1Winter

PENMANWinter 2013

Cover Photography by Lindsay Chamness

Published semi-annually by students ofWashington-Lee High School

1301 North Stafford StreetArlington, Virginia 22201

Phone: 703-228-6200 Fax: 703-228-8644

VOLUME 67, NUMBER 1FOUR DOLLARS

3Winter2 PENMAN

CONTENTSPENMAN STAFF

Editor-in-Chief Luisa Banchoff

Fiction Editor Caroline HarveyPoetry Editor Abby BoshartNon-Fiction Editor Maddie NelsonArt Editor Juliana Butler

Associate Fiction Editors Katarina Holtzapple Isabel Larroca Associate Poetry Editors Sydney Johnson Audrey Paduda

Associate Non-Fiction Editor Emma Schimley Associate Art Editors Emma Klein Sonia Lunn Meredith Sweeney Layout Editors Anya Karagulina Anna Santiago Business Manager/Online Editor Andrés Orjales Staff Adviser Ms. Cat Misar

Art Advisers Ms. Joan Bickelhaupt Ms. Hiromi Isobe

Laura Pastre Henley Royal Regatta ...........................7 Photography by Caitlyn Mulcahy

Savannah Young Third Culture Kid ..............................16 Illustration by Temuge Batzaya

Anonymous Scarcity in South Carolina ..................19

Non-Fiction

Claire Spaulding The Gamble .........................................4 Illustration by Clare Smith

Daphne Martin Alex.. ................................................11 Sculpture by Dana Raphael

Alix Elhers A Grandmother’s Tale .........................22 Illustration by Natalia Rodas-Calderon

Fiction

PoetryGwen Yamanaka Picket Fences ........................................6 Photography by Emma Troy

Alicia Huggett Searching for Sky................................10 Illustration by Abubakr Osman

Eleni Riris A Light in the Dark ............................15 Illustration by Nurbanu Davaz

Claire Spaulding Some Reasons Why It Ended .............18 Illustration by Abubakr Osman

Nurbanu Davaz The Right Shoes .................................21 Photography by Emma Troy

5Winter4 PENMAN

The GambleCLAIRE SPAULDING Illustration by Clare Smith

Claire Spaulding is a sophomore who is most likely to be found having adventures in a fantasy world of her own imagination when she should be doing math homework. Along with writing, she loves reading, watching British TV shows, playing piano, singing, and making films. THE host waits backstage in his dressing room. He smooths back his slick white hair and flashes a blinding smile at himself in the mirror. He bounces on his toes, brimming with confidence.

He walks onstage to a recorded applause track. There is no audience, only the stage and an empty auditorium. Today’s contestant, Dennis, is already waiting at the podium. He gulps as the host flashes him another smile. The host’s face is unnerving. Where eyes should be the host has nothing. Not empty eye sockets, not darkness. Even pits of darkness are something. The host has twin spots of nothingness. They make Dennis dizzy. And nervous.

“And we’re live—pardon the pun—in three, two…hello, folks, and welcome back! Today’s contestant is Dennis from Salt Lake City, Utah. Now, Dennis, we should get started because, of course, the longer we wait, the more you forget.”

Dennis tries for a smile but can’t quite manage one.

“First, let’s review the gameplay!”Dennis decides that the host’s

smile is the toothiest he has ever seen.

It’s borderline maniacal. Above all, he wishes the host would have something—anything—where his eyes should be instead of that awful…nothingness.

“I ask questions and you answer. Simple, really. If you make it past the top level, you get your choice of prizes—heaven, Elysium, reincarnation as a higher life form, you name it. If you get something wrong, of course, you get eternal suffering. Ready to play, Dennis?”

That smile is definitely maniacal. Dennis hates this place. He only got here half an hour ago, but he has already forgotten so much of who he is.

Still, he can’t resist playing the final game. He can’t resist gambling with Death.

They never can.“First question: where did you

grow up?”Dennis has to think for a moment,

but it comes fairly quickly.“Washington, D.C.”“Correct!”Recorded sounds of applause

crackle overhead. Digital fireworks explode silently on the giant video screen backdrop. The host beams, turning as though to acknowledge a cheering crowd, but no crowd has materialized. Rows of empty auditorium seats still press in close, leering down on the stage.

