the Register winter 2016-2017
The Register | Winter 2017 1 2 Winter 2017 | The Register the register
2017 CXLII • WINTER ISSUE
The Register is published twice a year by the students of the Boston Latin School. Students in Classes I through VI are invited to submit their original writing and artwork. Pieces are selected by the Editorial Board of The Register on the basis of quality, not name recognition; the writers of all pieces remain anonymous to the Editorial Board during the selection process to ensure that no one is given an unfair advantage.
The Register | Winter 2017 3 The Register Staff
Literature Art Design & Layout Editor-In-Chief Editor-In-Chief Editor-In-Chief Nikita Desir Annie Chen Yinyu Ji
Assistant Editor Assistant Editors Assistant Editors Tim Liu Hui Shi Lauren Jiang Li (Sherry) Xu Ting Wei Li Editorial Board Ahlam Abdi Art Associates Design & Layout Associates Lily Doyle Umaiya Eman Serena Cai Kathy Mei Gavriella Gonzalez Kelly Chin Laila Pearson Mindy Hoang Hayden Codiga Cynthia Phan Joanne Lau Eliza Fleming Bonnie Li Rachel Lee Copy Editors Samantha Simpson Tim Liu Imogen Watts Faculty Advisors Imogen Watts Leeanna Ye Ms. Jesse Mavro Diamond Jiaxin Zeng Sadeya Zeman Mr. Jeff Mikalaitis
Thank You
The Register would like to thank the Boston Latin School Association and its donors for their utmost dedication and financial support in celebrating quality student artwork and writing. table of contents
7 August • Caroline Tevnan • Poetry 21 Time • Christina Pham • Poetry
8 Ode to the Night • Christina Pham • Poetry 22 Doll • Jasmine Nguyen • Poetry
9 Leopard • Umaiya Eman • Art 24 Tignon • Artem Babinov • Art
10 Newcomer • Griffin Black • Art 25 Untitled • Lily Anderson • Art
11 Astronomy • Xiadi Zhai • Poetry 26 Reflections • Eliza French • Prose
12 Uncertainty • Aileen Luo • Poetry 28 Glow • Ina Beinborn • Art
13 Dawn • Stephanie Wu • Art 29 A Letter for You • Chris Dew • Poetry
14 The Artist • Chris Dew • Poetry 30 Virginia • Molly Flanagan • Art
15 Who Is He • Gavriella Gonzales • Art 31 H.F. • Caroline Tevnan • Poetry
16 Tan Line • Xiadi Zhai • Poetry 32 Underground • Imogen Watts • Art
17 Rainy Day • Anneli Merivaara. • Art 33 Repetition • Caroline Wright • Poetry
18 Bird’s Eye View • Aine Griffin • Poetry 34 Seeing Stars • William Burnett • Art
19 Price • Xiadi Zhai • Poetry 35 Once I Wondered • Ana Battaglino • Poetry
20 Fishing at a Former Slave Port in Ghana • Xiadi 36 Infinite • Norah Brady • Poetry
Zhai • Art 37 Aries • Jenny Katz • Art 38 The Days • Grace Zaborski • Poetry
38 Fine Dine & Feline • Ada Chai • Art
39 Playing Koi • Jenny Katz • Art
40 The Last of the Wild Horses • Mike Gross • Poetry
41 The Red Room • Gavriella Gonzales • Art
42 Universe • Wes Mallory • Poetry
42 Bella • Isabelle Cadene • Art
Outside Cover: Speicherstadt • Ina Beinborn, II • Photography
Inside Cover: Antelope Canyon • Bonnie Li, II • Photography august Dear mom We’re almost at Eau Claire Then we loop back up to Duluth in two days time
We’re dividing up the midwest And our time Zig zagging North star to dairyland
I’m writing this with a dried up blue ink pen And marking the map we were given By the state park front desk So, sorry if this is too faint to read I’m trying my best
Still I like the change of pace here We’ll go full 8 (circle)
This feeling
It might be over soon
— Caroline Tevnan, I
The Register | Winter 2017 7 Ode to the
I want this image to be Night embedded into my mind: The blazing moon Like a white gumball between my thumb and finger
Hovering inches away from the willow tree that perches in my backyard Yet seen by millions around the globe.
