THE SPIRE
2022 Literary Magazine
The Spire is The Governor’s Academy student literary magazine. Students submit their short stories and poetry to student editors who then decide which entries will be published. The Spire has been a voice for student literary creativity since 1966. Winners of the Murphy/Mercer Short Story and Poetry Contest are also included in The Spire. The A. MacDonald Murphy Short Story and Thomas McClary Mercer Poetry Contest was created more than two decades ago to honor the work of the two English masters, whose combined service to the Academy totaled more than 65 years, and to encourage students’ pursuit of creative writing. Students submit entries which are read and
voted upon by the English Department. First prize winners in each category receive a book prize and their works appear in the annual publications of The Spire each spring. Student Editors: Jessica Choe ‘22 Tianyi Shen ‘23 Tilley Winokur ‘23 English Department Faculty Advisor: Tom Robertson P’16, ‘19, ‘24 Cover Image: Year of the Tiger Judy Wang ‘23 Special thanks to faculty and staff in the departments of English, Arts, and Communications
A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST C’est La Vie Lilly Baumfeld ‘23 c’est la vie /ˌsā lä ˈvē/ exclamation that's life; such is life. … Such is life; and it is everything and nothing at all. In the practical sense, it is nothing: just a pair of sandals and a puddle; a soaked dress and a smile — and a memory of being seven instead of seventeen, when they didn't know the suburbs were where life went by while everyone talked but no one said anything (and he wishes the rain would last forever). … The suburbs are the place where people go to escape the cities and the drama that comes with them, only to realize their mistake six years too late when they have a brand-new marriage that was only new eight years ago, and a baby that is five years too old from what they remember. Because then they realize that the neighbors they've had for those past six years
2022 First Place
aren't going to change, and they can't decide whether that's a good thing or bad thing (because they moved to the suburbs to escape the city). Because now Avery Thurston down the street has a pregnant daughter that no one is supposed to say anything about (but everyone does), and Brendan Donahue showed up to fifth period drunk, and someone should have said something (but no one said anything at all), and the set of twins on the Fair Street playground are no longer two — (they're five) — even though everyone forgets that they aren't anymore (and nobody mentions it, even when everybody thinks it). Because c’est la vie; such is life; and it is too short. And it is nothing without her. But such is life — but he couldn't know why — because at that moment it is nothing and everything all at once. But in the practical sense, it is nothing: just a pair of sandals and a puddle; a soaked dress and a smile —
and a memory of being seven instead of seventeen. And the rain kept falling, she still kept laughing (and her hair kept getting wetter and wetter, but she didn't seem to care at all, even though she had spent a half an hour getting it just right), and Evan just kept staring at Julie, because she didn't seem to care about that, either. It was black sandals and brick sidewalks filled with muddy water, and a black dress that was lucky it wasn't see-through, but would be skin-tight all the same (and probably ruined now). And Evan remembered when Julie was seven instead of seventeen, with pink boots instead of black, and a bright yellow dress with a tear at the bottom from trying to climb a tree. They were going to be late, (but no one seemed to care very much), because their clothes were already ruined, and Julie hadn't laughed so much since Evan had tripped on the staircase an hour ago (which wasn't very long at all, but it still seemed like something worth mentioning, because it was Julie). Evan felt a tug on his hand, and the stop lights on the empty road were red (like the lipstick that Julie had
wrinkled her nose at earlier that day, but put it on all the same for some reason Evan couldn't quite explain). The sky was the same color as Julie's dress, but they couldn't see the stars because it was raining, so they pretended that the flashing lights and empty streets around them were a quiet galaxy only big enough for the two of them. And then Julie was twirling, and grabbing at Evan's hands in the dark, wet night full of too many stars and none at all — and there was no music but their laughter, because that was good enough to go with the staccato of the rain beating down on them. “Dance with me?” Evan found he couldn't say no — because her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her make-up was smudged and ruined and her dress was sopping wet and no doubt uncomfortable — but her smile was the only thing that couldn't have been faked like the lipstick she didn't like or the nice dress she had pulled from the back of her closet — (and the rain couldn't wipe the gleam in her eyes or the brilliance of her smile away, anyway) — and Evan couldn't say no.
(Not that he ever would — because it was Julie, after all). Because the rain was real, and so was the girl in front of him with ruined make-up, ruined clothes, ruined hair. But the rain was so real that it couldn't have wiped away her real laugh or her real smile or the real gleam in her eyes if it tried. Because none of those things were from the bottom drawer of her desk, or the back of her closet, or from the useless time spent trying to change something that didn't need changing in the first place with a curling iron and meticulous hands that almost seemed like they belonged to someone else when he watched her disappear into someone somebody else told her to be. Julie didn't look like she cared that the Somebody who made her be someone else with red lipstick and silk dresses and curled hair would be frowning down at her in the rain, (because Evan was laughing right along with her toothy grin like he would be able to ward off that Somebody who made her smile with lips filled with lipstick she didn't like, or fret with a curling iron that she didn't want to use, or pull out a silk,
black dress that she didn't want to wear). They were late (but nobody cared) — because Nobody was better than Somebody to them — and instead of meeting Somebody in ten minutes like they were supposed to, they decided to dance with Nobody in the rain that left them real and laughing. And it was everything and nothing at all, and Evan couldn't know why. And in the practical sense, it was nothing except a girl in the rain and a boy who had only one thought while he listened to the music of her laugh and pretended that the empty street that they were dancing on was a galaxy of only them as the flashes of a traffic light replaced the stars overhead. As they splashed in the puddles like they did when they were seven instead of seventeen, on a painfully normal summer night like everything else about the suburbs they had watched life go by in. And it really was everything, because for him, it would be nothing without her — (but then it was nothing at all, because she would never know.) So they danced with Nobody in the rain like they were seven instead
of seventeen, in the suburbs where everyone knew everything but nobody said anything worthwhile, where life passed by but nobody felt like it, in the dark where the rain wiped Somebody away and left them both raw and real.
