling around my fork. I look out of the window. A bundled-up elderly couple trundles down the road. Laughter sounds from the neighboring houses as families reunite for the holidays. Nanny smiles at me, and pats my hand. Mum goes upstairs to lie down. Nanny and I sit quietly together, in the TV room. I hear the murmur of Animal Planet in the background while I tell her about school and my nerves for the upcoming year. I’m not here often, but when I am, it too feels like home. *”How are you, my dear?”

THERE WERE MORE THAN 300 PEOPLE AT SCHOOL,

YET I FELT LONELY. I WAS ALONE IN A SEA OF PEOPLE.

Minh Tran ’16

Seo Jung Kim ’15

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I live in a doorway between two rooms. The people inside chatter about the things That I have little interest in. The girls sit at their desks, Legs crossed and backs straight. Their flower-printed skirts and dresses Are matched nicely with sandals or flats. Everything is normal, I am the only sign of disorder. I stick out. I feel the eyes questioning The motive behind the clothes I choose to wear. I know the tension builds in the room When I quote a favorite book or movie or show, And no one understands the reference. I choose to remain silent.

I peek in the other room, The secret room where a consulting detective, A time lord, hobbits, a hulk, orcs, Wizards and demons stay. The people inside discuss only the things I think about constantly. Leather jackets, chainmaille, and cloaks Lie everywhere. This is the place where chaos makes sense. “Normal” does not exist here. I watch the battles fought for the different definitions Of good and evil. I feel the tension build in the room When they are about to end, And no one is quite sure what will happen. This is the part where everyone else says nothing, But here I choose to break the silence.

Normal Becca Kelly ’15

THE CLOCK STOPPED TO CLICK, AND THE STREAM OF TIME WAS FROZEN BY FRIGIDITY OF SPACE.

EVERYTHING, EVERYTHING IN THE ROOM, EVERYTHING ON EARTH WAS TRANSFORMED

INTO ONE STANZA OF THE POEM OF SILENCE.

Zihan Guo ’14

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The boy across the ocean Caroline Mure ’14

He looked me in the eyes and said, "what do you wanna be?"

Looking down was the only direction I've known,

before I knew that sentences could end with question marks,

instead of periods.

He looked me in the face and said, "what do you wanna be?"

The smell of old chairs around a wooden table and the sound of

gossip from the floor above.

This was my life and I always pictured it in italics,

aligned to the left and initials on the bottom in bold.

He looked me in the soul and said, "what do you wanna be?"

Music was blaring and I could hear it in my chest.

The day time collapsed and they told me this was the beginning,

though it was not the day I was born.

I flipped through an old black leather book and found the letters

I wrote to the boy across the ocean.

He looked me in the heart and said, "what do you wanna be?"

I told him I wanted to be the person to change his mind.

I wrote my ideas in that black leather book,

with my initials on the bottom in bold,

and his love in italics.

He never looked at me again,

the questions turned into demands

and the words folded into silence.

I still write what is left of his love in italics,

and he translates them into regrets.

Like ruins of a temple,

indefinitely masked with religion only to

cover up the ordinary.

He looked her in the eyes and said, “what do you wanna be?”

She said she wanted to be the person to make up his mind.

Walking up the concrete stairs into the flurries of snow,

and the cold sunlight,

I watched the person I wanted to be,

transform into the person I couldn’t be.

Haley Michienzi ’14

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Historically Accurate Short Stories

During the fall semester, students in Ms. Brewer and Ms. Macomber’s Humanities class studied the French, Industrial, and Russian Revolutions. Students were then asked to write historically accurate short stories in which the plot reflected what they had learned about at least one of these time periods. They needed to use at least three historical resources (history) and had to include character development, conflict, rising action, turning point, and resolution (English).

At Peace Brooke Hayes ’17

“Mama I’m tired, how much longer? I just want to go eat

dinner,” I whined.

I remember that day especially well.

“Anastasia. How many times have I asked you not to com-plain? We will do all that we have to, darling. Even if it means working in the field longer than you may like,” said my mother with a guilt-filled tone. “This was never the life I wanted to give you,” she whispered under her breath. From sunrise to sunset we worked and worked, until my small hands had the calluses of a grown man. Though our farm would never amount to anything, we relied on it for our

very lives.

At the dinner table that night, Papa and Peter discussed matters that I didn’t even know existed. Words like “war” and “the draft” floated around the table. At one point, I saw Mama’s eyes tear and her face whiten. Peter held a small envelope in his hand and nervously passed it to Papa. I could only tell something sad was happening; I turned to

Peter and could see the fear in his eyes.

He said, “Anie, it looks like I might be going away for a little while at the start of next month. But don’t you worry, I’ll

be right home.”

At this Mama’s tears came streaming, and she ran to her room. Papa followed after her; I could hear their whispers through the wall. “Oh Alexander, how could he get drafted?

He’s just a boy, only eighteen! It’s not fair,” she cried.

Weeks went by with our same routine — farm from sunrise to sunset, eat dinner, go to sleep, then do it again. And when the time came to bring our crops to the market, we prayed to come home with enough money to carry us on.

This continued until one special morning.

Peter and I rode into town, something we never got to do for fun. He pushed me on the creaky old swings and slid me down the slide in shambles. For that afternoon, I had no ca-res in the world. Peter was there to protect and love me. I could be and act like the ten-year-old I was, until Peter

plopped down on the swing next to mine.

“Anie, tomorrow morning, I will leave early and go into town. From there, the government will take me and many others to war. Do you follow? I’ll only be gone a little while.

I’ll be off in another part of the world, but I’ll write you,” he said sniffling. The brave older brother I had always ad-mired broke down right there. “Anie, I’m scared. I don’t want to go. I just want you to know how much I love you.” He pulled a small present out of his pocket, and as a tear

rolled down his check, he handed it over to me.

That same teddy bear still sits on my mantle today.

“You give him a good name, you hear,” he said with a shy

smile.

“I think I’ll name him Peter,” I said with a grin. My oblivious-ness to war and its horrors comforted him. We sat on those swings, and rocked back and forth, until the sun began to

fall behind the trees.

The next morning was a blur, starting with a solemn car-riage ride to the station. As we stepped onto the pebbled ground, our driver tipped his hat at Peter, and with that, he rode off. Peter seemed to have difficulty looking into any of our eyes; he gazed at the ground in a trance like state. Many more men arrived at the station, giving painful good-byes to their families. I was trying my very hardest to be brave, but as Peter was taken away by that train, I could see him madly waving through the window. My weak knees buckled, and I fell to the ground. Uncontrollable tears streamed from my face. Mama held me the entire way

home.

Weeks went by with no word from Peter. Mama and Papa moved along just like he had never been there. They had to. I remember Papa sitting by the fire one night, reading the

paper, when he jumped up from his seat.

“Marta! Would you look at this,” Papa exclaimed. “They have pictures! Real life pictures from the war! Can you be-

lieve this! Taken by a photographer.”

“Oh, Alexander I can’t bear to look. Think of what our poor

little Peter is going through,” cried Mama.

I got one glimpse of that newspaper, and cried out in terror. On the ground lay a man whose foot looked like it be-longed to that of a carcass. The caption below simply stated, “Trench Foot.” Another picture showed a silver plane falling from the sky, like a bird with no wings. I couldn’t be-lieve my eyes, as war was revealed to me for the first time, through ten-year-old eyes. I was immediately drawn in. Each night by the crackling fire, I lay in Papa’s arms, and we talked about what was going on in those faraway

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places.