The stream of starlight Struggling to break through the veil of clouds
I want to shrink into dust, drifting Joining the indigo blanket Becoming a part of the night’s serenity
— Christina Pham, III
8 Winter 2017 | The Register Leopard Umaiya Eman, Class II Scratchboard
The Register | Winter 2017 9 Newcomer Griffin Black, Class III Digital Art
10 Winter 2017 | The Register | astronomy | Nebulae appear along her cheekbones and galaxies form across her abdomen. They decorate her milky skin like the topography map of a foreign planet with craters and basins. There are stellar clusters and clouds of dust and mixes of ionized gas but I never saw the black holes or bits of dark matter until it was a little too late. Until it had been decided for her already that she belonged more among the constellations than here on Earth with people who couldn’t understand the infinities she held with people who never knew about them at all. The image of lilac and plum and indigo and mustard and peach swirls on the canvas of her pale skin and how beautiful she looked before I understood how or why is burned into my mind for what seems like forever. Perhaps I will find her in the sky at night or perhaps I will find her in the grimy bathroom mirror.
— Xiadi Zhai, II
The Register | Winter 2017 11 uncertainty
I. IV. a world where a sympathetic smile a despairing love will never last long enough a repeated greeting or mean enough an awkward glance to fix me rain: one drop, then two or to fix you. then a lightning storm where everyone is broken of numbness. or breaking bells ringing or falling apart. cars honking where we put each other down trains rushing to hide ourselves. people shouting where fear guides us drowning under the voices and guilt and sadness drowning under themselves. guard our hearts. does it all mean anything?
II. V. i dream of fields of clovers i do not know what it is to be human. of an earthly promise whether it is communication of stars and galaxies or the advent of culture of the empty vacuum or the ability in which we reside. to fall or break or drown our own lives seem so miniscule without realizing it. in the endless dark. —Aileen Luo, V
III. what a lonely, lonely world. in space and in one’s mind disconnected impossible to understand each other or ourselves. day after day, the same routine the earth continues to desperately spin the stars continue to desperately burn. and i do not know who i am.
12 Winter 2017 | The Register Dawn Stephanie Wu, Class I Ink and Acrylic
The Register | Winter 2017 13 He was a real artist. theHis skin was the canvasartist for the cigarette burns running along it. He hated to be the one to let them down. The man hated to be a burden. Always. Constant streams of apologies were the only way for him to tell people how he felt. They were streams that ebbed and flowed along without pause. A soul is now a mechanized sort of thing. Industrialized, pulverized, perfected until the fatty oils pump out of our black hearts. We’re all like that, you’ll see, but it’s not in our nature. It’s just something we’ve inherited. The artist surveys his canvas. The pockmarks and imperfections dot his pale white skin. An artist he was not, but a man he was. A man who abstracted the truth, hid it behind layers and layers of lies. All this trouble to seal up the real him. A prison of his own making. It takes a perfectionist to be able to see how disappointing it all was. The nonsense, the jest, the arrogantly long hours of self reflection turned to self mutilation that guided him to this world of despair. A place where every whisper was an echo of times long gone. Your words reverberated through the jagged edges and came back to you. It was you all along. The dim light of the moon blinded him. The night was too bright for his taste. He closed his eyes one last time. Fate just wasn’t in his corner now or ever. As he watched those around him trudge on with no eyes and ears, He joined them. The walk ruined him. Though throughout the pain he could only think of one thing. He was an artist. He couldn’t help but laugh as he trudged on into the uncaring void. He was an artist.