And where Evan held Julie like he wasn't wishing she was really his to hold. But oh, c’est la vie. Such is life.
Untitled Tiffany Touchette ‘23
For the Dead or the Living Judy Wang ‘22
A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST Amidst the Storm
2022 Runner Up
Eliana Mlawski ‘22 Jane: August 22, 2021 Heavy drops pour from the sky, racing down the gutter to crash against the pavement. The sun seems to have vanished, but a few rays manage to peek through the morning fog. A fresh pot of light roast sits patiently next to my mug —his mug, stained with black coffee rings and chipped from years of love— when the ancient mantle clock resting above the fireplace chimes nine. I take a deep breath, crossing the kitchen towards Ma while she puts the final touches on our brunch buffet. She butters the toast carefully, hands quivering as she slides the knife against the bread, and takes a moment to pause. “They’ll show up soon,” I offer. “If this rain keeps up, what do you want to do?”
1
The elementary school teacher, wife, mother of four, and my grandma.
The corners of her mouth turn to a frown, and I see tears pooling beneath her eyes. Sue Schultz1 was never a crier, she couldn’t be. Teaching was a full time job, yet she always saved time to come home and make dinner for our family. Ma worked it like clockwork for decades, tirelessly giving us her all, but those were the old days. That was before. As the second oldest daughter, and a twin nonetheless, now it’s my turn to take care of her. Every week, sitting with Ma at home and handing her tissues as if they could wipe away our pain. Signing paperwork to make sure the arrangements are ready for his ceremony a few blocks to the East. Calling the lawyer to try and understand how there could be seven versions of one person’s will. It’s been months of weeping and feeling and hearing too much when Ma talks to his
ashes with anguish in her voice on the really bad days. “I don’t know, Jane,” she replies softly. “ Chris, Jim, and Tom will be here by ten.” I nod, staring out the window as if my gaze could will my siblings to appear. “There’s nothing we can do but wait for the storm to pass.”
During the campus lockdown During a time when I was only 28 miles away, Yet so inexplicably far. Unable to go, Bound by the two week quarantine policy, For I could not imagine taking the risk Of leaving academic obligations behind.
Eliana: February 14, 2021 The day of valentines and never ending love, Was absolutely unextraordinary. Monotonous and mostly mundane Until it wasn’t. “Missed Call from Mom Jane Schultz” was nothing, Like any other day, except
I couldn’t go to you. I didn’t know Just how sick you were, lying in that hospital bed Fading in and out of consciousness. There was no parting hug or final goodbye, Only utter and inexplicable pain Consuming me unlike anything I ever experienced Before.
That was the day you died.
Fred: September 19, 2004
Departing from this Earth and my world Forever, leaving me to wonder why And how and what I should do. Trapped between the family I so desperately needed And my desperate need to succeed at school During a global pandemic
I pick up the landline, dialing the familiar number, and greet my best friend on the other line. “Hey, Nick, what are you up to this afternoon?” “Hello to you, Fred! Not much… Wow. I guess my calendar would appear to be open today,” he says with playful sarcasm, guffawing with infectious laughter.
“Well, to be fair, you haven’t been up to much since we left the company,” I reply, conceding a chuckle. “The Cape has its benefits, but our schedules aren’t exactly full.” “Speak for yourself, old man!” Feigning injury at my joke, Nick replies, “Meet at Honey Dew, say around one?” “Let’s make it noon! I’ve got places to be today.” “Oh yeah? Great. I’ll give our friends a ring.” Once Sue is ready, we hop in the Toyota and make the five minute drive over. Arriving at Honey Dew Donuts, I quickly find our group of Dennisport friends sipping coffee and flipping through the latest copy of the Cape Cod Daily News. “Woah, woah, woah,” Nick announces loudly as we walk over. “I didn’t know it was senior citizen hour already!” By the time everyone stops laughing at the comedy of his quip, Sue and I sit down to join them. “Oh, Nick. Don’t talk about yourself like that,” my wife jokes. “You’re still young at heart!” Her remark gets an even bigger rise out of our friends, and we start chatting to catch up.