For many nights, I lay in bed wondering where Peter was, or what he was wearing. My admiration for Peter had never been stronger, whenever possible I told others of his

braveness. He became my hero.

I awoke one morning, startled to hear gasping sobs from the next room. I walked in to see Mama with a piece of pa-per in one hand, and a dog tag in the other. She rocked back and forth in Papa’s arms, as he cradled her, with tears streaming down his own face. I started to feel a lump in my

throat.

“Mama, is Peter okay?” I mumbled. The look in her eyes as she gazed at me, broke my little heart. She looked tired,

with a lifelong time of pain evident.

“Mama? He’s not coming back, is he?” I cried, on the verge of hysteria. I ran to his room and stepped in the place for the first time in months. It was exactly the way he had left it, — neat, with few decorations. The only exception was a picture of the two of us; he was happily holding me in his

arms. There were smiles stretching across our faces.

“Peter!” I screamed. “Come back! I love you, Peter!” I fell sobbing to his bed and rested my head on his pillow. It smelled of him — bravery, hard work, and compassion. I clutched his pillow, desperate for a piece of him. As I scooped up the pillow, something scraped my hand. I looked down, and on the plain white sheets of his bed, was a card, “To my dearest Anastasia.” Hesitantly, I opened the

card, certainly in Peter’s writing.

Little Anie,

I vividly remember the day you were born. Mama called to me. I saw you for the first time — so little, so innocent, so beautiful. I remember how proud I felt to be an older brother, your older brother. I never wanted to let anything

happen to you, ever. Anie, in case I am unable to return, please know, I love you little girl. I hope you are treating Peter Bear well. I could see him smiling to himself. Anie sweetie, please know that I have faith in you to be strong no matter what happens, you hear? As if his voice had started to waver, his words became shaky on the paper. If I do not return Anie, I am surely an angel looking down on you, protecting you still. Though in heaven, my strong love for you, Anie, will only grow stronger. I will be in a better place, where there is no war. I’ll be with our Crea-

tor Anie. Be at peace little one.

Forever loving, Peter

The morning came when it was time to put on a black dress. I sat quietly on a white bench by the tombstone, my feet dangling over the edge, far from hitting the ground. Dear God, I don’t really understand why some things have to happen, but I know Peter would want me to be brave. Please God, all I ask, is for you to tell Peter I said hello. I know he’s up there somewhere. I said this with the faintest smile on my face and a warm heart. For all of the terrible waiting and wondering was through, and I knew Peter

would be at peace.

Annotated Bibliography

Watson Institute for International Studies. Choices for the 21st Century Education Program: The Russian Revolution.

Providence: Brown University, 2008. Print.

Library of Congress. “The Increasing Power of Destruction:

Military Technology in WWI.” American Memory.

Chris, Trueman. “Russia and World War One.” History Learning Site. 2013. http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/

russia_and_world_war_one.htm.

Hailee Grisham ’14 Rory Macleod ’16

http://www.historylearningsite.co.uk/russia_and_world_war_one.htm



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A Christmas Dinner Chae Hahn ’17

“Thank you!”

A man named John Ollock burst out the door of a five-story concrete building that said ‘Spencer Steel Mill’ on its win-dow. He looked at the four shillings in his hand and smiled. He started walking to his house far away from work. The cold November wind stroked his cheek. His trembling lips turned blue. As he entered a wealthy street, he noticed eve-ryone else was wearing a winter coat and mittens. He was the only one on the fancy street in the town of Manchester wearing shabby coveralls from work. He sadly glanced at people entering luxurious restaurants. He heaved a deep sigh, suddenly wishing he could make a delicious Christmas dinner for his impoverished family. When he arrived at his house, his wife and two sons were waiting for him in their

tiny kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” he asked his wife, Ellen, who was

suffering from a bad cold.

“Much better,” she answered as she opened the food shelf

and started warming the stone-cold gruel.

“How was work? Were you late?” he asked his two sons.

“No, I wasn’t,” replied his older son, Frank who worked at a

flax mill.

“Good, how much did you earn today?”

“Two shillings.”

“Not bad. And you, William? How many newspapers did

you sell?”

“Fifteen?” answered his seven-year-old, worrying that his dad would get mad like yesterday. William was a newsie: he worked in a nearby town where he begged passersby to

buy newspapers.

Instead of scolding his son, he stayed silent. He couldn’t yell at his sons again for not earning enough. Like his sons, he started working at a factory when he was only six! He knew

exactly how awful it was.

“Dinner is ready.”

Ellen brought gruel and chunks of potato. All of them were starving. The food wasn’t enough for their strong appetites after work, but no one complained or asked for more. They silently, but voraciously, emptied their dishes in three min-utes. Then they immediately went to sleep. John looked at them, feeling bitter about their misery. The sight of families on the fancy street overlapped with the sight of his family’s

shrugged shoulders going to bed. His heart was torn apart.

“I wish I could fully feed my wife and my two sons with nice food..just once..just one delicious Christmas dinner. That’s all

I want for Christmas..” he wished as he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, John opened his eyes. He looked at his wife and two sons still sleeping. He got up and went to check how much he had in the leather pouch where he saved his money. One hundred thirty-five shillings was what he needed. If he worked two extra hours every day, he could feed his family with nice food! He was so excited and started jumping up and down like a young child.“Christmas!

Dinner! Hurrah!” he cheered.

At breakfast, they all devoured gruel left from last night and ran out to work. He dropped his sons off and just stood there watching them disappear. He sighed as their short

skinny legs caught his eyes as always.

After another thirteen hours of work, John knocked on his

boss’s door.

“Who is it?” growled Mr. Spencer.

A good-looking young man in a tidy black suit answered curtly. He was leaning back in his chair, feet on his desk. John entered his room with his hands clasped together po-

litely.

“Mr. Spencer, can you please raise my wages to five shil-

lings?”

“What?” He stopped playing with his tie and frowned. “Are

you insane?”

“Please, Mr. Spencer. I’ll work two extra hours every day

and.. come to work on Sundays too! Please!” John cried.

Mr. Spencer thought for a while, he scanned John from head

to toe. He sighed and finally nodded.

“Okay, but if you are late…”

“Thank you! Thank you so much!” He smiled brightly.

He burst out of the main door, humming and dancing with joy. The shabby coveralls were all he wore, but that night

November’s bitter wind was strangely not at all cold.

The next day, and the next day…He went to work every-day. Winter was deepening and his job was getting harder

but he kept a big smile on his swarthy face all the time.

Then it was Christmas Eve. Five shillings was all he needed to get his dream. A day of work and he could finally make

his grand dinner for his family.

Everyone was moving busily as he walked into the dark, filthy room and checked on the huge open-hearth furnace. His job was to prepare heat for the steel. He brought a la-dle filled with molten iron from the backyard and poured it in. Then he stoked the fire. His next job was to cut long steel pieces. He placed them under a steam hammer and started pulling the heavy piston with two more men. After he fin-ished this job, he walked back to the furnace room. The mol-ten iron, glowing crimson, gave off an intense heat. How-ever, didn’t make the whirly wind sound that meant it was

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ready. As he turned back toward the door, a black rat scur-ried underfoot. He was startled and lost balance. His hand

shot out to catch himself on the searing wall.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” He screamed in pain. He started shrieking for help. His wrist to his fingertips was terribly

burned.

