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Syracuse City School District 2021 Literary Magazine “It is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge.”~Albert Einstein Syracuse City School District 2021 Literary Magazine 2021 SCSD Literary Magazine The Syracuse City School District provides students Poetry ...............................................................................Page 02 with multiple outlets for artistic expression. One key outlet is the Literary Magazine: an annual publication Artwork ..............................................................................Page 13 showcasing superior works of art, photography, poetry, journalistic, and creative writing submitted by the students. Journalism ........................................................................Page 28 Many thanks to: Rhonda Zajac, Director of English Language Arts Henninger Knight Life Journalism ..............................Page 40 Midheta Mujak, English As a Second Language Teacher Mrs. Jodi Rowe, Business Teacher and Program Design Short Stories, Scripts, and Narratives ............................Page 48 Contributing SCSD Teachers and Staff Inaugural Poem by Amanda Gorman ........ Inside Back Cover When day comes we ask ourselves, where can we find light in this never-ending shade? When day comes we step out of the shade, aflame and unafraid, the new dawn blooms as we free it. The future belongs to those For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it. who believe in the beauty of their If only we’re brave enough to be it. Excerpt from The Hill We Climb dreams. by Amanda Gorman ~Eleanor Roosevelt Page 72 The Almost Dark Sky Poetry By Maria Mohamed Ramadan on 204 Oak Street Fast until the sun would set The air filled with hunger Revealing a beautiful mix Of orangish-red lighting and longing Maria Mohamed The smell of mom’s tabikh that comes from the kitchen The Almost Dark Sky I’m floating towards it The heat in the air surrounding my skin as I enter Justo Triana I am able to qualify the feeling Como un árbol Of refreshment without tasting Of the Broken (English) --a dizzying appetite Justo Triana The scents lingered, crept in the air De lo roto Down the hallway Like a Tree (English) Seeping into the rooms Justo Triana Amirah and I, anxiously spread out the sufra on the living room floor Veteran Then, finally, as the moon rises, we all feast together Abdimalik Dahir The noise of the house progressively louder Where I’m From The clanging of plates and the mix of voices Until the notion of food releases its burden on all of us Carliana Rodriguez Slam Poem I sat there, content In a drifting thought Angela Kumah I lazily pondered Knock Knock Knock The dynamic of discipline and sacrifice When across from me, Greer Foley The Garden is Alive Amirah takes her last bite of the mahalabia And gives me a quick glance and a smile Page 2 Page 3 Como un árbol (Spanish) Like a Tree (English) By Justo Triana By Justo Triana ¡Quién estuviese preso en Dinamarca ¡Quién fuese un cerdo Who could have been imprisoned in Who could be a pig en una cárcel de madera verde... criado en un zoológico; Denmark raised in a zoo; ¡Quién pudiese admirar las tempestades, algún búfalo in a green wooden jail... some buffalo los deliciosos grises dormido en un estanque, Who could admire the storms, asleep in a pond, y el césped sin podar o una ardilla en un patio the delicious grays or a squirrel in the yard por la escotilla de una mansión sin dueño? and the unpruned grass of an abandoned mansion? de una mazmorra quieta ¡Quién hubiese nacido en una sierra through the hatch al pie del bosque? vasca, of a still dungeon Who could have been born in a Basque en otro siglo, at the edge of the forest? sierra, ¡Quién pudiese y escuchado los cantares del silencio? in another century, olvidarse de comer, y de dormir, ¡Quién hubiese salido en la mañana Who could and could have listened to the songs of y no morir de hambre ni de sueño... a pastorear ovejas... forget to eat, to sleep, silence? ¡Quién se alimentara quién hubiese sido and not die of hunger or fatigue...? Who could have gone out in the morn- de su respiración, o de visiones los pasos del camino, Who could feed ing descifradas por sus ojos, la sombra en la cañada, on his breath, or on visions to herd sheep... o versiones una silueta en el crepúsculo? deciphered by his eyes, who could have been de una memoria paralela? or versions the steps of the way, ¡Quién permaneciese of a parallel memory? the shadow in the glen, ¡Quién