“Well did you hear about the weather?” “Oh no, what are they saying now?” “I heard, some tropical storm is—” “Never mind that! Those weathermen wouldn’t know the difference between a rain shower and the Great Flood if Noah didn’t show up with his Ark.” “Well, well. You know, we don’t say weathermen anymore. My daughter says that’s not ‘PC’ nowadays. They're called meteorologists because there are women weathermen too.” Remembering, I interject excitedly, “Want to hear some real news?” The group takes a break from their banter, pausing to nod eagerly. “Jane sent me an instant message this morning! She and her husband, Rafal, are in China, adopting their baby today.” “Wow.” “Awww.” “Another grandbaby!” one member of the group replies with a smile. “Oh right, right. I remember you mentioned something about a little
girl on the way,” Nick says. “Something like Ella or Elena.” Sue grins proudly, “Yes. Eliana. You know, Jane had to take a fifteen-hour flight to get there. So much work, so much time, but it’s worth it. For adopted families, they call it ‘Gotcha Day’” “That’s just lovely,” says another one of our friends supportively. Fred asks, “Did you know, the name Eliana is Hebrew?” He explains enthusiastically, “Rafal told us it means God has answered.” Eliana: July 28, 2015 Heavy stones brace against the salty tide, Countering the waves’ force with unmoving resistance And lining the path out to sea. The breakers, We call them on the Cape. “Let’s go, grandpa!” Every summer, you and I walk along the rocks To where water meets air and surges,
Melting into the horizon where all is constant. I know this Is our place In the sure footsteps you take In the sunset hues while the moon rises slow In the way you hold my hand, always steady. As light blues dance into the darkening sky, We are here. Sue: August 22, 2021 Three short knocks sound from the front door, and I make my way across the kitchen. “Hello?” calls out a muffled, familiar voice. “I’m coming,” I shout back. “Almost there.” When I finally reach the door, opening it wide to welcome Tom and his family inside, I suddenly remember. The memory hits like a wave, rushing by in seconds that feel like a lifetime. How could I forget? Tom, my youngest, looks so much like his father at forty years old. The long, messy hair graying after one too many stressful nights at work. The sharp blue
eyes and steady, gentle voice. Back in the day, if they were the same age, the resemblance would be uncanny. “Hey, Ma… ” His words pull me back to reality, grounded in the present, and it is time. “Hi, Tom. And Savannah, my granddaughter, all grown up!”2 “Good to see you, grammy,” she replies softly. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” “Thank you, honey.” Looking a bit down and to the right, I spot Savannah’s son standing shyly in his adorable black button down and matching slacks. “Look who it is, my favorite great grandson. So handsome, Keller.” “Hi! Hello great grand ma ma. I miss you so much.” “Oh no, Keller. Just great grandma,” Savannah corrects affectionately. After lots of hugs and greetings as all the kids arrive, I sit down in the study to check the
weather. Forecasts show a ninety percent chance of rain until tomorrow, and winds could get to 12 mph if we delay the funeral until tomorrow. “What do we do? What do we do?” I mutter to myself quietly. Looking at the porch, staring as relentless raindrops splash and puddle on the surface, I spot a single bird. It flies toward the house, flapping its tiny, black wings against the wind and darting between the ancient oak trees in our backyard, until finally stopping to rest on the sunflower seed feeder. Reaching to grab my glasses, I realize, upon further inspection, that it is a chickadee. Fred’s favorite bird that he would spend hours watching while working on the daily crossword puzzle. With a cup of piping hot coffee in hand, he always used to sit and observe them patiently. A sense of calm understanding washes over me, suddenly pushing my overwhelming emotions away and keeping the grief at bay.3 I know.
2
3
I couldn’t tell you exactly how old Savannah is, but she’s definitely past the age of being called “grown up.” Grandma might still think of her as a girl, but she is an adult. Her son, that she raises with her husband, is at least two years old, so my guess is mid-twenties.
Maybe it was the morning coffee finally hitting her system. Maybe Grandma was just exhausted and fed up with worrying so much, but that was the most determined I’ve seen her in my seventeen years of life. According to the story, she thinks it was Grandpa’s spirit watching over and helping her. Frankly, I’m not so sure about her supernatural
When Jane enters, reviewing the 24hour weather report with a frown, I am ready. “Call the cemetery back. Please tell them to have the niche ready for him.” Rafal: February 17, 2021 “What do you think? What can we do?” “I don’t know, Rafal. Should we bring her home?” “I called her advisor, and he said Eliana’s going to meet with the counselor there. She’s still missing classes and hasn't left the dormitory.” “You heard her on the phone. She can barely stop crying.” “Jane, we both know she is not okay. I’ll clear my schedule to drive down tomorrow.” “None of it is okay. My dad is gone. Ma can’t stop sobbing, and I’ve barely slept. Still, I think she wants to stay because there are only two weeks until March break.” “You’re right. It’s grief. Eliana and Fred were so close, but she would have to quarantine before premonition-ghost-eternal love explanation of that day. I’d bet we just got lucky with the way everything worked out, but Grandma is convinced
returning to board. We are her parents, but she has to decide.” Eliana: August 22, 2021 Gloom rests silently in the cemetery Death dates inscribed in marble Faces streaked with tears Black umbrellas forced opened Rainjackets zipped to the collar The perfect storm. 189 days since that day When he ceased to live, Yet here we stand Brought together Amidst a downpour. Now, we brave the rain to join hands Sing poetry and recite prayers In hopes that we could do justice to the legacy of Fred Schultz: Husband, Father, Grandfather, Great Grandfather, Birdwatcher, Cape Cod Resident, Coffee-Lover, and so much more. He was always there that deciding to continue with the funeral plans was some cosmic turning point like our own miracle from God.
Every Grandparent’s Day at school Every December exchanging holiday gifts Every summer on the Cape. Though he can’t be here right now, He left us with so much more. Winds rage in Winchester, pushing past, While we endure to celebrate his final parting gift Our family. There are no words left to say No more poems to write. We remain, simply rooted in our love for a man Who gave so much So that we could be here Standing in spite of the torrent Standing tall on in the face of it all To honor his memory As one.
