1Winter

PENMAN

Winter 2012

Cover Illustration by Arman Hussain

Published semi-annually by students ofWashington-Lee High School

1301 North Sta! ord StreetArlington, Virginia 22201

Phone: 703-228-6246 Fax: 703-228-8644

VOLUME 66, NUMBER 1THREE DOLLARS

2 PENMAN

PENMAN STAFF

Editors-in-Chief Emma Bancho!

Claudelle Calfat

Fiction Editor Kayla Schoomaker

Poetry Editor Luisa Bancho!

Non-Fiction Editor Jordan Kruger

Art Editor Brendan Kiviat

Online Editor Julie Brooks

Associate Fiction Editors Andrew Dudka

Brianna Hogan

Karen Lazo

Emily Walker

Associate Poetry Editors Abby Boshart

Mona Mahmoud

Mallory McKenzie

Associate Non-Fiction Editors Sarah Chase-Walsh

Maddie Nelson

Noah Pilchen

Naomi Waltengus

Associate Art Editors Juliana Butler

Olivia Czerewko

Erin Daniell

Layout Editors Laura Holsten

Anya Karagulina

Business Managers Tim Jenkins

Eric Schmidt

Sta! Adviser Ms. Sarah Congable

Art Advisers Ms. Joan Bickelhaupt

Ms. Hiromi Isobe

3Winter

CONTENTS

Katarina Vandish ! e Early Morning Hours ....................4Photography by Brendan Kiviat

Jordan Ricker Risk .................................................13Photography by David Silverman

Anonymous Samuel ...............................................22Photography by Erin Daniell

Noah Pilchen Living Like Sonatas ..............................6Illustration by Clare Smith

Katarina Vandish ! e Mask ...........................................10Illustration by Olivia Czerewko

Naomi Waltengus My Beautiful Distraction ....................18Photography by Lelia Troiano

Non-Fiction

Fiction

PoetryAnya Karagulina judas ....................................................8

Illustration by Maia Taber

Sophia Delmar Fall into Place .......................................9

Alan Phung Mirror of My Former Self ...................12Photography by Cristian Urbina

Anonymous Center Stage .......................................17Illustration by Nominjin Enkhee

Gus ! omas A Short Summary ...............................20Illustration by Meredith Sweeney

Anonymous if i could be a mango ..........................24Illustration by Casha Stempniewicz

4 PENMAN

Washington-Lee senior Katarina Vandish enjoys reading and writing, especially within the genre of � ction. Kat’s compositions have been most in� uenced by Jack London and William Shakespeare, her two favorite authors.

HAIR that tumbles like rainwater down broken and ! lthy gutters, carrying leaves and debris on

its back like whispers of dreams lost in early morning hours, found sweating and shivering between sheets and dead cells of skin by the warm and softly thrumming back of a lover and a neck

met with unpainted lips and kissed with the shattered ! ngertips of that soft, sweet hair.

Palms placed on backs to roll the unconscious into a stuttering world of clasped and relapsed embraces and cold-dew skin, into a world of loosely-held thoughts that sink into too-warm pillows and eyes swollen with sleep, into a world where dream became reality and reality decomposed dream like a cannibal carbon monster.

Freckles arranged on cheeks carefully like a composition, where each note is an unexplored and virgin galaxy; eyes

e Early Morning HoursKATARINA VANDISH Photography by Brendan Kiviat

5Winter

A beating heart like a smoking gun against your ear that comforts as well as alarms, because you suddenly wonder how you got here, pressing cheek against chest, feeling muscles slide under skin like rippling ocean waves or heat lightning surging through bruised-skin clouds or voiceless winds singing through empty church naves, ! ngers brushing your spine in intimate and unfamiliar caresses, lying in bed with a person that seemed to grace down from the godless fog; and you wonder if he will evaporate with the mist when the waking sun burns it away from the pulsing, fever-sick skin of the Earth, another dream lost in the early morning hours.

that dream and die closed like shuttered metal ships that stray from their projected course. As you watch them they do not look hollow, but as you look away they become pale and lonely moons and heal like ragged wounds that taste heated and sick with fever.

