Montage 2016 by Greenhill School

Montage

2 0 1 6

Perspectives

Montage

2 0 1 6

Perspectives Volume 56

Content {Poetic Perspectives} 9

Enigma Tanisha Gupta Image by Madhuri Deo

Annoying Pixies Michelle King Image by Sarah Matthews

My Child Karis Thomas Image by Alexis Padden

Brickplay Brooke Bulmash Image by Madhuri Deo

Own Tanisha Gupta Image by Chandler Crates

Her Shivani Daftary Image by Anurag Kurapati

Black and White are that Simple Josh Rudner Image by Morgan Grimes

What to do this Time Around Scottie Pearson-Thompson Image by Jackson Lowen

Unstoppable Force Meets Immovable Object Sam Bovard Image by Alex Maue

Home on the Hyphen Zayna Syed Image by Ruchita Iyer

Grandfather’s Photograph Kaavya Venkat Image by Zachary Lillard

Daisy Girl Shivani Daftary Image by Ben Stromberg

In Search of a College Jackson Carroll Image by Evan O’Brien

Lament of the Possum Madison Grimes Image by Drake Heptig

Timeline Julia Halm Image by Julia Halm

Consumers and Realtors Zayna Syed Images by Virginia Leopard

Phoenix Addie Gomez Image by Dena Altschuler

{Fictional Perspectives} 45

Falling Grace Doyle Image by Grace Doyle

Passenger Brooke Bulmash Image by Lexi Padden

Memories Sophie Bernstein Image by Kathy Munoz

Failing Radhe Melwani Still from Katharos by Evan Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien

The Boy on Aisle 11 Addie Gomez Image by Sofia Martin

Re-Lit Cigarette Sloan Touchet Image by Avery Jane Williams

{Personal Perspectives} 61

Spanish Daisies y Cielos Azules Mika Thakkar Image by Anurag Kurapati

Accusations are not Questions Varun Gupta Image by Sarah Simon

Financial Aid Andrea Mora Image by Ruchita Iyer

Time Nitish Jindal Image by Anurag Kurapati

Cover Image: Morgan Grimes Inside Cover Image: Madhuri Deo Back cover image: Sarah Matthews

Image by Jackson Lowen 3

{Film Perspectives} 70 71 72 73 74 75

The Test Emily Nelson Goodnight Lizzy Kriti Narayan Badi’ al Zaman Arhum Khan Katharos Evan O’Brien Yellow Fever Lexi Gachman Icarian Jonah Goldberg

{Assorted Perspectives} 78

Ride Samuel Bovard Image by Evan O’Brien

Mike by Jack Kraus Image from Arhum’s Film

Lightbulb Sophie Bernstein Image by Rekha Sharma

Beauty of a Bird Sofia Babool Image by Sofia Babool

Crossroad Shivani Daftary Image by Ben Stromberg

Throwing Shade at Beauty Kaavya Venkat Image by Sarah Matthews

Untitled Pierce Washington Image by Avery Jane Williams

{Imagery Perspectives} Poetry 6 13 33 40 41

Image by Sophia Steckler Image by Anusha Kurapati Image by Madhuri Deo Image by Rekha Sharma Image by Mira Fradkin

fiction 50 Image by Avery Jane Williams 51 Image by Rekha Sharma 51 Image by Giancarlo Rinaldini

Personal 58 Image by Kathy Mu単oz 67 Image by Sophia Steckler

Film 68 Image by Amy Yang 76 Image by Sofia Martin

Assorted: 81 85 91 97

Image by Kathy Mu単oz Image by Andrew Glick Image by Ruchita Iyer Image by Megan Nguyen

Image by Sophia Steckler

poetic perspectives “One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.” ― Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums

Titleâ&#x20AC;? Medium Madhuri Deo

Enigma I. I am an enigma. A unique puzzle, A myriad of pieces, A distinctive conglomerate that I call my own. II. There are four sides to every puzzle, More than four sides to each person. Yet you tell me, “Pick one aspect, bar the others, Choose one culture, loose the others, Because you cannot have them all.” III. The human puzzle is collective, The human struggle is subjective. My history is not yours, How can I leave that all behind? You may think we are similar… But I am different. IV. So you ask me, “Who are you? It’s time to choose.” Choice represents individuality, Choice represents rationality, Choice represents betrayal. Well I have betrayed. There remains no purpose to return to the puzzle, The puzzle that was once me, The puzzle that meant so much yet somehow so little, Because the choice has been made. V. A one-sided puzzle With a barricaded piece, I suspended the very essence that completed me. Am I still an enigma? Tanisha Gupta

Image by Sarah Matthews

Annoying Pixies There are pixies for pens and pencils Who always steal your writing utensils And when you’ve found you’ve lost your pen You can rest assured it’s them again And then there are pixies that hide what you wrote And always will use the dog as a scapegoat Teachers sigh when you subsequently swear “I know that I did it! It used to be there!” And then there are pixies that mislay your purse And roll around laughing when you start to curse They hide it in closets and out in plain sight And continue to giggle and laugh in delight And then there are pixies that purloin your phone And turn it to vibrate while you gripe and groan And when you try calling it, it will not ring While they fly around proudly with their tiny wings And then there are pixies that ‘borrow’ your keys And snatch them up swiftly with their expertise Then you comb through the house looking both high and low Because without car keys your car will not go And then there are pixies that steal just one sock And it always will happen when you’re pressed by the clock So then they will leave you with a mismatched pair So now you have two different socks you must wear And then there are pixies that steal your glasses Making it so you can’t see in your classes And when you ask someone it always is said: “Huh? Are you crazy? They’re on top of your head.” So now, you know what the pixies will do In order to frustrate and irritate you Unfortunately, nobody, as of today Has learned how to drive the pixies away Michelle King

My Child My Child, My Child, The stars beam down upon your face with rays of glorious light With your eyes bright as the moon and skin dark as night Break free from the shackles and take off the chains Youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been delivered from sorrow and relieved from your pain My Child, My Child Step down from the auction block Remove the noose from around your neck The throne of liberty awaits your arrival To prosper is your destiny No longer is it survival My Child, My Child They will devalue your worth And say separate is equal Yet treat you like dirt But in the words of our past, we shall overcome March diligently into freedom, For you have already won My Child, My Child Do not be afraid For I promise there will come a day Where you will see a face, so much like yours Staring back lifelessly, shot dead by a barrel of judgement And institutional hatred Breaking the values they claim to hold sacred But heed my words hold your head up high Take a deep breath and look at the sky See your brothvers and sisters that have come before you And have faced the same trials you will go through My Child, My Child Do not let them kill your pride Extinguish the fire in your heart Or steal the light from your eyes Oh My Child, My Child Your heart will replenish the love starved creation And your mind will unite the farthest of nations And your soul will give life to the next generation

Karis Thomas

Image by Lexi Padden

Image by Anusha Kurapati

Brick

Sometimes, I want to be the brick, Rather than the shattering glass. Nightmarish carnage is a mere corollary of the Destructive interaction between window and stone, I long to be the agitator of such subversion. I am nauseated by the Fallacies of the system in which I exist, Sickened by the gratuitous violence, The gross inequalities of the institution. The Academy is not the flawless tower I once stood in reverence to. No. It is a sovereignty of deceptions. We walk muted, Shrouded by crushing expectation, The intolerable encumbrance of duty.

Play

Fissured asphalt, Polyethylene daisies, The rhapsody of the highway in the dimly lit twilight, Our industrial wasteland. The universe is seldom in congruence, Rarely lucid, A beautiful hedonistic wilderness, Filled with lunatics and lovers. These hallowed grounds in which we tread, Incarcerated by the same dogmas that Fraught our kin, Exist as our only possessions. There is no balance, No composure in this existence. I am not static, Intransience eludes me. But I am not the cinder block.