Everyone in the mill heard but was too busy working to care. One worker, his old buddy Peter, ran into the furnace

room and yelled, “What? What happened? John?”

Peter tore his shirt, wrapped John’s hand, and told him to

go home.

“I can’t. I need five shillings! I can’t make it without it!”

“Make what?”

“My Christmas dinner!” he cried. “I can’t leave here until I get paid! I’ve worked so hard for tomorrow; I can’t give up

like this!”

“John, you need to get back home. You are seriously in-jured.” Peter touched his hair and looked with sympathy at

the man he had worked with for twenty-three years.

He thought for a while then added, “You’re not in any shape to make dinner. Give me the money you saved. We can pool our money, and my wife can make a great dinner

for both of our families. How’s that?”

“Thank you. Peter, you’re a great man.” John spoke softly as he heaved a long, deep sigh. They looked at each other

and smiled.

When he got back home at seven, Ellen came out and anx-

iously looked at him.

“What happened? Honey, what is this? How...” she gasped.

She brought a bowl of cold water and poured it on his seared arm. Then she wrapped it with paper. He groaned

with pain but then smiled at her.

The next day was Christmas when everyone spent time with their families. John was so happy to see his two sons cheer-

ing at the snow outside.

“Dad what happened to your arm?” asked William, frown-

ing.

“Just an accident. Always happens,” he grinned.

After eating breakfast, all of them went back to bed. Hours of naps were like pieces of heaven, for they didn’t have

enough sleep during the workdays.

When John woke up, it was pitch black. He woke everyone up and asked them to follow him. It was a cold, snowy Christmas. Everyone, even his sick wife Ellen went out and walked behind him. They ended up in front of a ramshackle house just like theirs. The two boys wondered what was go-

ing on. They opened the rusty door and entered the house.

The walls were cracked and moldy. The furniture was old and dusty. The ceiling looked like it was just about to fall down. However, surprisingly, the house was filled with a delicious aroma. They all looked around to see what was the smell. They found bacon, scrambled eggs, and a bowl of kedgeree on a small table greeting them. The boys and his wife were so astonished they couldn’t close their mouths. Even John himself was surprised. Peter and his wife wel-comed their guests and gave everyone a spoon and a fork.

The Ollocks stood there in utter amazement.

“Help yourself!” laughed Peter proudly.

All of the guests sat at the table and devoured the best food they had ever eaten. John’s face glowed with happi-

ness as he looked at everyone and grinned.

He whispered, “This is the best Christmas I could ever ask

for.”

Bibliography

“Manchester, Symbol of a New Age," Victorian Cities. Harper and Row, 1970 [original edition,1963): 88-138;

Girouard, Mark.

"Manchester and the Industrial City," Cities and People: A Social and Architectural History. New Haven and London:

Yale University Press, 1985: 257-270.

Sadler, Michael; Evidence Given Before the Sadler Commit-

tee;1832.

Online source: http://www.uncp.edu/home/rwb/manchester_19c.html. The University of North Carolina at Pembroke; The city in European history; Industrial Manches-

ter in the 19th century, 2004.

Online source: http://metals.about.com/od/properties/a/A-Short-History-Of-Steel-Part-Ii.htm A short history of Steel

Part II; Terence Bell.

Trang Pham ’14

http://www.victorianweb.org/history/workers1.html#sadler












http://www.uncp.edu/home/rwb/manchester_19c.html

















http://metals.about.com/od/properties/a/A-Short-History-Of-Steel-Part-Ii.htm































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Noa Lin ’17

Zihan Guo ’14

Zihan Guo ’14

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Portraits

Willem Brandwijk ’14

Noa Lin ’17

Haroon Rahimi ’14

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Personal Essays

Aristotle once said, ““Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom.” While our students are just beginning their jour-neys of self-discovery, many of them have already uncovered bits of truths that will help guide them through adoles-cents as they grow into independent adults. Below students share their personal convictions and self-discoveries.

Wet Boots Thorn Merrill ’14

The cold, Maine water chilled me and filled my boots as I stood in the frigid Atlantic in front of my group of wet, sul-len-faced eleven-year-olds. Standing up to my thighs in wa-ter, I surveyed my surroundings. First I saw Teddy, the cabin comedian, cover a sly grin as he began to snicker. His laughter was contagious, and soon all eight of my campers and my co-counselor, Will Scarlet, were bending over back-wards laughing, and then I was too. I could see that my

small mistake had just put everyone in a better mood.

Moments earlier I had been showing my gloomy cabin group how to wash their dishes in the woods. They had just finished hiking out to Club Point, a small campsite a mile off of the Camp Chewonki campus, with all the necessary gear for an overnight. I had done similar overnights many times as a camper, but this time I was the leader rather than the

follower. The ground was drenched with water from ten consecutive days of rain; it dampened our gear and our moods. As I neared the rock at the water’s edge, I could see one camper, Will Brokaw, sobbing about his tent assign-ment, while the rest of my campers stoically held back tears; they secretly hoped we would go back to camp and our warm, dry beds. The rock was covered with rain and sea-weed, and I slipped as I edged my way out onto it, and tumbled into the freezing water. I was embarrassed and angry because my only shoes and clothing were soaked; however, I tried to show strength, and I laughed it off with

my campers.

Later that evening, as I stood by the fire in my wet boots, I could feel the shift in the energy of the group as we worked together to make dinner over an open fire. Everyone of-fered to help grill the hamburgers and chop the vegetables for dinner. There can be a lot of stress on nights in the wil-derness, particularly when kids are under the impression that there is not enough food. I was impressed when one burger dropped on the ground, and one of my campers laughed about “trail spice” before dusting off the dirty

patty and putting it on a bun.

During pre-camp Garth Altenburg, the camp director, held a workshop on how to lead effectively. It was not until that rainy day at Club Point that what he said truly made sense to me. Originally I thought my role as a counselor meant telling my campers what to do. That day I realized what Garth was talking about: if I set a good example, my campers would follow in my footsteps, and I would earn their trust and cooperation. By not getting angry about the discomfort I got myself into and by laughing about my mis-take instead, I set the tone for the rest of the session. Whether it was Jojo being brave enough to canoe in the stern of a boat without a counselor, or Nick always rebuild-ing his Lego creations without complaint when they were knocked over and broken, my cabin did not get angry

about small difficulties.

The evening culminated with marshmallow roasting and story telling until it was well after nightfall. When all of the marshmallows had been eaten and the dishes had been cleaned, we all went to our tents. Will Scarlet and I talked quickly about how we could feel new positive spirit in our cabin group and about how they had grown closer. This remained true, and the overnight prepared us for the rest of camp and the longer canoeing trip later in the session. As I peeled off my socks I smiled when I saw my toes all wrinkled and prune-like. They might not have looked good,

but they had done some good. Sarah Garrett ’14

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Seo Jung Kim ’15

Appreciation By Will Tessier ’15

Have you ever pictured yourself from the point of view of a pencil? Continuously being picked up, put down, and passed around? You're always getting smaller as the people around you stay the same size, and when someone else makes a mistake, they use you to erase it. Before you know it, you're nothing. Replaced by a me-chanical pencil or thrown out because you were used so much you became too small to be useful. Irrelevant to

everybody.

