PEgasus Volume No. 48 2024-2025 The Haverford School
lit
Pegasus
art
“
Language is the road map of a culture. It tells you where its people come from and where they are going. Rita Mae Brown
”
Letter from the editors Dear Reader, Welcome to the 48th edition of Pegasus! Scattered around Wilson Hall, you may find this magazine tucked away in a classroom corner, resting on an English teacher’s bookshelf, displayed near the entrance of Severinghaus, or lying on a table in a pod. Within copies of these magazines are the unique literary and artistic gifts of the 2024-2025 Haverford student body. This annual edition is a reflection of the 20242025 school year – some of the creativity Haverford has to offer poured onto the page before you. This year, Ms. Smith-Kan stepped down from Pegasus in order to lead the English Department at Haverford, and Mr Pariano stepped up to advise Pegasus. On Mr Pariano’s blackboard, a quote reads “Keep Haverford Funky.” Pegasus keeps Haverford funky: it is a medium through which students share their creativity and love of the written word, a place where cuisine elicits not only a taste, but a trill of creativity that rolls off the tongue, provoking genuine thought and garnering serious reflection. However, Pegasus would not have its certain “funk” without Mr Pariano. The jazz emanating from his vinyl record player every Monday morning certainly makes the first day of the week a little more enjoyable. Mr Pariano’s eagerness to inspire innovation and promote Pegasus is evident in the quality of the submissions this edition boasts. He has been a genuine and scrutinous advisor and we are proud of the work and whole-hearted support that he has given to our team. In other words, he keeps Pegasus’s funk fresh. This issue showcases the talent of Haverford’s student artists, photographers, and writers. Without their vulnerability, creative minds, and the charitable action of submitting their works to pegasus@haverford.org this edition of Pegasus would not have been realized. Thank you to all of those who submitted their work – we are truly grateful. And finally, we’d like to thank you, the reader, for taking the time to read. We’re really proud of this one. Sincerely, Elliot Lee and Liam French
TABLE OF
CONTENTS [1] PROSE MAIN CHARACTER VIBES . . . 4 Xan Matuch
WHY I READ . . . 10 Matthew Yerger
I NEED MORE SLEEP . . . 22 Cameron Ward
RICHES TO BE FOUND . . . 26 Martin Okonkwo
NOTIFY ANYWAY . . . 36 Ian Rosenzweig
WHERE DOES THAT HIGHWAY GO TO? . . . 40 Phineas Manogue
THE BOSS, THE BRONCO, AND ME . . . 44 Liam French
p. 1 | table of contents
THE LAST SUPPER . . . 48 Xan Matuch
A JOURNEY WITHOUT ANSWERS . . . 56 Byron Yang
THE SLOTH UNIVERSE . . . 62 Connor Simpkins
POETRY [2] 66 . . . I’D LIKE IT IF YOU STAYED Liam French 68 . . . ONLY IN SILENCE Avery Jones
72 . . . BORN IN THE MARSH
Alistair Wiedmer
74 . . . WALK SLOWLY IN THE SUN
Will Suter
76 . . . A LETTER TO MY LOVE WHO WAITS
Tyler Alday
[3] FOUND POETRY HERE AT HAVERFORD . . . 80 Michael Bartholdson
AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY . . . 82 Cameron Esposito
THOU GUIDE OF TENDER DAYS . . . 84 Finn Kelly
REFLECTIONS [4] 86 . . . THREE QUESTIONS AND A SUGGESTION
Ian Rosenzweig
92 . . . DEFINING EXCELLENCE
Michael Bartholdson
98 . . . EXPECTATIONS Finn Kelly
[5] VISUAL ARTISTS Aaron Bonaparte Kai Degenhardt Luke Ganley Elliot Lee Xan Matuch Christos Patterson Riyadh Rolls Unnav Sharma Milan Varma Alistair Wiedmer Byron Yang
We hope you enjoy.
