Photo: Luke Hrabal
Editor’s Note:
The final issue of the 2009-2010 school year has finally arrived, and back in print form as well as on the Monitor blog, filled with a blend of works from newly published writers and members of our staff. This issue includes poems inspired by the works of famous poets, like Dan Albergotti and Valzhyna Mort, who visited St. Paul’s and helped to spread their poetic knowledge to this staff and the community. This issue also contains the two winning Diversity Writing Contest pieces, raising issues of race and discrimination through creative means. We, the senior editors, have learned a great deal from our experience on the club this year and years past: on how to edit one’s own work, another person’s work, and how to properly write in general. For that we would like to thank our co-staff members, the club leaders of the past, and especially Mr. Baird, who has pushed us from the start to indulge in the worlds of creating writing and editing and given us the opportunity to lead the group together. With no further ado, we present the final issue of this year. Please enjoy and offer any feedback you feel necessary.
Sincerely,
Max Gahm and Michael Hamod
Table of Contents
Cover Photo: Luke Hrabal
Eric Friedman… “Mixed Message”
Junius Randolph… “Things Rise Apart” Poem response to Li-Young Lee’s Behind My Eyes
Ousmane Sow… “Childhood” Poem Response to Li-Young Lee’s A Hymn to Childhood
Alex Barton... “Clouds Up”
Michael Hamod… “The Quiet Salut”
Max Gahm… “The Dreamer”
George Karabelas… “The Hill”
Vincent Carbone… “Messages to the traveler” Inspired by the collection A Day Spent In The Other Worlds by Dan Albergotti
Vincent Carbone… “But what if? a response to “Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale” by Dan Albergotti
Junius Randolph… “Gravity”
Ousmane Sow… “Talking to Himself”
Junius Randolph… “Krebs Cycle” a response to Valzhyna Mort’s “Belarusian 1”Skip McClinton… “Mort” inspired by Valzhyna Mort’s “Factory of Tears”
Charlie Hooper… “Silent Discrimination” Winner of the 2010 Diversity Writing Contest
Vincent Carbone… “Thoughts” Winner of the 2010 Diversity Writing Contest
Grant Lloyd… “Is This it?”
Eric Friedman
Mixed Message
I went to Hebrew school,
and learned I was a Jew.
Taught to observe traditions and rituals,
a heritage of honor, holidays and Torah.
But the world says, I am responsible for
wars, famine and
disease.
At 16, a healthy teenager,
a student and athlete with little time
to be a young man.
Finally I have a license,
but a neighbor informs,
you’re reckless, irresponsible and a danger to all.
I’m told to obtain A’s,
but be more social.
Win championships,
but join more clubs.
Study harder,
but call more friends.
Train with intensity,
but go to more parties.
Become an adult,
but remember to be a teen.
So I declare:
I wrestle. I study. I behave.
I ignore orders. I’m ignorant. I disrespect.
I’m dedicated, I’m careful, I compete.
I succeed
I fail
I keep going.
Photo: Max Gahm
Junius Randolph
Things Rise Apart*
His knees are flexible shovels in the non-responding dirt,
The always squinting eyes of the boy shut quickly
Like the barred doors of prison cells, keeping it in
Alone with time, hugging it, the big man he needed
Eyes booming with approval, arms moving in a fashion
That shows his love for his son’s new passions and ways of self-expressing
But the eyes run the other direction, reverting their
Distracted focus to the basketball game illuminating the 32 inch
He keeps his H-E-A-D-U-P, like Jaheim said in one of his songs
Played on the big man’s special station
The loving woman says the same.
She’s the tree of the family, soaking up sun and all the eye rain from your typical, loving, sitcom of your Wednesday-night dysfunctional family
Don’t forget to tune-in
We love the daytime, but not the light
Her roots extend deeper and of course
Reach to the sun
But she likes the shade
Eyes hiding between Marshalls’ hand-me-down sunglasses
Hiding the real
Maybe the big man should fall on a knife
Maybe I should cut off the roots he had left
He lost one of his big ones already
That has made Father more of a plane crash
Maybe that knife should have my hand on it
My hand could fall into his chest cavity
Then blood could waterfall onto another one of his precious roots
But then, another root-colored boy could be swept up
Emptied out, crushed, packed
By the lovely Government funded Sanitation Department
And then prison doors really close
If you want you can tune-in at 7, one of these seven days
To see me on the History channel
Now the light shines
In a place void of it
Perhaps the tree can’t grow, now exposed to the world of green
A world based, about, and hyperventilating green
Then the roots die, early, and don’t get a chance to grow
Maybe I should not dwell on the past
Or let the past dwell in the memory lobes of my damaged brain
I think too much.