Brooke Bulmash

Image by Madhuri Deo

Own Showcased on display within your own creation, Forced to live in isolation, Because what is yours wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be yours for long So long as they make it their own. Tainted scent with their diluted perfume, Excessively sweet and obnoxiously impeccable, They ravage the essence that makes you your own. Gulal vworks to hide the imperfections, But the resulting stain simply accentuates distinctions, Creating a blotched sense of perfection they call their own. They take your culture and make it their own. They embezzle your experiences and make them their own. With disregard, disrespect, disdain, They make you their own.

Tanisha Gupta

Image by Chandler Crates

Image by Anarug Kurapati

Her

Inspired by Leah and Jennifer from Gooch Elementary School.

Her fingers, short but innocent, gripped the pencil rushing to complete the addition problem Her smile, golden and picture perfect, stretched across her face as wide as the length of her homework page. Her eyes, full of amusement and youth, crinkled at the corner revealing her unadulterated pleasure. Her body, Restless and eager, jumped at the opportunity to break from the rigid cycle of structure. Her mind, intellectually curious and vast, churned like a series of durable gears, arduously moving back and forth, aligning with one another. Her knowledge, powerful and vital, is beautifully imbalanced and perfectly incomplete. It yearns for enrichment and creates an opening for more. And, it is her key to Achievement. Shivani Daftary

A plastic tray of mini muffins sits on the counter in the kitchen. I sneak one or two after a breakfast of dry eggs, scrambled half-heartedly. In the other room, my grandma sits on the couch staring at the television, An old movie with a happy ending drones on like it’s meant to fill a void. Outside I play with the dog I have met twice, My brother is inside, taking a nap, My sister is working, And my parents feel bad for having brought us.

Black and White are Simple

Near noon, I go get my schoolwork to show off to grandma. With her southern drawl, she says, “I’m watching my program now, darlin.” I’m disappointed not because she didn’t pause the movie, But because I’m not surprised. In the hallway by the bathroom, I notice the walls are plastered with pictures of familiar faces. A cousin, an aunt, an uncle. My sister, the first granddaughter, is everywhere. Her formative years are well represented here On the wall where I struggle to find myself. Because I can’t control all of my relationships. My mother severed ties, My grandma stopped trying. By late afternoon, the noise of yet another program fills the living room — Lives of black and white are less complicated than those of blood red. I sneak another 3 or 4 mini muffins before dinner. They’re the sweetest thing in the house. Josh Rudner

Josh Rudner

What To Do This Time Around There are moments we can pinpoint that are perfect and, really, that flawlessness differs between people. Maybe when I could hear your heart beating, that was the nonpareil moment I had searched for. Though I am young and unknowing, I am cognizant of the tightening in my chest that, sometimes, I wish was always there. The months behind us are living in a burning room, yet maybe the best ones have passed through the doorway so they are not tainted by our faults from the past. As you and I slip through that entrance, hand in hand, we recollect the moments in which we have maligned. Those times are escorted with a glimmer in your eye, and perhaps I am the one to notice the small things. If I were to keep your vast imagination for myself, would our world be deprived of peace or beauty? Would it be denied a moonlit passageway to the thoughts that ring so loudly through your head? You have the love and adoration that we as people may crave, but robbing our milieu of your most admirable qualities is unimaginable. It may be that my mind steers through rivers and roads to get to a genuineness so alike to yours, and of course it is worth the barriers I must endure. At some point in this lifetime, obstacles become inevitable but would it lessen the blow if your hand is in mine?

Scottie Pearson-Thompson

Image by Jackson Lowen

Image by Alex Maue

Unstoppable Force Meets Immovable Object I. Unstoppable Force he didn’t stop unable to reverse or rewind, he kept going with only heartbreak in his trail. like a shooting star all wishes on him turned to dust, collecting behind him in a tail

II. Immovable Object I didn’t budge unable to give in or be won, I stayed alone with bricks of silence making walls. like a black hole any object near me fell into nothingness another brick in my defenses

III. Contradiction he couldn’t be slowed and I couldn’t be moved both unable to exist as we were we changed our natures. like a sun and a planet, we revolved around each other, making our own solar system. Sam Bovard

Image by Ruchita Iyer

Home on the Hyphen Are you a Muslim first, or an American first? This question was intended to be well-versed But underlying questions are always assumptions That itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s impossible to be both was this oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s presumption Pew Research Institute posed this question In an attempt to form some impressions Of the Muslims that call America home For Muslim-Americans, to each his own! But in this question lies another Which must be considered like no other And this question that must be asked Is not an easy or surface-level task What does America mean to me? Land of the free, home of the brave America is the place where I feel safe Yet politicians fight over who can deny me Basic rights and the protection of privacy What should America mean to me? To my cousins in England I would boast That America is perfection at its utmost Equality and freedoms open to all, No other place seemed less banal What has America meant to me? So now this question I must answer Lest it form some heinous cancer But alas! I cannot fathom a reply To hyphenated Americans I must render a sigh And leave them to wrestle with this question As to its answer, I have but one suggestion America has no single religion, race, or surname And that is the very essence of our fame.

Zayna Syed

Grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Photograph My favorite is a small photograph of him. It shines in the yellow light, soft colors reflecting on my face, It takes me back in time. I take the photo out of its frame, And it smells like roses, From the temples in India, With people crowding around In the hot sun. Now, at my own house, in my living room, I open up the old frame, Take a step closer, And the scent of the photograph reaches me. I am back once again. My senses were reminded of how it was like to be home. The memories greeted me as if I was expected to arrive. Kaavya Venkat

Image byZachary Lillard

Daisy Girl One, two, three… Each petal falls to the ground, A touch as light as its sound. “Daisy Girl,” her mother calls “Embrace the great downfall.” Four, five, six… Another boy is drafted. A soldier’s mind is crafted From his youthful innocence And hate replaces brilliance. Seven, eight, nine… The ground shakes and rumbles deep. Children cower, parents weep. A flash of light strikes at night And in a moment so slight, Millions of lives cease to exist. Three, two, one…

Shivani Daftary

Image by Ben Stromberg

In Search of a College

They asked, “What do you want to do?”

The World told him: “The mitochondria is the power house of the schrödinger as long as the conservation of 1.5 mm hex keys is maintained than the orbit represents a positive flow of electrons that allow springs to have a centripetal effect on the polypeptide reaction that has unzipped the modem into its individual environs that must construct additional pylons to be the best that ever was at hanging from the cliff face made by intermolecular forces that are a natural result from our 4 dimensional camcorder that exports in a separate file format from unity to make a tilt shift effect you need to create an infinite loop of portals facing warbucks who is an imperial votress versed in the comedic arts and cannot trust any quark.”

He panicked, and circled none of the above. Jackson Carroll

Image by Evan O’Brien

Image by Madhuri Deo 33

Lament of the

Possum

My dearest Violet, I love you so. Though I have little, I write this ode, Remembering the day I spied your glow. You lit up eâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;en our dank and hollow abode. I still will dream of your precious pink nose, Your perky ears, your hands, your whiskers too. I see your face unfurl and bloom like a rose Within my mind, mine eyes enthralled with you. Our loveâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a force impossible to deny. Like Romeo unto his Juliet, I saw no brighter star than in your eye. Your beauty took my breath away, and yet As Juliet once met her fateful end, So you my dear got lost within pretend. Madison Grimes

Image by Drake Heptig

TIMELINE I. In the beginning there only was A planet with nature’s laws Predators and prey Lived day-by-day A system with minimal flaws!

II. But now, these things are complex. And people are quick to vex. We keep burning coal We grasp for control With muscles of power to flex.