— Chris Dew, II
14 Winter 2017 | The Register Who is he
Gavriella Gonzalez, Class IV Markers
The Register | Winter 2017 15 tan line my father has strong square fingers that look as if they have a tremendous grip. I have never seen them disadvantaged— they are steady when consoling me, warm when I forget my gloves, and firm when opening glass jars of my mother’s peach jelly.
but right now they seem clumsy and weak and fat as I watch him try to pry off his wedding ring for the first time in 32 years. the skin at his joint scrunches up into a ripple of freckled flesh. “worthless,” he mumbles before finally nudging it off in a forceful pull. his finger is pink from the abuse it has gone through but I can still see the distinct tan line. 32 years in the making.
his fingers have always appeared to be able to hold on to anything for an extended amount of time but I suppose that ring was the one thing he just barely lost his grip on.
— Xiadi Zhai, Class II
16 Winter 2017 | The Register Rainy Day
Anneli Merivaara, Class I Pastel
The Register | Winter 2017 17 Bird’s Eye View
A girl sits in my field, Dozing by the lake, The long blades of grass dancing around her.
She doesn’t know I’m there.
She listens to cries of the sheep, and the rustle of lambs returning to their mothers. She gazes at the birds, dotting the cloudless sky like paint splatter, And the fish sending little bubbles to the top of the water.
She doesn’t hear me breathe.
She thinks not of the house she came from, miles and miles away. She thinks not of her bruised, dirt caked feet and the mess they walked away from. She thinks not of whose hands she sees beside her, she forgets her name.
She doesn’t feel my hand on her cheek.
The cool mud seeps into her dress, But she doesn’t flinch. She rolls onto her back, arms outstretched, And cradles her world.
She is me.
— Aine Griffin, Class III
18 Winter 2017 | The Register Price
there is a flashing neon sign for sale in the 99 cent store. it lights up in blue and red and green and reads “peace.” how much do you think it is worth? a dollar? two? and how much do you think it is actually worth? millions of lives? countless years? or is it not for sale, or is it never for sale, because no one would buy it anyway?
— Xiadi Zhai, II
The Register | Winter 2017 19 Fishing at a Former Slave Port in Ghana Xiadi Zhai, Class II Photography
20 Winter 2017 | The Register Time
How could one simple word, I’ve spent staring at a clock four mere letters, into the moment of my last breath contain so much divinity? So that maybe I could When Death is grasping onto me have an extra year with his fingertips, to wish my loved ones a farewell what will be my last thought? before I die. What would be my last wish? Or maybe not. Perhaps my last thought would be Perhaps I will instead an image of a clock. close my eyes How its handles are constantly teasing you with nothing on my mind, How, as you stare at its numbers, waiting for the seconds to tick by, Time will drag his feet, and peaceful and patient, seconds would feel like centuries. while a nearby clock continues How, when you’re in a happy moment, measuring time Time will run a marathon, and without me. centuries would feel like seconds. —Christina Pham, III Perhaps my last wish would be to transfer all of the time
The Register | Winter 2017 21 doll I see you coming down the aisle. You hold crumpled up dollars in your right hand, smiling as you walk along the freshly waxed floor. We make eye contact. Next thing I knew, I was in your arms, heading to the place you called home. But I didn’t know about you. I didn’t know that you hid in your room at night and cried. I didn’t know there was a storm behind the pink flowers on your door. You would run in and lock your door, collapsing on the floor where you had left me. Running your fingers through my hair comforted you more than me. I didn’t know you were scared of your father, Who came home every night, dragging his feet as if they were in mud, Reeking of alcohol. I didn’t know that a man could turn his drowsiness into rage, with a roar louder Than one of a lion being threatened of his kingship. Your mother was the poor antelope who couldn’t escape, prancing around to keep his attention away from you. She could only protect you so long. Soon, you showed up with purple polka-dots on your skin, dark like the ones on my dress. You wouldn’t come to play with me anymore, even when you cried. I should have known from the quiet sob, It was a plea for help. I saw the days you began to just lay in bed, not getting up for anything or anyone. The tears had stopped streaming a long time ago. The sniffles were now replaced by the deafening silence of the room. Your hopes of being a ballerina had faded more than the pictures on the wall. Your father was long gone, but you would still peek out to see if he had returned. I didn’t know that this faith could still remain. Your mother began to lose the small ounces of hope that remained between the two of you. Little by little, things began to disappear. Trophies, stuffed animals, Even your prized crown you won at the dance competition.
