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Aerie International

aerie international
a literary arts magazine
edited solely
by young writers and artists
for young writers and artists

aer•ie (âr’ē) noun 1. The lofty
nest of an eagle or other
predatory bird, built on a cliff
ledge, mountaintop, or high
in a dead snag. 2. An elevated,
often secluded, dwelling,
structure, or position. 3. A
home for exceptional young
writers and artists from
around the globe, providing
publishing opportunities,
literary prizes, and crosscultural
connections. 4. A
place where the distinctions
and connections of culture,
language, peoples, and
environment are nurtured.
5. An innovative new
journal edited and published
by high school students
for high school students.

we invite submissions of
innovative poetry
short stories and flash fiction
brief nonfiction
short drama
foreign language poetry and translations
visual art and photography
contact us at aerie.international@gmail.com
Congratulations 2011 Award Winners
Patricia Goedicke Poetry Award
alexandria garcia | victoria, british columbia, canada
James Welch Fiction Award
elissa watters | rye, new york, usa
Norman Maclean Nonfiction Award
danny rothschild | interlochen, michigan, usa
Rudy Autio Visual Art Award
sam glencross | carlisle, cumbria, uk
Lee Nye Photography Award
isaac s. rinke | lawrence, kansas, usa
Richard Hugo Sense of Place Award
julia deangelo | greenwich, connecticut, usa
Chief Charlo Celebration of Culture Award
sophart ra | kro bei riel, siem reap, cambodia
international advisory board
eric abbott
sandra alcosser
coleman barks
dana boussard
david allan cates
david james duncan
www.aerieinternational.com
debra magpie earling
carolyn forché
tami haaland
ilya kaminsky
robert lee
naomi shihab nye
caroline patterson
prageeta sharma
m.l. smoker
robert stubblefield
renée taaffe
r. david wilson

editorial board | 2011
editors
managing editor
senior literary editor
poetry editor
prose editor
senior visual arts editor
art editor
photography editor
poetry board
prose board
digital editor
online editor
business manager
advisor
Aerie International is published annually by the students of Big Sky High School in Missoula,
Montana. Subscriptions are $12 to U.S. subscribers, $15 to friends outside the U.S. Sample copies
are $5. Subscription forms can be found at the back of the magazine. Exchange subscriptions are
encouraged. Aerie International is supported by Big Sky High School, private contributions, and
sales of its magazine. Aerie International accepts poetry, fiction, nonfiction, art and photography
submissions from September 1st through February 1st. All work is submitted electronically.
Potential contributors should send no more than five pieces. For full submissions guidelines and all
other correspondence, visit our website or inquire through email.
aerie.international@gmail.com
www.aerieinternational.com
© 2011 Aerie International
Rights revert to the author upon publication.
Printed on recycled paper with recycled ink at Gateway Printing.
mackenzie enich and emily ward
jenna mcvey
kelton enich
alyssa bashor
lauren beyer
austin mcclure
alexis hagestad
nicole jarrett
mauricio cámara fernández-montilla
amy robertson
elise lawrence
sarah yovetich
mauricio cámara fernández-montilla
elise lawrence
sarah yovetich
lorilee evans-lynn

friends of
Aerie International
The following individuals and organizations have made it possible for the Aerie literary
magazines to thrive. Thank you!
sponsors
Missoula Education Foundation
Trevor Laboski, Big Sky High School
Mike and Jan Peissig, Nancy Lee, Donna Elliott, Gateway Printing
patrons
Dudley Dana, The Dana Gallery
John Lynn and Lorilee Evans-Lynn
Laura Parvey-Connors, MeldMedia
Michael Small and Deborah Allard
Renée Taaffe, Missoula Art Museum
donors
Lela Autio | James and Judith Bullis
David and Rosalie Cates | Dr. Briar Diggs
J. Robert and Dorothy Evans | Gerald Fetz
Paul and Susan Fredericks, Mineral Logic
Henry Ward and Bridget Johnson | Nina Johnson
Robert Lee and Rosemary Lynch
Chris and Daphne Moffett | Suzanne M. Mondo
Dr. Elizabeth and Frank Repplier
Frank and Beverley Sherman
Bill Whalen, Montana Claims Service of Kalispell
Dr. Gary and Lynne Willstein
supporters
James and Gwen Beyer | Peter and Karen Enich
Tami Haaland | Daphne Herling and Stephen Seninger
Dr. Christian Kenworthy | Candice Mancini and Chris Toney
Kenneth and Robin McVey | Scott Vogt
Thank you for your support!
Sponsors $1,000 +
Patrons $500-999
Donors $100-499
Supporters $50-99
Parents, Past & Present: Priceless

Dear Reader,
Highest Award 2008 | 2010
Nominated for Highest Award 2009
NCTE | Program to Recognize
Excellence in Student Literary Magazines
Welcome to the fourth volume of Aerie International. As you begin your tour of
our magazine please remember to keep your hands and feet inside the book at all
times. This year has been very hectic, even by Aerie standards. Luckily we’re very
good at adapting to our environment and are excited to be sending this magazine
out into the hands of awesome people like you.
As in past years, we received submissions which exceeded our expectations
completely. Over 300 writing and visual arts submissions were sent from all
nooks of the world. We were excited as always, of course, to reconnect with old
friends like Carlisle, UK and Kazan, Russia. Your submissions make us all citizens
of the world.
The goal of Aerie is, and always has been, to connect individuals around the world
through the writing and art of students. We like to sit in our naïve world of
literary whimsy and dream of a day when conflicts will be solved by writing bitter
and stinging poems to enemies. In that world, friends would be made through
the exchange of literary magazines. We at Aerie like to view our magazine as a
harbinger of peace, attempting to extend the voices of students to all residents of
Earth.
This year I, Mackenzie, was lucky to travel with my family to visit Thailand and
Cambodia. On one of our first mornings in Cambodia, we were about to leave
for downtown Siem Reap when at the front desk I spotted a brochure with
wonderful art. I sat at the computer and emailed the instructor of the Small Art
School. When we returned from our adventures out in ancient Angkor, I checked
my email, not expecting a reply knowing that schools were out for the Khmer
New Year. Lo and behold, an email awaited me from the Small Art School. Of all
the art schools, in all the towns, in all the world, I’m glad I walked into that one. I
thought to myself, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. And it has been.
As always, taking Aerie International from an amalgam of ideas and turning it into
an actual publication takes not only a dedicated staff and advisor, but also a great
many people who lurk just beyond the Aerie room. Thank you first and foremost
to everyone on our International Advisory Board, especially those individuals who
came to read at our fundraiser and attended our annual board meeting. Another

massive and much-deserved thank you to Cathy Marshall, Mary Kleschen, Tom
Michels, and Dave Dickson. Although their children have graduated from the
Aerie room, they returned like the superheroes they are and pulled us through
the process of raising enough money to create this magazine. Thank you to
Brooklyn Walter and Derk Schmidt, our fantastic student teachers who have
been a constant source of support and laughter. Thank you, of course, to all who
donated, particularly the Missoula Education Foundation: your generous grant
filled us with a financial calm for the year. Finally thank you to Mike Peissig,
Nancy Lee, Donna Elliott and all the lovely folks down at Gateway Printing.
Without you we would probably be stapling pieces of computer paper together
and calling it a book.
To our valiant leader we would like to extend a thank you which soars above the
mountains of the Aerie world. Ms. Lorilee Evans-Lynn is truly the hand that holds
the helium-filled balloons which represent the whimsical minds of the Aerie staff.
We have spent hours upon hours working on this magazine in and out of class.
Lorilee is always there with us, making sure our focus stays on the magazine
rather than food. She even tolerated our wearing of sticky note mustaches in our
staff photo this year (see next page).
Finally, thank you reader. We would like to throw our metaphorical arms around
you. The dreams of our editorial staff are realized thanks to individuals such as
yourselves. Within these pages lie our very souls. That’s a little melodramatic, but
we think you get it. We also hope you will purchase a subscription for yourself or
your literary arts-inclined friends.
We hope as you go through the pages of our magazine you feel an intense urge to
form a connection with someone else in a distant land. If we were the benevolent
dictators of Earth, all citizens would have at least five pen pals in different
countries, and literary arts magazines would be required reading for all.
Here’s looking at you kid, we wish you the best,
Mackenzie Enich and Emily Ward

Dear Readers,
I am truly honored to introduce this fourth issue of Aerie International. The
imaginative poems, stories, photographs, and works of art you are about to enjoy
stand alone and require no introduction; the writers and artists from around the
world, whose work you will view, have short intros included. Consequently, I
will focus on the people who put this award winning literary magazine together,
and the process they go through. A.I. is a student run literary magazine accepting
submissions from teenagers throughout the world. As Poet in Residence at Big
Sky High School for the Missoula Writing Collaborative and as an Advisory Board
Member for Aerie International, I have come to know the young scholars who create
this finely-crafted literary magazine. Rest assured these students are not editors in
name only for a publication created by teachers. They are the real deal, far from
privileged or pampered prima donnas.
These young men and women have experienced living from its well-earned,
sweet caress (many are recipients of scholarships and awards for their stellar high
school accomplishments) to life’s cruelest slaps. One young editor is blind, and
can be seen at readings, leaping on and off stages with careless abandon and an
ever-present smile. Another easy smile can be found on the face of our Mexican
exchange student, courageous enough to tackle creative writing, public speaking,
and magazine publishing in English, his second language. His four musical names
remind all students that their endeavor is truly international. A third A. I. student
has endured four brain surgeries in this, her senior year of high school; she
illuminates a room with her let’s all laugh sense of humor. Other members of A.I
have experienced tragic and unexpected losses. These hardships and challenges
have strengthened and united them. I have witnessed passionate, almost angry,
arguments as they debate which submissions to include in this issue; each
person argues strongly, but also listens. Mutual respect is evident. Eventually,
compromises are found, a consensus reached. The quality of the magazine seems
always the deciding factor. Wouldn’t it be nice if our legislators possessed this same
combination of passion, commitment, and respect? Aerie students give this cynical
old poet hope for the future.
There is, of course, a driving force behind the student staff of Aerie International.
Lorilee Evans-Lynn, longtime Creative Writing teacher and advisor for both Aerie
Big Sky and Aerie International, is a tireless leader. Her students willingly work
lunch hours, after school, and many weekends to produce these award-winning
publications. Her management style is delegation and respect: she gives her young
charges enough rope to hang themselves, and then runs around frantically shoring
up the ground beneath them so that the rope will never go taut. Her students
become a family, forming inseparable, often lifelong friendships. Aerie students
from past years return for visits from college. Parents of former students often
volunteer at Aerie functions, tribute to Lorilee’s passion and boundless energy.

The result is this exquisite literary jewel you hold in your hands. The writers,
artists, and photographers published here are 13-19 year old students from
diverse backgrounds and geographic locales. All are connected by the quality of
their work and their sense of humanity. We will all grow our appreciation for
art and for the world we inhabit by reading and rereading this magazine. Enjoy
it. Send it to your friends. It is my extreme pleasure to welcome you to Aerie
International 2011.
Robert Lee, MWC poet in the schools
The Aerie International staff is normally not this serious, but when
wearing our special boots (which had to be cropped due to space
constraints) and mustaches we feel the need to be completely stoic.

Table of Contents
1 what the words are doing now | isabel bartholomew
2 irrelevance | lili rosenkranz
5 there is colour in haiti after all | alexandria garcia
8 kaleidoscope mornings | emily masters
11 an interview with oksana | oksana soluyanova
14 on the eastern seas, the cookies beckoned | robyn van ek
16 geumsansa temple in gimje city, south korea | andie moss
18 sunday long distance | simon david
20 waiting for the blue fairy | tara ming moon
23 the science teacher | eric protzer
25 an interview with eric | eric protzer
30 mother’s hands | angela shen
32 sundays | renee reneau
34 melting pot? | sara harding
37 winter in venice | sarah munger
38 unrooted | danny rothschild
47 having lunch with tony | louise burton
48 the hOle | hyun park

50 elementary | mattis deutch
52 brumous cementery | elissa watters
54 watching the rainstorm from the edge of frye lake |
julia deangelo
56 excuse me, SirRealism | joanne koong
59 learning to skip rocks | brittany soder
60 the house | monica nederend
62 all in your hands | polina kamenskaja
65 the harmony of the storm | elissa watters
67 the moon and the waves | lucy mahaffey
69 an interview with deren | deren ertas
74 autumn | kelsey schurer
76 my ticket | taylor smith
78 the sparrow | madeline petersen
82 taxi to soweto | sithokozile mahlaba
cover art | Lee Nye Photography Award
towards insanity | photography
isaac s. rinke | lawrence, kansas, usa

isabel bartholomew
salt lake city, utah, usa
what the words are doing now
They are riding elevators
to the top floors of buildings that were knocked down
years ago. They are catching the train on a snowy day, leaping on just in time
and they are exploring empty museums with hushed voices and soggy boots.
They are flying solo across the Atlantic
and losing their suitcases in hotel lobbies
and sitting in my grandmother’s willow tree, the one that was struck
by lightning when she was a little girl.
They are burning in a bonfire, sending smoke signals to Santa Claus.
They are drinking cold coffee in the Redwood forest
and they are jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge.
They are blowing away with litter down the highway
and they are playing hide-and-seek inside an empty house
and they are dabbing at their lipstick before they whisk off to the opera,
leaving behind the faintest trace of perfume and cigarette smoke.
They are fluttering and tapping outside my window like moths
trapped between the screen and the glass
and they are running home late at night through the sprinklers
and they are solving for x on a rooftop,
mapping the skyline with a worn-down pencil.
1

irrelevance
a i
lili rosenkranz
greenwich, connecticut, usa
There are many reasons to buy a map, most logically, however, for direction,
red lines, tracing fingers, a highway if you are plain. I am callow and want
a love affair with Montana. I want something Western, something along a coast,
something fried. Not white with snow or fences but scabby-kneed, wide-hipped,
and freckled.
At first it was hard to find. Paper is light, for the wind, for getting lost. And you
soon are forgetting exits, rights and lefts. The dashboard disappears in a mess of
folds. That’s why we are told things like miles and minutes left to destination, and
then it is turned off. Digital windings, crosses, and sinewy lines turn off because
we arrive. And that’s that. Arrival makes for destruction.
I can promise you this is not a ply for some old way, an open road, or wind
in your hair. I am no Luddite, no advocate, perhaps a romantic but only because
I want Wisconsin to swallow me up and Alabama to take my voice and make it
syrup-slow, worthy of waffles, pancakes, side-road diners, a Sunday breakfast
table.
Only once have I been somewhere irrelevant. North Platte, Nebraska. It was
temporary, transitional, but I have a picture of a Welcome sign: “We appreciate
your business.” As if I were entreated, as if a town could wallow, whimper, and
whine, as if desperation was an embrace, a small town hugging me in a hollow
back, a flat chest where the buildings are one story and fearful of the sky.
It was no love affair, a romance obstructed by the mediocrity of wizened plains
browning in Midwestern shades, bricks mortared with bottom of the barrel paste,
cracked and lazy, Fords, and one yellow line taken by the hand, pulled through the
smallness lethargically.
No, it was not a love affair because I never fell in love with the locality, never
met a native, never tasted Nebraskan coffee, or found a street sign with a peculiar
name. But North Platte, Nebraska is where I first took a map and loved its veins.
It is where I made webs, wanted to know Morrill, Gosper, took a pen down to
Dundy, and circled Colfax in crayon.
I bought a map to be average, greater than suburb average, but American
average that is dusted, worn, but warm. Maps are light, for the wind, for getting
lost, but they are also for the indulgence of irrelevance, getting lost but still
wanting to find.