*Inspired by Li-Young Lee’s “Behind My Eyes”
Photo: Alex Barton
Ousmane Sow
Childhood*
Well, when you appeared that first day
With a bike and the bright smile
I kinda liked you right away
Even though I did not let you touch me
I think that was understandable
Stranger anxiety defies blood relationships.
And when you taught me how to ride that bike
I kinda felt closer to you, until I fell
That was funny, wasn’t it?
and I ran away from you
And you looked at me, with eyes
So gently squeezed in, almost full
Then I knew you kinda liked me too.
But then you left, and he stayed
He had to do it all
So no wonder I liked him better
True he gave me no bike
True he gave me no candy
True he gave me no morals
But he stayed
Staying is the gesture of affection
At least to me it is
I guess when you have seen
People leave so often
And never come back in the process
The ones who stay
Are the ones you trust
And I am certainly not saying I hate you
How could I?
You did give me life in a way
And above all I know it’s never been your fault
You just did what you had to do
You gave up all that, so that I would not
Go through what you went through, right?
Operation successful
I went through something else
Not knowing whether I was
Or was not
And when I did
Or even thought I did
She would show up again.
After leaving us
Completely lost within
The essence of anger and desire for revenge
You should not have judged my composure
I was probably the most hurt
So she shows up again
Each time, Lady Dream Crusher
To try to control my life
And she is successful
For she has them on a leash
Just like tigers, she domesticated them
Watching them obey, without knowing though
Yes, without knowing
Because he has too much pride
To just obey
He would never
And this
Was one of the factors to the incident
I wasn’t there but I heard
It sounded like it was scary
Like it was not for kids to see
But I am within, am and am not
So which?...
Thank god I was not there
And thank you for sending me here.
* Response to Li-Young Lee’s “A Hymn to Childhood”
Photo: Luke Hrabal
Alex Barton
Clouds Up
We died that summer, remember?
We’d always remember
that summer, as the season of stench.
Empty, metal, ruined stench filled the air.
The telephone rang, I answered.
It was empty. I said “Hello?”
they said “Forever,” and “Goodbye.”
The receiver clicked, and rang out;
this is eternal. The stench will never go away.
Between thoughts I imagined
that this smell would go away,
But it stayed and to breathe was to work.
Then at night when the air was light, and everyone,
even the stench was asleep, I would sneak out.
I would open the door, leave my bags at the edge,
and breathe. Each step forward,
I let the stink sleep, and each step forward
into deeper slumber it went.
My feet touched the cold, wet, grass.
My toes curled, towards the bark of a tree,
they crept, the tree crept. The sycamore reached up,
and out. Each breath I took, reached up, and out.
The clouds cleared away, I could feel them.
This summer’s moon was revealed. Bare, heavy,
empathetic, and new. The stench
lingered on, but our remembrance was growing subtle.
The bark peeled off, the blades of grass grew.
My thoughts grew. The telephone next to the
tree rang, I answered. It was full. And I knew,
this was finite. So, look clouds up, and breathe.
Photo: Doug Slaughter
Michael Hamod
The Quiet Salut
We fear to speak, and silence coats the night air.*
Briefly entranced by the sound of that heavily breathing,
nodding chest. Yet the peripheral sight of such a serene
scene acts only as a witness; mesmerized by the inexplicable
prospect of a festive occasion that will not be celebrated.
Carnaval with no disguises, but still responsible for the mess
of masks that need to be made pristine once again.
The reduction of multiple unstable moments into that
one gem. The one treasure that is immediately formed once
antagonism has transformed into resentment, and the
only memory left is that final prolonged phrase muttered
from the drag of a lingering cigarette in that constricting
apartment: “N’oubliez pas de fermer la portre.”