posara al margen de los días a silhouette in the twilight? detrás de los barrotes indulgentes como un árbol? Who could place una mano ¡Quién pudiese decir behind the indulgent bars Who could remain en el centro de un libro, “Soy inocente”? a hand regardless of the days o la mirada in the center of a book, like a tree? en un paisaje inmóvil? or the look Who could say in a still landscape? “I’m innocent”? Page 4 Page 5 De lo roto (Spanish) Of the Broken (English) By Justo Triana By Justo Triana Si te sirve de consuelo yo también he He roto colecciones If it makes you feel better, I have broken collections roto cosas que quería mucho. de felicidades. I’ve also broken things of happinesses. Cosas con mirada y pies; objetos que He hecho añicos that I loved very much. I have shattered se movían por sí mismos... tantas realidades Objects with eyes and feet… so many realities que yo ya no soy más that I am no more Reliquias que una partícula de tiempo Relics than a particle of time que permanecerán anclada en el sonido that will remain anchored in the sound detrás del vidrio de aquel golpe behind the glass of that blow de lo que ya no existe; presente aún of what no longer exists; still present copias que desafían en los fragmentos de mi polvo. copies that defy in the rigid, cutting fragments la brillantez the brilliance of my dust. de sus originales, of its originals, cuya mera presencia whose mere presence es una conspiración. is a conspiracy. He roto imágenes que me sabía de I’ve also broken images memoria. He profanado altares. He that I believed I knew by heart. ignorado sendas... He quebrado las I’ve desecrated altars. I’ve ignored paredes de lo inmóvil. well-worn paths... I have broken the walls of the immobile. Page 6 Page 7 Veteran Where I’m From By Justo Triana By Abdimalik Dahir I didn’t know his name Oh war… Oh war! I am from Anjero that I cook on She tells me, “I like to see you like this but he fought in World War II. Why don’t you ever pay for Saturday and Sunday with my it makes me happy.” He asked my age, and said: the anguish of your children? family. I’m from Sheikh Saalax when I listen to “If that happened today I didn’t know his name If I see my family eat the Anjero that him makes me proud to be Muslim. you wouldn’t be here… but I thanked him. I cook, that makes me happy. You would’ve been with us.” I saw the sparkles sprouting I want to be like him and when I see through the clefts of his flesh burned by I’m from my mom that takes care of him that makes me proud to be Muslim. His eyes…! the years. me from when I was a baby. I saw a gust of hail, a landing I didn’t know his name, but after all on the fangs of a beach, what is a name if not a label and from my whole family who takes the sigh of those who bear for a piece of time? care of me when I’m sick or when I the weight of death need something. on their young shoulders. Wrinkles are sheets that cover And countless waves of men a great mirror: If I see my family take care of me arriving to their destiny the colors have returned, like this, it is enough for me. in the morning. the movement has reborn; the hidden face has come out of the I am from my sister that I love so I didn’t know his name shroud. much. If I see her, she is happy and if but I received Another me has met me; she sees me, I’m happy. a promise from his soul. another me has left I took the gun to live where consciousness that remained in the trenches of his will not ever arrive. forehead for myself. Farewell! I guess it’s time I lived his life for you to go. I’ll stay down here in a few seconds. where lives converge, I saw the distant light and ephemeris, and names, of what had happened; and the ruins of luxuries and pains to free those undead men are swept away together trapped in the photos. —perhaps drowned— by the dizzying currents of reality. Page 8 Page 9 Slam Poem Knock Knock Knock By Carliana Rodriguez By Angela Kumah Racism has occurred Black people are beautiful! Knock, Knock, Knock For centuries. The color of their skin, From slavery to segregation to The texture of their hair, The bright doors open as your head equality. And the shape of their lips clears when you come to the real- Make them even more beautiful. ization of the sunlight streaming You hear that word through Equality If these simple words Get into your brain, You’re dreaming of plans being And you assume Making you think about change, perfectly made with an appreciative They finally got it right.

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