MAIN CHARACTER A Quest for Culinary Success VIBES Xan Matuch ‘25
p. 5 | personal narrative
I
t’s a Friday after an exceptionally long week, and I’m playing my favorite video game, Persona 3 Reload, on the couch. The only thing on my mind is listening to Lotus Juice singing and hanging out with fellow members of the Specialized Extracurricular Execution Squad (SEES) at the dorm. Aside from tending a garden or reading, my protagonist can’t do too much at the dorm. The only other thing he/I can do is cook with a teammate. He can’t cook by himself; he can only cook with a friend. One time when he made pancakes together with a buddy, they made far more than the two of them could possibly eat. They ended up sharing with everyone in the dorm. For me, it was an almost magical moment where everyone came together to enjoy each other’s company, which is unusual in the game. When this happened, something clicked in my head. While it’s only a game, I realized that SEES is a lot like my own family.
Byron Yang ’28
Mealtime is a time to reconnect in the Matuch family. Every week, we have “Pancake Sunday,” a tradition so strong that I feel like it’s not truly a Sunday unless we have pancakes. We also make time to eat together around the kitchen table each night. We share stories about how our days went, from my sister’s bizarre days at school and the karate dojang, to my father crushing some-
one in squash, and my mother talking about her grant writing clients. While this is normal for me, I’ve learned from visiting friends’ houses that not everyone’s family eats meals together. Playing Persona 3 made me realize that this tradition means a lot to me, and I decided I wanted to learn how to cook.
the “main charact but they were weak. Thus, an intense training arc began. As a chef I turkey pesto meatballs… and almost immediwas more of a “non-player character” than some- ately asked for help. Mom to the rescue. The one who gave off any “main character vibes.” I’d dish came out fine, but it was a hollow victory always helped out in the kitchen but had never -- the person I didn’t want to help me made been very mindful of what I was doing, chopping almost half of the recipe for me. A failure, but and stirring on autopilot. I had the raw skill of an important one. If you imagine cooking like someone who could barely make pasta on his a video game, you could say I needed to grind own. I had frequently overboiled pots of water. for more upgrades. The “main character vibes” Once the pasta even turned from al dente to ben were there, but they were weak. cotta (god forbid). In short, I had a long way to go. So, back to practice I went. To be honest, sharI would love to say something cool like, “I spent ing time enjoying the fruits of my labor with weeks sharpening knives before I could even my family wasn’t my only goal. The closer I learn to cut with one” but that wouldn’t be acgot to college, the closer I got to adult life, and curate. Actually, I started by paying attention the closer I got to not having my mother there to what I was doing when my mother “asked” to hold my hand in the kitchen. Since takeout me to help her in the kitchen, please. She taught every night is expensive, I needed to be able to me things like when the onions were considered provide for myself and my black hole of a stom“golden brown” and how to use a meat thermom- ach, attuned to high-level cooking as it was. eter. Multiple excursions later, I even learned how to navigate the maze of the grocery store. I would love to say something cooler like, “the second training arc was far more intensive than As my skills grew, my confidence grew. Soon, I the first one” or “I had to chop a million onions decided to try cooking something by myself. I set before ever getting a glimpse of the frying pan” foot in the kitchen, secure in my ability to make but again, that wouldn’t be true. It was more
p. 7 | personal narrative
ter vibes” were there,
Alistair Wiedmer ’25
like studying for the retake of a test. A lot of preparation, focusing on the things I missed the first time around. I began to hone my cooking instincts. For example, when I had to make an ingredient substitution or adjust temperatures for a convection oven, I didn’t immediately have to call my mom. About midway through this training arc, my
grandfather was admitted into a hospital. He wasn’t doing well, and he hated the bland foods there. But he loved our family’s turkey pesto meatballs. It’s hard to see someone you love be in pain, and I realized that cooking was a way I could help. With the fate of my grandfather’s stomach on the line, I cooked up another batch of turkey pesto meatballs. This time, I did it on my own, and it was a success. I made
my grandfather smile. At that moment, the floodgates opened, and all of the “main character vibes” flooded in.
“
Michelin tires roll for no paltry chef. Even though I was crowned the king of the meatballs, there were still many, many more things to learn. Each mistake may be a learning experience, honing my knives ever sharper, but it still stings when the meat pie you put so much time into making tastes as bland as a rock because you forgot to add any spices to it. But I kept at it.
”
But I wasn’t a paltry chef anymore. After making gochugaru salmon, beef bourguiognon, lamb ragu, and many others, I was finally starting to get the hang of it.