Arms hold with slack tenseness, like comforting dungeon irons or the ! bers of creeping ivy pinching the bark of rotting trees or roots that curl around the foundations of old houses in a beckoning curve that is almost cynical. " e touch is like the tentative lichen that slinks around proud trunks and over soil that is the garbage of autumn; painfully personal yet viscerally detached, the symbiotic relationship is easily trampled.

6 PENMAN

Living Like SonatasNOAH PILCHEN Illustration by Clare Smith

Senior Noah Pilchen makes his � rst written submission to Penman with this essay. In his free time, he enjoys theatre and working on the illustrious Crossed Sabres sta! . He will be attending Northeastern University next fall.

I hate checking “undecided” when asked for my major on college applications. I want my life to be organized. I do

not like the uncertainty of the future. ! at is why I like sonatas. In piano, there is a musical structure known as “sonata form,” which describes the layout of the piece. Each sonata begins with the exposition, is followed by the development, and ends with the recapitulation. Each movement has distinct characteristics while still re" ecting a common theme.

• • •Exposition: First movement. Has a quick,

upbeat tempo. " eme is established very early. I played soccer at a very early age. Although the tempo of our games was quick, I was never upbeat when playing. I enjoyed running around with my friends, and working as a team, but I realized that sports were not my thing. I have since forgotten the team’s name, but I still have the yellow knee socks that were part of the uniform.

Development: Second movement. Has a slower tempo and deepens the theme by changing the exposition’s key. With my movement into middle school, I changed my main extracurricular activity from soccer to theatre. I enrolled in a Shakespeare elective, which culminated in

a performance at the Folger Shakespeare Library. In Twelfth Night I played Malvolio, the morose butler who is tricked into thinking that his mistress loves him—a deception that causes him to don yellow stockings and prance around her. I embraced the character and pulled my pants down on stage, sporting the same yellow socks I had worn for soccer, and received a standing ovation. It was then that I knew I loved theatre. ! eatre was something I did well, that did not involve kicking a ball into a net, yet I could still run around with my friends and work as a team. Since then, my love of theatre and Shakespeare has deepened. I spent the past # ve summers acting at a Shakespearean theatre camp, and this year I was accepted into a fellowship at the Folger Shakespeare Library—the same library where I spoke my # rst lines of iambic pentameter.

Recapitulation: Final movement. Often repeats important elements from the exposition’s theme, in the original key. If my life were a sonata, would only my yellow socks remain from the exposition? I think not. What also remains is an important lesson I have learned: try it and, if it does not work, move on. If you can reuse the yellow socks in another context, all the better.

In life, I am learning that adapting is key. In sonatas, the key changes. However one de# nes “key,” change is necessary and inevitable. I may be unsure of what I want to do with my life now, but I know that this will change.

• • •

7Winter

I like sonatas because they are organized. I envy them because they are not afraid to change. I want to feel comfortable checking “undecided” when asked about my major, to leave room for change. Like a sonata.

8 PENMAN

tumult, as engines begin to whisper —no, roar — almost streaking down side streets.god is a photographer, he wants to rememberit all as it isin this very moment,capture it in a still for safe-keeping.as if tomorrow these sidewalks and brick houses willsubmerge or crack beneath someunimaginable weight.

judasANYA KARAGULINA Illustration by Maia Taber

9Winter

But when will I fall into placeAfter the good times, baby,After the bad times fade away will I fallInto place

Into placeInto place

Into place, I roamIn the background I feel at homeIn between the city lights as they go onOn the outskirts of my bad days, when I feel alone

In between my linesWould you love me by the quarter, would you love me like you’re blindAs the days keep getting shorter, faster seem to run the timeWould you take me like an order, would you save my place in line

Until I fall into placeAfter the good times babyAfter the bad times fade away, will I fallInto place

Into placeInto place

Into place, I lingerLike a callus, growin’ on my ! ngerRougher as the days go by, far from the apple of your eyeBut worn down like the smoothest rock you’ll ever come by

Into life I hurry, as a blizzard meets a " urryTake me rushing and obnoxious, take my wins against my lossesIn my case, take me

As I fall into placeAfter the good times babyAfter the bad times fade away, will I fallInto place

Fall into PlaceSOPHIA DELMAR

Chorus is G D Em7 A; Verses are G D A Em7Audio recording of this song avaialble on the Penman section of the Washington-Lee website

10 PENMAN

� is narrative is Kat’s second submission to this issue of Penman. She is very proud of both prose contributions and hopes you will enjoy reading them at your leisure.