III. So what if we make a huge mess? From a lifetime of excess. We buy and we toss We are our own boss. Is this how we define success?

IV. Someday we’ll live to regret The damage we’ve done, and yet Out of sight, out of mind Until we can’t find The button we push to reset. tJulia Halm

Image by Julia Halm

Consumers & Realtors “Hi, I’m looking for a home —not a house— It doesn’t have a square footage, But I’m willing to pay anything I’d like something with a nice, white Pickett fence Near friendly neighbors The door has to be big, But with a lock, just in case, Somewhere with lots of sunshine And maybe a garden A place where stuff can grow And trees with deep roots Maybe something near a river That’s blue, but not too deep Where I can swim and play But also feel safe.” “Sorry, I don’t think I can help you.”

Zayna Syed

Images by Virginia Leopard

Image by Rekha Sharma

Image by Mira Fradkin

Phoenix Clean glass boxes, with sterile carpet floors, Sensors scanners â&#x20AC;&#x153; Lift your hands please,â&#x20AC;? Mind your step as you pass through the door. Just outside is a city, A firebird city, That cries with a dry, crusty roar, As you fly far above, a hope bringing dove, Will not come as it did once before. Blocks upon blocks of the same red-roofed houses, With pools as electric blue pores, A quiet brown wilderness under our thumb, Sterilized deep inside to its core. Numbness; Did that exist here before? Addie Gomez

Image by Jackson Lowen

fictional perspectives “let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences” ― Sylvia Plath

FA L L I N G “Gabriel darling, shut the window. It’s freezing in here,” said Marla, rolling over, and burying even deeper into her fluffy white duvet. From across the room came a sigh and then the pattering of small footsteps. The window shut with a click. “Mother, it’s nearly noon,” Gabriel said. “Shouldn’t you be up?” “Oh no,” said Marla, with a yawn. “It is a Wednesday, and I am dreadfully tired on Wednesdays.” “Mother, you are always tired.” “Except I am especially tired on Wednesdays. Leave me alone.” “But the sheep…” said the child. “I hear it will be chilly tonight. The sheep can keep their wool.” “But the horses…” “Let them rest, I’m sure they are as tired as I am.” “But the pigs they- ” “I felt like bacon anyways,” Marla snapped. Gabriel glared at her. “If you are so worried, do it yourself!” Marla said then covered her face with the sheets. With a frustrated sigh, Gabriel marched out of the room, grabbing his coat on the way, his stout fingers fumbling with the buttons until they were all done up. He pulled the lapels up until they covered his nose, then started out for the stables. Having spotted Gabriel, the pigs’ snouts poked eagerly through the chain-link fence. Gabriel smiled, and filled a bucket with feed. He felt quite an affinity for the pigs; their congenial personalities awarded Gabriel with constant companionship. “Okay, okay I’m coming.” Gabriel said with a smile. “Just let me-“ and then suddenly Gabriel could no longer talk. He could not talk because he was screaming, and Gabriel was screaming, because when you are falling, falling, falling down a hole you had not seen, screaming is often the natural response. Gabriel braced for an impact, but it never came. It wasn’t until Gabriel’s throat had become raw, and voice cracked, that he stopped

screaming. He then began to count, but the counting soon became tedious so he stopped. At that point Gabriel simply fell asleep, because when you are falling, falling, falling, and down has become up, and up has become down, there is simply nothing else you can do.

________________________________ Down. Gabriel heard no sound save for rushing wind and the fluttering of his coat, until it too had been torn away from his outstretched arms, and seemingly up, to where the small circle of light was no larger than a pinprick. The wind. Rushing around him dried his eyes so painfully that he could only have them open for a short time. It was because of this that he did not notice when the light appeared below him. Nor when the soft melody began. Assuming it was only the folly of his overwhelmed mind. Stop. It wasn’t until the stop, which was almost as jarring as the fall itself, that he opened his eyes. Light, so blinding at first that Gabriel couldn’t see past his own hand in front of his face, begin to fade until it was nothing more than a pleasant glow which warmed Gabriel’s wind burned cheeks. “Well! Who do we have here?” Gabriel jumped. Before him stood one of the strangest men he had ever seen. His beard long overgrown, was filled with trinkets woven in between his hairs, toy trucks, beads, a pair of glasses, and so much more that Gabriel couldn’t keep track. His eyes such a rich shade of brown, emanated wisdom with a single glance. So much so, that Gabriel felt faded in comparison. “Name boy.” “G-Gabriel sir.” He said, voice rough, and overused. “Where you from?” “From the-“ Gabriel looked up, but the tunnel he had fallen down was no longer there, The Man frowned, but he covered it up with such a bright, and reassuring smile that Gabriel couldn’t help but disregard it. Story and Art by Grace Doyle

Passenger There is something particularly special about sitting in a public place and just observing the chaos of the faces you know not and the lives of these anonymous facades. It is a reasonably peculiar sentiment to be merely an observer, a listener, the passenger, if you will, in a world in which you have remained quite dominantly the orator for almost the entirety of your existence. I have come to rather enjoy the simple solace in walking with no direction or purpose. As an individual that certainly prides herself on intention, it is a somewhat strange shift to have transitioned into the wanderer. Sometimes, I will find my hands guiding the steering wheel to the long way home. On occasion, I may find myself trudging through the linoleum floors of a fluorescently illuminated store, with no real goal in mind, just an unrestricted period of time to wander. My mind has dulled as of late, no longer possessing the razor-like alacrity it once retained. It has clouded yet remains still harsh and critical of the body it inhabits. In some respects, this wicked brain of mine has become more censuring than ever. It regards my reflection with a level of distain I have never before witnessed. From the dreadful brain, tiny breaks in the disparagement arrive in the form of fatal narcissism. At these junctures, the focus vaults from mine own to that of others, becoming the cruelest of judges. I have become the passenger, only permitted to observe, incapacitated by horror, as the threads that weave my body together are shorn. All this silence and I seem to have lost myself. I remember the days I used to fight, the moments I used to grapple with the cruelness of the pink matter, struggling for control. Those were days I could sometimes still find myself at the wheel. Brooke Bulmash

Image by Alexis Padden

Image by Kathy Mu単oz 48

Memories Memories, so unreliable, my revisits feel like the determining of reality through the veil of hallucinogens, they haunt me in the periphery of my existence, until I am gone.

I remember this: The office was chilly - workers encouraged not to remove their professional attire through the constant reminder of an excellent thermostat, and the passive agressiveness of their boss. Manila envelopes, stacked in efficient piles on fake wood desks in neat cubicles, contained the monotony of life, and the cause of the stress strewn less neatly across some of their foreheads, manifested by mildly boring sweat, retreating hairlines, and wrinkles of skin, abandoning the futile fight against age and unhealthy hormone levels triggered by anticlimactic anxiety. In this office, I met a man. His hands were turning slightly blue in the productively cold air, and they quivered slightly as he showed me to the squeaky charcoal toned spinny chair I would sort and upload files in. “Bob,” he had introduced himself earlier. He did not have to say he was a veteran of this place, because I could see the scratches and wear on the curving edges of his employee number tag, and his comb over stated his inessential experience even more apparently. He seemed nice enough, lulled by the rows and lighting that would be fit for a dentist’s office, as he shifted the weight of his sagging belly from side to side, walking me to my box of a workplace. When my eyes were drawn to a redhead with a cute nose, he said, “I wouldn’t go there my friend. She’s a tease.” Before I sat down for my first day, he told me that if I wanted to play Halo for a little, no one would notice, that he did it all the time, and that if I wanted a snack, to sneak in my own, or wait for my lunch break, that everything in the break room vending machine was either stale or crap, and not to bother, because he had already tried the Chex Mix, the Cheetos, and the Ritz peanut butter crackers, but the salted sunflower seeds weren’t even worth it. I just kept nodding. I suppose he blabbered a bit too much, but I was distracted by the strikingly intense mediocrity of it all. Sophie Bernstein