The grueling training arc was worth it when I saw the smiles on my family’s faces. If I was really lucky, they even washed the dishes for me. At long last, I decided I was ready for a big challenge. Michelin tires roll for no paltry chef. But I wasn’t a paltry chef anymore. I was giving off some serious “main character vibes” now. “Portobello Mushrooms Pretending to be a Fillet Mignon.” A difficult dish, to say the least, from the three Michelin-starred Inn at Little Washington. Despite having this cookbook for at least 15 years, my parents had never made a single recipe from it. But I wanted to give it a try. The worst that could happen was a last-minute pizza delivery. I thought I was prepared, but I underestimated the rigor of the multipage recipe.
p. 9 | personal narrative
Several YouTube cooking videos later, I had created a tomato- and shallot-stuffed portobello mushroom enshrined atop a pecan pilaf pedestal, adorned with tomato coulis and ribbons of carrot and zucchini.
When my family tasted what I had made, their praise told me I had accomplished something truly spectacular. It felt like hiking for eight hours uphill and finally reaching the long-awaited view.
Every character in Persona 3 has their own signature dish. Some are packed full of protein, some are designed to be good with a favorite tea. It’s a recipe unique to them, something that only they can
In some ways, it feels a little strange to be writing about a journey I am still on. If anything, this has only been the first leg of a journey of a lifetime. Someday I hope to write about a tradition I’ve created that has been passed down through generations of the family--my own version of Pancake Sunday--but that hasn’t happened yet. In the meantime, I’ll be cutting back on my hours playing video games and spend that time cooking instead. As much as I’ll miss Friday afternoons on the couch, Friday afternoons in the kitchen feel so much more rewarding.
“Every character in Persona 3 has their own signature dish.”
The more I cook, the more I think about the restaurant meals I’ve had and how chefs bring their passions into the dishes they create. Every place I go on vacation has an interesting story and traditions that they want to share with the world. For example, Chez Vrony in Switzerland is a family owned restaurant that started out as a mountain teahouse. Nama in Norway takes traditional Japanese sushi and adds Norwegian salmon to it, something that wasn’t popularized until the mid 1980s. La Filiale in Italy takes a different approach, breaking from classical Naples tradition to create truly spectacular pizzas. Gasthof Goldgasse in Austria takes the authentic Salzburg cuisine and adds modern flair to it. All these restaurants, all these dishes, tell a story.
make. They funnel their life experiences into a dish, telling a story to the protagonist about their lives. Now I’m trying to tell my own story. Following my own creative ideas, I’ve tried my hand at writing my own recipes. I tend to draw inspiration from the places that I’ve been and the things that I’ve done. I’ve made my own custom pizza, experimented with different ways to cook salmon, and made Za’atar focaccia based on my favorite Boston bakery’s rosemary focaccia. I am really itching to try more. I haven’t been cooking for all that long, so there’s a lot I want to try and do and taste.
Why I
Read Matthew Yerger ’25
p. 11 | personal narrative
[1]
Luke Ganley ’25
Sunlight streams through the curtains, its soft yellow rays penetrating the darkness of my bedroom. My eyes sting as I try to reread a line for what must be the fifth time. Every instinct in my body tells me it’s time for bed, yet I ignore it for the story in front of me: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. The book that I blame for the lack of sleep over three days the summer before eighth grade (I know I was a little late to the game). In fact, I blame the entire series for depriving me of sleep. It was the first set of books that had captivated me, pulling me into a world that would allow the time of day to change outside my bedroom window without me noticing.
Harry Potter gave me an understanding that reading could be as liberating as it was difficult. I still remember the emotions the book drew out of me as I raced toward its conclusion. When Kreacher, the house elf, emerged from the Hogwarts kitchens, I fought back tears. It was around 5 a.m. when I finished the book, and I remember walking downstairs, unsure what to do. I felt a swelling of pride as I realized this was the first series I had ever read on my own—not for school, but for me. The feeling of joy I experienced when reading brought me back to when my mother used to read to me. My nightstand was filled to the brim with books, and my library card was always maxed out. I was in love with stories. We read mostly the typical staples of pre-teen fiction: Holes, The Hobbit, Diary of a Wimpy Kid. I would battle sleep, desperate to hear just one more chapter.