old west | plein air style neutral tone pastel
avery beck | lawrence, kansas, usa
3

ancient angkor | graphite on paper
dine bun thai | siem reap, cambodia
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Splashes of hot pink, greens and yellows stain the market square
plump women work their dark fingers
retailing okra, yams, and cassava
that are strewn across the dusty road
plump women work their dark fingers
under sleek taffeta parasols
that are strewn across the dusty road
unsettled by rustling feet
under sleek taffeta parasols
hard green plantains litter the road
unsettled by rustling feet
sifting soil through the air
hard green plantains litter the road
smelling of thick unripe skin
sifting soil through the air
parted full lips inhale the dust
alexandria garcia
victoria, british columbia, canada
Patricia Goedicke Poetry Award
there is colour in haiti after all
smelling of thick unripe skin
retailing okra, yams, and cassava
parted full lips inhale the dust
splashes of hot pink, greens and yellows stain the market square.
5

My dream is to be an artist. The art teacher, Tomoko comes to the center
every Sunday and I enjoy taking an art lesson. I like to draw my village
life and people. Our daily life is very simple. We grow rice and vegetable. We do
fishing and eat domestic animals. Food is very simple, but Khmer food is very
delicious.
I wanted to express Cambodian people’s daily simple life in my artworks Life in
My Village. We use buffalo to cultivate rice fields. We do everything by hands, so it
is very hard work and take a lot of time. Therefore, we do not waste any food and
enjoy eating together.
a i
sophart ra
kro bei riel, siem reap, cambodia

Chief Charlo Celebration of Culture Award
life in my village | watercolor on paper
sophart ra | kro bei riel, siem reap, cambodia
7

kaleidoscope mornings
Graveyard shift was always your favorite.
The waitresses have more to say and the cooks are better,
you’d tell me as I slid into your God awful sedan at six a.m.
A magazine and plastic spoon would pry at my flip-flop as you
sped to your favorite diner. You always petted the stray dog
in the alley and sat at the table by the French bread. It smells better.
The dust in this place cuddles in the bottoms of the upturned coffee cups
stacked end on end on end above your head so that
I am afraid they will tumble on you each time the waitress with the ponytail
and short legs reaches for one. But the waiter with the easy smile
snatches her a few after watching her struggle for a while.
You laugh. They must be sleeping together, you say,
the way he looks at her.
a i
emily masters
allendale, new jersey, usa

tea party | black and white photography
hazlett henderson | baldwin city, kansas, usa
9

inspiration |black and white photography
oksana soluyanova | kazan, tatarstan, russia
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an interview with oksana
oksana soluyanova
kazan, tatarstan, russia
Upon viewing Oksana’s photograph “Inspiration” (page 10) we immediately
realized it was one of the most remarkable out of the hundreds of
photography submissions we received. In addition to spending time learning
three different languages in school, Oksana immerses herself in a life of dance
and photography. The combinations of these interests and a lifelong passion for
dancing on stage lead her to capture a beautiful moment in time through the lens
of her camera. The magic and movement of her piece urged us to learn more
about her passion for dancing as well as what her life in Kazan, Russia is like.
AI: What is life in Kazan like? Describe the culture and people. What kind of things do
you and your friends do for fun?
OS: Life in Kazan is like an old fairytale. Thousands of legends are devoted to
Kazan, it is mentioned in old manuscripts, books and songs. My city is a heart
of different cultures and religions. There is so much beauty in my city. People in
my city are very kind and hospitable. My friends and I really love to walk in this
city. Usually we walk in the center of Kazan. We like to go to our special place
near the river. There we sit on the grass and chat. When the weather is bad we are
going to the cinema, bowling or café.
AI: What would a regular Russian dinner in your family be like? What would you talk
about?
OS: All family gathers together for supper and this is probably the longest and
the nicest meal of the day. Supper usually starts about seven p.m. and can last for
some hours. We discuss the latest events at the table and members of the family
share their emotions with each other. Russian cuisine includes a variety of dishes.
Russian lunch consists of the first and second courses. Usually we eat vegetable
salad, potatoes and different kinds of meat. But I prefer chicken with mushrooms;
my mother prepares it very tasty. She hits a chicken and sprinkles it with spices.
Placed on the chicken is fried mushrooms, onions and tomatoes. All of this
sprinkled with grated cheese and filled with mayonnaise and baked in the oven.
AI: How many languages to do you speak? Which one do you use the most? Why?
OS: I know three languages: Russian, Tatar and English. I study English and Tatar
11

in school and, as you can see, it is going well. But mostly I speak Russian, because
it is my native language and my family and friends speak Russian and I know this
language from my birthday.
AI: What about photography inspires you?
OS: I’m starting to take photos when I was nearly 14. Photography is really a
unique amazing thing, which allows us to stop time. There are so many nice things
around us: beautiful landscapes, different interesting situations, our friends or
simply those whom we love. All this inspires me on new creations.
AI: If you could hang one famous photograph in your bedroom, which would you choose?
Why?
OS: I would like to hang one of the photos of Lina Scheynius. She
transmogrifies banal daily into something magical and amazing. Thanks to her we
can feel us evolving in her efflorescent world. Lina’s work covers aspects of past
and present, allowing her characters being real, without shyness and masks.
AI: If you could tell only one fun fact about yourself, what would it be?
OS: When I was a child I used to have really long hair. Once I had to stay with
my grandfather for a summer. One day he decided to make a haircut. While
he was cutting his hair I complained about the heat. He pitied me and asked a
hairdresser to cut my hair. Because of that it was men`s barbershop I was cut
like a boy. When my parents came back they were stunned, shocked and amazed.
Since then I have never gone to barbershop with my grandfather.
AI: You mentioned in your biography that you are a dancer. What types of dance are you
involved in? What inspires you to dance and how does dance connect to your photography?
OS: From childhood I loved to watch people who dance on stage. I was always
fascinated how they smoothly move. And I wanted to be like them. Parents
have embodied my dream in a reality, and enrolled me in a dance studio. Since
then I dance. I started dancing when I was seven. I had different styles of dance:
choreography, hip-hop, ballet, street jazz, jazz modern and many others. Dancing
is my passion. I cannot imagine my life without it. Before my performance I
usually worry and scare but when I am on stage all my fears disappear. Most of
all I am attracted by jazz modernism. In this dance, you feel complete freedom
of movement of the body; you convey your feelings and emotions through
music. When I’m studying modern jazz, I gain strength, flexibility, plasticity,
and a beautiful shape. Also I’m learning to control my body, easily express my
feelings in the dance and develop the artistry, imagination and musicality. For
me, the most important part in this dance is the performance on stage when the
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audience applauds you and admires the performance, just like I admired artists in
childhood.
AI: Do you have any wishes to travel anywhere in the world?
OS: I like traveling very much, like discovering new places for myself, like
learning something new. So, there is not much difference for me, where to travel,
but it would be really cool to take a trip to the Alps!
surge in children’s joy | black and white photography
oksana soluyanova | kazan, tatarstan, russia
13

When I left,
my brother came with me,
the only way he knew
to make sure I’d keep coming home.
Heather MacLeod “Touch the Buffalo”
We built a fortress, a castle really.
Stronghold of cushions, and the roof
a wool blanket.
We stayed there all day and
all night. Keeping watch through
the crack in the wall.
I packed a journal
and a box of crackers in my pack
strapped tight to my shoulders.
When I left,
I told mom I was leaving, stated plainly
my plans to conquer and ransack.
I, the tiny tyrant
embarked on the living room,
staking claim to the foreign terrain, began building
and transforming
this land into a spectacular kingdom.
Free of parents to make laws,
I would rule and
my brother came with me.
Wearing a toque he called
his “ranban” hat
and shrunken Spiderman pajamas
he poked his head through the door
while he straddled the moat.
His noble steed, the saddled dog
a i
robyn van ek
sooke, british columbia, canada
on the eastern seas, the cookies
beckoned

lingered at the bridge
panting lazily with reins fashioned to her collar,
bow tied,
the only way he knew.
We played for hours
shooting “bad guys”
ascending tall mountains
to secret caves, finding diamonds and rubies.
Through binoculars, we found pirates
on the eastern seas, black flags raised and tattered.
Soon came the aroma of chocolate chip cookies
blowing westward
to make sure I’d keep coming home.
the seamstress | multimedia
phebe myers | lawrence, kansas, usa
15

geumsansa temple in gimje city,
south korea
Rain somersaults across the pleated
roof of the temple, a curtain between
the dusty gravel and flickering
light inside. Here, priests teach us
how to pray, how to call to our ancestors.
Hands pressed together and elbows
locked at right angles, we kneel,
left knee, right knee. We fold our chests
to the wooden floor, inhaling fresh pine.
Five gold Buddhas hold their hands
in meditation, even faced and solemn.
This is the hour the monks come to worship.
One Bhikkhu, the leader, stands before
the altar, motionless. His eyes blink
as his chest rises and he swirls
his arm toward the gong to begin
personal meditation. A blue dragon,
scaled and grinning, bends his body
around the gong in the priest’s hand.
The dragon is the protector of Buddha,
guardian of the east. Behind the Bhikkhu,
ceremonial tags hang from yellow hooks
bearing the written names of ancestors
and prayers for a safe journey
into the next life. Candles line the altar,
waving in synchronized patterns
as the worshipers hum the Metta Sutta,
chant of loving kindness. I light
a stick of incense, place it next
to the half-melted candles and drink in
the stillness of the monsoon day.
a i
andie moss
missoula, montana, usa

iris | repeated oriental lino print
emma mitchell | carlisle, cumbria, uk
17

sunday long distance
Every Sunday, without fail, my father makes the ceremonious long distance
phone call to his mother, who lives thousands of miles away in a small village
called Erode that straddles India’s southern tip. Growing up, I hadn’t really
known my pati* as well as I would have liked, as well as other children knew
their grandparents. Although latent ties with my extended family were forged
on occasional trips to India, these links would often weaken within months of
my return home. Yet, my dad never forgot where he came from. In fact, I could
always sense that there was a part of him yearning to return to the sunny India
of his childhood and youth. When I was younger, I thought that his Sunday
phone calls were the bridges to connect his present to his past; they were his
little gems of India in the conglomerate of America. As I have grown older, seen
more of these Sundays, I have realized that these conversations were not only my
father’s, but mine too. Writing this, I recall the movie Amistad, sections of which
I watched in U.S. History class. In defending the Amistad slaves, John Quincy
Adams boldly asserted, “Who we are is who we were.” The truth of his statement
is unmistakable, and in hindsight, I can say that this truth couldn’t have been more
manifest in my life through my father’s Sunday calls.
Pati’s voice would come through the slight static faintly at first. However,
it would grow in strength as the conversation proceeded. There was always a
paradox about her voice. It was strong in the way an old woman’s voice is strong;
it had the strength that bore a life’s burdens and persevered with dogged, yet
rational, optimism. However, if only on the surface, it possessed the frailty of
a young child, who fumbled with the simplest of things. There was always an
undeniable undercurrent of love in her voice, though. I remember her asking
my father, in opening many of their conversations, “Nalla irukingala?”* When my
father asked her how she was, she would answer on behalf of my whole extended
family, “Nanga ellam nulla irukkom.”* Neither my father nor my grandmother would
speak very much at one time. One would say a little and then wait for the other
to reply. I sensed this was their way of making sure that they were still together, in
spite of the miles that separated them.
My father would always encourage me to talk to pati. When I was younger,
I would often shy away from this prospect. Not only was I daunted by the task
of speaking Tamil, I also knew that I wouldn’t be able “connect” with her in the
same way that she “connected” with her own son. After all, I was a child living in
America, desiring to become more American; she was an elderly woman whose
Indian roots were grounded in her being. Therefore, it came as no surprise that
a i
simon david
tucker, georgia, usa

our conversations started out choppily. They usually ended abruptly as I limply
asked her if she wanted to speak to my father again. Yet, the more and more I
got up out of my kitchen chair and made the walk to the telephone, the more
natural these conversations became. The contrasts of our lives were overwhelmed
by the common identity of our heritage. I found myself asking her in Tamil how
her health was, if she had been to Sunday service, and if she had dosai* or idli*
for dinner the previous night. She usually understood my Tamil, and where there
were holes, my dad was always there to bridge the gap by telling me how to voice
this thought or that phrase in the language of my forefathers.
Soon, just like my father, I smiled when I heard pati’s strong voice surmount the
static of our speaker phone. These days, I am beginning to realize the powerful
presence my pati plays in my life. Our lives and stories have become intertwined
through countless Sunday calls, sown together into that beautiful patchwork of
heritage. She will continue to take me back, time and time again, to that land of
India, and I will always remind her of the branch of our family tree in America.
In Tamil: *Grandmother *Is everyone well? *We are all just fine *Flaky bread dish *Rice patties
moving image | black and white long exposure photography
alex messenger | carlisle, cumbria, uk
19

waiting for the blue fairy
Veils of rain fall off the eaves
like curtains to a stage. Tia sits
on her front door step —
clutches her stuffed bear. Her porcelain feet
are exposed to the breeze
as she fiddles with the hem of her skirt.
She waits to catch a glimpse
of glowing wings — the dancing sparks
of fairy dust seen only in
the moment before one
falls
into a dream.
But science and nature combine
to perform flawless patterns. Trees
recite photosynthesis to their seedlings;
air, an external force,
opposes the rain’s uniform motion,
and vapor condenses
to form soft pattering
inches away from her toes.
Still the girl guards
fantasy from reason — imagines the blue
spirit embracing her like a mother should.
The wind whispers
encouragement — spirals
leaves up against the laws of nature,
past the water droplets that plant themselves
deep into the earth’s soil.
a i
tara ming moon
victoria, british columbia, canada

two is for mirth | mixed media
charity ekpo | lawrence, kansas, usa
21

a delicate balance | graphite on paper
luke b. watson | salt lake city, utah, usa
a i