My grandfather was my greatest supporter. A true constant in my life who was always there to celebrate my successes and support me no matter what. He was at every graduation ceremony and sent cards for each of my seventeen birthdays without fail. Losing him last year was the most painful, emotionally exhausting experience of my life. All I could do was cry, sleep, and wake to eat meals for days on end. I asked myself, how can I be in a world without him? I still struggle with that question today. Due to the pandemic, I couldn't go to the hospital to say goodbye before he passed. I didn't get to visit him or share a hug or have one last conversation. I don't think I'll ever really have closure simply because he's not a person that I could move on from. He taught me unconditional, absolute love, and I will always be grateful for that. He was always so proud of my hard work in school, and I am submitting this personal essay for him. I couldn’t stop sobbing when I drafted it two months ago as I wrote the scene for each vignette. I am honestly crying right now as I type this statement. My
memories with Grandpa bring me so much joy, but it hurts to feel his absence. Though he is gone, I carry his legacy of kindness with me and will continue to share my writing for him.
Still fighting Jacob Liu ‘22
Perspective Anna Feng ‘24
A. MACDONALD MURPHY SHORT STORY CONTEST Hiraeth
2022 Runner Up
Fiona Xu ‘24 A couple months had passed since they’d boarded the O’Gygia and already Antheia was beginning to feel sick of it all. Sick of the always spotless stainless steel walls aboard this blasted spaceship; even more sick of the endless whirring, as if she were trapped in the belly of a giant mechanical insect. From the walls to their drab gray uniforms, not a single splash of color could be found apart from the pinpricks of light, distant stars that Antheia could see from her bedroom porthole. She sighed and flopped onto her bed, closing her eyes. Home, if anything was left of it, was nothing more than a faint memory, millions of miles away. She willed herself to fall asleep. Minutes passed to no avail. With a sigh, Antheia sat up and ran a hand through her hair, half-heartedly tugging at the knots. Something was off, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Might as well go for a
short walk, she thought, clear my head a bit. Slipping on her shoes, Antheia trudged out into the dark hallway. What was she doing? She didn’t know. Some unknown force was leading her into the depths of the O’Gygia. Making her way through the spaceship’s twisting metallic innards, nothing stirred apart from the young woman. Slowly, any sense of time and direction slipped away. Whether she’d been walking for several seconds or several hours, she had no idea. At long last, Antheia found herself in front of a strange door. At first, it seemed no different from any other door, but upon closer inspection, she could detect a faint golden glow radiating through the crack. There was also a slight humming noise, as if an enormous wasp was fighting to get out. She only hesitated for a moment. Pushing open the door, Antheia found herself standing in some
sort of courtyard. Grass covered the floor, save for a small pathway winding through the courtyard. There were a few trees too, rising above the sea of waist-high shrubs, beautiful flowering trees filled with pink and purple blossoms. The colors washed over her all at once, drowning her in their loudness after months of nothing but the cold, dull gray of everything aboard the spaceship. It was just too much. Everything Antheia had told herself to ignore came bubbling up to the surface, months of suppressed frustration and homesickness clouding her vision and rolling down her face in hot, salty tears. She’d had to watch, alongside her fellow survivors, as the planet she once called home slowly destroyed itself, one anthropogenic disaster after another. Several years ago, the last natural plants had died off in climate-related wildfires, going up in flames alongside humanity’s last hope of surviving on Earth. Yet, here she was, standing on soft green grass, a hand cupping one of the purple flowers growing on a low-hanging branch. Closing her eyes, she put her nose up to its petals, inhaling the fresh sweet scent, a welcome change from the acrid
sting of the disinfectants she had become so used to. Antheia did not want to leave, yet somehow she knew her time in the garden was up –– at least for now. The 8 hours of artificial night were ending soon, and somebody would report her missing. Dragging her feet along slowly, Antheia started to head back the way she came, making sure to take note of the path. She was going to come back, that was for sure. And she did. Night after night, for weeks on end, Antheia returned to the garden, trading in hours of sleep for those precious few moments with nature. She observed with rapture as new buds bloomed and flourished, as more new branches sprouted and grew. There were lilac and violet hyacinths, honking loud yellow daffodils, soft green ferns, beautiful snowy dogwoods, a few low-sweeping willows, and dozens of bright bold tulips. Whispers of moss crawling along the sides of the cobblestone paths. There were plants and flowers whose names she did not know, so she named them all, with whatever pretty names she could think of. By the end of the first week, she had memorized
the entire garden from front to back, not a single leaf going unnoticed. Her mood had changed considerably too, as if the flora had somehow rejuvenated her. This sudden shift in attitude did not go unnoticed by her shipmates either; whenever she walked into the room, a small ray of sunshine seemed to follow. They whispered amongst themselves, bewildered and frightened by her sudden change. A few words floated through the hallways--madness, delirium, and despair. If Antheia heard any of this, she gave no notice. There was always a faint upwards tilt on the corners of her lips and she hummed as she did her daily assigned tasks. Carefully, Antheia had built a new life for herself, one seemingly worth living for again. Or at least a delicately built glass mirage of one. The single wilted tulip was the first crack. At first, Antheia disregarded it; after all, flowers fell and wilted all the time; there was nothing too special about this one. Gradually, though, more and more flowers fell. The leaves, once crisp and green and vibrant, were the next to go. They
seemed to crumble at the slightest breath of air, the tips withering up and furling inwards, desperately grasping on to the last of their life essence before ultimately succumbing to the pull of the ground beneath them. Finally, the branches and shrubs, now pitiful in their nakedness, dried up. Antheia, too, felt herself crumbling. Try as she might, Antheia could do nothing. After all, what could one do in the face of nature’s inevitable cycle of beauty and death? Week after week, the empty husk of a young woman flitted through the hallways, revisiting, still unable to accept the dried and brown skeletons remaining in the garden. It was worse than before. Despite her best efforts, Antheia could not go back to how it all was, even before the discovery of the garden. There was a hole inside her now that nothing could fill. She had given herself up to the last bit of hope tethering her to her old home. Most of her days passed by in complete and utter silence, save for the occasional random outburst where she would cry out and babble on and on about incomprehensible things to nobody in particular.