22 Winter 2017 | The Register All gone. It was just you and me. You grabbed me from under the bed. I hadn’t seen you for years. All the brightness I saw in your eyes had vanished, replaced with all the sorrow and heaviness of the world. The warmth of your hand felt familiar around my waist, but you didn’t seem like the same person. I got one last hug from you before I was sold in your driveway to the little girl down the street. I glance over her shoulder at you one last time. Tears are streaming again, but no words. Just silent tears. I have learned something from you. You showed me courage when I saw weakness. You showed me light when I saw darkness. You showed me hope when I saw despair. I just wish I could have known how to show you when you saw nothing.
— Jasmine Nguyen, III
The Register | Winter 2017 23 Tignon Artem Babinov, Class I Acrylic on Canvas
24 Winter 2017 | The Register Untitled Lily Anderson, Class I Edited Digital Photography
The Register | Winter 2017 25 Reflections
She is sprawled across the ground, alone, with the lights and the reflections. She carefully pulls layers of adhesive tape off of the roll, cuts them, and expertly maneuvers them onto her calloused toes. Once each toe is wrapped in the thin material, she shoves her feet into a pair of pale pink pointe shoes. Standing up, she aggressively knocks her feet at an angle to wedge the shoes into place. She walks over to the barre. The satin shines faintly under the fluorescent lights of the ballet studio. She steps up onto pointe and examines her feet in the mirror. With a tilted head, she swivels around the box of the shoe and observes the shape of the shoes. Then, suddenly, she bends her knees forward and forces her feet into an arched contor- tion. Not satisfied, she leans side to side and pushes the arches with her hands. The girl flops off pointe and marches back to her bag. One shoe is ripped off and the arch is vigor- ously bent. The other shoe quickly follows suit. The girl stands up and steps on the shoes until they crackle like a freshly baked baguette. With practiced, automatic hands, she tears the heel of the sole from the shoe and fights with her scissors until the nail pops out. Then she slams the tip of the shoes against the Marley, over and over again. The jarring bangs break the tranquil silence of the empty studio. Finally, the girl gives them a final slam and wriggles her feet back in. She puts her hands on her hips and rolls up and down through her feet. She floats to the back of the room and tentatively takes an elegant pose. Then, she drops her arms and crosses the room, pausing at the rosin box. After scrubbing rosin all over the bottom of her slippery shoes, she jogs back and takes her starting position. In her mind, pianos delicately sing like water rippling over stones. Her body starts to move. Each swish of an arm, each extension of a foot, each flutter of a hand is breathtaking. Her toned calf muscles pop out as she leaps across the studio. Her sharp feet flicker onto pointe and then just as quickly finesse back onto flat. Whens she finishes, breathless, her eyes are teary and her expression is cold. She begins to obsessively repeat double pirouettes. The first two are breathtaking: swirling, light, and smooth. Perfection. But the third is messy, not quite right. After 15 attempts, she stumbles, dizzy. Vociferat- ing oaths, she slams her heel into the ground and violently shakes out her sore legs. Then she forcibly takes a deep breath, puts her hands on her hips, and faces the back wall while blinking away hot tears. “Your turns were a mess, Charlie.” Charlie spins around and sees a figure standing accusingly before her. They are dressed alike in simple black leotards with pink tights, but that’s where the similarities end. This girl has chunky thighs, a flabby waist, and a plain face. Her eyes are dull and her body is devoid of the lean muscles so often coveted by dancers.