I remember my hands cradling the broken globe, my hands that are unworthy of grasping its inside

bauble, like it is a secret I am not meant to know. ! e pasty pink and worn white stand in sharp contrast to my hands, whose scars and blood-" ushed # ngertips give them an aura of hurt. ! e unicorn is in a forever-frozen bucking stance. Its pure white mane is caught in the nonexistent wind and its golden hooves gleam wetly. ! is is the precious thing, always hidden inside its glass bubble, swallowed by water " ecked with glitter and congealed dust; (spat onto the " oor and lain there like a bloated carcass the moment that bubble was smashed). I held it in my hands then, knowing I would never feel the cool, smooth glass of the globe against my skin again; knowing the unicorn would be eaten away by air and bacteria and time now that its immortality was splashed across the wood of my " oor.

! e blinds had knocked the globe, my mother’s precious globe, from the shelf. It was broken. Undone. It had followed her into the void of lost things. I remember hearing the glass shatter, but not really hearing it, just noticing it and ignoring it out of fear—terrible, terrible fear—and then hearing the crack of my neck travel down my spine as my head

whipped around, fully knowing and yet dreadfully unsure of what that shattering glass meant.

I remember hearing the door slam in anger, and feeling the air swirl in the room tensely, the way a pressure change will sound sharply in your ear before a storm breaks, and then hearing the door-slam-pressure-change-of-the-storm make the blinds " ap against the window like a bird trying to break free, and then hearing that awful shattering-glass-body-breaking sound that took me a moment to fully understand.

But before all that, I remember the spitting-viper-rage. His yell: full of words sharp like cutlery or savage teeth; I let them hit and stick, like a show at a circus, and I am merely a target board. His posture: back sti$ and menacing, a wild hawk’s straight spine in the downward dive towards the prey. My cowardice: the internal fear that belongs to the omega, trembling and whimpering and unable to respond. I hide it all. I hide what I can. I keep it private. My mask holds its place on my face; my mask has become my face, the features molded to re" ect impassivity, but I feel my eyes quiver, I feel my jaw tense. I bite the inside of my mouth until I taste blood, and then I bite harder. My eyes blur with what seems like a milky fog, but what I know to be tears threatening to run my face raw. I do not blink. I stare blankly and without emotion, allowing everything to build inside and allowing nothing to spill out. I do not like messes.

� e MaskKATARINA VANDISH Illustration by Olivia Czerewko

11Winter

I keep my features clean. ! e mask holds; the door is slammed, the blinds " ap desperate wings, and the globe shatters against the hardwood.

! ere is glass on this " oor. I feel it sink its thick teeth into the exposed skin of my knees. But I cannot move. I am the statue; I am the bauble inside the glass bubble.

! e nonexistent wind does not " utter my mane, but my hands gleam wetly with the guts of my broken treasure. I am not bucking, I am not even breathing. I am forever frozen in this state. ! e mask holds. When will my bubble smash? Will I ever be free?

12 PENMAN

In the mystery of his wild loping gait.

Watching the blue smoke rise and fall

Immersed in shadows

Earth’s night sky as vast

As space itself.

A luminous gleam of light

Brings everything to

A screeching halt.

Strange yet familiar sounds

Make me feel happy,As happy as I once was.

Mirror of My Former SelfALAN PHUNG Photography by Cristian Urbina

13Winter

RiskJORDAN RICKER Photography by David Silverman

Jordan Ricker is a Washington-Lee full-IB senior and thinks the Penman editors are fantastical. He loves English and ponders philosophy in his spare time.

HE staggered on, clutching the stitch at his side. Panting deeply, Gefahr continued to

make his way through the snowy woods, determined to escape his pursuers. He couldn’t see them following, but knew they were on his trail, doggedly following. Gefahr persisted for another thirty yards, ! nally ! nding a small cave. He stumbled inside, covered himself in his cloak as best he could, and instantly fell asleep from exhaustion.