Enough energy to vaporize Egypt walks into the classroom
— it avoids this implication
by calling itself Miss Mund—
retrieves a flat, yellow balloon from the drawer
announces:
“Watch the dots on the balloon, children,
Georges Lemaître. 1931. The big bang theory.
The priest took a break from singing hot air to the heavens,
thought of a solution to a problem,
etched some numbers into a chalkboard.
What a genius.
Watch the balloon, children.
I will empty my lungs into it.
This is to represent the universe as it expands.
Do you understand,
Billy?”
Billy,
who was pounded together from gas
in the furnace of a star,
says only
“Yes, m’am.”
Miss Mund comments
on the lack of energy in the classroom,
which is really terribly ironic
but since nobody is pondering
their explosive potential
no one finds it funny.
Pinching the balloon to her lips,
she gives another tired shove
to air that has been shoved by neanderthals,
eric protzer
victoria, british colombia, canada
the science teacher: a dedication
to enjoyers of sinusoidal curves
23

dinosaurs, three supernovae
and really could have done without another,
until Billy,
who has been watching the balloon,
pushes his hand up faster
than fifty thousand trillion nine hundred and seventy three sextillion six hundred
quintillion kilograms
of earth can pull it down.
“Was the big bang yellow, then?”
“No, Billy.
The big bang
was not yellow.
Do you see what happens
to the dots
as I inflate the balloon?”
Miss Mund shoves the air again,
but the air has had quite enough
and books it.
The class stares on
as one world ends
and another begins.
a i

eric protzer
victoria, british colombia, canada
an interview with eric
Eric’s poem, “The Science Teacher: A Dedication to Enjoyers of Sinusoidal
Curves” (pages 23 and 24) was one of the first submissions we read this year,
and we knew immediately Eric had set the bar high for this year’s magazine. His
poem was passed to each member of the staff and our reactions were all the
same: Eric’s voice and sense of humor are amazing. We were excited to learn
his inspiration as well as more about his life in Victoria, British Columbia. An
interview seemed absolutely necessary. We have come to the conclusion that
either Eric is superhuman and can stop time to make room for his unbelievable
number of activities, or he just leads a crazy busy life. His literary life reaches far
beyond the realm of poetry. He “balances” his time between Speech and Debate,
theater, playwriting, journalism, spoken word and oh yes, school. His poem is
quirky and weird and fun and brilliant. This interview illustrates the complexity
of Eric’s life and we hope you will enjoy him as much as we did.
AI: Your poem describes such a clever idea. Is your work based on a real experience or is
it a work of fiction? Where did you get the idea for writing this poem? Is there a teacher at
your school who inspired your poem?
EP: There are two primary sources of inspiration for this poem, although
neither gets explicitly mentioned. On a deeper level, much of my poetry about
nature and science comes from an image my mind conjured while I was on a walk
one day; that image being of the earth’s surface subtly rippling and shivering as
time progresses, with all existence on the planet being permutations of a single
larger unit. “The Science Teacher” partially expresses this theme of universality,
but was also sparked by a conversation with my writing instructor, Terence Young.
He was commenting on how, although he never liked math much, he did enjoy
the euphony in the word “sinusoidal.” I proceeded to ask him if he knew that the
fourth derivative of a sinusoidal curve is yet another sinusoidal curve; in reply, he
told me to leave the building. Reflecting on the irony of the situation, I produced
“The Science Teacher.”
AI: You seem to have experience in many forms of expression. Poetry, song, theater,
journalism, spoken word…which is your favorite medium? (How do you have enough time
for all these?) Explain some of the other ways you participate in these mediums.
25

EP: Acting is definitely my favourite medium of expression, partially because
it’s the repatriation of written, refined language to the dynamics of oral
communication, but mostly because it’s just plain fun. My most frequented
characters are the comedic and insane (which is why I enjoy Beckett and Monty
Python so much) because I love to entertain and, for the latter, to explore
complicated psyches. My drama teacher jokingly calls me a “black hole actor” for
this reason; I internalize non-comedic roles very strongly, and consequentially
have to remember to make my emotions visible to the audience.
Keeping up with my linguistic involvements can be stressful sometimes. I
once performed the one-man show Krapp’s Last Tape the day after having finished
competing in the Canadian National Debate Championships. I usually spread
things out, though; for example, I save large-scale writing projects, such as a play
about the Cuban Revolution that I’ve been working on for ages, exclusively for
holiday breaks; whereas I do performance and public speaking during the school
year.
AI: If you could say one fun fact about yourself, what would it be? Why?
EP: A banana once saved my life. I was very sick, had drained my electrolytes by
refusing to drop out of a debate tournament and proceeded to go into paralysis
when I came home. My parents weren’t in town at the time, but thankfully my
sister had the resourcefulness to use that “telephone” device and ask them why I
was complaining of full body muscle failure. It turned out my family had a genetic
potassium deficiency, so they phoned my neighbor asking if she could kindly
retrieve a banana before my heart stopped. I chose this anecdote because it was
that or “third generation snail breeding.”
AI: Why is writing so important to you? In what ways does writing influence you? Do
you hope to continue writing in the future? Plans for the future?
EP: One of the few ways I can be both my ridiculous self and socially acceptable
is through creative writing. If I were to publicly talk about genetically modifying
people to become plants in order to end war, poverty and hunger, most people
would think I’m a lunatic. But I’ve used that topic satirically in essays and
speeches to win awards and scholarships, because for some reason, writing can
make the uncomfortably bizarre become comical.
Although I do read fiction for fun, and often analyze comedies to improve my
own work, most writing that really influences me is non-fiction. I have an entire
bookshelf dedicated to trivia books, and spend more time reading Wikipedia
articles and the news than everything else combined. I’m very driven to
understand and improve human society, so new information has a strong effect on
me; profound political, scientific and philosophical theories fill me with more awe
than Shakespeare ever could.
a i

I’ll almost definitely keep up creative writing as a hobby throughout my life and
will have to keep up nonfiction writing as a career necessity. I want to pursue
human development through a theory I’ve created about the role of corporate
social responsibility in fulfilling The African Mining Vision, and although
discussions with professionals in related fields (e.g., the High Commissioner of
Cameroon in Canada and Craig Kielburger) have indicated I’m not a complete
crackpot, I constantly have to develop its specifics as I learn so I can eventually
convince a wider audience of its potential.
AI: If you could fill a shoebox with objects which represent you and bury it for future
people to discover, what things would you fill it with? Why?
EP: I’d put in a treasure map depicting a fictional, but moderately detailed
excavation site, so then future people would spend years searching for it and call
it “The Lost Treasure of Eric Protzer.” They might even go on to produce great
thriller novels about me and think I was a crusader and belonged to a secret
religious society.
AI: What does your family usually discuss at dinner?
EP: My mom’s a right-winger. I’m a left-winger. My sister thinks we’re both
insane. This tends to define our dinner conversations, although they remain
entirely respectful. Results vary from missed homework over arguments about
Norwegian socialism to taping pictures of politicians onto uncouth parts of the
house.
AI: What is it like to live in Victoria? What sorts of things do you and your friends do for
fun? What is your family like?
EP: Victoria would be the best place on earth if Canada was teleported to the
middle of the Pacific Ocean. As a medium-sized city that’s a provincial capital, it
has most of the features of a larger metropolis while maintaining greenery and
an air of relaxation. In the summer, these qualities can be thoroughly enjoyed;
it’s great to spend warm days strolling by the downtown harbor, checking out
surprisingly good jazz and theatre festivals or exploring the many parks and
beaches. When I was younger, one of my favourite summer pastimes was having
mock sword fights with my friends (using katanas constructed from pool noodles
and PVC pipes), which worked well here given Victoria’s open and varied
terrain. However, it rains for a good two-thirds of the year, which means a lot
of activities are restricted to the indoors. For me, this means getting involved
with extracurricular theatre, music, public speaking and writing, which is well
supported at my school.
27

AI: If someone in your school were to describe you, what do you think he or she would
say?
EP: A complete stranger would identify me as “that debater guy who does
weird stuff in assembly.” I asked one of my friends, and they said, “Hardworking.
Passionate. Creative. Humorous. Boss. Silly.”
AI: Who (writers or anyone else) most influences you in your everyday life? Which writer
should every young person read? Why?
EP: Che Guevara is the most influential figure in my daily life, not for his
political affiliations with communism, but for his commitment to ethics. I haven’t
read extensive amounts of his writing, but have read enough in combination
with historical works on his life to know that he had immense empathy for the
oppressed and impoverished, and the determination to help them as best as he
could — whatever his sense of help was. Although our methodologies of aid are
different — he was a revolutionary, I want to use socially responsible foreign
direct investment for human development —my inspiration comes from his
motives. In addition to reading Che’s autobiographies for ethical development, I
would encourage young people to read Douglas Adams’ works. You will not know
effective humor until you have done so.
AI: If you could invite three guests to a dinner party who would you invite? What would
you hope to talk about? Most importantly, what would you serve for dinner? Why?
EP: Assuming I can breach barriers of death, language and logic, I would invite
the first human out of Africa, the first human to arrive in the Americas and
Richard Dawkins. To begin, I would ask the early humans about their cultures and
experiences migrating, and take in Mr. Dawkins’ observations on their accounts’
relevance to evolutionary history. For dinner, I would serve a mild tranquilizer so
I could pluck hair follicles from the early humans, then conduct a DNA analysis
with Mr. Dawkins’ help. As thanks for being such good sports, I’d give the
protohumans blueprints for steam engines before sending them back in time.
AI: Will you attack if provoked?
EP: Only if my opponent is armed with delicious fruit.
a i

caricature | digital illustration
elin gotting | grönahög, västergötland, sweden
29

mother’s hands
Teach me how to wrap zhong zi
Hit me.
Teach me how to write han zi
Hit me.
Teach me how to thread zhen
Hit me.
The dark spirit lies dormant
The other side of people
Ethereal.
Trace lazy circles on my back
Hit me.
Hold me when I miss
Hit me.
Tickle laughter into my nerves
Hit me.
Light must fade
Even the sun follows space laws
Our nature is unsteady
But it is real
a i
angela shen
norman, oklahoma, usa
This poem was originally written in Chinese, and is a tribute to all children who have experienced
domestic abuse. In China, corporal punishment is the widely used and accepted form of
punishment, though it is gradually becoming less popular. My parents used this in their parenting
repertoire, but I feel as though this type of punishment has strengthened my resolve and established
a sense of autonomy and self-discipline. In many cases, however, parents cross the line between
acceptable punishment and domestic abuse. “Mother’s Hands” is written specifically for two young
children, Beau and Calyx, who were murdered by their own mother. Though Beau and Calyx’s case
is an extreme example, thousands suffer from domestic abuse. This poem addresses how a mother’s
hands can serve two main purposes: to nurture or to hurt. –angela

母亲的手
教我包种子
打我
教我写汉字
打我
教我穿针引线
打我
冬眠,那幽灵
虚无 飘渺, 人类的黑暗
我背上懒惰的行踪
打我
拥抱我,当我满怀失落
打我
挠痒的笑声进入我的神经
打我
光必须退去
太阳也得遵循空间法则
人的本性捉摸不定
却是如此逼真
angela shen
norman, oklahoma, usa
31

sundays
a i
renee reneau
saint augustine, florida, usa
They were like lambs in the apple orchard,
Grazing in a field bordered by eucalyptus trees.
They studied the veins of leaves, searching for spirits
To give their secrets to and hide them among
The dark ivy folds and statues of St. Francis and the Virgin Mary.
On Sundays they played school,
Finger paints sprawled across the table,
A pair of hands dipped into blue to create
A telescope that sees through the sky’s mysteries,
Past blue stratospheres, hidden doldrums, and other words to learn.
Books of strange words and letters
Paired with familiar pictures piled high.
He picked up a pencil and spelled “dog”
With a backwards d, then g.
If held up to a mirror, it would say
“God,” yet another secret hidden in the leaves of the apple orchard.

esurrected | black and white photography
sandra otero | lawrence, kansas, usa
33

melting pot?
The bright orange scarf
that spends most days wrapped in silky dark hair
is forgotten in a closet
on Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays
when its owner exchanges it
for a disposable hairnet,
and the sunset-coloured sari
gathers in pools on the floor.
Only black pants and a white blouse
are acceptable at the deli.
A man drives his secondhand Ford
down the lonely Pat Bay at 5 a.m.
his strong Cuban hands sag
at the wheel
his foot eases off the gas,
contemplating the 10 hour work day
in a city where no one
speaks his language.
Delicate fingers wrap deep seaweed
in sticky rice
ruby eggs
in the centre. Row after row,
fish after fish, separated
into travel-sized boxes.
This Japanese artist finds a story
in every California roll.
The spacious grocery store
spills Muzak into the aisles,
has bad lighting, long hours
and minimum wage.
Local teenagers work shifts on Friday, wanting
a i
sara harding
victoria, british columbia, canada

for pocket money,
dresses and cars.
They have no idea
how much the foreign workers wish
privileges for their children.
the reptile within | photography
lauren barr | lawrence, kansas, usa
35

securities locked | digital photography
leann colella | helena, montana, usa
a i

winter in venice
sarah munger
greenwich, connecticut, usa
The blueprint of the city is wrapped in a mythological hush,
parentheses of bridges reincarnating a frozen molecular love affair
between the water and marble
as you open your palm, postcards floating out to the seaweed,
a compass to written adventures.
Heaven has settled along the stones,
through the frozen, wooden crests of gondola dreams
pressing into the veins of the canals, its visual superiority haunting Italy,
the topography giving birth to piers and saints and snow.
The infinite intimacy of the docks reminds you of Italian angels,
of yellow mornings and the transformation of language,
of the secret life in this disintegrating destination
and its never-ending December vision.
Prayer is like the anarchy of water, wild,
chanting a stream of unsatisfied romance out into the air,
silhouetted against pale cathedrals, mixed in with the lost sentences of Italia,
awakened by the cool, winter air, only to fall to the marsh below.
And you wait there, barnacled words growing from your mouth,
rooted deep in the moisture of your lungs, the back of your throat,
the cellular infinity of your body pulsing its devotion,
pooling into the labyrinth of the water.
37

started writing “Unrooted” in a non-fiction class, when I was learning about
I the “lyric essay” form. I became fascinated with this form, and decided to
have a series of short essays that explored the different places I have lived. The
speaker in each section is me; I decided to play around with different points of
view to show how close or distant I am to each place. The italicized paragraphs
are sections from a letter I received from my father shortly after we had a
conversation about where I was going to attend college. The conversation turned
into more of an argument about the identity crisis I sometimes had, and the
feeling of lacking a home, something I thought about a lot. His letter was his
explanation/apology for making the decision to travel throughout my childhood,
something I am now very thankful for, though it comes with its advantages and
disadvantages (as he explains in the letter).
unrooted
The other day you asked why we uprooted you from your home in Rome to drag you
around the world. It’s clear from what you said that you see the negative aspects of this.
I’m not an intellectual—nor a poet—and I probably don’t have adequate words to describe
our reasons in making this decision. But there were reasons, even if I can’t explain them as
eloquently as I wish.
Rome, Italy: 1993
You start off in Italy, on the third story of an apartment, located above Teatro
Grego, a Greek-style theatre with beautiful dancers twirling each night. The music
seeps into your room, and sometimes the urge to see them is so strong you sneak
in from backstage, sly in your ways. They know you are there, though, they just
pretend not to notice. They don’t mind—they see the spark in your eyes for
dance, or theatre, or something of the sort—you are an artist, they know that
before you do.
Around the corner there is a bakery with your favorite pastries, bignés: puff
balls with a Nutella filling—nothing ever feels so right on your tongue. They have
ice cream, too, and the owner of the place lives right across the hall. He knows
your favorite flavors: pistachio with lemon if it’s morning, or straciatella with
cappuccino if it’s afternoon. Sometimes, he gives you what’s left in the tub at the
end of the night. Why would someone want to leave this place, you wonder, but you
are young and you have so much more to see.
Imparerai l’inglese alla scuola, Mom says, but you have hated English ever since
a i
danny rothschild
interlochen, michigan, usa
norman maclean nonfiction award