Eventually, Antheia completely shut herself off, breaking contact with the few friends she’d made on the O’ Gygia. Nobody questioned it, after all, who wasn’t struggling themselves? It should come as no surprise that her disappearance went unnoticed. It was only when, an entire year after the spaceship had left
Earth, the annual maintenance crew found an empty room that the first clue of Antheia’s fate was discovered. Apart from the few dusty pieces of furniture and the usual monotone clothes, all they found were a few dried leaves lying next to the pillow, their dull brown a somber contrast to the gray sheets.
Untitled Madeline McCormick ‘23
THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST Aijia Elina Zhang ‘24 Fifteen years ago my parents named me Aijia. Ai for love, Jia for family. If you put it together, mama said, it means “loving,” or “family loving.” Eight years later, Didi—younger brother came. His name is Qijia, and I yelped in joy when I saw how it matched mine. But when I asked father about it, he responded with a Chinese proverb: Qijia, Zhiguo, Pingtianxia: Order your family, Rule your country, Bring peace to the world. And even though both of our names conclude with “family”, sometimes I can’t help but wonder if my character resolves with me scrubbing wooden tables, me making soup for my husband, me doing laundry, vacuuming floors, the letters and numbers in my mind useful only for teaching my children. If my story ends with me loving, loving my parents and my husband and my children and their children and their children’s children.
2022 First Place
Loving with too many burdens and too little self, loving because a girl will never be a superhero, loving so much I will forget how to draw the strokes of my name, loving until my life runs out. While family is only the start for my brother because we are waiting, waiting for him to save the universe.
Inheritance Jessica Choe ‘22
THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST Bay Window View: The Blizzard of 2022
2022 Runner Up
Colin Henkes ‘23
Flecks of white Collect on the roof, On car tops, And fall on the fish pond, On the tops of trees. Beautiful. At the same time, Flecks of brown Fall down to earth, Choosing my room As their resting spot. Stink bugs. Beautiful.
Call Me a Fish Victoria Liu ‘24
Within Eliana Mlawski ‘22
Symbiosis Eliana Mlawski ‘22
THOMAS MCCLARY MERCER POETRY CONTEST Mom
2022 Runner Up
Christine Qian ‘22 I can’t remember the first time that you called my name; held me to your chest as if no thief can take me away from you, even though this is your favorite story to tell. You said you would never forget how you had to rock me all night, but because I slept with a smile that excruciating pain in your arms was nothing. That day when the storm swept over the city and nothing seemed to be stopping it, you told me how I first called you “Mama” on a day just like this and you smiled through lightning and thunder. You confess that I’m the thief of your heart that makes you forget every scar and replace them with a happy-ending story. I think I promised to write you a story or two after coming home from preschool one day. Nothing could match the excitement on your face. I forgot half of the words my teacher taught me but you still called my full-of-nonsense writing a masterpiece that every thief would try to steal, so I grinned at your smile. Sometimes I think back and can’t believe that was us. Now you hardly smile. We fought. You thought I was going off-topic. I sought to write my own story over ours. You accused me of thieving your ownership of the pages. I left you with nothing but a slamming door. I ran out and kept running. I ought to give you a call. I forgot. It seems that you, too, in revenge, have replaced love with preachings: I should never forget
to be grateful; I should leave my room more and smile more in pictures; I should call you more often and tell you the stories happening at school. You are scared that you mean nothing to me. We are stuck in a game searching for each other’s love when there is no thief. But last night when I peeked at you over my book like a thief in the night, I saw what I would never forget– Your face battered by wrinkles was nothing like the one I remembered. I don’t know when they have crept over your smile. You stare ahead, crinkled fingers flipping through the story to the tick of the clock as though you are still waiting for my call. And I realize I have been the thief of your time and smiles. Soon you will forget all my stories, perhaps my faults, too, as if nothing happened. This time I will remember to call.
It was Time for Me to Return David Moriarty ‘22
Dad’s Scar Khanh Vu ‘25
I laid down on the old hammock swinging in front of the red brick house. It was a hot summer day, the kind of hot with gentle blows of humid wind and a petrichor arising from the soil after the rain that morning. I have always liked rainy days in Thai Binh. They brought a kind of feeling that was different from rainy days in the city where I was from. Rainy days here were days of me laying on my grandma’s lap reading a book written by Nguyễn Nhật Ánh while her gentle, wizened hands scrambled through my messy hair. I have always loved reading since I was five years old. When my teacher sent me home because I could not see without squinting my eyes, mom told me it was because I read too much. Then dad built a “book locker”, which was a small wooden drawer with enough space to accommodate most of my favorite novels. When I came back to dad’s hometown to visit grandma, mom allowed me to bring one of the books with me. Grandma’s house was a withered flower on the ancient earth. It was built by people in our village after the war to honor great-grandpa since
he was an esteemed soldier. From a distance, the house nestled like a great temple. I could recognize every single brick of the house from afar, the crimson bricks that had greeted me throughout my childhood summer days. The house had the kind of fresh smell that could not be distinguished elsewhere. It was not the kind of fresh smell of mornings when gleaming dews were still condensed on leaves. It was not the kind of fresh smell of the cool air wafting through the open window. The rain in my grandma’s house ceased as suddenly as it had arrived. Then there I was, a pensive seven-year-old girl staring up at the idle clouds drifting across the bright, blue sky that had quickly replaced the furious gray one. Grandma asserted a straw hat on my head. She told me to do this to not tan my “naturally pale skin”, because paler skins were “more alluring”. Grandma told me to go to sleep, because it was midday, and children should be rested then. I prostrated petulantly, knowing she would not make me sleep. On days like these, she would tell me stories.