*Line taken from Dan Albergotti’s “Bad Langauge”
Photo: Alex Barton
Max Gahm
The Dreamer
But other times she would be alone in the sky,*
And the clouds would part, and her face,
Traced by a thousand galaxies,
Illuminated by a crimson moon,
Would gaze upon him.
And the stars and planets would rearrange
God turning His gears,
And the night lights would shape her smile,
Open her eyes, curl her lips into a pucker
And she would reach for the world.
Dewed grass tickles his back,
As the lights beam off of pale skin.
A shooting star would slice across space,
Her face a million specks
Floating in the oily void.
His arms and legs would flail
In sweet ecstasy
An image of lonely man
Making the outline of an angel
In the sleeping grass.
The sky would blink and the stars gone,
And the man would wander
Waiting for the night, for the spectacle,
Waiting to watch, feel, breathe, move,
And for her to be in the sky, alone once more.
*Line from Dan Albergotti’s “Moon Daughter”
Photo: Luke Hrabal
George Karabelas
The Hill
The bare patches on the center of the hill were caused by the extreme over-usage of its dangerous slope. Birds swooped in and out of the tall pine trees as they delivered worms to their young. When snow fell, the rugged looking mound of dirt and grass was transformed into a playground. Kids from all around the neighborhood would come to try out their various sleds. The short but mostly satisfying trip down the hill made sledding an all-day event. The slope, though satisfying, was dangerous at times. Sledding down that hill with incredible speed led to the ramp at the end that propelled its victims into the cold gravel of the street below. The rough road popped large inflatable snow tubes. Missing the ramp meant sure devastation as parked cars lined each side of the street. The red pickup on the left side sported dents from the various accidents that took place.
Other then sledding this hill was a monument. It was used by the whole neighborhood in various ways. Animals such as squirrels, groundhogs, and birds inhabited its mass. Older kids used it to train their legs for the brutality of high school sports. The more violent of the neighborhood kids used it as a testing ground for their devilish inventions to kill small animals. These kids were the ones every parent in the neighborhood knew. Not because they all went door to door trying to sell popcorn for boy scouts either but because they caused so much mischief that they were the highlight of community meetings and neighborhood complaints. Climbing on small trees like animals: Skylar, Hunter, and Dustin along with their friends preyed upon whatever they could get their hands on. They stole toys from kids when they weren’t looking and lodged screws into baby carrots thinking that when rabbits ate them they would choke and die. They climbed up the tall pine trees and stole eggs from nests, while they touched the baby birds -- knowing that the mother would abandon them and they would surely die. They were brothers in a very large family that shared the same mom but had different dads. Despite all of this I found myself hanging out and playing with them almost every day. It was all in good fun.
Photo: Alex Barton
Vincent Carbone
Messages to the traveler*
Our apologies
Forgive us for the delay.
It was not long after your first message that we began to draft our response.
But though it takes but a second to enter this fantastic world beside our own,
We’ve found the return trip to be quite more of an ordeal.
You see the time it takes to retrieve your words is,
by some virtue of forces yet unexplained,
both an eternity and an instant, both an immeasurably large amount of time,
and an immeasurably small one.
We would wait for what seemed like ages for your report to appear, only to suddenly…
know your words, as though we had all along.
Your words, and the meaning therein.
We trust you, dear traveler; of that much we hope we are clear.
So it is under the urging of the various cautious men and women behind us do we ask:
Are you mad?
Please answer honestly, as it is entirely possible that you have,
in the words of so many men of science,
Gone cuckoo? Lost it? Are just plain nuts? Have the lights on with nobody home?
Got the engine running but no one behind the wheel? Well, are you?
We ask not to accuse, but simply to check.
You see, this kind of thing has been known to happen.
Indeed, it was even a common problem among your predecessors (Didwementionthem,ohdearGodwehopewehaven’tspoiledanysurprises…)
It is only natural for one in such an…
interesting predicament to become lost in the fantastic new world.
Well, no matter. Just remember the reason why you are there.
Whatever that was
Our final message
It would seem, both from the ending of your last message
and from the fact that we have received no subsequent messages since,
that you have decided to take a temporary leave of absence.
It’s understandable to ask for some alone time,
even when one is completely, totally, utterly alone to begin with, such as yourself.
We only ask that you remember who you are in the end.
We ask that you remember where you came from.
We ask that when you have had your fill, you return, and do as you were meant to do.