you drew a picture of the sea with violent waves and on it wrote: da skai is blu.
They laughed, but you couldn’t figure out why: phonetics is all you knew. You
can learn Portuguese instead, Dad insists when you tell them English is not good
enough. That’s what they’ll speak on the streets. This is a step up from English, but
still, it doesn’t appeal to you. They keep trying to convince you, tell you moving
is exciting! That for the first time you will have a house with a garden and you
will finally be able to grow the kumquat tree you have tried to grow in a small
ceramic pot in your room, but failed. Maybe we can get a dog, Dad says and Mom
gives him a skeptical look, but that spark in your eyes lights up. You have always
wanted a dog, ever since you were eighteen months old, crawling around the
apartment on all fours. There is a doggy door in the walnut front door, even
though the apartment is on the third floor and pets are not allowed. That’s what
you love about this house. That, along with the green tiles in the kitchen and the
big glass windows overlooking a curving street. You love counting cars, counting
how many blues, how many reds, how many Smarts.
You love Italy, but soon won’t have a reason to. You’ll continue loving it only
because you do now: the shaky two-person elevator, the thrill that it might snap
any day, the fresh bread and the familiarity of the neighborhoods. You know where
the best pizza is, and the cobblestone street that takes you there (the street is
closed in the mornings because of the market, and you know every smell of the
market). These things won’t easily be forgotten, but when you visit, six or seven
years later, the crisp air that used to smell of pines will smell more of cigarettes
and smoke, and you’ll feel foreign, maybe because you are the only one who
doesn’t smoke, or maybe because you used to hate tomatoes. Maybe because you
still won’t eat mushrooms. When you visit, the music from Teatro Grego will keep
you up at night, and you will wish the place would close down.
The things you considered beautiful were in your child-like mind, but you’ll
lose that. In an effort to retrieve it, you will trace faded footsteps in the parks
you used to play in. You’ll return to the bakery to ask for a bigné. You might even
return to the apartment and crawl around on all fours, just for the sake of it.
Yes, we knew that by moving you would also give up any chance at roots—but Mom and
I both felt that our roots were more in our connections—mostly to family—and not to a
place. And that in moving around, you would develop roots of a different kind—roots in
individual people, rather than places. Looking back, I may have placed too much emphasis in
this idea—probably to convince Mom that this was the right decision.
Bamako, Mali: 2000
Around me, I see tall grass, taller than me, swaying in the wind. I can’t see
the end of the field, and that’s part of its beauty. Between dry grass, I see the
crumbling dry earth, caked with the dust of last year’s Harmattan, a trade wind
blowing dust from the Sahara all the way to North America. This is our winter,
this wind from the end of November until March.
39

As a child I was told not to run out into the field during the Harmattan because
I wouldn’t be able to find my way back, but I always did. During sandstorms I
would sit in the field with my legs crossed, close my eyes, bow my head and hold
onto the stalks on either side of me. It looked as if I was praying, and maybe I
was. Maybe I was praying to the rain gods, causing the sand and dust to rise off
the ground and start swirling around my head. I always looked up and watched
the shapes being formed: somehow those shapes always resembled a mad man.
But I had been doing no such prayer. I was an atheist, so the rain never came.
Something about me must have angered the mad man, the grass kept swaying, as if
each stalk tried to catch the other. The dust rose, the mad man breathing it in fast,
as if he had been drowning for months and had just now resurfaced, mistaking the
dust for air. This is when I’d run, short-legged and wide-eyed. I’d run in whatever
direction—that never mattered; I’d run away from the man tearing up the field,
my field; run until I no longer heard his growl.
In this field I experienced something bigger than the fields, bigger then the
Harmattan. I shook the dust from my hair, thinking how much the earth had
been craving rain. A particle of dust was small. In this field I was small, and
this field, in the world, was small. But simply being is everything, even if we are
meaningless, even if we are dust, because dust is nothing, nothing but what is in
the forceful blows of the Harmattan, in the haze that hides the sun for days, and
in the greyness that mocks the sun for months. Nothing but the lack of rain, and
that too: the rain, and everything that thrives off it after months of waiting for
nothing; nothing but the heat, but the dust, but the wind.
Also, you were already on the road to being an “in-between” kid. Your father was an
American, and a Jew. And while most people in Italy would probably consider you a Jew
because of your last name, by Jewish standards you were not. Your mother was a Catholic in
name—but only in name. You also grew up speaking Italian—but it was clear that knowing
English would be very important for your future (You didn’t want to speak English as a
young child). We also saw that in Italy, choices are much more limited than in America. We
didn’t want you to grow up with those limitations—we wanted you to be freer to make your
own future.
Dogon, Mali: 2003
You know a secret. You know that if you travel long enough, weeks canoeing up
to the Niger River, you will find the Dogon people, way up north—on the way
to Timbuktu. You know this because you’ve done it, and you do it again. You are
lucky they take you in at night—they don’t like anyone disturbing their peace, so
you keep it a secret. They take you into their houses, built on the sides of a hill so
steep they stick out of the rock. You climb wooden steps carved out of logs to get
from one room to the other and at night you all sleep on the roofs to soak in as
much of the cool breeze before the sun hits again. In the morning you bathe with
a i

them in the Niger River—clearer than you have ever seen it—and you would be
a fool to say an initiation hasn’t occurred.
This day there has been a death in the village, so there is a celebration (there
always is). The Dogon know that when we die we fall back into the dirt: grow
back into an animal or plant, so they throw the ashes onto the ground and dance
over them with extravagant masks: stilts and earth-toned costumes raising dust
around you. You so long to dance like them, to be part of their tribe, to live like
they live. It’s simplicity in a new sense of the world—nothing easy about it, but
it works and it feels right, that’s what simplicity really is. That night the children
teach you how to beat a drum as well as how to build a drum. In return, you show
them how to play hide-and-seek and tic-tac-toe in the dirt. They never really
understand, but it doesn’t matter.
Before climbing back up to the roofs for the night’s rest, the village gathers for
what you guess is story time. You don’t understand their language but you can
hear in their laughter the love they share for each other. Along with their love,
they share their knowledge and take gentle care of the earth—you can tell by
the way they sit on the ground and inhale the dust. You don’t feel any different
because they don’t focus on the past, only on who you are at this very moment,
and you are one of them: sitting in a circle under a boundless sky full of vivid
stars. You are one of them, climbing up wooden steps to fall asleep as close to
the stars as you’ll ever get; that’s why your love for them sinks deeper than the
tomorrow’s rising heat.
You stay awake a little longer than the rest, creating your own constellations,
like you imagine they once did. When the village is asleep you watch the stars
turning until you realize it’s you that’s spinning, and finally you understand what
the Dogon are all about. Too many people today believe the world revolves
around them, that the Earth itself is confused as to what direction it should be
spinning, but you! You know a secret, you learned from the Dogon, that we are all
part of something bigger, something promising, progressing to equilibrium with
the belief that there is no life after this, but knowing this one never ends.
You know a secret: there is another world, but it’s within this one.
Anyway, we saw mostly the positive side of things—and concentrated on those (I was
probably in denial about the negative aspects). Had we looked more honestly at the possible
negative aspects, we might have decided otherwise, but I doubt it. I’ve always been an
optimist, and rather headstrong (as you know), and once I make up my mind to something, I
move forward pretty quickly. Also, I wanted Mom to experience what I went through—being
an outsider, having to communicate with people in a language not my own, and learning
about other cultures. And for me, this happens when you live in a place for an extended
period of time. For me, it’s only in the second year of living in a place that I feel I start to
understand it.
41

Abuja, Nigeria: 2005
In Nigeria, I gained my independence, though I didn’t necessarily see that as a
good thing. I lived in transit; spent more time moving from house to house than
in a house itself. When we first moved to Abuja we lived in a life camp: fifteen
or twenty houses scattered around, each with a separate fence and bars on the
windows, six watchmen roaming around and barbed wire on an eight-foot wall
surrounding the camp.
My father worked for the Millennium Project, a project based on accomplishing
eight different goals in twelve villages throughout Africa by the year 2015. He
worked with the village of Pampaida, though we lived in the capitol, several
hours south, because I needed to go to school. Only a week after he moved, the
head supervisor of the project passed away and my father took his place. For the
first time in twenty years my parents would live away from each other, and they
weren’t happy about it. At first my dad drove down on the weekends, but soon
after that he contracted malaria so my mother decided to stay with him until he
felt better. In ten days, his health came back, but my mother never did.
I moved in with the neighbors, an old couple from New Zealand. They took
wonderful care of me. I had my own room, the guest room, but it was just that:
constantly feeling like a guest. The feeling didn’t change visiting my parents in
the village. On the weekends I took a bus to see them. Because of the unpaved
dirt roads and the rusty vehicle, the drive took nine hours. The consistency of the
trip became more familiar than sleeping on the couch in my parent’s home, more
familiar than the floral-patterned guest room. The same driver always drove the
bus (Fatima, was her name), the same woman cooked fries on the side of the road
where we would stop for lunch. The same boy with the same goats (I never knew
why he brought them back and forth), the same pregnant woman going back to
her family after a long week of work, the same potholes on the same road. Soon I
didn’t need Fatima to tell me when to hold onto my seat; I knew the path by heart
because it was the closest thing I had to a home.
The bus ride started becoming a habit, but during the elections things got
serious. They cancelled school every other day because of bomb threats, and the
neighbors I stayed with left, decided it was too dangerous after seeing one man
stab another to death on a Thursday. I felt safe: we had barbed wire on the eight
foot wall, guards at night, bars on the window, but that’s why they left, because of
the guards, the bars and the eight-foot wall.
The last four weeks were spent in my parent’s village, their village, not mine.
The house belonged to them and I was just a guest, again, sleeping on their couch.
At night I would sit outside, wait for the broken headlights of the bus to shine
their dim light on the road. I always waved to Fatima and she waved back, but
only for a minute, then my home would drive away.
a i

I’m not philosophically inclined. I like to read about ideas—but I’m not a deep thinker.
I’m much more a pragmatic person—I do what I think is right at the moment, without
analyzing the deeper meaning. So, as I didn’t have the ties to a physical place, I opted to
tie us to a lifestyle that I thought would compensate for the things I thought I couldn’t
give you myself. I thought this lifestyle would give you an appreciation of cultures, of
language, of humanity. Also, in a narrow-minded way, I probably thought that you would
grow up with people with similar ideas—people interested in bettering themselves and
the world around them.
Northern Michigan: 2010
After moving to boarding school and trudging through four winters, I have
learned that Northern Michigan is all about small gods. I find them everywhere,
and they whisper the same thing. In a summer day they speak to the sunflowers
and say, yes, turn your heads to the left, just a little bit more, a little bit upwards. In a
summer day they hide in the goldenrod and under the feathers of an American
bittern who I hear but never see while riding a river down to a new lake. In
autumn, they tell me to wait for the green pointed leaves of a sugar maple to fade
a little, turn yellow, and fall to brown. I hear them breathe, their whispers, yes,
they are the rustle in dry leaves. When the fields are covered in frost, they say wait
for the rain. They are the reason some flakes fall towards the sky. I can see them,
looking out my window, under the light of a lamppost.
They are gods, and they say, yes, and home is this sphere, rolling around on
their shelf. They say wait for the rain, for the rain and for the first ferns to unfurl, and
I know that’s where I’ll find them. So I wait for the spring fleas to spot the snow
with dots and for the ice to sink out of sight. I wait for the freckles to return to
my face, and when the mayflies arrive I go out and search for the gods, for the
whispers.
They are there: they are the smell of rotten oaks and broken birch bark, they
are the early days of aspen seeds. They are there, but I can’t see them, and I want
to ask them why! But I already know why. Because yes, they whisper while I try to
fall asleep, you planted the daffodils too late and yes, it was too cold, and no, they won’t
show their face this spring. The mayflies drop and blow away with the wind, and the
whispers are the whistle carrying them away. I’m left with the “who cooks for you”
of the barred owl, somewhere outside my window before I fall asleep. This tells
me it is and I am home, waiting for the leaves to change to red again.
Am I sorry we made this choice? If I said I was, I’d be lying. I’m happy to be doing the
work and living the lifestyle I do. I’m sorry at times for Mom, not having friends around,
and for you, not having a solid home base. But I tend to ignore the negative side of things,
and concentrate on what I see as positives. Maybe I’m just sticking my head in the ground,
43

hoping (wrongly?) that things will work out for the best. But that, too, is me. I hope you can
understand me, and my motives. And forgive me. I may well have been wrong—but it wasn’t
for the wrong motives. I’ve always wanted the best for you in everything.
Love, Dad
Tuscany, Italy: Always
There is a house in La Verna, and it is hidden in the clouds. There is a house at
the top of a hill, not too far from the monastery where St. Francis is said to have
spent his nights in a cave. At night the monastery is lit up so bright from far away
you’d think a star is resting on the hill. There is a house at the top of the hill, and
that’s something we will always have.
We have not yet finished travelling, and with each move, we ship our favorite
art back to this house, which has become a museum. There are masks all along the
stairway from every place we’ve called home. The faces whisper to you, answer
any questions you may have. In the corners there are sculptures covering the
walls: cloth paintings, batiks, things that are too beautiful for us to let go.
It’s all there, hidden inside the house, and the house is hidden too, way up on
a hill, way up in the clouds. But it’s there: brick walls and a fireplace, kitchen
overlooking the valleys—and in the autumn you can’t tell the difference between
the window and a painting.
The house is at the top of a hill and the hill is so bright with red and orange: a
forest fire of leaves, and that’s something we will always have to return to; a real
fire in the winter; poppies in the spring. In the summer: family that we have not
seen in years, sitting around a round glass table eating cherries picked earlier
from our own trees, and drinking wine Wine we found in the cellar, wine that
grandfather made when he built the house.
Even though the summers don’t last long, the winters are cold, and we aren’t
always in the midst of the autumn fire, we have the burning sunsets etched into
our eyelids. We see the sunsets each night when we close our eyes, no matter
where we are. We’ll see the sunsets each night, wherever we go.
a i