Sometimes I feel like a loaf of bread. Everyone keeps taking a slice of me until all that’s left are two crusty pieces that nobody wants and I just want to scream 'Appreciate me, Damn it.' But I don’t. Why? Why am I scared of standing up for myself when I know something needs to be done about it. Why am I scared to tell peo-

ple to stop using me, and instead appreciate me? Why?

My mom works in an elementary school and on a daily basis works with underprivileged kids. My mom talks to these kids about their lives at home, and at night during dinner she shares some of the stories she's heard throughout the day with us. The sheer lack of apprecia-tion between these kids' parents and the kids is astound-ing. My mom tells us appalling stories about how parents have neglected their children, and these stories really bother me. No one, especially a child, should be unap-

preciated and neglected in h own home.

This is not a plea for help but rather a request for you to help yourselves. If you're feeling used and unappreci-ated or something isn't going your way, do something about it. Stand up for yourself so you don't end up like a worn out pencil or the two crusty pieces of a loaf of

bread that nobody wants. Thank you.

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How Do You Defy Convention? Ezra Cushing ’14

My father and I were making the annual trek up-state to Canandaigua, NY, for the biggest tractor show of the summer. Pulling our antique tractors behind our Ram die-sel truck, we rolled down I-90. He sat and lectured me about the low-end torque caused by the long piston shafts; that’s why the truck could pull the 20,000 lb trac-tors, he said. I started to moan and pretend to sleep; however, eventually, I ended up starry-eyed, hanging onto every word he said. His lectures continued as the

sounds of NPR droned in the background.

I remember when I was younger sitting atop my booster seat yelling out, “Mack...Peterbilt...Volvo.” My father and I would compete to see who could identify the on-

coming 18-wheeler trucks quicker.

Periodically, we stopped at truck stops to make sure the chains were taunt. I walked around the trailer with au-thority as a small crowd gathered to look at our tractors. With the open face of my palm, I slapped the chain to

test how tight it was.

As we found our way onto the open road once again, the smell of oatmeal raisin cookies wafted through the air. My mother had run after us that morning, making

sure we got our cookies.

My hand reached into the side pocket in the door of the truck, and I pulled out a multi-purpose screwdriver. I took each tool out and adjusted it, each time naming the new component I had inserted into it, “Phillips head, flat-

head, allen, square bolt, star bolt…”

As we pulled into the show grounds, I peered over the dash at the antique construction display which had the Caterpillar dozers and big steam shovels. It was an amusing part of the summer for me specifically because I knew that none of my friends had the opportunity to do

this, nor did I think that they would want to. My dad drove the truck on the compacted dirt road as he made his way towards the unloading docks. I stood behind and slightly to the right of the trailer, making sure my dad could see me through his mirror as I helped him back the trailer up so we could unchain and drive the tractors off. Taking off the binders, which keep the chains tight, I un-did a clevis on one of the tractor’s tail bars. I freed the chain which ran through the clevis and picked it up. I brought them to the front of the trailer and put them in

the toolbox with a clanking metal on metal sound.

This past summer was the first time that I had the distinct privilege of helping him on the drive out to Canandai-gua, a true passing of the torch moment. After unloading the tractors, in the past I would run off into the show and my dad would do the same in the flea market for hours on end. In recent years, however, as I have matured, I have stuck with him when he starts in on the long talks with old friends. It is finally nice to be at the age where I

can participate in discussions of meaning.

Extremely anxious, I found my father and asked if I could start one of my engines so I could grind corn. We worked together for a couple of minutes, side-by-side, oiling all of the oil cups and hole openings. Then we primed the cylinder and my dad let me crank away. Like with the trailer, I paced around the engine trying to look official in my little overalls. I tinkered with the grease cups and the timing to make sure that the passersby saw that I could operate the engine all by myself. Then my dad helped me belt up the engine to the corn grinder; it whirred to life as its rpms quickly caught up to those of the engine. I grabbed a handful of corn and tossed it into the chute. After it churned and was ground down, it slid out the other end as a fine powder. My father watched at a distance making sure that I knew I was run-ning the engine by myself. However, he was always close enough to catch me if something went wrong or if

the engine began to sputter.

John Dewey ’14

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Consumed Charlotte Freccia ’15

I turn on the lamp over the stove and run some water over my hands. I crack a window and wind my long hair into a bun so it won’t get in the way. I put on some music—something mellow but energizing, like Bright Eyes or Bob Dylan. I rinse the tomatoes, splash some oil into a pan, put the water on to boil. The tasks ahead of me are clear and

attainable. I am ready to begin.

Half an hour later, tendrils of hair, raised by steam and sweat, have come undone and plastered themselves to the sides of my face. Flour is dusted down my front and food in various stages of preparation litters every surface in my small, overheated kitchen. The scene has transformed from one of ease and serenity to one of disorder. I am the eye in this hurricane. The mess and the chaos do not touch me as I continue to work, knowing that all of the madness will be

worth it.

When you first start to cook, you follow the recipe exactly: you use two cups of rice, not three. You use thyme, not rose-mary, because the long-dead author of Joy of Cooking says that those precise steps are what separate a good risotto from a mediocre one. And when that risotto emerges from the oven, creamy and bubbling, the perfect shade of golden brown, you feel triumphant, invincible. You attribute this faultless meal to the precise and unflinching way you

have followed the directions.

But after you cook for a while and develop a repertoire of signature dishes, the appeal of following a recipe dimin-ishes. You start to get creative—maybe you add two cloves of crushed garlic instead of one, or just sprinkle the salt into the soup instead of painstakingly grating it into a tiny meas-uring spoon. After you become acquainted with ingredients and their flavors, after you determine which meals have become your specialties, you abandon the idea of recipes altogether and create dishes entirely on your own. This practice is tricky. It leads to the ringing of smoke alarms, the scorching of pans, disappointed audiences and peanut but-ter eaten straight from the jar in defeat. But once in a while a creation all your own comes out perfectly. You stand, si-lent and stunned, in a moment of reverence for the master-piece that has come out of you, the byproduct of your sweat and determination, the thing that was molded by your head, heart, and hands. And when this happens, the

thrill is even greater.

That is why there are few things as cathartic as the prepa-ration and creation of food. I think that cooking and eating are emotional experiences. People love food more than almost everything else. Food is what sustains us, keeps us alive. A lot of our fondest memories are associated with certain tastes and flavors. To create food that has this effect on people, you have to exert your every effort and care. Someone once said that if a person is truly skilled at some-

thing, they will make it look easy. While I generally agree with this rule, I think cooking is different. If you want the food you make to mean something, if you want it to be more than just carbohydrates on a plate, your care and

attention to detail must be clear in each bite.

I love cooking. But I don’t presume to be a chef—at least, not yet. And that’s something else that brings me peace—the optimistic promise of improvement, the hope that one day I’ll be able to perfect my recipes and make people ooh

and ah with my culinary expertise.

The kitchen is my haven. I live for the scent of melting cheese and fresh rosemary. The sizzle of peppers in a pan is like music to my ears. Minutes, even hours pass in the kitchen as I work with a concentration I rarely apply anywhere else. I am entirely devoted to the production of a meal and in that process the tiny stresses and injustices of my life fall away. When I cook I can feel myself being absorbed into another world, given over to a new high that lasts long after the last

bite has been consumed.