Dennis is sweating. He can feel his soul erasing, his essence slipping away. This place. He hates this place.

“Second question: what high

never win. No contestant has ever won. He wishes, sometimes, that they wouldn’t play. It is so stupid, playing against Death. They should know that it is impossible to win. But they can’t resist the gamble. They can’t resist giving it a shot. It exhausts him, sometimes.

The host plasters his perky face back on and steps back out of his dressing room to the sound of prerecorded applause.

Time for the next contestant.

school did you go to?”Think, Dennis! He grinds his

teeth. “P…Patrick Henry.”“Correct!”The nothingness bores into him.“Third question: what is your

wife’s name?”Dennis is falling into nothingness.

He is unraveling. The memories crumble and slide away from him.

“Ly—no, Sarah!” He is panicking now. The empty seats ogle at him. He can feel their malevolent gazes when he turns away, the hostility of an audience that is there and not there.

“Correct! Congratulations on making it this far. Most people don’t.”

Dennis is shaking. Who is he? Where is he? Everything is a blank blur, an endless stream of question marks.

“Ready for the final question?”He is paralyzed.“What is your name?”Dennis opens his mouth and, to

his vague surprise, nothing comes out. Dennis shuts his mouth and shakes his head slowly.

Dennis does not know. The empty seats laugh and jeer.The host looks genuinely

disappointed. “I’m sorry. You have lost. This concludes the show.”

Dennis is escorted off the stage. He does not resist. His face is blank, emotionless. His eyes are two twin spots of absolutely nothing.

The host slumps as the show goes off the air, the manic happy energy falling away like a mask. He returns to his dressing room and locks the door.

He stares in the mirror. They

7Winter6 PENMAN

How did we begin speaking of“one days”with “picket fences?”You leftand yet,seated on the sidewalk therewords of what ifwe lasted forever?emerged into the airlong after you weregone.Who spoke them first anyway?

Those sort of dreams were alwaystoo true of a fairytalefor us.I loved you too much toset our adolescent affection upto fail by binding itwith foolish myths ofpermanence.

GWEN YAMANAKAPicket Fences

Photography by Emma Troy

Henley Royal RegattaLAURA PASTRE Photography by Caitlyn Mulcahy

Laura Pastre is a junior this year and enjoys hanging out with her friends in her free time. Laura plays basketball and rows for W-L, which accounts for her interest in the Henley Royal Regatta.

AT the Henley Royal Regatta, rowers have put in years of preparation for six minutes of exertion. These six minutes, however, are unlike any other. It is a race to one of the most iconic finish lines of all time. Crews from all around the world work to qualify for the Henley Royal Regatta held on the Thames in Henley, England, UK. My experience is unlike that of a rower’s. Although I am a rower, I am a spectator at this race. My brother, John, rows for St. Edward’s School in Oxford and will be competing in Henley for his second and final time at the high school, or as they call it, ‘school boys’ level. My family and I have flown out to watch him, and it has turned out to be quite the affair. At Henley, you must wear a below-the-knee dress and a hat, per tradition. For the men it is a suit, your alumni sport coat from your school, or a general sport coat and a panama hat. When the day comes for Henley, we all get dolled up in our various outfits and squeeze into the car. On the way there, I think of how my brother must be feeling as he boards the bus from his school to Henley. I begin to feel nervous for him. My brother is not one to ever admit to being nervous, so I take on that job for

him as a knot forms in my stomach and my heart races at the thought of the six minutes that are to come. We arrive at Henley and take our parking spot next to his school’s tent. Part of the benefit of sending my brother to a boarding school is the way that they host their events. A massive tent with the school’s name and logo is set up and a gourmet meal is catered. All of the family members, school alumni, staff, and rowers who have come to support St. Edward’s dine and discuss the draw that we received for our first race. As I stand and chat with friends and family, I hear whispers of “We’ve got to beat the Aussies” or “I hear their five seat is a monster on the ergo” and “Best of luck to our boys who have dedicated so much of their time.” The feeling of excitement and the building sense of pride is almost tangible.

“... a knot forms in my stomach and my heart

races at the thought of the six minutes that are to

come.”