Rudy Autio Visual Art Award
portrait | oil on canvas
sam glencross | carlisle, cumbria, uk
45

chained to time | photography
jonas upman | lawrence, kansas, usa
a i

having lunch with tony
louise burton
atlantic beach, florida, usa
Where are you? he calls out.
I think about my answer
wanting to make sure I get it exactly right
so there will be no doubt he will find me again.
I see the bottom of the earth, relative to the top
which is relative to the bottom.
The tip of my finger on the crest of my knee
which is bent at a table in southern Oregon,
relative to northern Oregon.
A table, which is shiny, relative to the tables
in the Cuban restaurant in Santa Monica.
Santa Monica is warm, relative to the top of the stove
which is hot. After it is turned on.
The absolute bottom of the glass,
relative to the place from which I drink.
I lift my glass off of this
shiny table in northern Oregon, which is only
Oregon relative to its own namelessness.
Oregon which is only real relative to the thoughts in my brain
which have congregated a reply:
I am here!
I place a stake in the ground:
everything is relative to this.
47

the hOle
It was getting harder to pronounce the letter O because of a hole on the place
where my skin should be covering the heart. I jumped out of the atmospheric
fevers of the car, hurrying to study the album that my friends had sent from South
Korea. I exhaled and vacantly felt my chest inflate and go down. Then I felt the
hole again.
I had no idea exactly when the hole had appeared in the right middle of my
chest. I noticed it one afternoon when I was taking off my clothes. It was just
there, like an inborn function. Nowadays it was getting bigger. Still, no one else
knew what was happening under my shirt.
I waited for Mom for a while, glancing at the broken windows next door. They
were my younger brother’s work. His obsession towards sports had started the
day we’d arrived at this new house, and had continued ‘til last week when he’d
finally driven a soccer ball into the window next door.
“They didn’t fix the thing. Didn’t ya pay yet?” I said to Mom, trying not to
include O in my words. At least she got what I meant.
“Of course I did. It’s empty anyway. Who wants to live in such a house?”
It was true. The house hadn’t been owned by any family for the last five months
since we moved to Brookside Avenue. Who would live in a house that looks like a
garage?
I rushed down the hallway to my room and almost hit my brother. Without
even saying sorry to him, I got to my room. Door closed. After taking off my old
boots and kicking them away, I escaped from all the sweltering, unpleasant things
outside. I picked up the album and opened it carefully like it was fragile. The
pictures of uniforms, the same hairstyles and smiles of my friends caught my eyes,
invoking the memories buried under my mind. I remembered the small dune
the wind used to make on our grassless school field, and the pigeons that used to
look for food there. I was in my cool room, which now started to change into the
world I had belonged to. I closed my eyes, sinking into the illusion.
It was about dinner time when I finally woke up and went to the bathroom.
The door was open, and there was my brother, motionless in front of the steamed
mirror in the dim daylight reflected through the window. Slowly stepping into the
bathroom, I called his name. The summer heat was starting to drown me again.
“Hey, JOhn?”
Then I realized it was not hurting to say O words anymore. I took one more
step. Then I saw it. I saw a hole in his chest, bigger than mine. I got frozen,
a i
hyun park
allendale, new jersey, usa

looking at the hole. John moved his eyes from the mirror and stared at my eyes.
Suddenly I felt cold and heard my mouth whisper two O words.
“Oh, gOd.”
wandering curiosity| traditional black and white photography
chloe hay| lawrence, kansas, usa
49

elementary
Metaphors for love come in all elements:
My heart is on fire; I feel light as air.
Your beauty washes over me; your beauty is a flower.
To be more exact:
When I see you I feel the core of my body
floating on perilous, burning waves of cloud
far above the ocean, while thin air
fills my blood. Or:
You are oxygen; you are helium.
You are chlorine; I am sodium.
I am water and you potassium, or,
moving down (past your hair, your white neck) cesium,
or (your incredible shoulders, impossible clavicles) francium.
The elements of style also apply:
You form the possessive singular by adding ’s,
as in I am your’s; you enclose parenthetic expressions
(those eyes!) between patches of freckles.
You use a dash to set off an abrupt break in the illusion
that there’s nothing here I want. The smile
of the subject determines the smile of the verb to want,
that is, I want with tears or I want with tears
and a smile.
In addition to the elements,
Telemann and the Hellespont are also relevant.
Your vocal chords correspond to the viol,
and the Hellespont gives into the Mediterranean
as I give in to you,
ever more your beauty’s rambling revenant.
a i
mattis deutch
nashville, tennessee, usa

arren | photography
sarah hirschey| lawrence, kansas, usa
51

umous cemetery
Pennsylvania dirt brittle, brackish,
compressed by rainfall of bitter moon,
starstruck and shattered, strewn with stone spices
Matthew Miller, 1917
dirt compressed on desolate bones: a pelvis, an elbow
blue sky over blue lake,
blue cries of blue newborn, premature, doomed
blue eyes shine through blue brume under blue sun
green grass meets green sea
green gasps churn green peace, land among green pastures
green eyes follow green music
red sky highlights red lips,
red heart blooming red peonies, everlasting
red eyes crave red body
white ground sweetens salty, life-sucking dirt,
white sky hides white sun from white faces
white eyes see darkness in white landscape
dirt brittle, brackish, compressed, starstruck, shattered,
maroon eyes, darkened by rising dust, falling void of the Universe,
crave body,
satisfied by a red hand, foot, ear
to cradle in the blue night under a green moon,
white face turned away, a wrinkled lily
violet sunset bursts with violet cries,
violet condemnations intertwined with violent sobs
violet fireworks descending over violet stream of unrecognizable, violet faces
Matthow Müller, pile of bones buried in Brittany, has no pelvis.
a i
elissa watters
rye, new york, usa

sulfur mine in seltún | digital photography
jamie maffeo| brooklyn, new york, usa
53

watching the rainstorm from
the edge of frye lake
a i
julia deangelo
greenwich, connecticut, usa
Richard Hugo Sense of Place Award
The front of the rain comes towards me. It’s like dominos falling or water spilling
from the vase my elbow just bumped or sprinkles decorating the cake I just
baked; a controlled and gentle motion moving from left to right. Sweet drops
of nothing. These delicate chocolate chips fell at the edge then slowly, just a hair
quicker than clouds roll by, melted towards me, their purity engulfing me.
My dear cousin, the rainstorm. I am all too familiar with you. The water droplets
that dramatically fall from the inner corners of my eyes are the masterminds
behind this hurricane. This world has named me their own. A place where my
freckles blend in with the mud and the color of my complexion is of a young
tree’s. Here I decide that all things good for me can be found here. Maple syrup is
the best friend to my sweet tooth. The glassy water mirror reminds me of what I
could become. Berries blessed by a bird’s own lips.
My love stems from a wildflower and my beauty from this dirt. The faded buoy is
my Beanie Baby, the marshmallow keeping me above water when sea grass gets
hungry. The wind sings my lullaby, a gentle vibrato that bubbles up to the surface.
A pine tree with the leaves of true rainbow of colors is my raincoat that I share
with the ducks.
I could seal my window shut when the power goes out. Or I can stay here and
see how peacefully nature deals with its anger. The wind vents without breaking
anyone’s heart, even if sometimes it claims a windowpane.
I can identify a pine tree but can’t explain why the most beautiful artwork I see is
in the clouds. I’m still learning how to rest my head on a rock, the cushion of this
Earth’s physic.

the sky is the limit| photographic manipulation
sebastian mansour| carlisle, cumbria, uk
55

excuse me, SirRealism
SirRealism is walking on Hollywood Boulevard
with words in his pockets
and poetry in his spine.
The back of his head looks like his face
and I reach out to feel his heartbeat
but there is a vacuum
where his chest is supposed to be.
“Excuse me, sir,” I say.
“I think you dropped your heart
on the sidewalk.”
I gesture to the muscle
on Hollywood Boulevard
that is tainted with arteries
and hollowed beyond its chambers
but he does not turn around.
“Sir, I wish I could pick it up for you,” I tell him.
“But my hands are too rough
for a fragile thing
like that.”
He still does not speak.
“Sir!” I say,
louder this time.
“Your heart is bleeding
on Hollywood Boulevard.
Your four chambers are disintegrating.”
I grab the crook of his elbow
for emphasis
because touch
is supposed to mean more
than words
ever can.
“Sir,” I say again.
“You’re bleeding.”
a i
joanne koong
irvine, california, usa

He stops walking.
He does not turn around
and he does not
look at me
but he has stopped walking.
“Tell me what I am bleeding, child,” he says.
His words come
from the fringes of his throat
and if I could have wrapped myself
around the carpet of his tongue,
he would have rubbed me raw.
“Tell me what I am bleeding
on Hollywood Boulevard.”
I stop and look
behind me
to see what is left
between tangents of arteries, valves, and ventricles
colliding geometrically.
“You’re bleeding Mark Twain and Henry James,” I tell him.
“Look harder,” he says.
I look closer.
“Breton and Dalí and Márquez too.”
“Look even harder,” he says.
I take a few steps closer
to where his heart is.
“You’re not bleeding anything,” I say.
“No. My child, I’m bleeding cliché.”
“You’re not, sir! You’re not!” I protest.
“You’re SirRealism! You’re truth.”
He laughs
and when he laughs
it’s from the inside out
instead of the outside in.
“Truth is evolution’s cliché.
Especially on Hollywood Boulevard.”
57

Without another word,
he walks away
and I am alone
on Hollywood Boulevard
with the modern cliché heart
that belonged to SirRealism.
collage portrait | mixed media
kristen miller | lawrence, kansas, usa
a i

learning to skip rocks
Her fingers hover above the dirt
testing a rock for the feeling she had
been taught was right while crouched in
the wrinkles of the creek hours ago, cold water
from his rock, resting in her palm, chilling
the skin as she memorized the weight.
It had taken six or seven rocks
before she picked the right kind.
Now the mountain water reflects the image of
them, and swans, paired
as they shed their feathers in the
July seasoned water that washes
up on the lake shore around her feet as she
counts his ripples,
like she counts the snowflakes at winter
time and the way she counts
to the summer solstice.
The ripples settle, his rock becoming
a part of the reflections,
a flipped dimension of trees
and swans and mountains and a girl
standing awkwardly at the edge, hand
stroking the sky a few times before she releases
her rock, and waits
to count the ripples.
brittany soder
jacksonville, florida, usa
59

the house
The building shifting slowly to the ground.
Its hollow windows— its bare wooden wall.
Its fine earth, which it cannot own, but borrows.
Its graceful things, its memory:
A young woman walking;
a white horse walking.
The old woman still lives there,
the old woman still keeps the garden,
the old woman still weeds around the phantoms pouring
from the windows.
The snow in the winter in the dark.
She lives alone.
The white horse walking in the dark.
During the winter she is lonely.
(she would rather not be alone)
(she makes do)
A young woman walking through the night.
After all this time,
the horse bones under the flowers,
after all this time—
she did not own but borrowed,
the house had owned them all.
a i
monica nederend
delta, british columbia, canada

usted roots | 35mm film contact sheet photography
emma reaney | lawrence, kansas, usa
61

all in your hands
Последний автобус уехал в депо.
Четверть первого.
И это не так, и это не то...
В оттенках серого.
Мелькают в сознаньи обрывки снов.
Опять на рельсах.
Весь мир завывает стаей волков.
Унылая пьеса.
Решительный шаг в непроглядный туман.
На прошлое - вето.
осенние звёзды танцуют канкан
По дороге в лето.
The last autobus gone out out to to its it’s depot.
Twelve fifteen.
And this isn’t right, and that those isn’t isn’t true… true…
With tints of gray.
In my mind the the fragments of of dreams.
Again on on the the rails.
The whole world is is howling as as wolfs— wolfs -
The cheerless play. play.
Decisive
Decisive step
step
in
in
the
the
darkness
darkness
fog,
fog,
The past is forbidden ground.
The past is forbidden ground.
And autumn stars are dancing cancan
And autumn stars are dancing cancan
On the road, where summer was found.
On the road, where summer was found.
a i
polina kamenskaja
kazan, tatarstan, russia
Student: Polina Kamen
Teacher: Elena Eg
Russia.Kazan. Gymnasium

ain | watercolour and gouache on paper
kseniya bistrova | kazan, tatarstan, russia
63

waiting for sunshine | film photography
sara kelly ventura| lawrence, kansas, usa
a i

elissa watters
rye, new york, usa
James Welch Fiction Award
the harmony of the storm
In the beginning there was a rumble. A rumble so faint it could have been
Andy’s stomach. So faint I decided to ignore it and keep my eyes focused on
the game. But as Teddy stepped up to bat, I heard a low moan. I hesitated at
the pathetic plea for help, but before I could ask Andy what he had eaten for
lunch, the ball was in play. One second the ball was flying from Ned’s fingertips,
spinning out of control like an asteroid plummeting through dark, open space,
and the next second it was flying back past Ned, through the vast space over the
open field. And as I watched the ball soar through the air, there was suddenly a
great, deafening roar of protestation.
As the storm finally broke, all of the sudden, everything was in harmony: the
ball flying towards the trees at the edge of the field, Teddy running towards third
base, the tree falling towards me.
Another flash and I was running. Running through the sinking mud and across
the slippery concrete. And as I ran, I forgot everything. I forgot to look both ways
when I crossed the street. I forgot to stop at the store on the corner to pick up a
piece of chicken for dinner. And I forgot how the last time I had come home with
wet sneakers, Grandma had made me go barefoot for the rest of the week.
For those few minutes, it was just me running for shelter. Just me and the
world running through the busy streets. And it felt as though, for once, the world
was in sync. Because it didn’t matter if you were a schoolboy or a milkman or a
lawyer, you were just one more person running through the storm, trying to find
a home.
65

stone mind | black and white photography
ilya bryzgalov | kazan, tatarstan, russia
a i

the moon and the waves
lucy mahaffey
norman, oklahoma, usa
The waves come up and then recede upon the vast shore. They make a constant
sound—a type of breathing from the inner core of Earth, but displayed on
the surface. As they brush up against my feet they make circles around my toes
and the cool sand ebbs from under my heels.
Another wave crashes and the water sinks into itself. Above it, beaming, is
the whole white, gleaming moon. It shows itself
proudly above the sandy beach. The craters and
outlines upon its figure are beauty marks that have
come with time. It is just bright enough to light a
part of the water, but its light has a secret quality
to it. It gives me just enough privacy on the beach
from fellow walkers. As I go from one end of
the island on the beach to the other, I don’t feel
compelled to say hello to those making a pilgrimage also. We kind of just exist
with each other— as nature intended.
I look to the sky and my neck accepts the regular strain of looking upwards. It
loves this sensation…my eyes have brainwashed it into submission, because each
time my neck humors them, they are filled. Without paying attention to where I
step (whether it is water, sand, seaweed, driftwood, or the remains of a jellyfish),
I look up and smile at the moon. Surrounding it are the stars. They are scattered
and vague, like little sprinkles of sugar across the velvet sky. I crave more (just
like when I get too little sugar). Ah, my eyes smile and my mouth gasps. There is
nothing like the beach at night time.
I take my eyes off the sky because I’ve heard a whisper. Rosemary (my twin
sister) is talking to me. Her smile is illuminated by the moon. She says, “Let’s
We start to run and then
just keep running. No one
cares who wins. There
was never a set boundary.
As they brush up
against my feet they
make circles around my
toes and the cool sand
ebbs from under my
heels.
race.” We start to run and then just keep
running. No one cares who wins. There was
never a set boundary. We just run. And run.
The sand feels so nice against our feet and
the cool breeze blows once or twice. Salt and
freedom tag along in our bounding fun. Then out of nowhere and for no reason
we stop. Our lungs imitate the waves, and our smiling eyes gleam as the moon
does above us. We are two, my sister and I. But we are also one, as the moon and
waves; one needs the other. One loves the other.
The moon gleams and Rosemary speaks. The waves spread and I answer.
We talk and joke for hour-long minutes. The world could be listening to our
67