Qianyi Zhang ’15

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Letters to the Editor All AP English Language and Composition students are asked to complete a variety of writing and reading over the summer. One of the assignments is to write a letter to the editor of a paper. Those students whose letters are published begin the year with an A. Here are some samples from this year's students.

Dear Editor,

Parents need to accept the significance the online world has for this 21st century generation of kids and to recog-nize that they likely have no idea what goes on in their children’s small part of it. Instead of trying to monitor and supervise all online activity, parents have to give their children the tools to make the right decisions when they are exploring the great unknown of the World

Wide Web on their own.

A recent opinion piece from a concerned parent about the site Ask.fm got me thinking about the role parents play in mediating the situations kids find themselves in on the internet or anywhere else for that matter. I am 17 years old and now more than ever find myself needing to make important, meaningful decisions without having my parents on hand to step in and say what’s wrong or right. As a preteen and even as I grew older, just like every other kid out there, I was not always around my parents. Whether it was on the playground or on the computer, I faced decisions that could change the path

of my life.

This is where parents have an opportunity and responsi-bility to make sure their children have the tools neces-

sary to make informed decisions that ultimately keep

themselves, as well as others, safe. More than ever this

applies to kids on the Internet.

From personal experience, I can say with no doubt that my generation can work a computer or cell phone better than any of our parents, often isolating ourselves in the online world where nobody has a babysitter. It is impos-sible for parents to know what their kids are doing at all times but equally unreasonable to think kids will always show good judgment about what’s right for them or oth-ers. That’s why the best option for protecting kids on the Internet isn’t limiting access — because it will happen whether or not parents will it — but instead giving us the tools we need to make the right decision when a situation arises. One thing is certain: when most of these issues arise, parents aren’t going to be anywhere around, and

so the discussions have to happen in advance.

The Internet is a wondrous thing but it can be misused. And although it may seem that even toddlers can use an iPhone better than their parents, they lack the life ex-perience to distinguish the good from the bad. Parents need to talk to their kids openly about the risks because when the time comes, it’s hard to hold someone’s hand

through a computer screen.

Nick Gibson ’14

Published in The Masthead News, Hubbards, Nova Scotia

Lexi Black ’16 Sarah Garrett ’14

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Dear Editor,

Imagine a perfect lake day here in the Tri-Lakes Region. Not too many boats, beautiful water temperatures, and clear skies. Or, imagine the satisfaction of hiking a high peak. That is something to go down in your own record book. There is so much to do here in our area. Whatever your interests, it probably involves being in our great out-

doors in the Adirondacks.

But I say that the best time to be in our outdoors is when the sun goes down and the moon comes up. Our nighttime skies are some of the clearest in New York State. There are only six remaining places on Earth where you can obtain total darkness at night. These are classified as regions that have “Zero Light Pollution.” These areas include: Central Africa, the Amazon Rainforest in South America, Western Australia, Antarctica, and parts of both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. Www.lightpollution.it/ has maps on their website showing how light polluted the skies are around the world. With large cities so close to our region — such as Montreal,

Albany, Burlington, and Syracuse — outside of the Adiron

dack Park, our New York skies are polluted.

Whether you are a local, tourist, or second homeowner in this area, I encourage you to go see our beautiful nighttime skies. Www.Earthsky.org/ says that there are only ten more nights of meteor showers this year where we can see up-

wards of fifteen shooting stars per hour.

I enjoy shooting exposure photography at night, and this has allowed me to take some pretty incredible shots of star trails and various islands on Upper Saranac Lake. When the sky is perfectly clear and the moon is not around, it is incredible to gaze at the Milky Way spanning the sky from

one end of the lake to the other.

Summer is only here for another 20 nights. Go see what’s

up there.

Jack Yanchitis ’15

Published in Adirondack Daily Enterprise, Saranac Lake, NY

Lea Rice ’14

http://www.lightpollution.it/

http://www.Earthsky.org/

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By Hailee Grisham

’14

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LIPS

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Sixteen Ounces Grace Eagan ’15

After many years of denial, and example after example, Americans are finally starting to acknowledged obesity for the major problem that it is. The cause of this widespread misfortune cannot be traced back to one specific food, but rather the tendency to choose unhealthy foods. In a world of ever-growing portions and fast food restaurants, the logical result is that fifty percent of adults in the United States are obese or overweight. Soda is one of the leading causes of obesity because of its liquid state. Often people don’t real-ize how many calories they are consuming when they are

drinking soda and other sugary drinks.

Mayor Michael Bloomberg of New York, who is very con-cerned with the current health problem, attempted to put a limit on the sizes of soda cups that are sold. According to Bloomberg, “It would be irresponsible not to try to do eve-rything we can to save lives,” and putting a limit on soda sizes would do that. This decision caused much controversy, and it was no easy task for the court that decided the legal-

ity of the law.

Mayor Bloomberg’s plan was to limit the size of soda cups sold to less than sixteen ounces. A sixty-four-ounce Coca Cola at KFC has over 800 calories, and that is just the drink without the meal. There is no way that fast food can be banned, but the decrease in soda sizes could significantly help move in the direction of solving this large problem. In-stead of cutting out soda and unhealthy food all together, which is unrealistic and naïve, Mayor Bloomberg proposed

a small change that could lead to larger ones in the future.

The reality is soda has no nutritional value: it is pure sugar. It may be pleasing to the taste buds; however, it is nothing but detrimental to the body. Dr. Lisa Young, a nutritionist that took part in the movie Super Size Me, fully supports the mayor’s plan saying, “In a nutshell, portion size matters and can help in the fight against obesity.” Bloomberg’s idea is a progressive one and his thinking is moving in the right direc-

tion. It is easier to pick up a Big Mac and know that it’s unhealthy and con-tains an excessive amount of calories, than to drink an entire thirty-two-ounce soda and realize that it contains almost the same amount of calories as a

healthy meal.

While Bloomberg’s idea seemed like a good one, it did not resonate well with some people in the state of New York, namely, the people who actually drink the thirty-two and sixty-four-ounce sodas on a daily basis. In reality, a large number of people consume the

drinks every day. Why should Bloomberg take that away? Does he actually have the authority to do that? Will the limit of sixteen ounces per soda really help people lose weight since they can just buy a second one? It is unclear as to whether or not Mayor Bloomberg has the authority to make these decisions for the people of New York. These questions are all valid, and they were not answered until the court

made its final ruling.

In an attempt to pass the law, Bloomberg went behind the back of the City Council and went straight to the city’s Board of Health. This action created conflict in court be-cause Bloomberg does not have the authority to make a decision of that caliber without the advice of the City Coun-cil. Ultimately, neither the Council nor the court passed the law. Bloomberg’s attempt at moving towards a healthier city was denied, but he started a project far larger than a

limit on soda sizes.

Mayor Bloomberg’s intentions were good, but his ideas were bound to create controversy and ultimately have a very small impact. Health and obesity are problems that need to be addressed within the context of the United States, but limiting the amount of a drink per cup can only help the problem so much. People still have the ability to consume as much of a sugary drink as before; they just have to buy it in two separate cups. There are larger issues within the “unhealthy diet” of many Americans; for example, the

Research Essays Central to the AP English Language and Composition course is argumentation. To practice the presentation of an argu-ment, students write researched essays in which they lay out perspectives on a divisive contemporary issue and suggest a resolution. This year's essays included the following selections.