We ask that you not be lost in the Other World.
We ask that you not become another predecessor to whom we are told not to refer.
We ask that you come back.
Please.
The final thought
Then you are gone.
And all is lost.
*Inspired by the collection “A Day Spent In The Other Worlds” by Dan Albergotti
Photo: Doug Slaughter
Vincent Carbone
But what if?
You say to measure the walls, to count the ribs, to notch the long days,
but what if the walls are too large? The ribs too many? The days too long?
But what if the numbers lose their meaning, and so become meaningless?
Would we not be but a gear in a worthless machine?
You say to look for blue sky through the spout,
but what if we cannot find it? What if there are clouds? What if we prefer rain?
What if we don’t care about the sky? Aren’t we in a belly, in a whale, in the sea?
Where is the blue sky then?
You say to make fire from pieces of boats, to practice smoke signals, to call old friends,
but what if the wood is damp, or absent? What if smoke chokes us, and tears our eyes?
What if there are no friends to call? Does that make me helpless?
You say to listen for the echoes of distant voices, but what if I can’t understand them?
What if I don’t care? What if there are none to hear? Does that make me a fool to listen?
You say to organize my calendar, but what if I miss my appointments?
Am I not in the belly of a whale?
You say to remember the beach, but what if that only brings bad memories?
You say to look for light, but won’t it sting my eyes?
Won’t it lead to somewhere awful (at least half the time)?
You say to work on my reports, to review my life’s choices, but what if I don’t care?
What if the past is lost on me? What if I have nothing to report, or nothing to review?
What if I am young, and have few choices?
Would it be worth the five minutes to look them over anyway?
You say to endure moments of self-loathing, but what if I already do?
You say to find evidence of those before me, and to destroy it, but what if I am confused?
Was I not just asked to remember the past? Why attack it?
You say to listen, but what if I cannot hear?
You say to be thankful for who I am, but what if I can find no reason to?
What then?
You say to be nostalgic, but what if I cannot remember?
Again you bring up the past. Why should I look? Why should I care?
You say to remember, but what if I cannot?
You say to remember, but what if I will not?
*A response to “Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale” by Dan Albergotti
Photo: Luke Hrabal
Junius Randolph
Gravity
Skyscrapers daunt me from above
I bask in them
My Nikes quickly press off the ground
Airborne
Contaminated air infiltrates my lungs
Then back out, breathing
Swarms of people below me race
As they usually do
Lights next to my floating body
Flicker
Self esteem now damaged
I float away, innocuous
Luminescence directly engaging my eyes
Light calling me in
Expediting darkness
Behind me.
Photo: TJ Root
Ousmane Sow
Talking to Himself
Listen to you, sitting there
Looking all elegant with
Your Shiny beautiful hair
And your pretty face
And your diamond earrings
And your incredible allure,
Listen to you, sitting there
With your outstanding self-control
And your preppy pink shirt
And your flowering bosom
And your dark brown eyes
And your classy pants,
Listen to you, sitting there
With you “Regard percant”
And your fancy Indian bracelets
And your astonishing modesty
And your intelligence
And your heartfelt dignity
Listen to you, sitting there…
Saying things you would not
If you had thought twice about them
For you know better than anyone
And I say this because you two
Have it, the relationship
Perfect on the outside,
And hopefully, “la meme”
On the inside, but if you would just
Think about what you just said
Nothing has changed, so why
Why do you act confused
As if this was your first time with
The entourage, the family
And just in case you forget
I will refresh your memoir
It’s always been this way
So next time you feel like asking
Don’t…Simply.
Photo: Alex Barton
Junius Randolph
Krebs Cycle*
And then we crawled into the world
The least was pulled off
And we were unleashed
Eating words that said
We can’t do anything
our future
The doors shut
They won’t open
If they do
They will close again
With black
Body bags
Multitudes of red
Pouring out of our chests
Solidified white powders
Left in our pockets
One life ends
Then the cycle starts over
And we can’t do shit about it.
* Response to Valzhyna Mort “Belarusian 1”
Photo: Christian Louzan
Skip McClinton
Mort*
The republic of me is on the rise
Like my exports
They are on the rise, the world beacons them out of me:
The process begins within my heart
Fleeting yet important: the memories are the raw goods
Sadness is their tough driver
Gravity is their distribution
I am their maker
The republic of me is on the rise
I wish I could say it was so,
Yet the price of tears has always been the same.