As lunch wraps up and the time for us to mosey on over to the riverside nears, we walk over to the Stewards’ Enclosure. The Stewards’ Enclosure is an exclusive and enclosed area in which we can sit, walk around, purchase beverages,

9Winter8 PENMAN

their rate. “We’re at a 36. Let’s push it guys, come on!” The boats speed by us but our eyes stay glued to them as they cross the finish line. My brother’s boat loses with a time that would have won almost every

other race that day. I glance down the river to see John and his teammates bending over in exhaustion. We take that as our cue grabbing our stuff and heading over to the competitors enclosure. We anxiously wait for John to emerge from the tents. After the coach finishes his talk with the rowers, they come out one by one. With tears welling in their eyes and some even breaking down, it is heartbreak for them all. John is the last one to come out. He looks frustrated and disappointed. He fights the tears as best he can as he tells us his take on the race. This is the hardest part of rowing: when your successful season has an abrupt end. No matter how much each team prepares, the Henley Royal Regatta is the ultimate example of “luck of the draw.”

and shop for souvenirs. People scurry around the results board as it updates schedules on who has won and what their time was for the race. My mom and her best friend Suzanne buy programs and quickly indulge themselves in the results board, trying to figure out who’s next and if we might race them if we advance. My brother’s race is at 6:10 p.m., which is a relatively late time compared to last year’s afternoon races. Great, I think to myself as I realize that this only means more time for the anticipation to build. The time for my brother nears and my mom and Suzanne go to the Stewards’ Enclosure to watch my brother’s boat launch. When Suzanne returns, I ask

how John looked and where my mom is; she says that John looked focused and that my mom had been invited to ride on the official’s launch. That means that my mom gets to ride right behind John’s race the whole distance. Since my brother was going to school and rowing all the way across the Atlantic, she hadn’t gotten to see any of John’s regattas and now she gets to see the best one in the best way. Now all I am waiting for is John’s boat to row past on its way to the start and for my mom to ride by on the official’s boat. When John’s boat rows by on the way to the start, all the rowers look

concentrated and put together. They focus on their form and visualize the race as they row up the course. I watch as my heart races and I snap photos. Next, my mom comes by on the boat and I can see from a distance that she is talking with the warden and looks just as nervous as I am. Finally, it is 6:10. The race before John’s has just crossed the finish line. We hear the announcer say the schools: St. Edward’s and Scotch College. As the race progresses, the announcer keeps us updated and we continue to sit on the edge of our seats. I can no longer stay seated as I see John’s boat in the distance, and I hear the announcer’s voice quicken as he claims that this may be the closest

race of the day. The British don’t usually cheer, but loud calls erupt and emotion takes over protocol. My family and I begin to cheer on John and his boat. The thousands of spectators focus on what could be the fastest and closest race of the day. John’s boat is behind by three-fourths of a length. As they come into view, I get my camera. I snap photos and try to help encourage John’s boat to take the lead. “Come on, St. Edward’s! Let’s go, John!” You can see in their body language the fight for the finish line. As the boat comes closer, I hear the coxswain yelling encouraging words and reading them

“This is the hardest part of rowing: when your success-ful season has an abrupt

end.”

11Winter

AlexDAPHNE MARTIN Sculpture by Dana Raphael

Daphne Martin is in her fifth year at Hog-warts School of Witchcra— I mean, sopho-more year at Washington-Lee High school. She adores reading and writing fantasy stories and hopes to travel the world with a suitcase full of—you guessed it—books. ALEXANDER lay quietly in the darkness. He could hear the steady breathing of the other boys, sound asleep after another long day of fighting. Moon-light slipped through the slits in the hut’s ceiling, chasing away the darkest shadows. The Spartan boys had been taught to fear night; it was a formidable ally, but an un-predictable enemy. Alex sat up, sweeping his gaze over the sleeping figures. Satis-fied, he rose, crouching so as not to hit the ceiling. He darted over the bodies like a shadow, scarcely daring to breathe. One wrong step and he would be caught. The crickets outside reached a crescendo, fill-ing Alexander’s head. Abruptly, a hand grabbed his ankle, almost sending Alex careening into the hut’s flimsy wall. The blood was thrumming furiously in his ears like the sound of the drums before a major battle. “Alex?” The voice was sharp with exasperation. “Leo.” Alex turned to his broth-er, his eyes pleading. “Please don’t tell. I’m not doing anything, I just…” His brother’s eyes were hard now, and his jaw clenched. This was the third time Leo had caught him sneaking out of the hut past curfew.