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use of food coloring in foods and drinks is often related to health problems in children and adults. The FDA must regu-late the amount of food dye used in drinks and other foods to make sure that they are safe for humans to consume. Bill Thompson, who ran against Bloomberg for mayor in 2009, commented that the ruling “unmasks Mayor Bloomberg's misguided soda ban policy for what it is: a cosmetic solution to a complex problem.” Thompson’s point is that the issue of large, sugary drinks does contribute to obesity all through-out America, but there are much larger problems that should

be addressed first before this one of smaller proportion.

The fact that the mayor of the large state of New York is trying to take steps to solve obesity is progress in itself. While Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s end goal of controlling the levels of obesity in the United States is popular among the people of New York, his means of getting there are not. Placing a limit on soda sizes is not a surefire way to de-crease the amount that people consume, and it is also not one of the large health problems that should have had pri-ority over others. Nevertheless, Bloomberg’s efforts have not gone unnoticed by the rest of the country, and he has in-spired many others to take action. His goals are admirable, and he is starting to chew away at one of the largest health

problems in the world: obesity.

Works Cited

Colvin, Jill. "New York Soda Ban Approved: Board Of Health OKs Limiting Sale Of Large-Sized, Sugary Drinks." The Huffington Post. 13 Sept. 2013. 25 Oct. 2013 <New York Soda Ban Approved: Board Of Health OKs Limiting

Sale Of Large-Sized, Sugary Drinks>.

Garrey, Sascha. "CommonHealth." CommonHealth RSS. 5 Aug. 2013. WBUR.org. 27 Oct. 2013 <http://commonhealth.wbur.org/2013/08/sugary-drinks-obesity-

kids>.

Grynbaum, Michael M. "New York Soda Ban to Go Before State’s Top Court." Nytimes.com. 17 Oct. 2013. New York Times. 25 Oct. 2013 <http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/18/nyregion/new-york-

soda-ban-to-go-before-states-top-court.html?_r=0>.

Young, Lisa. "Why a Cap on Sugary Drinks May Work." The Huffington Post. 13 June 2013. TheHuffingtonPost.com. 25 Oct. 2013 <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/dr-lisa-

young/soda-ban_b_3436922.html>.

Saul, Michael H. "Judge Cans Soda Ban." Online.wsj.com. 11 Mar. 2013. 3 Nov. 2013 <http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB1000142412788732382670457835454392997439

4>.

Charlotte Freccia ’15

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Drones Noah Thompson ’14

The debate of dron-ing in the Middle East has been going on for the past dec-ade or so. There are those who be-lieve that the US should continue to use drones as a method of killing high value targets; others oppose the idea because of the possible threat to

the lives of civilians.

A little background as to exactly what “droning” is first, though. Droning is the use of unmanned aerial vehicles (UAVs) to fire missiles on enemy targets with great preci-sion (Wiki). The UAV is driven by someone back on a

military base, where he/she is safe from harm.

On one side of the debate are people who believe that drone attacks are a valuable tool and an effective way of killing high value targets or taking out enemy em-placements. The use of drones allows the military to take action against these high risk and high value targets without actually putting any American soldiers on the battlefield, without putting any American lives at dan-ger. The US, as of late, has especially favored droning areas in Pakistan, taking out important Al Qaeda fig-ures. Since 2004, drone attacks have helped to bring

down over 2,200 terrorists in only 364 strikes (Wiki).

These attacks have not come without some negative points, though. Because there is no one on the ground to take the one shot or multiple shots needed to take out the intended targets, a highly explosive missile is used to ensure that the target is successfully killed. This is where problems arise. Because such force is needed, some civil-ians are killed in many blasts. Despite these unintended casualties, White House Press Secretary Jay Carney calls drone strikes “not only precise, but also lawful and

effective” (Times of India).

People on the other side of the debate argue that drone attacks are not worth the risk of killing multiple civilians to get maybe one or two enemy targets. Pakistani Prime Minister Nawaz Sharif is a main advocate for the ending of drone strikes in Pakistan (Ben Wolfgang). He says drones are not accurate, they cause civilian casualties, and they kill civilians, which means the US is violating

international laws of engagement (Ben Wolfgang). There are staggering sta-tistics to support Prime Minister Sharif and his fel-low debaters. In six investigated drone strikes in Yemen, it was found that 57 of the 82 people killed in the strikes were civilians (NY

Times).

The anti-drone group definitely has plenty of legitimate evidence to support the end of drone

attacks, but so does the pro-drone group. The solution to this dilemma is to find a common ground where both groups can agree on the terms, but the terms should still allow for the capture or killing of high valued threats to

the US either by the US or someone else.

For the ending of drone strikes in Pakistan to become a possibility, both sides have to realize the truths. The U.S has to acknowledge the fact that drone attacks, while killing their targets, also often kill many other innocent civilians. On the other hand, the Pakistani government has to understand that these drone attacks are a vital part of US terrorism prevention. Without the drone pro-gram, US troops would need to be deployed, and this is what the whole purpose of drone attacks was in the first place: to be rid of the need for actual soldiers to carry out missions. If the US were to end droning in Pakistan,

then who would be sent to kill these potential terrorists?

If the Pakistani government were to collaborate with the US government and help them carry out missions and take out terrorist threats, then there would be no need to send down missiles from above, leaving the innocent people on the ground running for their lives. The two governments could get together and work out some kind of joint operation unit whereby both countries would make up the ground forces that would be used to hunt and neutralize these enemy targets. This way the US would not need to put as many of its own soldiers at risk, and Pakistan would keep its civilian population safe

from potentially fatal drone strikes.

This is not the only possible solution though. The US could also retool their methods of drone usage. Maybe instead of using the incredibly powerful Hellfire Missiles in their drones, they could switch to something less powerful.

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That way there would be less of an explosive force thrown beyond the area intended (CNN). They could also collect better intelligence on the target intended and wait to strike when the target is in an area of low

population.

It is not certain what the future will bring for drone at-tacks in Pakistan, but what is certain is that things must change before the US ends up fighting another battle it does not need or want. There have not been any com-plaints as to the drone's effectiveness as counter-terrorism weapons. Instead, people are challenging the accuracy of these weapons and the fact that more civil-ians are killed in every drone attack on average than actual enemy targets. These statistics are worrying, and something needs to be done to stop the unintended kill-

ings of innocent Pakistani nationals.