conversation and we wouldn’t care. We shout and laugh for no reason—merely
happy to be alive. No homework, electronics, or worries. We’ll dance together
on the beach, my sister and I, and then we’ll sing a duet and wave to the people
looking quizzically at us. Then we’ll write in the sand in the dark and shine
our flashlights on it, if we’ve remembered to bring them. We talk in accents,
gibberish, and code. All the while, my love for her mixes with itself, and I float on
it in life. Her light, like the pure orb, shines on and gives me a constant pull. We
laugh and learn from one another. We push and pull. We are push and pull. We are
yin and yang.
Abruptly, the call to “Come back inside!” pierces the night. Our faces shift as
quickly as the sand. The moon shows Rosemary’s eyes. They are searching for
mine. I hold her gaze for a moment, then my eyes dart to the moon and I sigh.
She knows what I am thinking. She knows I want to stand here, as unchanging as
the night. Peaceful. Happy. But the sands of time start to whip around my ankles. I
know I must go in. I must leave. Nothing can be forever.
But I stand unmoving, hoping, and staring at the moon; its glory has no
comparison. Its maker has no equal…then
suddenly, a hand catches mine. My head
reluctantly pulls away from the sky, only to find
moonlight, again, illuminating Rosemary’s smile.
She squeezes my hand, and the moonlight on her
seems to glow brighter. She whispers, “We always have tomorrow night.”
I catch my breath. In my exhale, I see the waves. They are calm and velvet like
the sky… happy and relaxed. They slowly come up and recede upon the sand…
illuminated by the moon.
I nod and turn. With Rosemary in front, we leave. As we head inside to the
unknown I tense. But I can see the moonlight shining around her, and I can hear
the waves rolling upon the sand. I grip Rosemary’s hand tightly, reassured, and
exhale. The moon and the waves continue on and I smile, knowing tomorrow
night…we will race again.
a i
In my exhale, I see the
waves. They are calm
and velvet like the sky…

deren ertas
great neck, new york, usa
an interview with deren
Deren’s “Self Portrait” (page 70) is mysterious and beautiful, and it intrigued
us to know the inspiration behind it. Born in Istanbul, Turkey and moving
to New York at the age of ten, Deren had to adapt to an American lifestyle, while
still trying to maintain her “Turkishness.” She explains that her painting illustrates
the duality she faces every day. She represents herself as “a modern woman who
will do everything to break away from social norms but cannot because of the
conservative voice in the back of her head.” According to Deren, her inspiration
behind “Self Portrait” is a combination of Islamic influences and American society.
Through her artwork, Deren exemplifies both the magic and the obstacles of
living in two cultures.
AI: What was growing up in Istanbul like? What are the biggest differences between
Istanbul and New York?
DE: Istanbul and New York are both big cities connected by bridges, but that’s
about all they have in common. Oh, and the overpopulation. Istanbul is very
different from anywhere else in the world. When you are walking around, you
feel the cultures that have passed through the ancient city of Constantinople.
On one side you have the Byzantine influences, on the other you have Ottoman
influences. My friends in Turkey, however, are very much alike to my friends here.
AI: You mentioned you are not a conservative Muslim. What parts of your life are
influenced by Muslim culture? How does the conservative nature of Islam influence your
American life?
DE: When you live in Istanbul, you cannot be uninfluenced by Islam. My
parents are not religious, neither are my grandparents. The last religious person
in my family was my great grandmother, and her honesty, simplicity and assuming
of gender roles was very much influenced by her religion. She did not wear a
headscarf or special clothing, but she did pray five times a day until the age of
ninety. She was a remarkable woman.
AI: You say, in a way, you are both of the girls in your self portrait. Could you please
explain this further?
DE: The portrait is supposed to represent a liberal Deren and a conservative
Deren. I illustrated extreme images of each. I am both of those girls because I
69

self portrait | painting
deren ertas | great neck, new york, usa
a i

harbor both ideologies. I am a liberal when it comes to politics, but conservative
in terms of evaluating economics.
AI: Do you eat Turkish food or American food at home? Or is it a combination of different
cultures at the table?
DE: At home we follow a Mediterranean diet. We eat a lot of vegetables, fish,
and fruit. But when we go out, we enjoy Asian foods and sometimes good old
BBQ chicken.
AI: What was it like to move to the United States at such a late age?
DE: Adapting to the social mindset of suburban life was very difficult, and not
really something I have accomplished yet. Also, the language barrier. It was hard. I
read about 300 books in 7th grade. That helped.
AI: What, in your mind, is the best way to break down cultural barriers? Social barriers?
DE: The best way to break down cultural barriers is to ignore them. To love
a person for who they are instead of associating them with their religion, race,
country of origin. My father taught me this from age one. He always used to say
that he doesn’t even differentiate between boys and girls, humans are human. I
live with that philosophy.
AI: What aspects of Turkish lifestyle have you retained after moving to the United States?
DE: My family still eats the same food and speaks the same language. We go
back to Turkey every summer, visiting relatives and friends. We have retained the
warmth of Turkish culture at our home. We don’t have a lot of Turkish friends in
this country, but the ones we do, we are very close with.
AI: Do you speak Turkish as well as English? Which do you use most and why?
DE: I do speak Turkish as well as I speak English, even though it is a bit choppy
right now. At home we speak a mixture of Turkish and English. It’s funny. My
father wants to practice speaking English, my mom wants me to speak Turkish
and I just say the words in whatever language comes to my mind first. I learned
English in my elementary school in Turkey. It was an American school.
AI: If you could fill a shoebox with objects which represent you and bury it for future
people to discover, what things would you fill it with? Why?
DE: I would fill it with a global history book, my annotated copy of Macbeth by
Shakespeare, paintbrushes, and my Moleskine sketchbooks. These things represent
me. I love history, literature, and art.
71

AI: If you could invite three guests to a dinner party who would you invite? What would
you hope to talk about? What would you serve for dinner?
DE: I love this question! I would invite Alice Neel, my favorite artist,
Shakespeare, my favorite playwright, and Winston Churchill, one of my favorite
politicians. I would hope to talk about the world as it is. And the demise of
the arts in all forms. I would serve a variety of dishes, some beef, some fish,
vegetables on the side. Or maybe I’d make a scallop-asparagus risotto. I have to
think more about this.
AI: How long have you been interested in art? Why is art so special to you? How does it
influence your everyday life?
DE: I have been interested in art for a very long time. My parents are both
architects, so I grew up in a family of artists. When we moved to New York, my
parents took me to museums a lot. That’s when my interest in art really began
to take hold. Art is special to me because I get to express myself. It is something
outside of my rigid high school schedule. I can be myself and not feel sorry about
it. Well, I am known as the art girl at school…
AI: Who (or what) is the biggest influence in your artwork? Why?
DE: My influences change. Right now Jenny Saville and Alice Neel are my top
influencers. I love their figure images. They both capture color, light, life and
personality in different, but beautiful ways.
AI: If you were to pass on one bit of knowledge to someone younger, what would it be?
DE: I would tell him or her that there is nothing in life that doesn’t pass.
Everything is temporary, and we must take advantage of every second.
a i

gallery | digital photography
judith eng | great neck, new york, usa
73

autumn
The boxed hair dye
was a risk, a snap decision. My mother
looking between me and the woman on the box
with her hair shining like a pint of strawberries,
her eyes squinted mischievously,
searching for something, or someone,
perhaps a lipstick tube
that had rolled underneath the bed,
or the wine glass of a lover,
left in the sink.
My mother snapped plastic gloves
over her wrists, laced her fingers together nervously,
as if she were in my place.
It is her eyebrows that tell me differently,
stretched tight along her forehead,
un-plucked. Her eyes, pregnant and green,
slide back to another time,
away from the two of us sitting by the TV,
waiting for my hair to dye.
She is remembering years ago,
her tiny waist, her pale neck tilted back
in rapturous laughter,
pearl earrings bobbing along, as if
baiting fish, and most important,
red curls cupping her face,
her hands intertwined with a man’s.
As my mother’s pursing lips relaxed,
as the color settled bright enough
to go look,
I saw a fox peeking from the mulch,
a i
kelsey schurer
jacksonville beach, florida, usa

or the last clumping
of autumn leaves. In time this flame
would fade, but right then, I held onto my mother’s
good strength, the sapling, muted brown
pinned to the back of her head.
cajón | digital photography
kristina naso | lilburn, georgia, usa
75

my ticket
a i
taylor smith
allendale, new jersey, usa
I have a ticket that will take me from New York across the blue ocean to the historical
wonder of London; to the land of William Shakespeare and to Stonehenge. From the
sleepy town of Allendale to Harrods’s and the land of Burberry. If only I had my
Pop Pop right beside me, I’d take him away from his sad illness.
He’d walk down the street in his Burberry cap and blue jacket
which he purchased in England many years ago and of which he was so proud.
We would laugh at the London punkers with their blue spiked hair and Pop Pop
would stare in wonderment, never fully comprehending our modern world.
We would listen to the bong of Big Ben and walk across London bridge as Pop Pop
would regale me with all his old war stories and bring me back to the places
he had gone as a young soldier. As we ride the open air buses staring up at the lively
blue filled sky, its azure loveliness would envelop us as we ride the London
streets and look for pubs and restaurants serving shepherd’s pie. Perhaps some scones
and a spot of tea would keep my Pop Pop close to my heart.
Oh the times we missed and the trips we could have shared. A simple ticket,
a small piece of paper could give a grandfather and his grandson endless rapture.
We’d have a beautiful memory as we sat on the plane, traveling home
with our heads back, laughing again at the boy with the blue spiked hair.
Now clutching Pop Pop’s Burberry hat brings him back home with me again,
for he is still in London, or at least in my memory.

station perspective | pastel, graphite, fine-liner on paper
eden robinson | carlisle, cumbria, uk
77

the sparrow
Tell me about the dream
where we kneel by the cliffside
and peer over the edge.
Tell me about how we drive
down the Malahat, curving
against the rock face until
the forest disappears and there is nothing
but black.
You say it’s simple,
that we are made up of pipelines
and telephone wires, and I sit
facing you in the passenger’s seat
holding my pencil, discarding
sketch after sketch, because
they fail to capture everything
at once.
In the dream,
we cannot see anything
past the windshield,
but you are pulling us around corners
as though you were following the road home,
a route that has laid dormant in your mind
and in your arms since you were seventeen.
But we are so far
from the room in the attic,
the window seat,
the night when the moon shone
so brightly, and we sat on your
bed, perfectly still.
In the dream, time
has changed the space beneath the porch
and hushed the creak in the stairs,
but we are the same as we were
in the summer, skin
still warm to the touch.
a i
madeline petersen
victoria, british columbia, canada

I say you are lucky,
that underneath I have the appearance of an alien,
and you say nothing at all.
Still, I try to loosen your grip so I
can learn the stories resting
behind the pictures on your camera
and the meaning of each line in your hand.
I want to soften your expression until
you can present your thoughts to me the way you
presented the set of china you found
next to the wooden toys,
buried in old newspaper.
You scooped each piece out of the box,
held them up one by one
as if they carried some mystery
beneath their dust.
There was more in the reflection in your eyes
and the part in your lips
than there ever was cupped
between our hands, your heart
like a sparrow hidden in the branches.
I feel it changing direction
beneath your ribs,
and know that nothing will hold it still.
79

My drawing is thinking about the past during Khmer’s civilization.
The picture is being shown to mark Cambodian people in a climactic
artwork. The story shows civilian work very hard, struggle and be patient. But
unfortunately they could not have good food enough for eat. Many innocent
people were killed, especially people who have education. People no rich, no
poor, no education, no questions, no answers, no ask for, no request, no anything.
In their ignorance they followed the wrong course. They just know one thing
and it is work hard for anyone, none stop. Pending further orders some people
cannot restrain anymore. They strive to go on strike to be freedom. They would
like to get peace. But it is impossible. They lose. That is why most of Cambodian
generation cannot forget this story.
a i
hay chhoem
siem reap, cambodia

the sorrow of khmer past | graphite on paper
hay chhoem | siem reap, cambodia
81

taxi to soweto
a i
sithokozile mahlaba
durban, kwa-zulu natal province, south africa
Taxi! Taxi! Take me to Soweto.
To the streets of Soweto,
To lick the remains of my brothers’ blood,
For a part of him to store
And collect my sisters’ tears
To exhibit in the museum of life.
Take me to the roads on which
The class of 1976 marched
So I can walk over their footsteps
And wear their bodies alive.
I want to abate the fires that blazed in their eyes,
Their aggressive voices hushed.
I want to remove the warts and sores bloated
Between their toes
So they may rest in peaceful peace.
Taxi, take me to the arms
That embraced Hector Peterson’s shell
And watched his spirit ascend.
Take me to Soweto
So I can see all my brothers who fell
And my sisters who suffocated from teargas.
Take me to the hearts belonging to mothers,
Aunts and grandmothers,
The hearts that tore apart,
That still sit and wonder
“Where did my children go?”
Who still confide in songs of liberty,
Their trembling voices saying
“Senzeni na?”
And the fathers of the bloody bodies
Singing:
“Sikhalela izwe lethu
Elathathwa amaBhunu
Mabawuywke umhlaba wethu

Mabawuyeke umhlaba wethu.”
Eish. Taxi! Taxi!
Take me to the marvel of Sophia town,
To the crushed homes
Containing crushed lives.
Taxi, take me to the streets of Soweto.
Take me to Soweto!
So I can see the superior legs that paralysed
My brother’s frame
And snatched my sister’s life.
Take me to Soweto, to observe
My grandfather bruised behind a khwela-khwela,
View the eyes of the men who possessed so much hate,
The men who killed us and imprisoned us
So I may ask them
“Why Baas, why?”
We tried to rebel,
Driven by the hope of being free,
And again confided in song,
Ran to the arms of song that comforted us.
From our whipped lungs shouting
“Amandla, awethu.”
Our torn fists bundling in the polluted air.
Our compulsory passes tossing to the grounds,
The grounds that cried, abused by our angry feet.
But still, they invaded our homes
And turned our hearts black, as of our faces.
Taxi! Taxi! Take me to the rifles that murdered us,
To the minds that plotted our misery
And granted us motives to morn.
Take me to the hand that refused
To shake a black man’s.
To the lips that called my uncles kaffirs
And slid their saliva down their faces,
The same lips that called my well-respected chief “Boy.”
Take me to the hands that slapped him,
Attempting to remove the charcoal ashes that compiled his skin.
Take me to the men, that stood
Before the class of June 1976
Below their stern faces, no hearts
Enforcing Bantu Education, their foreign language unto us,
83