Image by Avery Jane Williams

Image by Rekha Sharma

Image by Giancarlo Rinaldini

failing I furrowed my eyebrows and tried to decipher what the question was asking me. The longer I stared at the page, the more the letters mixed together into an unhelpful jumble of xâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s and yâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. Leaving another blank space on my test, I moved on to the next question. A shadow fell on my paper and my hand instinctively moved to cover a corner of doodles. As I looked up, I was met with narrowed eyes and thinly pressed lips, as my teacher, Mrs. Gray, saw my almost empty page. I am used to that look. Time and time again that expression has made my stomach curl and throat clench with guilt. Now I only felt hopeless. Mrs. Gray moved on to the next row of students, who were all writing their answers with certainty. I watched them for a moment, defeat engulfing me. I had studied for this test, just as I had with all the previous ones. I had spent hours behind my desk doing problem after problem. Yet, during every test any knowledge I had accumulated seemed to dissipate. It was safe to say Mrs. Gray had already given up on me. The timer on the board announced that my classmates and I had five minutes remaining. Hoping I could salvage a few points, I flipped back through the pages and conjured up formulas that seemed to coincide with the problems I skipped. When Mrs. Gray came back around to pick up my exam, she met my eyes and shook her head slowly. They say you fail when you stop trying. But if I am failing and I am trying, am I still failing? Radhe Melwani

“Katharos” Film Still Evan O’Brien 53

The Boy on Aisle 11

he horribleness of the boy on Aisle 11 was burning through the shelf. She hated every single pumping vessel in his body for their mere contribution to his prolonged existence. God what an a&*hole. She could feel the heat of her hatred connecting them. Its magnetic presence spanned the linoleum floor, five

layers of canned tuna, perforated metal shelving, and six rows of powdered laundry detergent that separated them. Ten more weeks of this and she was free, ten more weeks of constant goose bumps from the freezing grocery store air and dealing with the emperor of snark. Daily said deity who marauded around the place under the alias of “Tommie the other summer employee student guy” and only spoke in the royal “we”, would strut around restocking shelves and give out handy little

suggestions as to what “we” can do better, and where “we” were going to put the sliced dill pickles next time, and what kind of shoes “we” should wear in order to look more “professional.” In two months she had adapted to the wild and now had a Tommie radar that allowed her to keep a twenty-foot radius between them at all times. Preferably with no visual of his horrible face. She tucked her fallen bangs behind her ear and bent over to pick up the knocked over jar of peanut

butter and realized it had been a reasonable amount of time since she had checked the clock. She speed walked to the frozen meat section where the guard keeper of her time here resided: there mounted firmly on the wall, plastic face glaring tauntingly back at her, the clock read 2:00. Two more hours. She walked to the storage room to get her apron with hope in her chest. Addie Gomez

Image by Sofia Martin 55

Image by Avery Jane Williams 56

re lit cigarette Dec. 15, 2014 The taste of tar that I have come to love fills my lungs as I inhale. Closing my eyes and sliding down the cool brick wall I succumb to the will of the nicotine. I smile, blowing the smoke out in a steady stream, I feel content. I open my eyes to find him scanning my face. He opens his mouth and his lips begin to form a word before promptly resealing them. “What?” I question.

Jun. 4, 2015 My nightmares have gotten worse. One came true when he called me this morning: asked if we could get back together. I said yes. Aug. 17, 2015 He takes my hand and leads me to the alley behind his house. He slides to the ground against the fence and motions for me to join him. I sink down the wall beside him and press my heels into the ground in front of me. I hear the spark of his lighter and glance at him bring it to the cigarette resting on his lips. Before he takes a drag he offers it to me. I didn’t want to take it. But I did.

“It’s nothing, I just…I just wanted to tell you how much I love you…” he counters, his eyes darkening and his cheeks flushed from the cool December air. A quick breeze extinguishes my light. My hand finds its way to the lighter sitting between us. I bring it up to the cigarette wresting on my lower lip and re-light it. I hate to waste a cigarette, but the taste of a re-lit one isn’t quite the same. The burning sensation is dulled. The taste of tar not as bitter. It just isn’t the same.

It was different this time. The burning sensation was intense. The taste of tar way too bitter. It hurt, and I knew it wasn’t because of the cigarette. Sloan Touchet

Apr. 27, 2015 He tells me he’s waiting for me, that I can count on him to be there when I get out of inpatient. He tells me to call him whenever I feel sad or lonely. I don’t expect him to follow through, but there is a piece of me, a sliver of hope that he will be there. That everything he’s done up until this point will somehow disappear. The day I’m discharged I’m greeted with fifteen text notifications next to the name Tyler. The first three say something along the lines of “I love you, I will always love you.” The next seven are to the effect of “you’re so selfish leaving me for a week.” The last five texts are “I love you” “you know I love you” “and I know you love me” “but I’m not going to waste my time on you” “I’m done with you forever.” I don’t respond.

Image by Kathy Mu単oz

personal perspectives “Some moments are nice, some are nicer, some are even worth writing about.” ― Charles Bukowski

Image by Anurag Kurapati Anurag Kurapati

Spanish Daisies y Cielos Azules her ingredients), I can eat tomatoes like chips and potatoes in more ways than I thought possible. I’ve gotten used to an obscene amount of PDA in the streets, and I don’t go for the handshake anymore, but straight for people’s cheeks to give them dos besos.

I used to have this dream every once in a while I’m sitting down in a field full of daisies, looking up at this beautiful blue sky with wisps of clouds moving lazily across it. The thing I like most about this dream is that I could be anywhere, in any part of the world, and it wouldn’t matter because at that moment, in that dream, I’m at peace. And then, of course, the dream is broken by the sound of ocean waves crashing against the shore (my alarm) and I wake up and face another day.

And yes, I see the world a little differently now. We’re all a lot closer than most people would think. My host mother and my real mother are frighteningly similar, but one’s Spanish and doesn’t have a legal obligation to love me (but she does anyway), and the other has dealt with my nonsense for almost 17 years and counting, and still FaceTimes me almost everyday to make sure I’m drinking enough water.

At least that’s how it used to be. In recent years I’ve found myself struggling with a very key question: What am I doing? It’s a question that can be applied to countless situations: What am I doing third-wheeling this date? What am I doing at the gym? What am I doing at this store when I could be buying a pizza? What am I doing in this math class? I’ve used it in all these contexts, but when I asked myself, “What am I doing?” in the middle of my sophomore year at Greenhill, it applied more to a question of existence. What was I going to do for the next two years, what was I going to after Greenhill, what did I WANT to do?

I’ve seen how fast someone can adapt to a different culture, and I’ve decided that it’s because we’re all fundamentally the same. We crave affection, attention, companionship, understanding... These things don’t change once you step outside into the real world. It’s universal, and there’s always someone who feels the same as you do. And it’s because of this that one day, when we all venture out into the unknown, we won’t be alone. There will always be someone at our side, and it won’t matter how long they’re there for because even if they leave, we won’t be alone. The beauty of the world we live in is that there are seven billion people in it with us. So, no matter where we are, there’s always going to be someone just waiting in the wings to meet us and go with us for however long we need them for.