“
I can’t remember her name but I resurrect her smile easily in my mind. I used to imagine myself as part of the fellowship of the Ring traveling around Tolkien’s world. Running around the Shire with Bilbo Baggins filled my childhood fantasy. I cared for reading only because it was a medium in which stories could be communicated to me. For me, it was always about the story.
”
their cruelty stemmed from ignorance rather than malice
Yet, even as I fell in love with the stories, I began to dread the act of reading itself. Popcorn reading became, without a doubt, the most terrifying part of elementary school.
my chair, trying to use my book as a shield against the world. And yet, no matter how hard I tried to hide, my name would inevitably float melodiously from some girl’s mouth, her smile anything but kind.
The feeling of overwhelming dread would always hit first, splashing over me as one of my classmates began reading. The longer I waited to be called on, the more that sinking feeling intensified until I could focus on nothing else but the nausea in my stomach. I would shrink into
People say that children can be cruel. I’d like to think their cruelty stemmed from ignorance rather than malice. I’d like to believe they found it funny to watch me stumble through a passage, unaware of the dyslexia that tripped me up, rather than enjoying the terror on my
face every time I was called on. At some point, the main cause of my struggle wasn’t my dyslexia, but the anxiety of looking stupid—an anxiety that naturally made everything worse when I did read aloud. I would always glance at my teacher with pleading eyes, desperate to communicate that I would rather do anything else. She’d smile back in what I’m sure was meant to be reassuring, but at the time, I saw it as another person unsympathetic to me. And then, in this ritualistic
p. 13 | personal narrative
cycle of nerves and anticipation, I would always former classmates had shown me. For the first glance at the girl to my right. I can’t remember time in my life, I was the advanced one in class. I her name but I resurrect her smile easily in my can’t fully describe the ego boost that came from mind. Her kindness and her open smile got me being considered an advanced reader. through my routine humiliation. This newfound sense of superiority came with No matter how many kind smiles the girl next to a desire to stay on top. I grew increasingly frusme gave, it could not save the sinking boat that trated when I was not first in Word ID. Little by was me at Exton Elementary. At that time, I was little, things built up, and soon I found myself still reading at a pre-K level. That’s how I found making cruel remarks—perhaps unintentionalmyself at The Benchmark School, a place dely at first, or maybe I can’t admit to myself that signed for students with dyslexia. they were. The snide put-downs came out of the illusion that they would help me regain control. I went from a class of 30 students to just 13 and from a burned-out teacher to Ms. Sparoskist, I wish I could say there was one pivotal moment who made it her mission to help me reach grade when I realized how horrible I was being, but that level. In this new environment, I began lashing would be a lie. The truth is, I grew up over time. out with the same unintentional cruelty my I eventually realized that those petty remarks, which made me feel better momentarily, didn’t actually help me. They only harmed my rela“I had returned to reading tionships with the people I considered friends. I — did mature, but the need to be better than others but for all the wrong reasons.” never truly left me. It lingered in the back of my mind until it struck me again in seventh grade when we read The Giver.
wrong wrong wrong
The Giver was a book I instinctively understood. The story resonated with me in the same way the stories my mother used to read to me did. I loved the book, but I also enjoyed lording the deeper themes over my classmates, who hadn’t yet discovered them. It made me feel special when Ms. Powell recommended more books, knowing I’d finish them in a weekend. I was filled with pride as I walked into class on Monday, telling her I had completed a book in just a couple of days. It was intoxicating. I had returned to reading—but for all the wrong reasons.