When he woke hours later, Gefahr knew he was safe. If they hadn’t caught him by now, then they wouldn’t waste any more resources or time attempting to do so. Nevertheless, he still didn’t make a ! re. Instead, he wrapped his cloak even more tightly around his body, trying to stay warm. Night was falling.

Gefahr sat on the cold hard stone, huddled up in his sable cloak. He knew why they had chased him o" . He knew that once they discovered what he was, they would always chase him o" . His small, blood-red star located right under his collarbone kept pace with his heartbeat. # at was why he was hunted, continually, because of his mark. # ey came in all shapes and sizes, and could be found anywhere on your body, but all of them were a deep red—the exact same

shade as fresh blood. By having one of these marks, Gefahr was what was known as a “Risk.”

Risks were hunted down by all other humans. Hunted down and killed. At sixteen, Gefahr was very rare. Most Risks didn’t live much longer than birth, as their parents would rather kill their child than let them be tracked down for the rest of their life.

# ere was a legitimate fear of Risks. # e reason they were so rare, so loathed, and so feared by everybody was their volatility. Each and every one would grow destructively violent, supernaturally so, without warning or prompting. # eir mark would start to glow, softly at ! rst, but then build in intensity until it was a blinding light—then it would go dark and would become jet-black. # is was called the “Fit.” At this point each Risk would burst into a killing frenzy, unrestrainable and unstoppable. It was as if a demon had taken hold of the Risk, imbuing them with ! endish strength, and granting them devilish speed. # is phase would last until every beating heart was silent—then the mark would return to its red, and the Risk would collapse in fatigue, surrounded by corpses.

Gefahr hated it. He didn’t ask to be a Risk, he didn’t want to be a Risk. All he had known, his entire life, was hatred and isolation. And he had no control over his Fits, no desire to murder—but he had to accept it. He was marked.

• • •

14 PENMAN

As he dwelled over these unpleasant thoughts, Gefahr heard a slight, very quiet rustle. Immediately, his entire body was poised and alert. He strained his ears to catch even the smallest sound, the slightest intake of breath, the barest crinkle of a leaf—and was rewarded. A foot had just landed on a snowdrift about ten feet from the mouth of the cave. As quickly and quietly as possible, Gefahr got up, falling back into a � ghting stance and slipping his dagger out of his boot. He snuck up to the entrance of the cave, and waited, still listening very closely. A few seconds later, a girl rounded the corner and grasped wildly for him. Gefahr sidestepped her initial grab, slid up beside her, trapped her arms with his left hand, and with his right, held his dagger a hair’s breadth away from her jugular.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he demanded in a throaty baritone which brooked no argument.

“None of your business!” the girl angrily replied, frustrated at being caught so easily.

“You’re not in a position to argue,” Gefahr replied. He was surprised to discover anyone else out here, least of all a teenage girl.

“Fine! I’ll tell you whatever you want if you just get that away from my throat!”

15Winter

“Why would I do that?” asked Gefahr, “You have nothing to lose, but I have everything.”

“All right, all right. My name is Cara, I’m � fteen, and I’m carrying no weapons on me.”

“I believe you on two counts out of three, but you’re going to have to convince me that you’re not armed.”

“How am I supposed to do that if you’re pinning my arms down?” Cara quickly responded.

Reluctantly, Gefahr complied, but kept his dagger trained on this stranger. Standing there, staring back at him squarely in the eyes was this short, lean, and muscled girl who called herself Cara. She was wearing all brown leather from her greaves up to her gauntlets, including her cloak, but her eyes and hair were all black.

“Well? What are you going to do with me now?” she demanded � ercely. “I have no weapons, no food, and you have no idea what I’m doing here.”

Gefahr considered her question for a moment.

It was a legitimate inquiry, as he truly did not know what to do with her. � e last thing he was expecting after being chased down was to stumble across a random teenage girl. Much less, he truly didn’t know anything about her; her name and age didn’t really tell

16 PENMAN

him anything of import. “Just sit and stay in that corner over

there. Don’t make any sudden moves, and don’t give me any reason to use this,” he eventually said, referring to his dagger.

“Fine,” Cara replied abruptly.Each warily took their place, facing

the other at all times. Both still seemed surprised to discover that they had run into someone else out here, in the middle of the snowy wilderness.