“Why can’t you just listen to what people tell you?” Leo’s hands were balled up into fists, and Alex could see his broth-er’s muscles stretched taut like chords un-der his supple skin. “Because no one understands! I don’t want this.” Alex hissed under his breath, gesturing at the boys. “Can’t you just let me—” “No! Do you want to get killed? There will be no mercy if they find out you want to go to Athens. They’re our en-emies.” “Well, I’d rather be killed than be forced to fight and turn into a killing machine like the rest of you.” Alexander pushed past the curtains covering the door, storming out into the camp. He broke into a run, his feet flying silently over the ground. His fury was his fuel, and within minutes he was alone, just him and the stars. As soon as he was outside the camp, Alex slowed to a walk. Luckily, there were never any guards or patrols here at night, unless the boys’ camp was taking part in a mock battle. Any enemy would have to defeat the whole Spartan army before get-ting to the training camp. He stood there in silence, leaning against the old tree. The Spartan night was furtive; if it weren’t for the moon, the darkness would be opaque and imperme-able. A tree branch suddenly snapped be-hind Alexander, and he whirled around, expecting to face his brother. A pair of unfamiliar silver eyes stared back at him from behind a bush. Within a second,

Searching for SkyALICIA HUGGETT Illustration by Abubakr Osman

When life becomes naught but a sugar-dusted nothing,When reality winks by but never offers up a smile,When hearts pound to escape their bounds,And life is speckled with reality,Void of integrity,Then you know you’ve been running from reflections.

Although you resemble a discount apple:Wilting, past your prime, and lacking an effulgent shine…Refuse your candy-coated fantasiesWhose tantalizing promises have no backing in reality.Life is a present, journey above the constrictive cloudsWhose empty wisps leave much to be desired.Start anew: grab ahold of change,Sweep personal red herrings away, and let them burn.Fire left nothing but ashes,Now scattered in the wind,Blown away by whispers of tomorrow,Tomorrow.

When you finally pass previous perceptionsAnd go parading about crushing conceptions,Fly high, straight, proud and true,An arrow purposed with one word: tomorrow.Trials and tribulation aside,Hope shines through the clouds.Turn the tides: decide to give life a smile for a change,For once you’ve hit the bottom,Nothing is left but sky.

13Winter12 PENMAN

Alex had thrown his dagger, its blade whistling through the air, gleaming wick-edly in the moonlight. The eyes blinked and a small moan escaped into the dark. This was not a warrior, then. Any Spartan fighter would have had the agility to jump out of the dagger’s way. Alexander watched in horror as a woman stumbled out from behind the ferns. The dagger’s hilt protruded grotesquely from the right side of her chest. Blood was seeping out from the wound, dyeing her white dress a dark red. She was holding a bundle of blankets in her arms, splattered by her blood. “Please! Take her!” There was no hatred or malice in her voice, only a des-peration and anguish that seemed to reso-nate in Alexander’s heart. The woman’s face was ashen, her upper lip beaded with perspiration—but somehow her figure came across as noble and beautiful, like the virgin goddess Athena. Before Alex could reply, however, the baby was thrust into his arms; a frail pink wrist flailed past Alexander’s face, and the bundle made a pitiful mewling sound. The woman had fallen onto her knees now, her white dress pooling around her. “Quick! You must leave. They’ll kill her if you don’t!” Alex stared at the woman, open-mouthed. Everything had come upon him so fast: this woman he had just injured, her child, the strange re-quest. “I-I don’t understand.” The woman’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Go, I said! Now!” A cloud had passed over the moon, casting the valley into utter darkness. Once again, the only

things Alex could see were the woman’s strange eyes. “I’m a monster,” Alex whispered. He pressed the child against his chest. Its warm breath was enough to keep the cold from completely piercing his heart. The cloak of night seemed to wrap around him, and under its protec-tion, suffocation, and power he began the long journey to Athens. The stars were the only thing that stayed with the boy and the newborn as they traveled through hills and valleys.