* Inspired by Valzhyna Mort’s “Factory of Tears”
Photo: Max Gahm
Co-Winner of the 2010 Diversity Writing Prize
Charlie Hooper
Silent Discrimination
Most teenagers stand out from those around them because they have a different hair color, height, or race. However, most kids don’t stand out because they are bald, like me. Discrimination, in most cases, is immediately connected to racial issues, and verbal abuse. However, discrimination towards people with disabilities is often ignored in this topic. Through my experiences with cancer and the real world, I have felt silent discrimination. These experiences have helped me further understand the decisions made by Greg Williams in The Color of Water, because I have felt his discomfort and timid behavior during social situations.
While I was at the beach with my little brother and our neighbor, I decided that it was time to shave my head. At this point, my hair was falling out and I looked like a middle aged man who only had that plateau of hair surrounded by a bear scalp. As I stood in the shower plucking out hair after hair with my fingers, I realized that this would change my personality and confidence drastically. Before my diagnosis, I was a loud, upbeat, and energetic person who loved to make people laugh. However, when I stepped onto the boardwalk that night, my confidence dropped with the constant stares and avoidance from the surrounding crowd. Sure, no one shouted out “baldy,” but I knew what they were thinking and I became nervous and angry at the strangers I passed. This silent discrimination is seen in many people throughout the country. For example, when people say, “One of my friends from high school was black,” as a response to an accusation of racism. It’s a way to cover your real thoughts by thinking to yourself, “Yeah, I know a lot of black people I can’t be a racist.” This was the exact mindset of Greg when he first found out he was a colored child. He kept saying, “No I can’t be colored.” My neighbor and I were walking on the boardwalk to get something to drink, and every single person I walked by stared directly at me. All that I wanted to do was yell, “We get it, I’m bald, and you don’t have to stare. Why don’t you just mind your own business?” right into their faces. For one of the first times in my life I was uncomfortable, nervous, and even scared to walk down the boardwalk. This was the same boardwalk that I have been going to for my entire life, and a simple haircut changed it into an unfamiliar and mysterious venue.
I only felt comfortably in several places while I was temporarily hairless. I felt comfortable at home, with my friends, at school, at the hospital, and at physical therapy. These places were also where I liked to go and where I would associate myself. Any other place I went I immediately felt the stare of discrimination upon me. People would stare and move away from as I walked by. I’m sure most of them understood my situation and felt sorry for me but they still didn’t want to associate themselves with me. This answered the common question of why the black students sit with the other black students. It is simple because they are more comfortable there. They don’t have to be worried or nervous when they are with friends of the same race. This also explains Greg’s decision in the auditorium. Greg felt comfortable with people like Brian and his cousin, because he grew up with them. Greg was comfortable around his black peers and he felt awkward and uncomfortable around his white peers and even cousins. This is exactly how I felt when I would go to restaurants for dinner. I felt as if everyone in the restaurant was staring at me and talking about me as if I wasn’t there. Once again I wanted to stand up and say something, but I didn’t. At Chipotle one night, I was ordering dinner before my friend and I went out. As I approached the glass the Hispanic workers immediately started laughing and whispering to each other in their native language. I didn’t know what they were saying but it was obviously about me. I wanted to throw the burrito right in their faces. I was embarrassed, uncomfortable, and angry. This is what discrimination does to people, they don’t feel like they belong and I had never felt that until this year.
Why do we avoid those people with disabilities? Why do avoid those people of another race? Why don’t we talk to them and start a conversation with them? It is because we don’t feel comfortable around those people who aren’t like us. Discrimination is a product of confidence and people’s ability to branch out and try new things. Not many people want to meet and talk to the bald kid, or the black kid, or the white kid, or the Hispanic kid, and so on. We aren’t willing to get out of our comfort zone and so we create discrimination towards those who are outside those boundaries. It might not be the verbal abuse or racial comments that many people relate to discrimination, but it’s a silent discrimination.