“So...what’s your story?” ventured Gefahr, wondering who in the world this petite girl could actually be.

“Oh, I’m just a little Risk, nothing to worry about,” she said, appearing o� hand, but carefully gauging his response.

Gefahr was struck with three intense feelings simultaneously. � e � rst was burning curiosity. � is was another Risk! He had never even seen another, much less actually met one. What was she like? � e second was suspicion. Why would she tell him that? How could she know what his reaction would be? Did she know that he was a Risk as well? � e last feeling was something akin to panic and fear. Wasn’t he supposed to loathe, distrust, and ultimately, kill any other Risk?

When Gefahr didn’t instantly react with hostility Cara laughed and said, “I thought so. You’re a Risk too. Why else would you be out here, all by yourself, and attacking a defenseless girl?”

Gefahr remained silent. He didn’t like this girl, he decided. She was too abrupt, too open for his taste. But her earlier question still nagged at him—what was he going to do with her?

“Well, now this is a lot easier.We don’t have to worry about whether or not

the other is going to kill us in our sleep for fear the other is a Risk,” Cara said jokingly, with the hint of a smile playing around her lips.

“Where’s your mark?” Gefahr suddenly demanded. “Prove that you actually are a Risk.”

“� at’s easy!” replied Cara, jumping up and pulling back her left sleeve to reveal that her entire arm was laced with interweaving webs of red, giving the appearance that her entire arm was permanently lacerated.

“Where’s yours?” She asked in return.Slowly, and still sitting, Gefahr pulled

back on his collar to reveal his minute little star. Cara stared at it, “It’s so small!” she said, almost envious of how easily he could conceal it.

Gefahr roughly hid it from sight again, ashamed as he always was of being marked.

“Hey, now we can travel together!” exclaimed Cara, starting to pace around the room, “It will be a lot less conspicuous with the two of us together...no one will suspect that we’re both Risks!”

Gefahr sullenly remained where he was and pondered. He had never traveled with anyone before, and companionship would be a nice respite from his sixteen years of loneliness. Yet still he hesitated. Who was this Cara, truly? What were her motives? Could he actually have a chance to live among others, free from rife suspicion everywhere he went? It was possible, Gefahr realized, but only with someone else.

“All right,” he said warily, “I’m still unsure, but I’ll take the risk.”

17Winter

Center stage, all alone.Empty seats echo the silence, ringing in your earsas the spotlight shines,the lights blinding your eyes.Curtains drape across the background,red and satin, old in age,clean and ready for the show,the show that never happens.Wooden ! oors re! ect the lightdry and hot, starved for perfection.Ropes and bags, hanging in the still air,choking on the dust." ere’s no business like show business,but what’s there to show when nothing’s left?Center stage, all alone.

Center StageANONYMOUS Illustration by Nominjin Enkhee

18 PENMAN

Contrary to her youthful appearance, Naomi Waltengus is amidst her senior year here at Washington-Lee. When she’s not writing about books or life crises, she likes to watch � lms and catch up on valuable sleep.

IT came in the night. It always did.

Darkness fell. ! e doors closed, and

silence snuck its way into my normally

vibrant home. My fears, irrational and

unwarranted, would attack in the night.

“Assaulting” was the right word for what

they did. To think was to invite all of the

worries I kept silent during the day out

to frolic in the night. ! e start? Prayer.

Although I consider myself agnostic,

I always embraced the idea of religion

(mostly for my parents’ sake). Praying

was a way of proving my “faith.” I came

to enjoy these conversations with God.

Sure they were one-sided but at least He

cared. His willingness to listen and His

objectiveness were both comforting and

frightening. I would change into my

pajamas, kneel at my bed, and pour out

my soul. ! en it changed.

One night, after watching a particularly

horrifying movie, all I could think about

was death. My death. Or rather what

would happen afterwards. Did dead

mean dead? What about the afterlife? Did

it exist? Bewildered, I stayed up all night.

Tossing and turning, I tried to fall asleep,

but my mind raced. Fear, anxiety, and

sleeplessness became regular nighttime

visitors. Sleeping? I no longer did.