The answer came to me over a year later, while sitting in a field of daisies underneath a clear blue sky in the lovely little city of Zaragoza, Spain. Maybe I’m clairvoyant, or maybe this is one of life’s little ironies, but somehow that dream became a reality. I’m going to take apart a few myths about studying abroad now: I have not “found myself” in the past seven months. I have not been hit by a brilliant lightning bolt of wisdom that’s changed my life or made me see some inherent truth of human existence. I have not become a completely different person. I have not gone completely crazy, nor have I “turned Spanish.” I HAVE become almost completely fluent, and I have changed a little bit. I can now eat fish without making a face, I’ve eaten octopus for three months straight (unknowingly, my host mother puts it in her salads and she never took the time to list all

This year has taught me a lot. I’ve learned how to swear in Spanish and when it’s appropriate, and while that takes up a lot of my long-term memory, it’s barely the tip of the iceberg. My life here has shown a lot of potential for the future, but in all honesty, I’m not sure that matters to me very much. I’m just glad that I was fortunate enough to experience this year in Spain. Mika Thakker Mika Thakkar

Accusations Are Not Questions “There are no bad questions.” My teachers continuously preached the saying while I devoutly listened. From a young age, I religiously believed that asking questions was the only way to learn. When I disagreed with my parents, I asked, “why?” When I got stuck on a math problem, I asked, “What am I doing wrong?” As I grew older, however, my perception about the validity of questions began to change. Questions started to carry stronger connotations. Sometimes the questions were loaded and shot insults at my classmates. Dude, are you actually wearing that sweatshirt again? Who are you listening to because that song sucks? Sometimes questions only produce a yes or no response. Is that teacher weird or what? I soon realized that not all questions are good. The saying, I learned and kept close to my heart, now felt like a dirty lie. For example, take a BuzzFeed quiz. While waiting in the lunch line, I frequently visit the site to test my knowledge of trendy topics and read about “OMG” moments of the day. A questionnaire called ‘should I study or watch Netflix’ ultimately recommended that I procrastinate studying for a test based on my personality. Switch on the evening news. Don’t you think that Obama is bad for millions of Americans? Watch the interrogation subject stutter and backtrack before even having a chance to defend him or herself. Recently, in a Presidential debate, Republican candidates publicly criticized the quality of questions of CNBC moderators. Recently I dissected a ten-minute news segment on CNBC, pausing at sections when anchorwoman Kelly Evans asked questions starting with the 5 W’s. I stopped the video once at the nine-minute mark. Evans twisted evidence to fit an agenda and argued with Senator Rand Paul to the point of anger. Rather than asking fair questions about his view on voluntary vaccines, she made false statements. The interview escalated into a yelling match: neither person listened to each other until Senator Rand Paul shushed Evans. As a journalist, I was furious at the reporter’s behavior and questions. Journalists should ask direct questions to inform viewers rather than ask leading questions that have an ulterior motive.

The media continuously sets bad examples for how to ask questions. They negatively impact how we communicate with one another. Because interrogative forms are so abundant, we must learn the anatomy and function of different types of questions to better facilitate productive discussions. Many of us seem to have forgotten the difference between asking an unbiased question and making an accusation. First, we should eliminate loaded questions, or leading questions, that accuse people of committing a crime or behaving unethically when the facts are unclear. Because these questions are misleading in nature, interactions that involve loaded questions often end in anger and disgust. As American citizens, we have failed to uphold fair and equal treatment when we accuse a person or group without evidence. After all, freedom of thought that drives productive discussions is the spirit of the first amendment at its heart. We should also try to eliminate stupid questions. As a generation accustomed to tweeting and posting statutes on Facebook, we tend to think all of our words are important. Follow the general rule: if someone were to ask you that question, would you answer it? If not, keep it to yourself. There are dumb questions. It is our civic duty to ask productive questions and spark open discussions. Stupid questions lead to futile debates while unbiased interrogation that avoid presumptions can indeed result in positive change. The next time you are sitting across from a peer, I urge you to ask â&#x20AC;&#x153;why?â&#x20AC;? rather than insert in your opinion. It is harder than you think. Varun Gupta

Image by Sarah Simon

Ruchita Iyer 64

Financial aid “Yeah,” I said very reluctantly and immediately wished I hadn’t said anything.

Now that I am a senior, it concerns me that I had the following conversation with a classmate of mine in seventh grade, but I find that it’s quite important to share, so here it is:

“So does that mean….that you’re like poor?” she said. And there it was! The question that I feared someone would ask was finally asked! I had always planned on denying it. I had this planned out. How I would react, what I would say, but for some reason, I did something completely different.

In seventh grade a lot of my friends started getting their first phone; it wasn’t just any regular flip phone or slide up qwerty keyboard phone-- it was an iPhone 4. I didn’t get my first cell phone until Christmas of eighth grade (it had a qwerty keyboard). For some reason though, in seventh grade, there was this phenomenon of comparing who had the most of what, where we traveled with our families, who had the newest and coolest school supplies. My lunch conversations with my friends always consisted of talking about money. I, of course felt very uncomfortable. I knew that I didn’t have half of the things that all of my classmates had. I just didn’t know if they knew that. My friends would ask questions that were meant to question my economic status. I would always answer as vaguely as I could. I was embarrassed and ashamed that I wouldn’t be “cool” or “popular” enough to sit at lunch with these girls. Every day there were more questions, and I was running out of vague answers.

“Maybe, but I know it definitely means that I am smarter than you because that means that my grades are so good, my family doesn’t have to pay for me to go to Greenhill.” I lied. I knew that wasn’t what having financial aid meant (at least not completely) but she had no idea what financial aid meant or how it worked, so my lie worked. She walked away and didn’t talk to me for the rest of the week. I had always envisioned how I would react and what I would say when I was asked this question. I was always so scared that I would just melt down crying. But I didn’t. My sudden fear of my classmates knowing that I was on 100% financial aid was no longer a fear, it was my pride. I was proud that my mother was a housekeeper. I was proud that I had finally learned to stand up to my beliefs, to not be embarrassed of who I was and to fully embrace my culture. I’m glad I never the brand name clothing or the iPhone that my classmates had, because then I would have never known how it feels to be proud of everything that I have accomplished through hard work and humility.

I was walking back from lunch when a classmate came up to me and started talking to me and of course we ended up on the topic about money and where I stood on that subject. I guess everyone really wanted to know more about my mysteriously intriguing economic status, so she finally asked me the question: “Are you on financial aid?”

Andrea Mora

Time T

he copper bowl of the Berlin timpani and the shiny wood of the bass drum shell glistened under the overhead lights. Copland’s Appalachian Spring featured a duet between the timpani and bass drum in a succession of three polyrhythmic measures filled with articulation and interpretation. Hideo and I locked eyes and smiled. As the brass roared and the strings sang, we matched the Greater Dallas Youth Orchestra’s volume and reverberated the hall with the deep bass resonance of the drums. Something about Hideo’s smile made me forget that I was performing in the Shanghai Poly Grand Theatre, or that we were playing some of the most beautiful music ever to be composed. Our perfect synchronization highlighted the countless hours we spent during the past three months before tour: the taxing weekend rehearsals, the playful laughter, the delicious snack breaks. Time stopped. But the music didn’t.

Nitish Jindal

Image by Anurag Kurapati

Image by Sophia Steckler

Image by Amy Yang

Film Perspectives. Advanced Video Production, known as, â&#x20AC;&#x153;AVPâ&#x20AC;? is one of the popular and unqiue fine arts classes at Greenhill. Over the course of two trimesters, students dissect films in class and create their own works, many of which are accepted into prestigious film festivals around the country, even around the world. We profiled six students who made six very different films and asked them about their title, concept, and inspiration for their piece.