Colorful stories that could convince you that there were two parallel universes. The world you came from was minuscule, and this other world was imperceptible and elusive. There were no rules there: time was read anticlockwise, dinosaurs were not extinct, gravitational forces did not exist, water was solid, faces were fluids. Grandma’s stories ranged from fantasies to mysteries, to childlike, humorous ones. But that day, she told me stories about my dad’s three childhood scars. … The stationery shop was always teeming with people: drowsy mothers holding their children’s hands, little snobby boys with tanned complexions brandishing their 2000 Vietnam Dong, elegant girls with their sparse hair tied into pigtails by their grandmas, stealthy middle schoolers discreetly using lunch money to buy comic books. The shop was a delightfully dingy hovel with a musky smell. The wooden shelves were rainbows of brown that cascaded as one’s finger ran. The shop was full of colors: green, yellow, blue nylon craft papers dangling out from their compartment; pink erasers misplaced
with the black ones; purple ballpoint pens with Doraemon designs imprinted that only high schoolers could use. Primary students, from second graders on, had to write with fountain pens, the ones with silver metallic nibs and a cartridge for refills. There were three different ink colors: black, purple, and blue; but scholars could only use purple. A bottle of ink was expensive at the time, so each student only had one throughout the school year. Dad was in second grade: a boy with guts larger than his body. On the second day of school, he left the ink bottle in class carelessly, believing that no one would dare to take it. But someone did. Dad recognized that his classmate Giang, who did not have an ink bottle earlier, came into class with one. “Giang, you stole my ink!” Dad wailed, chasing the scrawny girl after school. “No I did not,” replied Giang, an impudent girl with black hair that got sunburnt into an orangey-red color. She was very bony for her age because her family could not afford enough food. But grandma told me that that was the case for everyone, even her
boss. No one could afford enough food. “I will beat you ‘till you are dead if you do not give my ink back! No one steals my ink!” he menaced, knowing the girl would not stop unless he hastened to catch up to her. “Or I will tell uncle Chau. He will kill you.” Uncle Chau was Giang’s ill-tempered and rigid dad. He only came home during the weekends because he was in the military. On every Monday coming back to school, Giang would appear with a string of fresh bruises. When someone asked, she would reply: “You know that one adage Mrs. Kim just taught us? Spare the rod, spoil the child. He hits me because he loves me.” “I don’t care. We are starving and mom will not buy me my ink. I would die before giving up this ink.” Giang hollered when dad caught up and yanked her ponytail. He started welting her, but the obstinate girl had a high pain tolerance. Even when her knees were blemished and her eyes blackened, she refused to let go of the threadbare backpack gripped in between her injured hands. That day, dad went home without a bottle of ink and a bleeding
ego. The next day, he went home with a bleeding palm. “Hue! What did you do, you lout?” Grandma interrogated in consternation. She believed he had gotten into another fight. “I had a fight with my classmate,” Dad replied in a lackadaisical manner. Grandma then made him kneel on a durian for five minutes. The next day, a neighbor whose son was dad’s classmate told grandma that Mrs. Kim, the teacher, had hit dad’s palm with a wooden ruler for not bringing his ink to class. Grandma tacitly understood that her son had lost his ink because it was not in his room nor his backpack. In silence, she went to the shop and bought him another ink bottle. Dad’s bleeding palm turned into a scar. Only ten years later he told grandma the real story. … Grandma’s bike was a crummy red Davisa with a massive white plastic basket and dusty wheels that looked like teetering saucers. Grandma bought this bike when dad started going to school. The bikes had these chopstick-shaped metals inside
their wheels called spokes. Every day, dad would sit in the backseat, hands firmly placed on grandma’s waist. Grandma always warned her son that the spokes were extremely sharp and nimble and that they could cut his feet off if he did not spread them out. The village was infested with thieves. In an arduous time of poverty, amiable neighbors began to steal. Grandma attempted to become warier of her surrounding, placing her market money into the basket attached below the bike’s handlebars. As usual, her left hand nonchalantly pressed dad’s feet onto her lap, while the other hand latched onto the rubber grip. She thought about dropping off dad at his school, then riding to the library for work. Then she would go to the market, buy some water spinach, a portion of mackerel, a pound of pork, and a couple of tangerines to feed her three children. Suddenly, a sharp puff of air cut off her train of thought. A brown, emaciated hand that was glittering in sweat dipped into her basket. “Son, come back here! Give my money back!” Grandma howled, her feet impelling forcefully on the pedals to hasten the pace. But the
scruffy old bike could not outrun the dashing, brand new electric one. Due to her dismay, grandma did not halt to think about where Son got that new bike. Son was a close childhood friend of grandma’s before his parents committed suicide due to their lack of money. The bright, dandy adolescent’s life was in shambles. Followed by debt, the prison was more of a home to Son than the slum he lived in. People in the village threatened their kids that they will turn out like him if they did not study. The wheels of the bike made a screeching din, followed by dad’s cry. Grandma stopped and looked back at her son in astonishment. A deep cut was tearing apart his limbs, and his black leather shoe was stuck in between the sharp, metallic spokes. While grandma was fretting to catch up to Son, she had let go of her son’s leg. The deep cut then turned into a second scar, shaped like lightning across dad’s lower shins. … Dad was the oldest out of all three siblings. Grandma was a librarian, working from the crack of dawn to when the sun set. Grandpa was
a doctor in the military, he only came home during the weekends. Dad was a nine-year-old taking care of his two siblings. Water spinach. Caramelized pork and egg. Water from the wells. Fish sauce. A meal for three. Grandparents did not have metallic pots or a stove to cook, so they used casseroles, the deep dishes that were made out of hot clay. They had two handles and were put on top of a fire while cooking. The mansion had four small chambers. Dad’s room was on the first floor, the kitchen on the second. The wall was thin. From his room, dad
could hear the fire sizzling when the food was being cooked. That day, after school, the nine-year-old was fatigued. He cooked and slept. He told his brother to wake him up when the food was cooked. His brother never did. The sizzling fire then turned into a vicious blaze. Like a plague, the redness spread over the small kitchen. Then the fire seeped down through the thin wall. Dad was asleep. When the fire overtook him, he awoke and found his upper leg burning. The burning upper leg then turned into a scar.