Elliot Lee ’25
p. 15 | personal narrative
[2]
The social etiquette on trains is pretty simple: avoid sitting directly next to someone when possible and avoid talking to anyone. I follow the rules to a tee slipping into my routine: first, the AirPods go in, and movie soundtracks fill my ears. Klara and the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro slides out of my bag. In my opinion, the train is one of the best places to read, and you can usually count on no one talking to you. It’s easy to get lost in a book, feeling the subtle vibrations of the train as you float into another world. I don’t often get interrupted, and if I do, it’s usually someone asking if they can have the seat next to me. I nod, they sit down, and that’s the end of the interaction. So, I was taken aback when I turned to see a girl staring at me and my book. Her “Excuse me” floated in the air between us as I rearranged my face into something friendly. “What are you reading?” I felt myself relax. I have always liked people who ask about what you’re reading. It’s a snobbish thing, I know, but I warmed to this stranger sitting next to me. “Klara and the Sun,” I replied, turning the book to show her the cover. The cover art showed a delicate hand across the front on a red background, with Kazuo Ishiguro’s name in block print below. She looked genuinely interested as she, with a nod of consent from me, took the book into her hands. Her fingers traced the cover for a moment before she opened the first page and read what I guessed was the summary. As she handed the book back, I got my first full look at her. Her face had an ageless quality—she could be anywhere between twenty-two and thirty. She lacked the typical office attire that many of the
early-morning commuters, myself included, wore. I guessed she was in college. She hummed softly before asking, “Do you like it?” “It was written by Kazuo Ishiguro, and I like some of his other stuff,” I said, aware that I wasn’t actually answering the question. Her mouth curled into something resembling a smile before she turned away and sank back into her seat. We sat in silence for a moment, and just as I thought our conversation was over and I was safe to return to my book, she turned to me again. “If you don’t like it, then why are you reading it?” It was a good question, one that I had an answer for at the time, but I wasn’t willing to admit it. I liked Ishiguro; he’s a good author, one who enjoys both critical and commercial success. Never Let Me Go was one of the best books I’d ever read, but I didn’t hold the same love for Klara and the Sun. I liked the book well enough, but not enough to justify finishing it. I knew the answer, but I would never admit it to anyone. The simple truth was, I wanted to feel smart. The desire to stay ahead of my classmates had never really gone away—I had Unnav Sharma ’25 just grown up enough to realize how childish it was to act out in such petty ways. Instead, I had turned to books. Books were the perfect solution to my problem. They helped me satisfy my need to appear intelligent.
p. 17 | personal narrative
I still loved books for their stories, but that had become secondary. When I walked into a bookstore, I found myself gravitating toward books with stickers marking them as winners of the Booker Prize or Pulitzer Prize. Some might argue that it’s natural for tastes to mature as one grows older. That’s the same excuse I hid behind for a long time. I told myself that I bypassed the fantasy and science fiction sections because I was outgrowing those genres, I thought them beneath me.
The stories had taken a backseat to the appearance of reading “smart” books. I had lost sight of the original reason I loved reading—the stories. They had once captivated me, drawing me into the author’s world, but now I was reading to tell people that I was reading.
“‘I like it, it feels real to me, and I kind of get lost in it.’”
The girl’s simple question was something I asked myself every day as I slogged through books I was only half interested in. It took an outside perspective to realize what I had been doing. I had been sucked into the elitist culture of books and was walking a path that might have led me to stop reading altogether.
“The stories had taken a backseat...”
I carefully curated a list of books I wanted to read over the summer. Klara and the Sun was one of around 100 books on that list. The list was my attempt to become “well-read,” and I had chosen the books based on their prestige, not on how enjoyable they were. I’m not criticizing those who pick books based on awards—that’s usually a good indicator of quality. However, I was more interested in the name recognition of the authors, just so I could say I had read The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich or Lolita, rather than enjoying them for their stories, which was why I had started reading in the first place.