Each day they would sleep, hidden in caves or among the reeds whistling by the edges of river beds. Occasionally they would come upon a small village or farm-er’s house, and Alex would steal goat’s milk for them to drink and animal pelts to keep warm. When shadows wrapped themselves around the landscape they began to walk, sometimes following the moon and other times the stars. The boy

kept the baby in his arms, never letting her out of his grasp. She did not cry, never suspecting even for a second that her pro-tector was also a murderer. The boy knew, though, and that was enough. The guilt ate at him; he was only sane when he concentrated on each footstep, each warm breath, each stream of light falling from the moon. But even then, he couldn’t ignore the nightmares that flashed in his mind each time he closed his eyes. On a night when the dark was opaque, almost tangible, Alexander had just woken up drenched in sweat, an im-age from the brutal end of the familiar nightmare still vivid behind his eyelids. This time the Spartan soldiers had found him before the woman had died. They had forced him to cut off her head and then kill the baby. Alex had woken up screaming before he brought down the sword. The room was dark; not a single beam of moonlight shone though the cur-tained window. Alex lay shivering in his bed, face to face with the darkness. Each time he closed his eyelids, he was greeted by scenes from the nightmare. Finally, he stood up, making his way over to the win-dow. He opened it, the fresh air of the val-ley reviving him somewhat. Athens always managed to make him feel better. Its rows of stone houses and open plazas were orderly and safe, encircled by rolling hills and mountains. After Alexander had arrived, he had been taken up as an apprentice almost im-mediately, his sculpted arms and broad shoulders advertising his strength and willingness to work. He had a talent and dedication when it came to laboring with

iron, and after working diligently for many months, he had become more than just an apprentice. Master Aristo’s wife, Helen, had happily nursed the baby girl, Echo, who they later found out was deaf. Handicaps were useless in Sparta, and all babies that had a deformity were thrown off a cliff. Here in Athens, an action like that would be considered a crime. That was just one of the marked differences Al-exander had noticed between Sparta and his peaceful new life in Athens. Alexander’s thoughts filled up his small bedroom, mixing with the shadows. They began to press down on him until he was itching for freedom and space, for something to give his stifled heart room to beat powerfully, the way it was meant to.

The darkness in front of him shim-mered, and a figure appeared, a shining beacon in the shadows. Alexander found himself kneeling, his forehead touching

14 PENMAN

the roots of the olive tree. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the god-dess, patroness of the city. “Rise, young Athenian.” The god-dess was draped in robes of white satin, flowing across her body as if they were made of wind. On her shoulder was perched an owl, its wings the same color as Athena’s gray eyes. “Please, Goddess, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” Athena did not speak. Only her eyes, burning more intensely than ever, gave any sign that she had heard him. Her form was changing now, and in the time it took for Alex to blink she was replaced by the women he had killed. Her white dress was coarser now, and her skin wrinkled and covered in blood.

Understanding rushed over him, as abrupt as a wave crashing on the shore. It had been her all along. “Listen to me.” The woman reached out, her cold hands stroking Al-exander’s cheek. “You are no monster. You never were, and you never will be. I have been by your side ever since you were born, knowing that you did not belong. Your last months in Sparta you began to grow restless. I knew that soon your fate would be decided. Echo was your chance, the crossroads. And this,” she gestured at the city of white marble, “is what you

Before September 11, 2001, the Muslim faith was simply a religion. As long as I can remember, a small sphere of revolving white resided in my soul. But on that terrible day the Muslim faith became despised, as was the girl. She saw hate in the eyes of her peers, teachers, and even strangers that knew nothing of her. Darkness was thrown at my sphere, in an unjust fury, and in anger. Hateful words were spat at her, and she was hated and blamed for the atrocities of others because she wore a scarf on her head. It was unfair, and the terrifying darkness my sphere endured was wrong. But however it hurt her, she tried to remain indifferent. To protect my sphere, my soul became cold, building walls of icy resistance. But eventually, she broke. Fight darkness with darkness, she thought, fight hatred with hatred. But the walls of ice melted, and evil seized my soul, and my sphere turned to the weapon its enemy used: darkness. She was no longer silent when insults were thrown at her. She spat filthy words back. Weapons of darkness and terror may combat my attackers but they destroy more than just the enemy: they are destroying my soul, and therefore my sphere. She was once kind and good-hearted, a quiet child of gentle and loving nature. But she has employed the weapon of hatred, and it turned her cruel. My sphere turned to an orbed inferno of darkness. Is my sphere darker than the enemy, because it chose to attack with the same weapon it had been attacked with: darkness? How can it return to the revolving globe of white innocence I once was? How could I resist the hate-filled cruelty I faced, when both cold indifference and hatred had failed me? There was but one answer:

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

A Light in the DarkELENI RIRIS Illustration by Nurbanu Davaz

chose.” “You did this? You brought me here?” Alex sank to his knees, unable to believe that he had the force of Athena by his side the whole time. The goddess just smiled at him, serenely. She was begin-ning to shimmer now, her features hint-ing at translucent. “Everything existing in the universe is the fruit of chance and necessity.”