The Test

A film by Emily Nelson Describe your film in one sentence. A charmed young boy persistently pursues a disinterested girl. What is the significance of the title of your film? I actually based the title “The Test” off of what went on off-screen. Seeing as neither of my actors had any previous experience, I influenced their acting by controlling their mood behind the camera. In subtle ways I hinted to the boy that she was interested in him, while encouraging legitimate irritation towards the boy from her. This mini psychological experiment ultimately lead me to the name “The Test.” What was your inspiration for this film? I love little plot twists and catching people off guard. Recognizing the abundance of sappy teenage love shorts that would be made by high school students around the world this year, I thought a twist on one similar might receive a positive reaction. My goal was to create a humorous but relatable situation!

Good Night Lizzie A film by Kriti Narayanan

Describe your film in one sentence. Good Night Lizzie is a film comprised of disturbing images, a twisted plot, girl-power, blood, and children. What is the significance of the title of your film? I wanted a title that sounded endearing and creepy at the same time. What these women do to these girls is sweet and sickening at the same time. What was your inspiration for this film? My inspiration for this film came from Fight Club, actually. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s how I got the idea to create this cult-like group living together and doing questionable things in a sketchy house. I also wanted to have an all-female main cast.

Badi’ al Zaman A film by Arhum Khan

Describe your film in one sentence. “Badi’ Al Zaman” is about the wall of perspective in between an artist and his audience. What is the significance of the title of your film? Badi’ Al Zaman is actually an Arabic name like any ordinary name. It’s just not used that much. It means “The Wonder of Age” or “The Marvel of Time.” What was your inspiration for this film? I basically adapted a bunch of little stuff—at least I tried. Señorita by Vince Staples, Solace by Earl Sweatshirt, All That Jazz by Bob Fosse, and some short stories by Jorge Luis Borges.

Katharos

A film by Evan O’Brien Describe your film in one sentence. A pulverizing sensory overload black metal thriller about a tortured boy who turns to a computerized dream therapist to overcome his trauma. What is the significance of the title of your film? Catharsis is a concept I’m interested in and a theme I wanted to explore in the film. When I was writing it I wanted to give a name for the computer therapist character of the film, and I remembered when I was scouring the internet on the subject seeing that “katharos” was one of the greek root words for it, meaning “clean” or “purged.” I thought that was cool and so I named the character that and I also put that as the working title, and eventually it grew on me and I just kept it. What was your inspiration for this film? I like it when music and film overwhelms my senses and pulverizes my eyes and ears in the most beautiful way possible. I set out to do that with this film. I was very inspired by films like Interstellar, Blade Runner, The Matrix, and 2001, as well as video games like Bioshock and Bloodborne.

Yellow Fever

A film by Lexi Gachman Describe your film in one sentence. Yellow. What is the significance of the title of your film? I titled my film â&#x20AC;&#x153;Yellow Feverâ&#x20AC;? because of the theme of yellow throughout and the fact that the film centers around a mentally ill girl. This makes the title even more fitting because of the actual illness called Yellow Fever. What was your inspiration for this film? My inspiration came from a short story called the Yellow Wallpaper. It also centers around a mentally ill woman who is trapped in her room. She begins to see yellow people in the wall and it eventually drives her completely mad.

Icarian

A film by Jonah Goldberg Describe your film in one sentence. A girl fights through a series of trials in order to survive in the post apocalyptic future. What is the significance of the title of your film? Icarian means “pertaining to Icarus” which goes along with my film’s topic of falling from grace. What was your inspiration for this film? A mix of watching Mad Max as well as wanting to do the literal opposite of the movie I made last year.

Image by Sofia Martin

assorted perspectives “The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.” ― Anaïs Nin

Two boys sit in a car. It’s night, and street lights periodically swipe by. a rear projection shows roads and cars. The radio is going, playing light music as they drive on. Suddenly the streetlights stop where they are. The passenger, who was looking out the window, turns and looks at the audience. BOY: I almost said it. (beat.) I almost looked him in the eyes and said, “I’m gay.” I was so close. I could see the way he would’ve looked at me, like I was shit, like I wasn’t even his friend. But I couldn’t even say it. He pauses and goes back to looking out the window. The street lights continue. He sits up straight, not looking directly at the other boy. He takes a deep breath. The streetlights pause, he addresses the audience again.

ride

We were sitting in the car, and he was driving. It was dark, we were driving back from the mountain, and I felt The Moment occur. That moment when you realize that you had to say something, like those three words were birds, scratching and clawing to erupt from you. Streetlights continue. Hey, I, uh, have something to tell you. OTHER BOY turns, acknowledging BOY:

I uhhh... I don’t like this song BOY turns away as OTHER BOY switched the song. And I let it pass. I kept the birds inside, because as painful as it is to keep them in... I wanted to tell him that I loved him, God I love him! I wanted to kiss him and tell him. I wanted the words to fill the car. I wanted to scream at the planets! I am gay! His arms are spread and he smiles. He stays there for a moment. The moment fades, and his smile leaves. But I didn’t. And now the words are still there, inside. The streetlights start up again. OTHER BOY: Hey, do you want to go see that new movie tomorrow? BOY: (Brightly) Yeah, sure. OTHER BOY: I was gonna ask Sarah but... BOY visibly recedes. The lights stop BOY: But the words are still there, in my gut, driving further and further. The lights continue. The music fades with the lights. Sam Bovard

Image by Evan O’Brien

MIKE A Song from the album, One So many nice people on Tuesday night

Didn’t hurt too much

I went for a sandwich at Jersey Mike’s

As I walked out she asked if I was all done

After she served me her boyfriend came in

I said I was and she smiled at me

he brought the kids

Have a good night

she made them sandwiches

I’m feeling tired, time for coffee

As I walked out he asked how mine was

Headed on over to the bakery

I said it was good because it was

Three people smiled when I walked in

Went on next door for a TB test

Made me think about how nice everyone has been

Got a quick smile coming from the front desk

The storm Tuesday night gave us wind for the sail

She’s trying to talk a stressed woman to rest

The rain’s very light and the clouds are so frail

Discounted the price cause she knew it was best

We’ll keep moving on long as we have wind

I got my test

Have a good Tuesday night I’m sure I’ll see you again Jack Kraus

“Trolley” Film Still by Cole Forson, Dirk Czarnecki, Arhum Khan, Garrett Stoler, Jason Davis, and Cameron Bossalini

Phoenix Clean glass boxes, with sterile carpet floors, Sensors scanners “ Lift your hands please,” Mind your step as you pass through the door. Just outside is a city, A firebird city, That cries with a dry, crusty roar, As you fly far above, a hope bringing dove, Will not come as it did once before. Blocks upon blocks of the same red-roofed houses, With pools as electric blue pores, A quiet brown wilderness under our thumb, Sterilized deep inside to its core. Numbness; Did that exist here before? Addie Gomez

Image by Kathy Muñoz

“Star” Photograph Jackson Lowen

Image by Rehka Sharma 82

lightbulb “Hey,” I shout. “Hey!” but he never hears me. I’m always yelling at this guy to quit working at this bar and start being happy. He’s nice, an observer like me. I like him you see, but the job depresses this kind guy, who always has his journal out, putting life in words as he hands out shot glasses to the exploring new adults, the middle-aged man getting over his divorce, and the young female health assistant who just wants to dance. This guy keeps watching the dysfunctional and merry go by. Sophie Bernstein