Exploiting us.
Take me to the men that started
Biting, chewing. Biting, chewing. Biting, chewing,
My brothers and sisters with their venomous bullets.
Taxi! Taxi!Take me to Soweto.
Take me to Soweto, taxi.
To Soweto take me, taxi.
So I may quiz the streets, that know the whole story,
Ask the walls of history that still stand,
“Why, why?”
a i
T he poem “Taxi to Soweto” was inspired by the historical Soweto Uprising
which took place during the apartheid era in South Aftrica. Watching movies
such as Cry Freedom and Sarafina which portrayed what life was like in those days
filled me with deep sadness. The fact that my father was almost involved in the
uprising, in his primary school years, made me wonder if I would even exist had
he stayed in Soweto a bit longer and not moved to the rural areas to stay with
his grandparents. The brutality of the apartheid government, the bravery of the
students who fought against being taught everything in Afrikaans, a language they
hardly understood, as well as the harsh and inhumane living conditions during that
time, inspired “Taxi to Soweto.” -sithokozile

aerie international
is published by the editors and is printed
in Missoula, Montana, USA
by Gateway Printing
85

contributors
a i
lauren barr, 18: I love photography, and do it in my spare time as a minibusiness-out-of-my-garage
kind of thing. It’s a great past-time, but I am more
focused on the re-touching and graphic design hue of the art-spectrum. I have a
huge passion for almost all things “art.” I enjoy, among photography and graphic
design, drawing, creative novel writing, and minimal painting and pastel work. I
love combining my talents into one creation.
isabel bartholomew, 15: Being an agnostic in Utah offers a perspective of
what it is like to be an outsider living on the inside: both as a non-Mormon in
Salt Lake City and as a Utahn in the United States. My ancestors were Mormon
handcart pioneers, and I have lived here all my life. In my creative writing class,
we were assigned to write a piece about the power of words. I thought about
words that have affected me personally, but more importantly, words that have
not been able to, because they have not reached me, or never will. That is what
my poem is about: what happens to words when they can’t reach the person.
avery beck, 17: By living in Lawrence I am able to interact
with artists every day through the University of Kansas and
through the Lawrence Arts Center. There are many different
kilns grandfathered in the city for me to play with, such as salt
kilns, soda kilns, and wood firing kilns. Lawrence has become
my favorite city in the world because of its culturally diverse
art and music scene.
kseniya bistrova, 16: I live in Kazan, Russia. I am 16 years old. I like
to paint very much and I hope you like my picture.
ilya bryzgalov, 17: I’m study at 10 grade. I’m live in Kazan, Tatarstan,
Russia. I’m doing quite well at school. My favorite subjects is literature
and English. Also I’m have many different hobbies. Among my interests
are guitar, vocals, photography and mountain bike. My work Stone Mind
was made in France. I was floating down the river, when I saw this
people sitting on the shore against a stone wall. That’s why I called this
photo Stone Mind. As I think, this name reflects mood of the picture and
reflects painful thoughts of this people.
dine bun thai, 18: I am a student at Angkor High School and oldest
in my siblings. I live with my uncle’s family, mother and younger two
brothers and one sister. My favorite subjects at school are history
and English. Unfortunately Cambodian students do not have an art
education at public schools. So, I had taught art myself for many years.
I always enjoy drawing beautiful Cambodian nature and Angkor Wat,
which we are proud of.

louise burton, 16: I enjoy playing tennis. I grew up in the small
town of Atlantic Beach, Florida. I often go to the beach and am
influenced by everyday life in my writing.
hay chhoem, 18: I am a student at 10, January High
School in Siem Reap, Cambodia. One day, my friend from
same high school told me that there is a free art school
in Siem Reap which was built by Japanese art teacher.
Since then, I feel that everything in my life has changed. I
started drawing my art from my own imagination again.
The teacher has recognized my art and provides me high
quality art materials from overseas, which I have never
seen in Cambodia. Now, I created my own art design to
mix watercolors and paper cuttings. I challenge myself to
express my own feelings and develop my art.
leann colella, 16: I was born on November 13, 1994 in Pittsburgh
Pennsylvania. I am a very talkative and outgoing person. I love to be
with my family and close friends. Also I love to take pictures, laugh,
shop, learn new things, go to amusement parks and the beach, and
travel. I am on the competitive speech team at my high school and I
am moving back to Pittsburgh this summer.
simon david, 16: If I were to describe the way I live, I would
have to reveal one of my worst habits. That is, I live in segments,
snapshots of moments that are constantly changing. I have had
so many feelings about my heritage that I felt that they could be
best expressed in writing. Therefore, I have tried to capture my
patchwork of American and Indian heritage in many of my past
pieces. “Sunday Long Distance” was created from listening to my
father call his grandmother on Sundays. It is a piece that I feel
expresses my personal growth through the roots of my family tree.
julia deangelo 17: I was born in Washington D.C. and have since
lived in Virginia, Germany, and, currently, Connecticut. A 45-minute
train ride away from New York City, I love going into the city to take
dance classes, go to museums, and enjoy the many artistic wonders
of the city. Inspiration for the pieces I submit came from thoughts of
conversations I found myself circling back to. I’ve found that when
something strikes a chord, it’s a great place to start.
87

charity ekpo, 17: I’m a senior at Lawrence Free State High
School, born and raised in Lawrence, Kansas. I’m the youngest
out of three brothers and two sisters. I’m interested in mostly
photography (with digital or film) and digital manipulation, and am
planning on majoring in graphic design in college. When I’m not at
school, I’m either hanging out with my family, or hanging out with
my friends and making strange/entertaining videos for our Youtube
channel.
a i
mattis deutch, 17: I was born in Connecticut, I live now in
Tennessee, and in the future I’m going to college in Ohio. The
north was appealing while I looked for colleges, but things change
and now I sit under a lamp sometimes when it’s cloudy. I spend
time reading (Nabokov, Faulkner) and playing music (concertina,
banjo) when friends are not available, or playing music with friends
when available, or not playing music with available friends when
instruments are not available or friends are not musical. My foremost
pursuits are writing poetry, finding a band, keeping calm, and
carrying on.
judith eng, 17: I was born and raised in Great Neck, New York.
I frequent the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Museum of
Modern Art, among the many culture filled locations in New York
City, just a train ride away from home. Art has always been a hobby
of mine. I have previously focused mostly on studio art including
painting and drawing, only recently exploring photography.
deren ertas, 16: I was born in Istanbul, Turkey to a
family with no girls. I grew up with my five cousins,
all of which are boys. My parents are both architects,
so they worked day and night in order to provide a
comfortable living for our family. We lived homeoffice
for a few years, and then moved out to a more
comfortable apartment. I grew up with all kinds of
people around me. I interacted with my parents’ clients,
random businessmen, junior architects, accountants and
secretaries that worked for my parents. It was a very
lively and informative life.
sam glencross, 17: I was born in Carlisle and have lived here
my whole life. I am studying Biology, History of Art and Art and
Design at A-level, and am planning to study Foundation Art at
Art College next year. I am inspired by all kinds of art, and enjoy
learning and experimenting with new methods and techniques.
Portrait was inspired by expressionless portrait artists such as
Gwen John and Kimiko Yoshida, and how lack of emotion in a
portrait can produce a more powerful outcome.

elin gotting, 18: Last summer I came to Lawrence as
an exchange student with Rotary from Sweden. Now I’m
attending Lawrence Free State High School. I love it and I am
so happy that I got the opportunity to be an exchange student.
It’s sometimes hard but I have no regrets being here this
year. The most common question I get is: What’s the biggest
difference with America and Sweden? I always answer that the
portions of food are so much bigger here than where I come
from in Sweden.
sara harding, 17: I love expressing myself through
cliché scenarios and rhyme. Unfortunately, those literary
techniques do not make my writing teacher happy. I wrote
“Melting Pot?” from some of the observations I have made at
work in a grocery store, and the different dynamics between
the teenage part-time workers and some of the adult fulltime
workers.
chloe hay, 17: I’m not tall. I have dreams that I am two feet tall and
everyone is staring down at me. I am happy all the time. I don’t see the
point in anything, but I am actually laughing right now as I type this. I
love music and movies of all types. My favorite place to be is on a beach,
although anywhere really hot works too. I hate cold weather and as soon
as I can, will be moving as far away from it as I can. I love reading and do
that any chance I get.
sarah hirschey, 17: My middle name is Hauschel and not “Anne”
or something because that’s how they do it in Argentina, I guess. My
mom was born there and we like to pretend that we identify with
the culture. I have never lived anywhere else other than Lawrence,
Kansas. Lawrence is a little atypical compared to the stereotypes most
people have about Kansas. Even though I’ll be out of this place the
second I graduate, I wouldn’t have wanted to grow up anywhere else.
I want to paint a mural on some huge brick wall someday—maybe this
weekend.
alexandria garcia, 17: I was born and raised in Victoria, British
Columbia. I grew up exploring and enjoying the nature of my five
acre backyard. This is where my love of the outdoors and animals
began. The encouragement from my parents to grow, learn and
explore created a true love for the arts, which I express through
writing and drawing. I grew up with a passion for poetry, and was
put into a writing club by my kindergarten teacher. I also love to
draw. My writing, spawned from experiences with loved ones, is
an outlet for my passion of the people that surround me. “There
is Color in Haiti After all” is a pantoum based on a photograph I
found from a magazine.
89

polina kamenskaja, 16: My life is nature, the time near warm
bonfire, scout camps, songs, poems, beautiful places, my friends.
My creation isn’t very original, but it’s my soul. It’s my world.
And I think, they are about everyone. About me, about you and
about this strange man, who have just gone out from the bus.
a i
hazlett henderson, 15: My name is Hazlett
Henderson. I have a cat named Margot. Margot spends
her days cleaning her fur and waiting for me to come
home. She likes to lick my toes after I take showers. I
shower often. At least once a day. My mom thinks I’m
strange, but Margot tells me I’m special. Tea Party was
inspired by my dad. He doesn’t actually drink tea too
often, which may explain the lack of guests at his tea
party. Even the funnies couldn’t hold his attention.
joanne koong, 15: If I could, I would eat words. I love writing
and reading and psychoanalyzing people. I live in Irvine, California
where I compulsively people-watch. I also love philosophy,
psychology, and chess.
jamie maffeo, 17: I developed an interest in photography as a
sophomore in high school. I have taken thousands of photographs
over the years while traveling all over the world from the bustling
streets of New York City’s Chinatown, the tense calm of chess clubs
and the competitive atmosphere of a boxing gym, to the volcanoes
of Iceland.
lucy mahaffey, 16: I love life, and that includes regular canned
corn or any kind of chocolate you have. My twin sister, Rosemary,
looks nothing like me and we like a lot of different things, but we love
each other dearly and have scars to prove it! She has been with me
since before birth, and I can’t imagine my life without her. My mom
has taught me to love essentials (such as ice cream, Shakespeare, and
ending human trafficking/modern slavery) and my dad has taught me
to keep going (never stop having fun and always be your best).
sithokozile mahlaba: l am my parents’ first born child, from
Durban in the province of KwaZulu Natal in South Africa. I speak
the language of the historical Shaka Zulu and I owe the privilege
of being able to communicate with you like this to heroes who
sacrificed their own lives such as Steve Biko, Oliver Tambo and
the great Nelson Mandela. I am a soulful and spiritual person, and
from that part of me my poetry is born. I wrote the piece “Taxi
to Soweto” at the age of 16. I was in Grade 10 at Kingsway High
School in Durban.

sebastian mansour, 16: My hobbies involve photography,
Photoshop and just messing around with my computer. I watch
loads of anime and read manga all the time. I don’t mind school
but I do enjoy escaping to my room after it’s finished. I want to
be a photographer when I grow up and excel in what I can do
now.
emily masters, 16: As a writer and cartoonist for my high
school’s student newspaper and a member of my school’s literary
and art magazine, I have always been drawn to writing and art.
Growing up in a small New Jersey town where there isn’t much
to do, I have grown to love filling my time up with drawing or
writing poetry about the world surrounding me. I’ve scribbled
stanzas onto the back of napkins from my favorite coffee shop
and drawn preliminary sketches while babysitting a neighbor.
Discovering the world through creativity and observation excites
me. I hope to become a journalist and discover even more.
alex messenger, 17: I’m a student living in Carlisle,
England, and studying biology, history, media and photography
at higher education. I greatly enjoy my school life as I only do
what I enjoy and have a great group of friends to take along
with me! As well as hanging around with mates I also keep
myself occupied playing video games, watching films, reading
(I’m a sucker for a good story) and walking my dog around the
beautiful landscape that is Cumbria; nothing quite like it. This
was part of my experiment into long exposure and is a shot of
the midday shoppers in The Lanes Shopping Centre in Carlisle.
kristen miller, 18: When I was little, my family moved around a
lot. When I was born we were in the process of moving to Omaha,
Nebraska. I was only two weeks old before we moved. A few years
later we moved to Franklin, Tennessee; then Kearney, Missouri and
finally to Lawrence, Kansas. I was just starting third grade when we
moved to Lawrence. Lawrence is one of the favorite places I have
lived. We live in a neighborhood, but behind our backyard there is
a big field with a small pond. I am not sure who used to own the
property, but my neighborhood friend and I would go back there
whenever it snowed. We would crawl under the trees and pretend like
we were lost.
emma mitchell, 17: I’m currently in year 12 at Trinity 6th Form
studying art, production design, maths and chemistry. In the future,
I aspire to go off to university and study a course associated with key
areas of architecture and printing after I have completed year 13. I
observed organic forms in the natural world and based my piece upon
the ‘Iris flower’ and other foliage intertwined throughout the work.
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tara ming moon, 17: I was born in Nelson, BC and, therefore, am a
hippie. Except I’m not – I wish I was, but as an honorary perfectionist of
the AFP (Association for Perfectionists), I am forbidden to live a carefree
life. I am a musician, artist, and new found writer. I find pleasure in
experiencing the unordinary, such as going downtown and serving dinner
to the homeless (or waking up at 4:30AM to serve coffee and pastries to
them before the police boot them out of their doorways). I have no plans
for the future as I am going to win the lottery at the age of 19 and retire.
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andie moss, 18: People tell me I need to be more funky. I enjoy
running down mountains, blowing bubbles on a windy day, eating
raspberry sherbet, and writing poetry. I have two trillion pets.
Actually, closer to 17. I recently traveled to South Korea with 98
other kids from all over the states. We explored the nation, which
included a tour of Geumsansa Buddhist Temple. The whole trip
riveted my sense of Asia and K-Pop music.
sarah munger, 17: I have grown up on the east coast of the United States
my whole life. I dance, sing, write, and take photographs for my art classes.
I’ve been writing since I was little and I have always had a fascination with
language, discovering my love of poetry through an exploration of words
and ideas. I have found a lot of inspiration in Joseph Brodsky, Hemingway,
Proust, and Gabriel Garcia Márquez.
phebe myers, 17: My name is Phebe Myers and I was born in
Hollywood, California. Since then my parents made the decision to
move to Kansas. To this day I have no clue why. My dad spends a lot
of time in Africa and I’ve been lucky enough to go with him three
times. I can’t be on time or keep anything clean and I eat too many
apples. If you ever saw me, it would be through a sea of floral fabric.
In the future I want to be a documentary photographer and to travel
around to refugee camps.
kristina naso, 16: I am from a mundane, suburban town called Lilburn. I am a selftaught
photographer who loves the sound of music. Photography, music, and poetry
are my preferred ways of expressing my emotions. Cajón was
somewhat of a spontaneous self-portrait. Prior to shooting
that picture, I hadn’t picked up the camera in months. I prefer
working with natural lighting and since it has been a harsh winter
here in Georgia, I haven’t had many opportunities to take a
substantial photograph; plus, I have been totally uninspired and
lazy. I took this picture after I went to Guitar Center and found a
Cajon, or box-like drum, in the Drum section for only $99. I just
had to capture the magnitude of happiness I was experiencing!
monica nederend, 16: Many of the poems that I write are inspired by the
area that I live in— an old sub-sea-level farming community, surrounded by
fields, and constant headwinds. There are dikes to block flooding, and they
are wonderfully quiet places. I enjoy biking and walking there; in fact, that
was where the first draft of “The House” was written.