Citations

Walsh, Delcan. "Civilian Deaths in Drone Strikes Cited in Report." Nytimes.com. New York Times, 22 Oct. 2013. Web. 23 Oct. 2013. http://

www.nytimes.com/2013/10/22/world/asia/civilian-

deaths-n-drone-strikes-cited-in-report.html?_r=0

"US Justifies Drone Attacks, Says It's Lawful." The Times Of India. N.p., 23 Oct. 2013. Web. 25 Oct. 2013. http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/us/US-justifies-drone-attacks-says-its-awful/

articleshow/24595396.cms

Wolfgang, Ben. "White House Defends Drone Strikes; Pakistani P.M. to Visit Obama This Week." The Wash-ingtion Times. N.p., 22 Oct. 2013. Web. 25 Oct. 2013. http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/oct/22/

white-house-defends-drone-strikes- pakistani-pm-vis/

"Drone Attacks in Pakistan." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foun-dation, 11 Mar. 2013. Web. 03 Nov. 2013. http://

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drone_attacks_in_Pakistan

Levs, Josh. "CNN Explains: U.S. Drones." CNN. Cable News Network, 08 Feb. 2013. Web. 28 Oct. 2013. http://www.cnn.com/2013/02/07/politics/drones-cnn

-explains/

Avery Morgan ’16

Yazhi Li ’14 Matt Tankersley ’14

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/22/world/asia/civilian-deaths-



http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/22/world/asia/civilian-deaths-in-drone-strikes-cited-in-report.html?_r=0

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/us/US-justifies-drone-attacks-says-its-

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/us/US-justifies-drone-attacks-says-its-

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/us/US-justifies-drone-attacks-says-its-lawful/articleshow/24595396.cms

http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/oct/22/white-house-defends-drone-strikes-

http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/oct/22/white-house-defends-drone-strikes-

http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/oct/22/white-house-defends-drone-strikes-pakistani-pm-vis/

http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2013/oct/22/white-house-defends-drone-strikes-pakistani-pm-vis/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drone_attacks_in_Pakistan

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drone_attacks_in_Pakistan

http://www.cnn.com/2013/02/07/politics/drones-cnn-explains/

http://www.cnn.com/2013/02/07/politics/drones-cnn-explains/

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Everest: Over-populated? Abigail Jones ’15

In the past ten years the population climb-ing the tallest peak in the world has rapidly increased. In the past year there were over 200 ascents of Mount Everest on a single day, and the numbers keep increasing every year. There have been many debates in recent years about controlling the permits allowed on the moun-tain per climbing sea-son because reduced numbers would help with the pollution level, the death rate, and create a safer environment for

the climbers. But the people of Nepal disagree.

With more people, that means more oxygen canisters are needed for support. As stated in an article by BBC’s Gra-ham Hoyland, “It isn’t a wilderness experience — it’s a McDonald’s experience.” In the eyes of a purist, this is not what the mountain should be like, and things have to change. Pollution is one of the largest problems that has slowly been dealt with. Within the past decade, well-respected mountain guide Russell Brice instituted an insur-ance fee that is paid before stepping on the mountain. This fee insures that a team will pick up its trash as well as pack out other trash, and in doing so the team will earn the fee back. Although pollution is a main concern, it is all because

the mountain has become a city of people.

The overpopulation has raised the death rate — not of the paying clients, but of the Sherpa's who are the most impor-tant people on the mountain. In the late summer edition of Outside magazine, author Grayson Schaffer wrote, “In the early years of exploration, Sherpa casualties were ac-cepted as an unfortunate price of conquest. The question is whether in 2013, the summit of Everest is still worth this kind of banal and predictable human sacrifice.” Many wives of the Sherpa are asking their husbands to come home and off the mountain. The jobs that the Sherpa perform on the mountain cause the most deaths of any occupation, and the

death rate continues to rise.

The population has turned the single-tent base camp into a city. The overpopulation on the mountain has in the past year caused problems that are unheard of on most high mountains. A fight took place between two climbers and a

Sherpa this past spring at camp two. This is the kind of things that cannot happen at high elevation. The problem with climbing this huge mountain is Westerners are paying their way up. Graham Hoyland says, “You have peo-ple going up there who don’t know how to operate ropes or use

crampons.”

This is why the govern-ment needs to limit the permits given each year, but they also need to test the ability of each climber. A climber with limited abilities can cause dis-aster not only for

themselves but the people responsible for them, like their guides and Sherpa. Unfortunately for Nepal, this is the country’s biggest form of revenue, tourism. During the spring of each year, the climbing season is the time where all the money is made. Limiting the amount of people on the moun-tain takes away from the money this already poor country can intake. Sadly, the government and guides need to stop being lazy and decide on an outcome. The outcome might be a decision that ensures the safety of not only their peo-

ple but also the clients.

Citations

BBC: Everest Climbing rules ‘to be tightened’

Khadka, Navin Singh, . N.p.. Web. 25 Oct 2013. <http://

www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-23543172>.:

BBC: The Worlds Highest Traffic Jam

Kelly, Jon. "Everest Crowds: The World's Highest Traffic Jam." BBC News. BBC, 28 May 2013. Web. 25 Oct.

2013.

Outside Magazine: Disposable

Schaffer, Grayson. "Disposable Man." Outside Maga-

zine Aug. 2013: 1-109. Web. 25 Oct. 2013.

Washington Post: Mount Everest is overcrowded, polluted

and nearing a crossroads, 60 years after first climb

Dewey, Caitlin. "Mount Everest Is Overcrowded, Polluted and Nearing a Crossroads, 60 Years after First

Climb." Washington Post 29 May 2013: n. pag. Print.

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Reading Reflections In English classes, the students are often asked to reflect on the novels that they are reading. Sometimes the reflections occur during conversations in class; at other times students are asked to write in journals. Sometimes the assignments are more formal as in the case of the second essay in this section in which a student responds to George Orwell’s 1984. But occasionally a student will take the time to break out of the traditional analytical box and take a different approach to reflection. This was the case for Kaelen Caggiula, who after reading Chad Harbach’s The Art of Fielding over the summer, decided to rewrite the ending of the novel. He carefully studied Harbach’s style and rewrote the musings of Guert Affenlight just before his death, changing the plot but leaving the characters and message of the novel intact.

Rewriting The Art of Fielding Kaelen Caggiula ’14

Guert was in shock. How could he have been so stupid? A relationship with a student? Never mind that the student was male, which held a stigma because of society’s insecurities: he should have known better. Guert Affenlight was not a man who messed around with students or who broke rules. Guert Affenlight was an upstanding scholarly man who went about his life properly, yet here he was in a devil of a

situation.

Apparently someone had seen him? How? He had been careful enough. He supposed that you could never be too careful in these types of situations. These types of situations? Did these types of situations even happen? Guert made his way back to his new house. Encountering Contango, he mus-tered the energy to give the dog a friendly scratch, though Guert felt drained and exhausted after receiving such crip-pling news. His impending joblessness didn’t worry Guert as much as the impact that the entire debacle would have on Pella. He had been able to slowly witness her gradual as-cent into maturity and didn’t want it to be impeded. He knew he couldn’t keep this a secret and most likely wouldn’t be able to keep his relationship with Owen a secret. How-ever, he was adamant that she have no knowledge of the increasing fragility of his heart. He had not been taking his pills as regularly as he should, which, coupled with his habit of smoking, had prompted a strong warning from his physi-cian who had identified that heart troubles were common in Guert’s family. Feeling overwhelmed, Guert sought relaxa-

tion.

The now former President of Westish turned to the only he comfort he knew: literature. His one chance at solace was found buried in the subtle nuances of each page of his fa-vorite novels. Guert was able to lose himself utterly within

minutes. He had little care of what else went on.

The phone rang. It rang again. A third time. The phone fell to the floor with a crash as Guert ripped the cord from the earpiece. He wasn’t angry, simply interested in peace and quiet. At this junction he had little care for what the caller may have had to say. Guert was no longer a part of Wes-tish now. He would leave within the week, but now was his

time. He owed allegiance to no one and blamed only him-

self.