26 Winter 2017 | The Register The chubby girl stares at Charlie and repeats herself. “They were a mess, and you know it.” Charlie swallows hard. “I know. I just can’t get the coordination down, I’ve been working on them, but you know that I’m not a natural turner—” “Stop making excuses. It’s pathetic. Do you think that was good enough?” The girl snarls. “It’s all about consistency. We both know that was far from consistent.” Charlie turns her back on the girl, breathing heavily. “Giving up already? I’m not surprised.” Charlie turns around and faces the girl. They stare at each other. “Your feet are flat. You need higher arches if you’re going to get a corps contract somewhere,” Charlie tells the girl with a wobbly voice. “Your calves need more muscle. But not stocky—no, they need to be trim. Your thighs are too big, and your stomach isn’t flat enough. Your arms should be thinner; your collarbones should be visible. Your eyes should be green, your hair should shine. You’re fat, and you know it. You’re just too lazy to get rid of all of it.” The girl stares back at her, devoid of emotion. Then a smile slowly creeps across her face. “But, Char- lie… I’m you.” Charlie freezes. Then, with a trembling hand, she reaches out to touch the girl. But instead, her hand touches a cool, reflective surface. ** “Guys, where’s Charlie? She better not still be practicing that solo, because I’m starving. Can some- body seriously go find that girl,” Kiera moans. “I’ll go check the studio,” I sigh. I dart up the staircase and then jog over to the door of the studio. I pull open the door and peep my head inside. I pause for a moment when I notice that she is standing alone in front of the mirror, completely still, with one hand pressed against the glass. Her slender, practically emaciated shoulders are hunched over. Her wide hazel eyes are misted and full of fear. Her lean muscles jump out of her tights as she leans forward towards the mirror. I clear my throat, and she whips around. “Charlie, let’s go!” I shout. For a second, she seems caught in a trance. Then she blinks and smiles her stunning, graceful smile. “Sorry, I’m coming.” As I close the door on my way out, I hear her mumble, “I know.”
— Eliza French, II
The Register | Winter 2017 27 Glow Ina Beinborn, Class II Edited Digital Photography
28 Winter 2017 | The Register A Letter For You
When the rain beats down on my head long enough for it to feel like forty lashes against my bare skin, I know you were thinking of me. Grey clouds soaring above me are oddly comfortable. Sunny days remind me of you: Not genuine with the feeling of despair trailing behind. Riding on the coattails of anguish must be a fun trip -- We often did it together, Dancing in the moonlight. Seeing the shimmering void in your lips, I dance without a care. Not because we’re trying to forget what had to be done, But because it’s the only thing left. It didn’t make the charade feel any better. I see your thoughts of me starting to form in your mind. Property. Punching bag. Poet. I still dance, but now alone to the offbeat song surrounded by a world of mirrors. You are the last thing I think I’ll see before my world fades to black. Violet lipstick and deep ebony hair. The light reflects off each strand. A cosmos is trapped in your locks. Stars are littered across your eyes. The lavender velvet of your dress Sways softly off your pale skin. This dance cannot last. Amber pearls orbit around your neck as you sway back and forth with me.
-What a lovely dress.- Yes, quite lovely.
We sit in silence as the tears well up.
-I don’t think I can do it.- You can’t.
— Chris Dew, II
The Register | Winter 2017 29 Virginia Molly Flanagan, Class I Scratchboard
30 Winter 2017 | The Register H.F. the field can be our place i guess it was a revelation a worthy pilgrimage at that but it’s just a dream to me now because the lady You know, the one who sings the blues ? and the field ? she’s the one who told me what a little moonlight it’s just a place to me now can do see, all you are is Black Coffee those eyes ! and i’ll sit here stirring yours bigger than moons You Go to My Head of galaxies that only exist in my dreams under this Blue Moon it’s Funny That Way and dreams - on this Gloomy Sunday when you dream do you dream of me ? someone or of those galaxies ? stop these Stormy Blues or of moons ? stars blazing overhead ? — Caroline Tevnan, I i keep having this one dream the people are forests white, bright, misty forests i can’t shut out the silence
The Register | Winter 2017 31 Underground Imogen Watts, Class II Pencil
32 Winter 2017 | The Register repetition
When she kissed me I was engulfed in fire White flames spread across my body Until I burned to ash And fell apart in her hands
It seems like I’m always writing the same poem over and over again words just shuffle Or come out backwards
My words to her are immortalized in that damn book repetition I just crumble over and over again when I told her I loved her my words crashed into her silence an empty response always followed which my heart scrambled to swallow starving for love
My words to her are immortalized in that damn book
I think it’s about time I burn it
— Caroline Wright, II
The Register | Winter 2017 33 Seeing Stars William Burnett, Class I Digital Photography
34 Winter 2017 | The Register Once I Wondered
Once, I sat on a trampoline at dusk. I don’t remember the hour, I’m not sure where I was, And I don’t recall the month. But the warm air smelled like green turning yellow And lightning bugs flashed through a purple sky, propelled by tiny fires.