I didn’t want that, so I ignored her last question and instead asked, “What are you reading?” “Normal People,” she answered, smiling now. “I like it, it feels real to me, and I kind of get lost in it.” As she spoke, I was hit with that nostalgia. It had been a long time since I’d been completely lost in a book. I felt that longing come over me—to be completely absorbed in something, to be lost in a world not my own again. Her unabashed love for what she was reading made me realize how much I wanted to read like her. I was already in a reading slump, and it had only gotten worse as I’d gotten older. I had gone from reading about a book a week in 9th and 10th grade to struggling to complete a single book in a month. At first, I told myself it was a time issue and that after my junior year, I would read more. Yet somehow it was
p. 19 | personal narrative
halfway through the summer, and I had only read three books. It was an all-time low for me when it came to reading. I wanted to get back to where I had been. I knew the answer to how to get back — I always had. But meeting that girl, who obviously held a deep love for literature, made me realize how much I wanted to read like her. Right then and there, I decided to go back and reread Harry Potter. Reading Harry Potter brought me as much nostalgia for the characters as for the moments I had read about them. It reminded me of the first time I had cried over a fictional character, the first time I had laughed out loud while reading. It all brought me back. It also brought back that feeling—the longing to inhabit every second of the world you are reading about. The urge to turn the page to find out what happened next but the longing slows down to take in every line. I re-discovered once again how much joy a good book on a Sunday morning can bring. Going back allowed me to realize just how silly it is to read for something other than the joy of it. It allowed me to let go of ranking books and to go back to the fundamental idea of loving a story. When I walk into a bookstore now, choices roll out in front of me. I no longer avoid the cartoony-looking covers of some books. I take my time picking. I usually walk in with no idea what to get. I used to spend time look-
I read now for the
WORLDS I can get
LOST in, for the
CHARACTERS I can fall in
LOVE with... ing at dozens of book reviews before making my choice, but now I just find something to get lost in. There’s a simplicity now in how I approach books, mirroring my younger self, who had been in love with the stories his parents told him. I read now for the worlds I can get lost in, for the characters I can fall in love with, for the time that escapes me without my notice. I read so that I can be lost. I read because of the stories, and stories are the only reason I’ve ever needed to read.
SPOTLIGHT
artist
KAI Degenhardt ’25
Cameron Ward ’25
I NEED More SleeP
p. 23 | personal narrative
I
don’t get enough sleep — but almost every day I tell myself that today is the day that it might finally happen. Tonight is the night I finally get that ever-fleeting seven hours of sleep that become less of a priority whenever I get time to myself. Why? I’m not sure. But I want to find out. I go through most days driven by a smaller version of myself that does whatever he’s told. 6AM: wake-up call. 8:30AM: school. 6:30 PM: after-school activities. Then home around 9-10:00pm, homework, dinner, shower, then bed? No. Bed comes later. I’m about to go to bed. I can finally take full control of my
Unnav Sharma ’25
autonomy. I blink and the forefront of my brain becomes my own. I breathe and I feel my lungs swell. I itch and feel myself scratch. I open my eyes and I see— I become myself. What do I do with this newfound freedom? I scroll. I consume as much media as I can before HE comes back. I force myself to scroll after scroll until my eyes feel as dry as cafeteria pizza. How long could someone do this to themselves? For as long as it takes before I get hungry again.
“
I don’t get enough sleep. I want to. But I want to find out who I am even more. I don’t get enough sleep. I want to. But I want to find out who I am even more. So I keep scrolling, hoping that just after this seventh video of a cat doing a backflip “Who I am” will hit me in the face and knock me out so I can finally get all four hours of sleep that are left in the night. But it never does. I’m tired. But I’m also afraid. Afraid that I’m going to spend the rest of my life as a version of myself that I don’t like or even know.
”
To that, I ask — In what world? The majority of the seemingly endless publications I’ve filtered through during my nightly self-indulgent research sprees insist on one thing: teenagers should get at least 8 to 10 hours of sleep. To that, I ask — In what world?
p. 25 | personal narrative
Byron Yang ’28
In what world is someone who feels like they’re playing a role dictated by their peers and the institutions around them supposed to get that much rest? Because I don’t. I’m tired. But I don’t want to sleep; if I do then I’m losing time. I’m losing the race known as life. I should be awake chiseling out a version of myself I can be proud of. A version of myself that will live the life that I want and deserve — a version of myself that knows happiness. So instead I don’t sleep — I revenge sleep. I stay awake deep into the night not because I’m not tired but because it’s the only time I feel in control— of myself, my thoughts, and my emotions. Adults love to blame technology for the sleep deprivation of teens. I would disagree. Instead, I’d argue that the real issue is the overwhelming pressure to be consistently productive and to meet expectations that often feel impossible. We spend our days juggling academics, extracurriculars, and social obligations, leaving little time to simply exist. So at night when the lights dim and the world around us pops a melatonin we steal our hours back- at the expense of the magical elixir we know as sleep.