Reading could do only so much for Guert. He was hungry. It had been four hours since the news. Guert had read and reread the copy he kept of Melville’s speech. He had ex-trapolated all meaning from it and still felt nothing. The four hours thankfully felt like four weeks. Letting go of Westish would mean his entire life shattered into pieces like a bro-

ken mirror.

Heading into the kitchen, Guert selected a cold hotdog from two days before and a soda that was eight days past its expiration. Surely eight days wouldn’t matter, right? He had meant to get rid of all soda and processed meat for the well being of his heart, but there weren’t many options in his refrigerator and he had no desire to cook now. The hot dog was a 1/4 eaten concession from an event or something; it

wasn’t important to him now.

Against his better judgment, Guert wolfed down the hot dog and washed it down with his soft drink. He gulped uneasily as a piece of partly eaten hot dog was slowly pushed downwards. He immediately regretted eating the hot dog. It tasted bad in his mouth — not an unpleasant taste, rather a reminder of how bad it was for his heart and his system. The soda was fine, having lost none of its peppiness, though it caused an uncomfortable bloated feeling in his stomach.

At this point, all he wanted to do was lie down.

Guert sat down and tried to pick out a book. He was inter-ested in reading something quite unfamiliar to himself. His mind was full of Melville and poetry by Whitman, two au-thors he had read a thousand times. He sought a new ex-perience. He patted Contango on the head and walked to his bookcase. There were few books he hadn’t read in this collection, though some of them were entirely alien. He ulti-mately selected In Search Of Lost Time by Marcel Proust. It wasn’t a novel he particularly liked, but he was ready to give it another chance. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fin-ish it before his sleep so he took his time bringing it down from the bookshelf. He almost dropped it initially because of his shaking hands. Perhaps the Owen ordeal was affect-

ing him much more than he initially realized.

(Continued on page 28)

28


Stepping outside, Guert lit a cigarette to calm his nerves. Cigarettes were another thing he had promised his doctor he would stop using, but they calmed him and he couldn’t quite stop. He lit another, and another. Three was enough, and after the third, he sat down in his chair whereupon he

opened his chosen book and began reading.

For a long time-

Guert clutched his left arm as a shooting pain lanced

through it. He read on.

...I went to bed Early-

There was the pain again, immediately after the first.

Guert sat still, unmoving for 20 seconds. Feeling nothing else, he continued to read. As he read, the words began to swirl off the page and dance in front of his eyes as if to mock his inability to focus. He felt the pain again in his arm and suddenly felt shortness of breath. Thoughts raced

through his brain at the speed of light. Am I having a heart attack? No! It can’t be. The hot dog and soda and three cigarettes came racing to the front of his mind like horrible reminders of an unhealthy lifestyle. Am I? He was now ex-periencing serious chest pain, as though there was something inside rubbing each rib in the most painful way possible:

popping. His breathing became increasingly shorter.

As his eyelids blinked their last and drooped shut, Guert’s thoughts scattered to the four corners of the earth, then fo-cused on Pella. How would she cope? How would she sup-port herself? Wasn’t she dating that boy, Schwartz or some-thing? Could he provide for her? He was hardly 23 years

old. A child!

Panic soon gave way to acceptance and calm. He imagined the lake. Silent, black, unmoving waters. The definition of serene beauty. It was his last, most peaceful, most perfect

thought.

(Continued from page 27)

Qianyi Zhang ’15

Matt Tankersley ’14

29


Unpersons: Erasing the Past Hannah Stowe ’15

The Party has complete control over the people and the society in 1984. It also controls all of the information that the people receive and insists that Oceania is the most powerful country in the world. While working in the De-partment of Fiction, a committee of the Ministry of Truth, Winston has the job of rewriting facts that no longer hold truth. Once a person is vaporized, he/she becomes an unperson, and any writings on these people have to dis-

appear. An unperson, “did not exist; had never ex-isted” (Orwell, 47). The Party’s development of unpersons shows how deeply power controls the society in 1984,

and to what lengths the Party will go to remain in control.

Winston believes that the Party is corrupt but cannot fig-ure out why they go to such lengths to control the people. O’Brien finally admits that the Party seeks power solely to have it. The Party works on the basis that “power is col-lective” (Orwell, 273). Individuals cannot have significant power in Oceania; only the Party as a whole can. After the rebellion, the Party gained control of all of Oceania. The main problem was keeping it. They destroyed pri-vacy, truth, and individuality in order to keep control. This approach kept the Party in power but completely changed the society. They had to devote a lot of time to the unpeople, because even posthumously, no one could have any power at all. The vaporization of people wiped any people from history who could potentially have the power to rebel. When the past of a person has been erased, he/she is eventually forgotten. Family and friends have no proof that the person ever existed, and over time

he/she does not.

The Party itself is built entirely on contradictions. O’Brien admits to Winston during his torturing that the true goal of the Party is to keep control of power. He then brain-washes Winston into believing that the Party’s notions are to help mankind. The Party’s motives are not to better so-ciety, however, but to make the people “hollow” in order

to fill them with their own slogans and laws (Orwell, 265). An unperson in itself is also a contradiction. The Party claims that a person no longer exists and must be erased from the past, but in order to do so, the Party has to ac-knowledge that that person existed. People outside of the Ministry of Truth might not be aware that these things are happening, but isn’t it enough that some are aware of it? They claim to focus on each heresy and not only kill per-son but kill his/her ideas of rebellion. Each person must

die with love for the Party.

Some would believe the Party will end in ruin. On the con-trary, George Orwell believes that the power of the Party is absolute; it will never lose. He sees the human race as cynical and power hungry; the goodness of man-

kind will not triumph.

Katie Remien ’15

Qianyi Zhang ’15

30


Roots Leah Scaralia ’15

Dear X,

When you approach me, I feel like a zero. My unresolved feelings for you know no limit, even though I have computed the fact that you grow as a person independently of my

position.

You are a walking sample of my numerous problems with relationships: you took my ups and my downs and you charted them; you converted my maximum moments and my minimum points into a derivative that revealed the logarith-mic rate at which my paranoia decayed my passion. You

derive me crazy.

I always knew you were propelling me in the positive direc-tion, but all I could see in you was the left-hand sum of your life; most of the time, I underestimated you. I never could grasp the concept that my curves were not integral to your

love until I realized that what we had was purely rational.

Please tell me that we were dysfunctional. Because lately,

I’ve been searching for a theorem that could demonstrate the success rate of a second try together. Of all the people around me, you’re the only one who lies tangent to my heart: you’ve made your point and you’ve moved on. I could have sworn it was all imaginary. And I’d like to see us inter-sect at some point, even though it seems that my love was

only instantaneous.

So now it seems that the only variable in our system is your feelings toward me. You can remove me and make your life one smooth, continuous line, or you can recognize that my love knows no boundaries, cannot be defined, grows at an

exponential rate…

and we can start from the roots that we planted the first time, change us from X’s, and solve this irrational thing we

used to call love.

Lea Rice ’14

Holderness School

Plymouth, NH 03264-1879

www.holderness.org

603.536.1257

Katie Remien ’15

mosaicvolume12issue1

Documents

winter issue of mosaic

mosaic volume

mosaic winter

holderness school winter

doorway poems

literary submissions

english classes

english teacher doonie