My lack of sleep and the availability of

time resulted in a new habit. Below my

bed, I kept stacks of books. I would read

the night away. Flipping through pages,

I was scolded many times for reading so

late. Books were a beautiful distraction;

calming, entrancing, and eye-opening.

! ese books would make their way into

my bed. Under my pillows and beneath

my bed, there were mysteries and science

" ction, classics and horror, mingling

regardless of genre. ! ose were the nights

of Jane Eyre, of Holden Caul" eld, of

the Phantom of the Opera. ! e night

of Carrie and Dolores Claiborne (I

developed a thing for Stephen King)

and Hercule Poirot (I always have and

always will love Poirot). I read Brave

New World and began to think about

Huxley’s commentary on capitalism

and its deleterious e# ects, a hedonistic

and apathetic society (but I didn’t fully

comprehend that message until I read it

this year).

Finally, I became accustomed to

nighttime. As soon as darkness set in,

my fears would strike, but this time I was

equipped. I had weapons ready and the

weapons were words. Ideas, concepts,

thoughts, provoked by books that took

my breath away. Reading had allayed

my fears, held my interest, and widened

my understanding. I had always been a

bibliophile, but for the " rst time I felt

truly connected to these books. I " lled my

head with themes, plots and characters

My Beautiful DistractionNAOMI WALTENGUS Photography by Lelia Troiano

19Winter

until I fell asleep at one or two in the

morning. Soon enough, it began to take

less time for me to fall asleep and when

I went to bed, I thought less of death

and more of life. I feel indebted to these

authors whose books got me through one

of the scariest and toughest times in my

life. Books soothed me and answered my

prayers when God did not and for that, I

am eternally grateful.

20 PENMAN

A Short SummaryGUS THOMAS Illustration by Meredith Sweeney

Light shines in my window,but I’m still in the dark.What you don’t know can’t hurt you,any news is bad news.

I stroll casually through life,but I always lookboth ways.I can’t know what is around the corner,Will it hurt me? Will I die?

! e answer is hidden in plain sight,action is more importantthan information.Make a choice,and break free of night.

Will I ever discoverwhat I’ve searched so hard to " nd?I should know:it doesn’t matter in the end,either way, I’m going to have to " ght.

21Winter

22 PENMAN

SamuelANONYMOUS Photography by Erin Daniell

SAMUEL was always a student; sedulously working away at whatever interested him. He was

quite admirable, in fact, though his instructors were often irritated by his

lack of self-discipline. Late assignments, digression from outlined instruction, pens cringed when Samuel received an ‘A.’ His test scores were unbelievably high. All in

all, his intentions were in the right place, and he thought he had the easy life going for him. ! at is, until he met a certain someone.

Yes, that girl who changed his life, warped

his perception beyond recognition. A sunlight river " owed down her warm face. De# ned cheekbones revealed introverted erudition. ! e words she spoke pierced

23Winter

state of sedation. She was calling him, yet Samuel could not answer. Restless nights and lusterless days weighed on Samuel. He could not sleep, as if a single thread hung him above a sea of despair. Anxiety took its toll and his grades su� ered. � e weight was too great. � e thread sheared and Samuel plunged deep into the darkness, his fears trailing behind him.

A symphony of hands broke the surface, reached out to him. � ey dragged the martyred out of the sea, pumping water out of his cold lungs. Samuel woke a changed man, bittersweet realization running through his veins. He had to forsake his love.

It was the nighttime when Samuel found his voice. Staring at the ceiling, resting on an abandoned bed, he made the call. A mere echo answered him. His consciousness thinned, the fabrics of sanity stretched again. Yet in the distance, on the horizon, he glimpsed the river. Samuel tore o� his mask to see with his own eyes. She had made her choice. She had come to take him back home.

Samuel’s soul. He simply could not get her out of his mind, poisoned by fantasy. Alas, Samuel was not alone. Countless before strove great lengths to impress. Test them she would, rejecting those subpar. Samuel studied these beaus, absorbing their failures, determined to prevail.

Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months. She had warmed up a bit to Samuel. She sat next to him in a few classes, making conversation over various topics of interest. Samuel was infatuated both physically and intellectually. On and o� she would � nd some unsuspecting beau, take him for a ride, and then discard him in the dust behind. Samuel watched in horror and great amazement, as she knew exactly what she wanted.