“I have been by your side ever since you were born, knowing that you did not

belong.”

17Winter16 PENMAN

to their faces. That party inspired me to work hard at school since, unlike them, I have the option to do so. Social work, psychology, and education are all subjects I am interested in. When I picture the impoverished children hugging and kissing me goodbye, and remember Maria’s dedication, I too want the ability to significantly help similar children in the future.

Third Culture KidSAVANNAH YOUNG Illustration by Temuge Batzaya

I remember the thirty children chasing our car down the gravel road; they were so happy and appreciative. Most of them were orphans. All of them were extremely poor and suffering from AIDS. Because my dad works for the State Department, I have had the opportunity to live in six different countries and to experience a variety of amazing cultures and people. One of my most vivid memories is taking part in a Christmas party for South African children. Our housekeeper, Maria, lived in the township of Mamelodi. She was one of the wealthier inhabitants, living in a concrete house instead of the usual disintegrating tin shack. It was she who hosted a Christmas party every year for the children affected by AIDS in her neighborhood. We were at the party to help serve food and hand out presents. Maria’s motivation was inspiring. She did not make much money and benefited from charity herself, having taken home bags of our out-grown clothes for her five daughters. Nevertheless, she spent time, effort, and money for these other kids, believing them to be worse off. Despite their circumstances, the children at Maria’s Christmas party were

all elated to be at the event. I was thirteen then, and that is why one particular girl affected me so deeply. Bonolo was thirteen, too. She was pregnant and had AIDS. With two little brothers, a sick grandmother, and an alcoholic grandfather, she cared for her household herself. Whenever I am going through a rough time, I just remember that girl. I have no right to ever be ungrateful. Maria’s generosity roused me to want to make a real difference, too; there are so many kids in poorer parts of the world who need assistance. If Maria can figure out a way to help, so can I. Maria had a rough life; she told me harrowing stories about growing up during apartheid. Yet, she never pitied herself. Instead, she was compassionate and motivated, throwing herself into projects like her Christmas party. I aspire to have those qualities. I am so lucky to have had the opportunity to live overseas. I can tell fantastic stories about being charged by a hippo while kayaking on the Zambezi river, about loving to wake up to the ‘Call to Prayer’ from the Turkish mosques every morning, and of the grueling climb to the top of Cathedral Peak in the Drakensburg Mountains. Being a “Third Culture Kid” has allowed me to undergo a wide range of experiences. Even so, it is those children in Mamelodi I remember best, as they chased our car down the road so joyfully. Just by celebrating with them and showing that I cared, I brought smiles

Savannah Young is a senior this year. She wrote this essay to use on the Common Ap-plication to apply to various schools around Virginia and in the south. She works as a lifeguard and enjoys horseback riding in her free time.

19Winter18 PENMAN

Some Reasons Why It EndedCLAIRE SPAULDING Illustration by Abubakr Osman

A string of beadsBaby-girl hands nervous fluttering pressing downA necklace against burning-skin hot-off-the-ironing-board Mama’s blue dressSilk smooth pearls and rough starched cotton and velvet fingersWrinkles and stains all the same but the pearls were lovelyBut the pearls were lovelyShimmering beads around her neck and shimmering sweat on her palms

And new shoes, not on sale even, that pinched and wereNo good for dancing reallyBut she had spent all her allowance on them because they matched the dressBlack shoes blue dress blue eyesHe complimented herAt leastAt firstBut they didn’t ever go dancingNot that nightThe burning-skin-hot words went dancing instead

She tried to leave but he wouldn’t let her andHis hand caught and the pearls went flyingClitter-clatter across the wood floor like a rainstormHis voice the thunderAs Mama’s wedding gift drained away bead by bead through the cracks