The Beauty of a Bird The bird depicted represents a multiplicity of characteristics that describe the true essence of Islam, such as love, wisdom, hope, and peace. But why a bird? Why did I choose to depict this calligraphy within a bird? Islam is a religion in which nature plays a constant and active role in. I chose a bird in this description because a bird is such a minuscule creature, but it has qualities and capabilities humans can only dream of. Its ability to fly, for instance, gives it great power, yet the animal remains humble. One line in the Quran that intertwines the humbleness of the bird and the role of nature in Islam reads, “And walk not with arrogance. Indeed, you can never tear the earth apart, nor can you surpass the mountains in height.” The poem below shows the intertwined humbleness of the bird, and the ego of man. Look above your own head, human Observe that which craves not attention, but simply freedom. You are trapped within your prison of pomposity, And you will not transcend till you look above. Look. Look. Look and understand. Understand that which flies out of free will, Not out of need for attention. The minuscule creature calls to be one with the wind, While you thirst for superiority. “I am free”, said the man, Free? You are trapped in your own dimension. Look up at the birds who are only trapped in their humbleness, You are not free of your pride till you look above. Do not hear, listen. Do not look, understand. You hold the key to your own prison of misfortune, Why do you not unlock it and be like that of the bird? Why do you remain within the prison you created for yourself? Transcend. Sofia Babool

Image by Andrew Glick 85

Image by Ben Stromberg

Crossroad Inspired by the book, “Reservation Blues” by Sherman Alexie

Five minutes in and I’m bored again Thirty years of this, does anybody understand? I put one foot in front of the other I don’t need a new life Just a better place when I die

They say I’m insane, but I’m sick of these bonds I can’t keep running the bases, why can’t I go beyond? No purpose, no hope I don’t need a new life Just a place to soar when I die

Wasting away, but we remain the same My compass is broken, is there anyone to blame? I’ll give you all I’ve got, I don’t need a new life Just a light when I die

Dream after dream, all I see is sorrow I hear no music, will it be better tomorrow? The horses are screaming I don’t need a new life, Just some faith when I die

Shackled and chained, I need to get out Bottle in hand, can somebody help me shout? I’ve got nobody else, but the devil himself I don’t need a new life Just a free soul when I die

I went to the crossroad, Nembutal in tow The road feels endless, which way do I go? I have nothing to lose So I don’t need a life, Just a place to die. Shivani Daftary

Image by Sarah Matthews

T hrowing Shade at Beauty I want to thank all of the beautiful and colorful women that are gathered here. As I look into the audience, I cannot pinpoint any particular shade of skin. I am proud to be standing in front of a sea of unique individuals gathered here as one. I want to take this opportunity to talk about what beauty means to me. Also, I want to challenge you all to think about your own personal definitions of beauty. I have always seen beauty in strong, confident women. As a young girl I would naturally look up to my mother, and I would see the hard work on her sweaty brow, the genuine passion in her soft smiles, and the unconditional love through her sweet lullabies. To me, beauty was not defined by the surface of a person. Throughout my childhood I would follow the advice from movies: “beauty is found within.” It wasn’t until later in life that I started to question this perspective. Looking back on some of those beloved movies, I now see flaws. This revelation broke my heart; I had been lied to. How come the majority of the actresses are white? How come the minorities are always presented as the minority? When looking at this issue, I also noticed that this was not unique to the American society. In Bollywood, pale shades of brown were preferred for women over a darker color. There have been many cases in the past when actresses were denied a role due to their complexion. Recently, South Indian movies encourage white people to play the roles of Indian women, restricting the opportunities of the women who have been working in the Indian film industry for years. This made me think about what it is truly like to grow up in my culture. It was more than just black and white. Recently, I have noticed that the colors of my own kind are stacked against each other. It’s odd that when races are put against each other, we automatically identify by our collective ethnicity, but there are internal conflicts within each ethnicity when

there are no other groups there to compete with. This is when I asked myself, “Why does beauty have to result in conflict?” I was born with naturally pale skin. I realized that my family used to idolize me for this attribute. It confused me as a child, but I didn’t think too much about it. I liked having all of the attention. I liked the high expectations people had for me. I liked being called pretty. I didn’t know the harm I was causing to others. Even though my skin darkened over the years, I am still comparably lighter than my other family members. Generally South Indians are known for having dark skin, but I was an exception. People with darker skin tones are seen as second-class citizens within the Indian community, so my family tried to preserve my favorable feature. I was told not to play in the sun, not to go out without sunscreen, and not to wear skin-exposing clothes. I didn’t value my skin as much as my parents did, but I knew it meant something important to them. These rules did not seem as restricting to me back then. I just obeyed. After my brother was born, we would get compared a lot. He was born with the darkest shade of brown skin imaginable. I remember my mom complaining to my grandparents about his appearance. My family would always unnecessarily juxtapose our skins. The only thing I got from all of this was that I was somehow “better” sibling. This didn’t make sense to me, but honestly, I sometimes took advantage of this. Just recently, while talking to him, he himself compared his complexion to mine. I immediately felt guilt punch me in the gut. It was unsettling to look back at all the times that we judged each other. Once I became aware, I felt remorseful, and angry, and disappointed. I want to apologize to him for all of the damage that I have done, whether it was intentional or not. Now I realize how insecure he must of felt for all of these years.

It’s odd how a simple feature can determine the entirety of one’s life. This issue became more noticeable when I entered middle school. My middle school consisted of mostly Indian people. This seemed nice at the beginning, since I could easily find friends, but there was another layer to it. I started to notice the different cliques of Indian kids. The “cooler” kids were usually North Indians, who have lighter skin. I was not a part of this group. They were all talented young women, but I could see that they all were taking advantage of their skin color. Taking a closer look, I noticed that these people were better off than the rest of the Indian community financially. The white community liked them better as well. Even though these were just some observations from my middle school life, I never really understood why this was how things worked.

to believing what we thought the true meaning of beauty was? Reflect on your own life for a minute. Were you automatically favored, or were you the oppressed? The first step is to be aware of yourself and the people around you. It’s easier said than done, but there is no other real solution. Not everyone has a turning point in his or her lives, so I think it’s important to reflect on the events of others. I hope my presence today brought you a new perspective to ponder upon. I want to make one thing clear: our biased judgments should not be responsible for validating other’s beauty. You are your own validation. As the scripture says: “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight” (1 Peter 3:3-4).

The demands women feel the need to face in our society is tragic. It leads women to feel insecure. It leads for social conflict. It leads to dissatisfaction. Everything goes downhill when we try to change the unchangeable. We should not be forced to think that the problem is our skin. The only change that has to happen needs to originate from our false ideologies. Skin does not control privilege; our mindset does.

Keep in mind that there are no shades associated with who we are inside. Maybe what I’m trying to say is that the blurred vision can be adjusted when we find the clarity of who we are under our skin.

Kaavya Venkat

I have faced both sides of this issue. I am favored by the dark skinned South Indian community, but oppressed by the North Indian community. I can’t clearly express my feelings. All I know is that whatever is going on needs to be changed. Although I recognize most of us never think of this matter as a real issue, it needs to be spoken about. As a privileged community, we don’t see this as a problem due to the shift in perspective. We are a diverse community, yet we do not act like one. My vision for beauty was blurred just like the colors I am seeing before my eyes now. Deep inside I want to tell you that beauty is found within, but unfortunately that is not how it is defined in our current society. Take a minute to think about why. Why can’t we go back

Image by Ruchita Iyer

[untitled] I. [one] I know it’s not the best title but, I’m giving it to you as a gift because this is all I have to offer in the midst of a raging storm where the thunder comes before the lightning to ensure its presence before it shows its ugly face. Everyone sees the lightning whether you believe it was there or not so at least you have luxury of saying “it’s nice outside.” It is a certain storm the one so few realize they’re immersed in and if they did they would hear the thunder that screams in contradiction and confusion or see the downpour of rain that feeds the flood day by day. I wonder long it will take for it to drown us all in its contagious silence? I’d be fine sleeping in that ten foot pit if I can do it peacefully. I am trying to understand something and I want to speak to you very bluntly so we can both benefit from the honesty. You see, there is this bear on my nightstand I pick up every time I’m stuck though my writing is never about my childhood I don’t know why I keep resorting to it for inspiration I can’t understand why I never write about my childhood it is a collection of shuffled moments that I often take for granted. Back then all that mattered was now stupid jokes and video games If I think about it a little more I can remember and blue crayon box that smelled of untapped creativity and served a different purpose frequently

Pierce Washington

As a way of understanding the meaning of new beginnings I would always have a new year’s resolution. I decided to save money in my crayon box until I was rich but that only lasted until I wanted a thing more than I wanted my resolution like when an alcoholic compromises her sobriety for a drink and ends up back where she started. 92

Anurag Kurapati

II. [two] I grew up understanding that the way I spoke at home was unacceptable in society but who is society to take away my unique tone and replace it with monotone? Why should my dark diction be offensive? It sad that these are facts but the truth is that society’s “proper English” sounds hysterical to people from England so it just may be perspective. They pride themselves on how fluent they are in this language, so why can’t I? As far as I’m concerned I speak two languages and am very articulate in both. It’s “Hello sir” “Hello ma’am” in the workplace and it’s “what’s good” to the homies and I switch them with ease due to the storm.