Photo: Doug Slaughter
Co-Winner of the 2010 Diversity Writing Prize
Vincent Carbone
Thoughts
David must have been walking through Central Park on March first in 1998. He must have been wrapped up in that long black trenchcoat that he loved so much: the one with the blue green stitches, and his name sown in under the cuff (so that you wouldn’t find it unless you knew where to look, and if it was ever taken all one would need do was lift the cuff and display the name). He loved that jacket: it was too heavy for even the coolest days, and far too thin for the cold ones. The wind blew right through it, and the cheap black felt soaked up water in a manner that would turn the most yellow sponge an envious shade of green. But Jamie had bought it for him, and he wore it every day.
Jamie…She must have been there, as well. Her flowing, blonde hair must have blown about with the wind of each passing car, the long, golden locks tangling against each other, caressing her face as David had so often done in the dark of night, twisting together in a manner reminiscent of that first time they had climbed together beneath the sheets of his bed and he and Jamie had become one.
Jamie must have held his hand as they walked through the crowds, and perhaps let out that little giggle that he had come to love so much, pointing out some aged pair of chess players, or a group of small children running past, and David would have laughed as well, and they would continue to laugh until there were tears in their eyes. Jamie would have lifted her free hand to brush them away, and the chuckles would have faded from her slowly, leaving a warm but distant expression on her face as she would begin to ponder a future of matrimony and children.
But David could only guess about such things: he remembered nothing of that morning. He wasn’t an absent-minded person, and on any other day he could have quoted her every word, recounted their every step, or recalled their every waking moment together, but that morning his mind was worlds away.
The little black velvet box weighed only an ounce in his outstretched palm, if even that, but on that day it must have rivaled a ton. He would have found it funny, being troubled by blackness once again after it had meant so little to him for so long, and he could have let out a chuckle at the thought, which she would return, all the while holding him close, or perhaps he had let out no such remark and they had walked in silence, each overjoyed at the mere presence of the other.
He must have thought back to that day he had first met her, in the back of the art room in preschool. He must have remembered how he’d teased her for the paint on her face, and the forced apology that had followed at the hands of the teacher. He must have remembered slowly approaching her at lunch, and how she’d shared her apple slices with him, and how she was the first real friend he’d ever had.
He must have recounted those days back in high school spent studying and reading and frolicking together in their youth. He must have thought of the split lip he’d received from talking to her in the hallway, courtesy of a less than open-minded classmate. He must have remembered running off, and how she’d chased him down into the depths of the building, through the crooked doorway next to the janitor’s closet and into the boiler room beyond. He must have thought of how she’d come to him to comfort, and how he’d pushed her away. He must have remembered how he’d told her she’d never understand what it was like to be trapped with who you are. He must have remembered what she’d told him next.
“But why would you care if you’re trapped?” she’d said, “What’s wrong with who you are?”
He must have thought that night before prom when her boyfriend had shown up drunk and she had been the one running off crying. He must have remembered how she’d come to him, how she’d asked him to hold her, need her, love her, and how he had done all three. He must have remembered how she’d leaned in and given him that first soft, wet kiss.
He must have thought of meeting her parents, and how nervous he’d felt. He must have recollected how furious her father had been, how hateful he had sounded. He must have heard that conversation all over again:
“Is it because I’m black?”
“No,” she had said, laughing through her tears, “It’s because you’re not Jewish.”
People must have stared on that cool March first in 1998. Some might have been shocked, others might have been felt a tinge of pride, but all must have stopped to see the tall black man in the trench coat, on his knees before the joyous white woman.
Now David sat over the crib, no longer thinking of March first, 1998. It didn’t matter anyway: all the hate-filled cries, all the misguided pats on the back, which only served to reinforce a difference which shouldn’t matter. He didn’t care. He smiled, laying his daughter down to bed, covering her gingerly with the soft lacy blanket her mother had knitted. He rose slowly and walked back to the doorway of their thirteenth floor apartment. Jamie was there, waiting for him. He took her in his arms and smiled.
He remembered only one part of that thoughtful afternoon on March first, 1998: she must have said yes.
Photo: Max Gahm
Grant Lloyd
Is this it?
Waking up at two in the morning? No
Arguing over a parking space? No
To watch a movie, laughing aloud? No
To send her roses? No
Running?
Spending?
Defending?
No, no, no.
To act without thinking, or thinking of thinking.
To work, not for results, but for pleasure.
Eating when hungry, drinking when thirsty,
Remaining still in a world of conflict.