Her eyes were the lightning but the thunder always follows

The dress was no good without the pearlsShe knewBut he told her just the sameThere were lots of rainstorms and lots of good and bad things butThat was the last time they went dancingFor a while anyway

Scarcity in South CarolinaANONYMOUS

that everyone in America had equal opportunity, and if people were poorly educated and had low incomes, it was only because they did not work hard. How could I not think this? All my life I went to school with kids just like me, from upper-middle class suburban families who learn from an early age that education is the gateway to success. I felt a mild sense of disgust for students in my school failing a class or not planning to go to college; in my mind they were just lazy. Once I met the kids of Monarch Elementary School, however, I had to rethink my assumptions about success. My inflated ego was considerably diminished as I realized that it was my parents and my zip code, rather than my work ethic, that put me on the path to success. As I was leaving South Carolina, I came to two heartbreaking realizations: first, many of the intelligent, imaginative, and curious kids would be better, smarter students than I if they had been brought up in a community of good role models and high expectations. Second, most of these students will never have the “equal opportunity” I imagined. A tragically large number of these kids will never finish high school, never go to college, and probably never find successful jobs. Since that trip, I have realized that no single person—including myself, sadly—can make the world fair. However, this futility does not give me or anyone else the excuse to give up. If anything, this experience had taught me to appreciate the small victories in life and feel infinitely lucky for what I have.

MY mouth had never felt so dry or my face so wet as I left the summer school students of Monarch Elementary School in Union, South Carolina. I tried to swallow and wipe away my tears as I walked out of the school for the last time, the images of my students’ tear-stained faces burned into my mind. For the past two weeks, I had spent every day with them, reading out loud and listening to them read, practicing multiplication tables and fractions, and teaching them geography. It was hard to believe that I would never see them again and even harder to accept that I was leaving them in such a deprived environment. The town’s large textile mill closed a few years earlier, raising unemployment. Most of my students came from homes where one or both of their parents were unemployed. I watched their teachers, their supposed “role models,” use bad grammar and yell at their students for asking questions. The world of my students was sadder than any I had experienced. Scenes from my time with the students have stayed with me: blank stares from the entire fifth grade class as students were unable to identify the location of the United States on a world map. The brightest and most curious student in my class telling me that I—a high school student—was one of the “smartest grown-ups he ever met,” and the 8-year-old boy I was particularly fond of telling me that he had been absent from school the previous day because his house had been robbed and he no longer had any toys. Before this experience, I believed

21Winter20 PENMAN

The Right ShoesNURBANU DAVAZ Photography by Emma Troy

Do not choose those shoes.They will not allow you to go to the placesYou have dreamed of going.Those shoes are darkAnd the laces are tight;They do not want to come offOnce they are on.

Do you remember how you found those shoes?In the corner, sitting there alone.Waiting for you to pick them up.They were so close to you …They tempted you to wear them,So you stepped forward.They seemed weak enough to slouch on the ground,But strong enough to deceive you.Do you feel better like this?

So,Where do you think those shoes will take you?Nowhere farI guess.Is this your final decision,Those shoes you have chosen?Are they right for you?To my eye, they seem too small.Not big enough for your dreams and your future.

The roads you will take will be rough.Those shoes will not be able to travel through themAnd carry you.

“Stop walking!” they will demand.They will hold you backAnd not let you go any further,For they are tiredAnd weak enough to slouch on the ground.

Say you will not listen to those shoes,And go to the places you wish.How will you walk through the rough roads, then?Will your feet ever forgive youFor the pain you have caused them,All for those shoes?Those shoes,They aren’t right for you.

Once your feet are tired, are you going to sit down?Remember how you found those shoes?They were alone, sitting on the ground.But look at you now,Isn’t six feet deep low enough?You should have never chosen those shoes.

A Grandmother’s TaleALIX EHLERS Illustration by Natalia Rodas-Calderon

Alix Ehlers is a sophomore and loves play-ing volleyball, listening to music, being with friends, and watching Doctor Who.