Birth of Man Natalia Rai ‘23
Of(f) White Paper Judy Wang ‘23 America said she is an open book Just pages and pages of white paper. Where fingerprints of generations leave their mark, Finding their own creases and dents left folds and ripped edges. Some folds made ripples Ripples had holes Holes that looked like gun wounds on a body That seemed more painful to look at than to touch To trace To circle
and lay their fingers and credit those missing
Teared-out yellowGreased Fingerprints Of my people. Oh, have I just become that angry Asian lady just now? How could you accuse my teared-out body When all we ever asked for was to be more than the yellow grease More than the gunshots and holes left untreated
What are we left to do? Will they ever hear our song Until we smear the grease over sheets and sheets -
In Service to the People Judy Wang ‘23
Dress-up
Tianyi Shen ‘23 In seventh grade, my father would drive me to school all across Beijing. Each morning, we would leave the house at half-past six to avoid the heavy traffic, soaring through the dawn as I switched on the radio to avoid conversations. In the few times we talked, we always ended up in quarrels. “I want to major in Chinese,” I’d say. I was twelve, at which point, after a long time scribbling stories and earning the affection of my Chinese teacher, I was sure I wanted to study literature for life. “No matter what you do, you have to get an American undergraduate degree,” Ba would say, his thick brows fixed on the road as we cut through the traffic. “It’s the best in the world. Nothing comparable to what we have here.” At the time, I couldn’t quite figure out where my Ba’s obsession with American colleges had sprung from. I was already enrolled in what was arguably the best middle to high school program in China, and had my entire future planned out ahead of me. Ba’s myth of the “American experience” thus remained delusional: he had never studied abroad himself,
and perhaps that was why he yearned for it so desperately after all. “I know,” I’d dismiss him in a light tone. “It’s just that I want to major in Chinese. It’s not like I can go to America for that.” … Five years later, when I am sitting in an American boarding school chipping away at an English essay, I still can’t shake away the uneasy feeling that I was somehow driven to the U.S. by my father’s wish. No matter how many times I try to convince my Nainai that I came to the U.S. under my own terms, she still thinks that it was my Ba who ultimately drilled the thought into my mind. “He put the demon in you,” She’d say, shaking her head, as if we had just committed the biggest crime in the world. As much as I defend how an American high school is just like a Chinese one, I still struggle to prove myself right at times. The demographic in an American boarding high school is hugely different from that of a Chinese public school: in the traditional Chinese education system, students are usually expected to study nine subjects
simultaneously, with classes running from seven and through five, and one’s success ultimately defined by single exams. For my grandparents, the biggest difference was that their one and only granddaughter now lived some seven thousand miles away from home. The mere idea of America, combined with its “freedom and equality”— which they always associated with gunshots— created immense amounts of stress for them. … One of the biggest shocks for me when I first arrived in the U.S. was that I was labeled as “smart”: although I was the tail end in my class in middle school, I was suddenly “miss-pre calc” here. This was not an abhorrent experience until it elevated the invisible expectations around me: in one class discussion, when I said how the stereotype of “smart Asians” troubled me sometimes, a teacher responded rather confusedly, “but you are smart, aren’t you?” As if all the hours I had poured into a heat-soaked classroom on Sunday afternoons during my middleschool years were suddenly spread thin into a single commentary of smartness. What defines normalcy is often the collective behavior of the
“majority”, which can work to exclude the customs of another culture to make them seem foreign and totally delirious. The gap between social norms and educational experiences in various cultures is often what triggers the initial conscience of dual-identity in Asian international students. While they may have been assessed as “average” back home, they suddenly find themselves as the “smart” students in an American high school. The stereotype of Asians “being smart” both works to limit and reiterate the current place of Asian international students. While Asians are often seen as the top students in an American school, few notice the toxic stress that circles within the Asian community, where everyone is constantly trying to live up to an unreasonably high standard of academic excellence. When the hard work of Asian students is brought forth for external assessment, however, their effort may be easily dismissed as a direct result of their “intelligence”, which, according to the model minority myth, should be inherent in their ethnicity. The smart stereotype would then come back to haunt them when they find themselves inadequate in
athletic or other recreational settings compared to their American peers. The contrast many Asian international students experience in their different levels of success in academic and athletic settings, combined with the high expectation and constant dismissal of teachers and peers (including other Asian peers), strengthens their feeling of displacement in a majority white community. … Living in an American boarding school, I feel myself constantly playing a game of dress-up, where I am trying to fit into an Asian portrait that is both stereotypical and curious to the average white American. The key to assimilation is not only to fit the idea of a “smart Asian”, but also to occasionally falter it by failing a math test or making it to a sports game so the white audience stays intrigued by your individuality. Often my friends and I would joke how I could exchange the introduction paragraph for every essay I’ve ever written about my identity: the number of times I have created a flattering piece of writing by blending a stereotypical Asian story (generational trauma, etc.) with an intriguing