My muscles scrunched up, and my heart beat a little faster, And I wondered how it’d feel To jump in the summer at dusk with fireflies.
Mama called me inside, and we left the next day, so I never jumped on that trampoline at dusk in the summer with fireflies
But sometimes I look at your eyes And I see little flames And I smell green that hasn’t turned yellow And my muscles scrunch up and my heart beats harder And you smile, and I remember sitting on the trampoline, and I don’t wonder anymore.
— Ana Battaglino, I
The Register | Winter 2017 35 infinite
Infinity is a funny concept. Because the universe is finite. Unseeable, massive, a great billowing sail swollen with star-filled wind. But finite.
What is at the edge of infinity? A waiting room—and an infinity of people waiting in an infinity of lines.
Eternity’s secretary sits at a desk at the end of the line with a bowl of candy and a swivel chair.
Waiting.
— Norah Brady, IV
36 Winter 2017 | The Register Aries Jenny Katz, Class II Digital Art
The Register | Winter 2017 37 the days Please just remember That hard times are temporary The stress of the school day Is not kept as its own memory
Please just remember Good times should be what you recall Those moments with friends If you let them, can be the highlight of it all
Please just remember Your time here isn't forever You choose what you will say When someone asks: “how was school today?”
— Grace Zaborski, II
Fine Dine & Feline Ada Chai, Class I Micron and Colored Pencils
38 Winter 2017 | The Register Playing Koi Jenny Katz, Class II Micron and Watercolor Pencils
The Register | Winter 2017 39 the last of the wild horses
Children of an absent God I pray one day you understand who look for heroes in soda cans the woes of the common man who find this world cold and odd, whose fate was once to rebuild Rome unable to meet with their demands but as of now is still unknown. safe behind concrete walls burgers, fries and checkered ties safe within plastic cages keep his people dumb deaf to the world as it calls for if they were to all grow wise deaf to the battle as it rages they’d each grab a gun Jesus stands on hamburger hill and seize the day and seize the land says to love but orders to kill build a Republic ever grand as Custer valiantly makes his stand a split upon the serpent’s tongue and for a moment forgets he is a man but sadly this has all been done made of dust of flesh of bone a crack upon the liberty bell a forgotten name on faded stone marks where great Atlas fell live your life and live it well and shook the Earth to its knees James Dean waits at the gates of hell no more kings left to appease to light your pipe or cigarette and yet men are still slaves learn to lie or to forget revolution only saves in the land where gold is green the leaders of the victorious revolt and peasants struggle to be seen who know a nation’s but a cult although beggars ask for change the wise men claim to have a cure they really seek stability for all that is unfair as long as we are out of range to climb the highest peak once more drop the bomb of tranquility and step off into the air perhaps another Eden will grow and we will know not to go — Mike Gross, I to Beatnik prophets dressed in rags who promise brightly colored flags sons of pagans, martyrs of sand
40 Winter 2017 | The Register The Red Room Gavriella Gonzalez, Class IV Markers
The Register | Winter 2017 41 I want to give you The universe Which is exactly the problem Not because it’s too heavy to carry to your house, And not because it’s too big to string up Like your paper cranes But because I don’t know how to figure out Which part of it to get you, Because I don’t understand it. Like the sunflowers Those were simple. They were stems and flowers, Not love and death and stars and train tracks. But take this poem for now. Cause I can’t wait to see your face When the universe shows up on your doorstep In a little red box with blue ribbon.
-- 9/28/2016 universe — Wes Malory, II Bella
Isabelle Cadene, Class I Scratchboard
42 Winter 2017 | The Register inside cover
The Register | Winter 2017 43 44 Winter 2017 | The Register