sandra otero, 17: I live in a small town that I call home Lawrence, Kansas.
I have lived in two other places, Oklahoma and Mexico, but they don’t
compare to this town. Although I would love to move when I’m out of high
school this May, Lawrence is the place I feel I really “grew up.” I’ve always
been a lost person but photography has helped me find my path in life. It’s
helping me be more creative which I have always wanted. I like anything that
will open my mind and make me curious. I’m planning to study Art Therapy
but I am also a very indecisive person so it is possible that could change.
hyun park, 18: It was the tenth day of February in 2010 when I
arrived at JFK International Airport in New York. I had lived in South
Korea during my entire life— seventeen years— before the snowy day
in United States. Now I look back on the last one year that I’ve spent
here, it seems that so many things changed but one thing: My heart. I
learned to speak in another language. I’m getting used to doing school
works and I’m getting more comfortable with different way of thinking
and culture. But still I’m the person who missed all the friends in her
motherland and the world she had known. I’m still the person who said
she would be a writer in the future whatever language she ought to use.
madeline peterson, 18: I was born in Victoria BC, on Vancouver
Island. I have grown up on the west coast of Canada, and have
explored much of the region with my family and my school. I have
played soccer since I was five, and also enjoy visual arts and music.
Next year I will be leaving Victoria to attend university, and hope
to study digital media, arts and computers.
eric protzer, 17: I was born in Lantzville, BC, and moved to Victoria
at the age of ten. I have written in the mediums of poetry, song, theatre
and journalism, and frequent spoken word as an actor and public
speaker. Although I enjoy a variety of writers, some of my largest
influences are Poe, Dickinson and Monty Python. When not working
with language, I enjoy spending time with my cats and being a socialist.
sophart ra, 16: I have 5 siblings and I am third. Since my parents
divorced, I live separately from my family. I have lived in Buddhism
temples and helped monks. Now a director of NGO gives me a place
to stay at Self Help Community Center. I take care of vegetables and
domestic animals, and clean up classrooms for the Center. There are
more than 900 students who come to learn there.
emma reaney, 18: Some call me The Greenhouse
Effect but the name my parents gave me is Emma Reaney. I draw
inspiration from literally everything around me. I’m constantly
striving to better myself artistically and to find things that help me
be more spontaneously creative. Lawrence, a town that is big enough
to not know everyone and small enough to almost make you go
insane, is the perfect place to get inspired. A college campus and a
unique, imaginative downtown are some of the things here that make
Lawrence a great background for my photography.
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enee reneau, 16: I enjoy being involved in multidisciplinary
projects that combine writing, filmmaking, music, and any other
art form. I am actively involved in the Amnesty International
organization and hope to major in Global Studies or International
Relations when I attend college. “Sundays” was inspired from the
days of my childhood spent living in northern California and the
spirituality of children, that often remains hidden until adulthood.
isaac s. rinke, 16: I’m a 16 year old
kid, raised in Kansas and born of ordinary descent. I spend
a good deal of time just thinking about the different kinds
of photographs I could set up. Towards Insanity is something
I had wanted to try for awhile. I really love the old films of
people attempting to fly by strapping rockets to their back,
especially the scene in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang where the
father tries to no avail, to fly by means of wings, rockets
and a cart on train tracks.
eden robinson, 17: I’ve lived in Carlisle my whole life and
I’ve always been inspired by art. My Mum and Grandma are full
time artists, and I think that it has passed down the family, but
my particular interest in people and drawing has always come
from me. I love the way that the figures of people can always
be portrayed in so many different ways, I especially love facial
expressions. I currently study Art, Photography, English Language
and History; I find this a great combination as they all supplement
my Art work which I eventually aspire to do at University.
lili rosenkranz, 17: I am the editor and chief of my school’s literary magazine Daedalus,
and writing is my way out. I first wrote to be beautiful, because
I thought it was all softness, lullabies, “I love yous.” But I write
now because I chase greater things: the vulnerability, the audacity,
the pain. I am the daughter of a cancer patient, a pariah in a
school made of glass where the girls all have blonde hair, and I am
hungry for something strange and flawed. This piece is inspired by
a desire to leave, and look, and want more than a suburb. It is a
love for the small things, a love for Steinbeck and Keroac, and an
admiration that will one day drive me to get in a car and swallow
up a country. I am stuck now but soon will explore.
danny rothschild, 17: I was born in Italy, spent my childhood
throughout countries in Africa (Mozambique, Mali, Nigeria,
Benin and Uganda), and am currently finishing my senior year in
Northern Michigan. I dream of becoming a playwright, but if that
plan falls through, I will open up a bakery and build forts for the
rest of my life, where I can nap, listen to Iron & Wine, and read
Mary Oliver and Pablo Neruda poems for the rest of my days.
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kelsey schurer, 18: Since I spend so much of my time near the beach,
my home often influences my poetry. Whether good or bad, these poems
have little pieces of me scattered within.

angela shen, 17: I’ve spent most of my years in Norman,
Oklahoma as a Chinese-American girl longing for the ocean. I
have visited various places in California and Texas where the Asian
communities are rather sprawling, unlike the small, yet dedicated
band of Asian Americans here. But it is interesting to see the
younger children grow up--whether they start learning Chinese
in the local parent-established Chinese school like I did, if they
embrace their heritage--and knowing most of them personally.
taylor smith, 17: I have lived my entire life in Allendale, NJ, but
was born in Glen Ridge at Mountainside Hospital and lived in Nutley,
NJ for two years. I enjoy cooking, traveling, fashion especially, and
fine dining. I live a very normal life and attend Northern Highlands
Regional High School in Allendale, NJ. I am a junior and am
looking forward to college planning. “My Ticket” is a poem about
my grandfather who passed away when I was in fourth grade due to
Alzheimer’s. I was extremely close to him and the time we spent
together inspired me to write a poem of us hypothetically being in
England together.
brittany soder, 17: I am from Florida and have been locally
published before. I live on the beach and the water has been a
huge part in my life since I was a baby, but I love the mountains
so much too and that is a big part in my writing since I like to
write about nature.
oksana soluyanova, 16: I have two main hobbies. Firstly, I enjoy
taking photos very much. It’s so great to record joyful moments of
our life and in some years watch these pictures and smile, remember
how fine you were. Taking photos for me means making art from our
everyday life and things we watch and pass by every day. Another
thing is dancing. I am a real dancer from my early childhood. I like
performing on a stage.
jonas upman, 18: Photography, for me, is an outlet for
my creative energy. Many of my pieces have political or
social undertones. This is due to my rather cynical outlook
of how we currently live our lives and of the society we live
in. I believe life is so much different than we make it out to
be. I enjoy reading, listening to music, and philosophizing
with friends, which is where I get many of my ideas for my
photography. As I have gotten older, I have realized that
my interests in politics and social movements are pushing
me towards a life of activism. In college, I will pursue
these interests and they will take me where they take me,
even if that means poverty. I will use my creative talents in
conjunction with my innate need to change something in
order to make a difference in this world we live in.
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obyn van ek, 17: I spend most of my time in the kitchen
cooking and documenting any successful concoctions that I
create. I read food blogs in my spare time and would love to
receive a yogurt maker for Christmas. I am currently attempting
to integrate my love of food into my poetry. This poem was
created from a prompt that I received in class. I started with
a stanza from Heather MacLeod’s “Touch the Buffalo.” I
immediately thought of travel and adventure when I read the
stanza, and decided to explore the world through a child’s eyes.
elissa watters, 17: I have lived in the suburbs of New York City all my
life. When I was little, I went to the public school in our area. Then, in
fourth grade, I started attending a school in the city. Now I get the benefits
of both the suburbs and the city! I love being able to open my backdoor and
pass a soccer ball around or build an igloo in the snow while having access
to the diversity and culture of New York City.
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sara ventura, 17: I dislike mushrooms, math, monotone voices,
my hair when it decides to look horrible (it’s super curly usually),
deadlines, and sometimes pancakes. I like desaturated photographs,
freckles, long drives, oranges, hummingbirds, changing my hair, and
spaghetti for breakfast. Most of my photos are the product of me
searching out perfect places, and basing my images off of what I find.
I like black and white photography more than color, mostly because of
their simplicity; it is more appealing to me.
luke watson, 18. I go to Judge Memorial High School and love art.
I am planning on going to college next year, probably an art college
in hopes of pursuing my interest in that field, but have not decided
on where quite yet. Other than art, I enjoy skiing, rock climbing,
long-boarding, spending time with friends, spending time outside,
and summer.

thank you, teachers and schools
As we send our fourth volume of Aerie International to the printer, I am struck again by the
presence of teachers and mentors in these pages. When first conceiving this project, I did not
yet understand the power and presence of those who stood behind the students we find here.
Part of my impetus for starting this magazine was connecting students. I had yet to learn how
powerfully it would connect teachers. For me personally, this magazine has taken me well
beyond the bounds of my school and my students and has exposed me to ideas I would not have
considered and people I would not otherwise have met. My teaching and what I think possible
in the classroom has grown as a result. In a time when teachers, particularly teachers of the
arts, live too closely to the vacuum that can become standardized testing, these submissions
validate the need for the arts in all our schools. Thank you to teachers who create an
environment in which young writers and artists thrive. Without those mentors, administrators,
and schools, this magazine would not be possible. Thank you. -Lorilee Evans-Lynn
students of the following teachers were selected for
inclusion in the 2011 aerie international.
jane avrich, heather hord, and marty skoble | saint ann’s school, brooklyn, new york, usa
svea barrett | northern highlands regional high school, allendale, new jersey, usa
beverly bateman and tara finco | parkview high school, lilburn, georgia, usa
carolyn berry | lawrence free state high school, lawrence, kansas, usa
tom bettin and linda simpson | judge memorial catholic high school, salt lake city, utah, usa
m. beuger | kingsway high school, durban, kwa-zulu natal province, south africa
melinda combs | orange county high school of the arts, santa ana, california, usa
karen cuchel | william a. shine great neck south high school, great neck, new york, usa
jane giles, stuart quigley and melanie reay | trinity school, carlisle, cumbria, uk
rhea gunning | delta secondary school, delta, british columbia, canada
colleen hansen | helena high school, helena, montana, usa
angelyn hilgendorf | university school of nashville, nashville, tennessee, usa
jackie jones | douglas anderson school of the arts, jacksonville, florida, usa
angelia perkins | lawrence high school, lawrence, kansas, usa
mika perrine | interlochen arts academy, interlochen, michigan, usa
tomoko kasahara and yuko sakata | small arts school, siem reap, cambodia
jeff schwartz | greenwich academy, greenwich, connecticut, usa
susan stenson | claremont secondary, victoria, british columbia, canada
kathy woods | norman north high school, norman, oklahoma, usa
elena yegorova and zimina ella vyacheslavovna | gymnasium no. 139, kazan, tatarstan, russia
natalya yegorova |gymnasium no. 40, kazan, tatarstan, russia
terence young | saint michaels university school, victoria, british columbia, canada
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“I want you to know that my students read the magazine year round. Just when I tuck
it away, someone else is looking for it and I have to pull it back out. You would be
happy to know that my copies are getting a little ragged around the edges.”
-Angelia Perkins, Art Educator, Lawrence High School, Lawrence, Kansas
subscribe to:
Aerie International
one year/one issue
$12 – U.S. Subscribers
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Name: ______________________________________________
Address: _____________________________________________
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Aerie International
Announces:
Patricia Goedicke Poetry Award of $100
James Welch Fiction Award of $100
Norman Maclean Nonfiction Award of $100
Rudy Autio Visual Arts Award of $100
Lee Nye Photography Award of $100
Richard Hugo Sense of Place Award $100
Chief Charlo Celebration of Culture Award of $100
Deadline: 1 February 2012
Please include no more than 5 pieces per individual per year. Submitting student
must be 13-19 years of age and in secondary school at time of publication. All
submissions will be considered for our awards. Examples of the kind of work we
hope to receive can be viewed, along with full submission guidelines, at
www.aerieinternational.com. Look for Aerie International under the publications
link. Contact us at aerie.international@gmail.com.
Please make checks payable to Aerie International.

allendale, new jersey, usa
atlantic beach, florida, usa
baldwin city, kansas, usa
brooklyn, new york, usa
carlisle, cumbria, uk
delta, british columbia, canada
durban, kwa-zulu natal province, south africa
great neck, new york, usa
greenwich, connecticut, usa
grönahög, västergötland, sweden
helena, montana, usa
interlochen, michigan, usa
irvine, california, usa
jacksonville, florida, usa
kazan, tatarstan, russia
lawrence, kansas, usa
lilburn, georgia, usa
missoula, montana, usa
norman, oklahoma, usa
nashville, tennessee, usa
rye, new york, usa
salt lake city, utah, usa
santa ana, california, usa
sooke, british columbia, canada
kro bei riel, siem reap, cambodia
siem reap, cambodia
st. augustine, florida, usa
tucker, georgia, usa
victoria, british columbia, canada
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