COME near, child. Come take a seat and listen. Listen to this story as old as time itself, this story that was told to me a great many years ago. If you look up now, you will see the stars and the moon shining as brightly as the sun on a clear af-ternoon. And if you listen when the night is silent and the moon is full, you can hear the waves of the ocean too, and the whis-tling of the wind. The stars and the wind and the moon, that is my story. The story begins far from home, and far beyond the waves that you hear now. I do not know exactly where, nor if the place has been destroyed. I do know that it was far from here, and that no one will likely see it again. There was once an island as large as the biggest city you have ever seen. On this island the water was always clear, the birds were always singing, and everywhere you looked, people were smil-ing. Life was perfect on this island of hap-piness. Tell me, child, have you ever seen a place like that? It was a nearly silent night like to-night. Autumn was drawing to a close and a feast would be prepared in celebration of the harvest. But that night there were huge gusts of wind, like the blow of a hurricane, again and again. Then something miraculous happened, something so astonishing that it made ev-

eryone rush to the waving grasses of a hill that overlooked the sea. The winds were the strongest at the beach. After they had subsided, the townspeople saw that an infant girl lay on the soft grass, wrapped in some tattered fabric, almost as if the wind had graced the island with a child. And the people of this island took the girl under their care and decided they would raise her togeth-er. Seven years went by. In those sev-en years the townspeople saw how strange a child she was, and were all completely astounded and amazed by her. For one thing she never laughed. She was always expressionless, and nobody understood why. In a town full of happy people this blank figure stood out, and all the other children were frightened by her. None of the other children wanted to be with her, as they were scared of her. And on this island of peacefulness, something dark and evil rose up that ru-ined the peace and happiness. The dark omen was hatred, fear, and jealousy. Why was she loved so much by the adults of the island when she wasn’t thankful for their love? Why was she always angry? Why was she so different? The children of the island turned on her and bullied her. They would call her names and were cruel to her. Some

is hate, and with happiness there is sor-row. The girl’s purpose on this earth was to bring opposites to the world, to bring balance to this life. But there is indeed one thing that she wouldn’t change. There is no opposite of you, or of me. But we people, we forget that we are who we are, as she was who she was. But you will not forget. And now, child, now it is late, and the stars and moon are highest, and it is time to go inside and sleep.

adults were kind to her and cared for her, but others said that she did not deserve to be treated with respect since she gave none herself. The island became divided be-tween two sides. There were those who loved the girl and those who hated her. Hate was strong on this island, as no one had felt hatred before. So they hated the girl with the passion of those who hated only one thing. One night, before her eighth birthday, an old woman spotted the girl on a hill, looking towards a spot where the wind was blowing. She looked over the sea at the sunset. The view from the hill was very peaceful. The look in her eyes then was not the emotionless stare she wore before. There was a sad, longing look in her blue eyes. The old woman asked what she was doing and the girl smiled for the first time in almost eight years. “I’m going home,” she said, and that was all. Then she turned away and closed her eyes. Her image dissolved into the air, as if she had become part of the wind. All that was left on the hill was grass. From far below, the old woman could see something changing far up in the sky, and stars began to sprinkle the heavens like shards of broken glass. No one had ever seen stars before, did you know that? And the old woman swore to herself, she swore to her children and her grandchildren and her great-grandchil-dren, that she heard a whistle, a soft tune, echo in the night. Something sad, and something beautiful, made into a song. There is your story, child, to tell to your children and your grandchildren. Do not forget that with love there

25Winter24 PENMAN

2010 • Colonel E. Savage Award 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 • Trophy Class

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

staff, and final decisions are made by section editors. For this issue, the staff worked diligently to select written pieces that are diverse in form as well as content in an attempt to showcase the many different perspectives of our school. The general theme for this issue is adversity. Pseudonyms and Anonymous pieces are approved only with the staff 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 semi-annually with funds from the Arlington School Board, financial 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.

The 2012-2013 Penman magazines are printed on Photo White 60# Soporset Opaque Text (802) paper, and the cover is printed on White 80# Sterling Ultra Digital Gloss stock paper. Pre-press production is done by Penman staff members using Adobe InDesign CS3 and CS5 and Adobe PhotoShop CS3 and CS5 Extend-ed. Font type is set in Adobe Garamond Pro. The Penman staff meets before school in the publications lab (room 1028) to collaborate on this magazine.

Thank you to all students who submitted poetry, fiction, non-fiction, artwork, and photography. We hope you enjoy the 2013 winter issue as much as we enjoyed its production.

2007, 2010, 2011 • Silver Medalist2006, 2008, 2009, 2012 • Gold Medalist

26 PENMAN

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