character is alarming. By resorting to my ethnic identity for major writing assignments, I am catalyzing my own racial experience to appease the audience. If I had not come to the U.S., I probably would have never written so many stories about my familial conflicts, or drawn a correlation between my personal timidness and the Chinese culture of Ren in my personal essay. … Where do these stereotypes land when one returns to their home culture? In recent years, I have felt equally displaced when I return to Beijing, a place where social constructs such as race and sex are yet to be recognized. When I find myself the dumbfounded math-idiot whose relationship with her father is less traumatic but more classically paternal, I find a loss in voice. Is there really a possibility of finding true consolation between the two single stories of China and America? I do not know. I do know, however, that many of my Asian peers and I are trying to jump out of our identities when we compose. That sometimes, by creating what is known
as “trauma porn”, we are exploiting our experiences rather than expressing them, we are enforcing stereotypes by defying them too little. Perhaps this is why Asian students are always hypercritical of other Asian-American writing too: what may seem insightful to the average white reader may be preposterous to our eyes. We are used to the tactic of playing dress-up: building the base of a story with familiar stereotypes, then adding in some personal stories that conflict, but never fully deconstruct, that pre-set idea of the white reader. When we see this in another AsianAmerican author we immediately recognize it. And we scrutinize them, trying to cover up the fact that we are doing the same. … My father is turning forty-eight this year. He has spent most of his life first walking, then bicycling, then driving his daughter across Beijing. He knows the city like the back of his hand. Throughout his entire life, he has only been to America twice: first to send my mom to study abroad, then me. When I am home, I rarely fight with him now. I have finally moved past the stage of suddenly tearing up to a
random phrase he says, and if there has to be a winner in every familial conflict, Ba had won the most important one: I am now the full embodiment of his American Dream, as I sit in math class writing a poem that demonizes him. On the rare occasions where we did talk, he’d say that I was now doing things beyond his power. I’d pull words like feminism and the power construct and he’d get frustrated. “You’re too privileged to sink to my level now,” He’d say, his eyes darting from one side to another. And for a moment I’d think this was his own American Dream coming back to haunt him— he had always known that sending me to the U.S. would push me away and change me forever, but because he loved me, because he wanted the best for me, he did it regardless. … I had always been dressing up to external expectations: first an obedient girl, then a rebellious teen. How easy is it for one to simply plunge into, instead of fight back, the current of the environment that they are placed in. For millions of other Chinese students studying abroad, finding a home between two distinct cultures seems like
an impossible mission. We have been away for too long to stay a true Chinese, yet never long enough to become fully American. Before we can find a bridge between these two cultures, Asian international students will continue to
dress themselves to the impression of the white majority, unsure of who and what to become, looking back behind their shoulders to the crooked backs of their parents, tearing up a little, then walking further away.
Speed Limit Scott Kim ‘23
Hide and Seek with Memories Bach Pham ‘22
Out of Order Jess Choe ‘22 Dedicated to the victims of sexual assault Smell of your cigarette hangs in the air Still like the cadence of my breath. Out in the dark, moths gather Under the translucent light Beaming from the neon sign Of a vending machine that directs my path. Order, they seem to lack. It glimmers Against the waning night. I’ve got money But the machine won’t take it. Three words, in red. Out of order. Blurred in red My lips and hidden laces. I smoke. Mascara stained with tears Sketches birthmarks on my cheeks. Newborn order of my breath Steals the air—I was out.
Untitled Lily Alibrandi ‘22
The Duke Don Xing ‘25
Ribbeting Sights: a Froggy Sestina Katie Riley ‘22
A ray of sun hits a bright green frog as it peers at a fly strung up in a spider’s grasp. The web has taken it, and it will stay there, illuminated by sunbeams in that misty marsh. Its mistake has left the frog hungry, standing by a meal that does not belong to it; strung like a prisoner, unwilling in the gallows. A web of tricks and lost chances, webbed like the shattered dream of a meal, missed in a sad swamp. But through the willow leaves remains the frog, enchanted by the sight, and strung just as tightly by the spider. A spider, dwarfed by the frog, can still catch in its web a larger threat. How strange is the power of a fly, most often thought mild, to hold a frog captive by its stubborn, hungry will.
Its power is lost on it now; this will be its end. A pitiful but glorious goodbye in a world where its known only as a meal for a frog or a spider, a world where it’s stuck in a web of extremes. But the spider awaits. It’s almost time for another string to be cut, forming a new web, the severed strings of small lives sewn to form their own unwilling snare. But we are still stuck in the other mist, ourselves beguiled by this fly, stuck in a spider’s web with the eyes of a frog. Let not our strings be controlled by the wills of the indifferent. Let’s snap our web, leave the mist, and finally free the frog.
Flying Out Allen Wang ‘22
ernor’s Academy
THE SPIRE The Governor’s Academy 1 Elm Street Byfield, MA 01922