III. [three] Today is Sunday and once again I am going to church to learn about discipleship and faith. How long will it take me to put these teachings in to action? It reminds me of the nervousness that comes with teenage love. The battle between love and lust is a battle that lust wins all too often in my opinion. But, how do teenagers know which is which when the word “love” is thrown out so frequently that it eventually loses its power and purpose It’s funny how lust has been prevalent for people since puberty ages boys and girls are disgusted with each other until their pecks and pitches are no longer kindred.

Artist Credit

IV. [four] There are things I’ve given up on like waiting for people to give me something for nothing. It’s just something that comes with age and it seems like the world matures as I do. Shows like Full House went from hysterical to bland and predictable. Radio recordings evolved into MP3s even the childhood games of cops and robbers seem all but entertaining and somewhat of a training for the reality I live today. Kids don’t even go outside anymore because getting “likes” and “retweets” is their motive to be excellent due to popularity being more important to the youth than health and well being. I’m not saying that this is a bad thing. Technology is wonderful. It has the power to save lives and create a safer environment for the world. It will continue to advance to great heights but is this a blessing or a curse? V. [five] Every time I watch the news I notice the storm. The vibrations of my brethren, sounds of pain, injustice and death. Yes, death. Death sounds the loudest because we live our lives in silence. We don’t hear the sounds of bodies dropping but, we do hear the weeping mothers’ pain when she has to bury her baby and raise his. I hope you understand my straight-forwardness and realize that most of you won’t have to teach your offspring that their innocence was cut from the umbilical and to keep a low profile so the “system” doesn’t spot you.

VI. [six] I can’t trust the accuracy of my feelings, because they come and go like traffic on the toll way on a Thursday morning when no one seems to be going to work. Are they all just having a late start? I need to check in to that. But first I have business to attend to. I walked outside to check on the storm and took a look around. I heard the roar of thunder surround me as if it hit me from 30 billion different places at once. Is this the end? If so why don’t we know because the rain is feeding the flood and we are waist deep. You see, I know the storm is there because I don’t take part in the hope of a brighter day. I will speak my reality and add to the storms till the world makes the thunder boom so loud, it deafens the population and until then my voice is nothing:

Self portrait at 16.

Pierce Washington

Image by Avery Jane Williams

Staff Perspectives Brooke Bulmash

Editor in Chief

Brooke has been a part of Montage since her freshman year. She sees the magazine as a demonstration of the Upper School as a whole, and hopes that readers will understand the hard work, time, and determination that the magazine required in its production. In her free time, when she is not hard at work on Montage, she enjoys reading, writing, swimming, and following modern politics. She looks forward to the opportunity to steer Montage once again during the 2016-2017 school year.

Julia Halm

Content Editor

Julia has been a member of the Montage club since freshman year. Her favorite part of Montage is showcasing the artistic and literary talents of Greenhill students. She enjoys performing with the Greenhill Dance Company, photography, and doing art projects late at night. She aspires to someday be able to draw a straight line, an artistic obstacle she has grappled with since middle school.

Sam Bovard

Production and Editorial Contributor

Sam is a freshman at Greenhill. He loved being a part of Montage this year and can’t wait to do more with the magazine. Sam really enjoyed the unique ways people could express themselves in the publication, whether they write, paint, photograph, or even arrange, Montage could accommodate them.

Michelle King

Production and Editorial Contributor

Michelle King is currently a junior who loves being able to look at people’s work and transform it into a cohesive product. She loves biology and plans to be a doctor. In her spare time, she likes to read, write, listen to music, and do martial arts. She is looking forward to being a senior next year.

Scottie Pearson-Thompson

Production and Editorial Contributor

Scottie is a freshman and joined the Montage team to get a better sense of her classmates’ identity in the arts. In her free time, Scottie enjoys reading and writing poetry along with video production and playing musical instruments. Scottie’s favorite thing about Montage is being able to look at the different kinds of media her classmates have created.

Zainab Noshahi

Production

Zainab is currently a junior and joined Montage for the first time this year. Her favorite part about the class has been seeing the different types of drawings, photographs, and writing pieces produced by Greenhill students, and being able to put them together to showcase the amazing art. Zainab is also a part of Student Council and technical theater, and hopes to be a part of Montage as a senior next year.

Image by Megan Nguyen

Colophon Montage is a collaborative compendium of the Upper School’s art and writing, one of Greenhill’s three student-led publications. Unlike the other two, most of the year, Montage functions as a collaborative club during free time in which students gather to examine submitted works from their peers. The 2015-2016 school year marks the publication’s second anniversary of joining Cavalcade and the Evergreen as Fine Arts credits. With a young staff relatively new to the concept of producing such a publication, Montage this year has overcome many obstacles to attain the incredible result you hold in your hands today. The overriding goal of this issue was to create a more emblematic sample of the creative abilities of Greenhill’s Upper School, accessing segments of the student body that traditionally had not submitted work in previous publications. The staff was so greatly impacted by the emotion, passion, and creativity each work so thoughtfully demonstrated that this year’s edition is the largest aggregation of student contributions in a long time. Editorial contributors solicited work from students on an individual basis, emphasizing the importance of connecting with the writers on a personal level. This is our gift to you: a publication lovingly generated to embody the heart and soul of Greenhill’s Upper School. We are humbled and honored to have the opportunity to witness and be a part of the creation of Montage 2016. It is our hope as the team that so affectionately crafted it, that you will enjoy this edition and understand the hard work, creativity, and passion that each of us devoted to its formation. This book is typeset in Times New Roman 10 point font, with all bylines in italics, and printed on FSC certified Cougar Opaque Stock. There are several individuals who need to be acknowledged for their critical assistance in the completion of Montage. Our wonderful sponsors Ms. Emily Wilson and Ms. Lesley Rucker, without which Montage never would have been possible, we thank you for your unwavering support, technical help, constructive critiquing, and all the time you spent on Montage this year. Mr. Doyle, Mr. Garza, and Mr. Lopez, thank you for all your help with images, writing and helpful suggestions. Sarah Matthews and Addie Gomez, thank you for you important editorial contributions during meetings, we are thankful you faithfully attended. AP Studio Art Students, Honors Photography, and Video Production, thank you for allowing us to use your work. Madeline Montoya, Rachel Davis, Maya Muralidhar, thank you editors of Montage 2015, for placing your faith in us and passing down this incredible tradition. Artists, Writers, Photographers, and anyone that submitted this year, thank you for allowing us into your creative worlds.

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Perspectives. The word elicits thoughts of angles, standpoints, sides, outlooks, and views. It is openness, acceptance, and variety. We hope that you will enjoy the many themes at play in the assorted works that compile this addition of Montageâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;studentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; distinct voices of creativity.

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