� e day Samuel � nally saw her tender side was the day everything fell apart. In class, their intellectual sparring subsiding, Samuel o� handedly mentioned her plans for next year. She was unsure, as her family was to be uprooted and shipped across the land. She smiled, remarking what a common occurrence this was. Poor Samuel was numb.

� e departure was painless, a quick prick in the arm. Surrounded by admirers and would-be beaus, she sat reading a carefully crafted farewell card. Colorful ink and construction paper ensured the card’s e� ort was evident. Samuel sat behind his mask, waiting. However, the time never came. He approached her, sheepishly o� ering a mix tape for the road. Again she smiled, thanking him for the relief. � e bell rang. She stood up and exited the room.

From that point on, Samuel’s life was a blur: days weaving together in a constant

24 PENMAN

if i could be a mangoANONYMOUS Illustration by Casha Stempniewicz

if i could be a mango i would be contenta looking out over the campo where i was born.

i would enjoy my green, hard youth,my soft, golden teenage years.

i could stay out in the rainlike how i want;

abuela no me podría gritar:  “échate pa dentro que tu va cogel gripe!” yeah, my grandmother couldn’t yell at me to go back inside then.

not if i could be a mango.i would dance all the windy nights, watch every star,

but what i wouldn’t like, i mean, the boys,they could mess with me all they want,

y no me podría poner guapa, volverles a gritar, cause see i couldn’t talk back, not if i was a mango.

and someday they would come and take me.i wouldn’t have any choice.

stupid boyswith their stones would

knock me down, bruise me, eat me.i wouldn’t blame them though.

they’d take me to see the world, those boys,out of the campo where i was born, down

the mountain, around a block, but when they would $ nishme tirarían al suelo.

i wouldn’t blame them, stupid boys, and i wouldn’t blame the mangy dog either,

that would pick me up, carry me across town—i’ve always wanted to travel.

if i could be a mangobruised, beaten, eaten,

someday i’d get droppedcerca del río on the other side of town,

and you know, i wouldn’t let it get to me, everything those boys and that dog put me through.

i would remember my sweet childhood days,and i would start to grow.my roots would go deep,

my branches tall,but mija, you know the one thing

i would hate?someday watching all my daughters fall.

25Winter

26 PENMAN

2010 • Colonel E. Savage Award

2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011 • Trophy Class

ColophonAll work published in Penman is chosen and edited collectively by members of the

sta! , and " nal decisions are made by section editors. For this issue, the sta! worked

diligently to select written pieces that are diverse in form as well as content in an

attempt to showcase the many di! erent perspectives of our school. # e general

theme for this issue is identity. Pseudonyms and Anonymous pieces are approved

only with the sta! adviser’s permission. Art submissions are either commissioned to

match a piece of writing or selected because they relate, thematically or otherwise,

to a written piece.

Penman is published bi-annually with funds from the Arlington School Board,

" nancial grants, fundraising activities, and advertisement sales. Artwork and text

is reproduced with permission, and further reproduction of the pieces contained

herein is not permitted. Washington-Lee High School does not gain the copyright

to any artwork or writing contained in this, or any other, issue. Ownership is re-

tained by the original student creators.

# e 2011-2012 Penman magazines are printed on Photo White 28# Hammermill Color Copy paper, and the cover is printed on White 80# Sterling Ultra Digital

Gloss, cut SFI MS PC 10 paper. Pre-press production is done by Penman sta!

members using Adobe InDesign CS3 and CS5 and Adobe PhotoShop CS3 and

CS5 Extended. Font type is set in Adobe Garamond Pro. # e Penman sta! meets

before school in the publications lab (room 1028) to collaborate on this magazine.

# ank you to all students who submitted poetry, " ction, non-" ction, artwork,

and photography. We hope you enjoy the 2012 winter issue as much as we enjoyed

its production.

2007, 2010, 2011 • Silver Medalist

2006, 2008, 2009 • Gold Medalist

27Winter

Congratulations

for getting it done!

Westover Market

The Hub of a Friendly Community!

5863 N. Washington Blvd.

Arlington, VA 22205

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28 PENMAN

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