Riches to be found Martin Okonkwo ’25
p. 27 |
creative fiction
O
ren observed the dwarf planet before him and immediately began to doubt the miraculous story that Irving had told him. The planet was tidally locked, causing the sun to have burned the side of the planet closest to it into an ugly, orange desert in the shape of a circle. As Oren looked further down the diameter of the planet away from the sun, the orange faded into a darker shade of grayish black splotched with green, making the planet look almost sickly. The half of the planet facing away from the sun was trapped in perpetual darkness. “You sure this is the right place?” Oren asked Irving. “It looks like the most worthless planet yet, and it’s not even in the database.”
Unnav Sharma ’25
“These are definitely the coordinates he gave me,” Irving answered dryly, attempting to hide his own doubt. They had ended their last several harvesting trips empty-handed, every planet they prospected either having nothing worth taking or being too dangerous to harvest from. The last planet they visited, Zenoc-9, had nearly killed them as they escaped with sixty pounds of igneous quartz. The surface of Zenoc-9 is covered with active volcanoes, and their ship had lost one of its rear thrusters while escaping
an eruption. The quartz had barely covered the price of the repairs.
into the partially sunlit side of the planet’s atmosphere and flew near its slate colored surface, scanning for any “Look,” Irving began, “we’re promising landmarks. The already out here, and the con- gray expanse seemed to conditions on this planet outside tain only gravel and dust, so that desert are mild. There’s they agreed to check one of the no harm in checking.” Oren green splotches. They arrived didn’t respond and continued at a murky swamp laden with to stare at the dwarf planet. drooping trees. Nothing of Irving had learned of the loca- value was in sight, and just tion of this planet while they as they were about to give up were having their ship repaired hope, they came to the end of at the Andromeda Galactic the swamp where it met the Trade Center. While searching gray terrain and saw a masthe station’s public database sive cave opening. The cave for another planet to harvest led into the bottom of a small from, an eccentric young man mountain and seemed someabout his and Oren’s age apwhat foreboding. They looked proached him and asked if he at each other and then back wanted a recommendation. at the cave, and Irving landed Irving, desperate for a chance the ship a short distance from to make up his losses, indulged its opening. They equipped him. The man was awkward themselves with their mining and tripped over his words, but gear, put on their astronaut he excitedly and confidently suits, and brought their mobile raved on about the wealth to be storage unit out of the ship. found in the caves of a myste- Walking into the dark cave, rious dwarf planet in the Dow- Oren noticed there was a faintry System. He even showed ly visible green gas flowing out him a valuable rare metal he of it. had allegedly obtained from its depths. Yet the man gave Their flashlights immediateIrving an unnerving, crawling ly revealed to them plenty feeling. There was something of metals, but not many that strange in his demeanor, some- would make their trip worththing unnatural. while. They walked deeper into the cave, lasering the Irving brought the ship down most valuable metals out of
Riyadh Rolls ’26
the walls with their mining apparatuses and tossing them into their storage unit. As they continued searching, Oren saw that a small portion of the wall seemed slightly out of place. He lasered it out of curiosity,
p. 29 |
creative fiction
“Yet the man gave Irving an unnerving, crawling feeling. There was something strange in his demeanor, something unnatural.”
and a centipede-like creature about his height shrieked and fell to the floor, dead. Its corpse released more of the green gas. Oren looked to Irving fearfully. “Surprised anything lives in here, haha,” Irving joked, trying to hide his nervousness. They continued through the cave until they reached a small opening draped over with vines. Irving hesitated and then went to move the vines to the side. The vines immediately began to coil around his arm, and Irving reeled back far out of their reach and swore under his breath. Oren lasered the vines at the top of the opening, and they both watched as the cut vines squirmed sporadically until they stopped moving. After Irving collected himself, Oren led the way through the opening.
were covered in rare metals, and the branches had valuable spice plants hanging from them. They rushed frantically around the cavern, still being sure to not step on any vines, harvesting its resources and filling their storage unit. As Irving collected more resources farther inside the cavern, Oren stared in satisfaction at their full storage unit. He was about to call out to Irving to say they would need to make multiple trips to and from the ship, but he noticed something strange about the wall at the end of the cavern. The wall was covered with outlined yellow circles of varying sizes that rose out of it like boils. At the center of each circle was a black bead. Oren realized that a cluster of vines was inching closer to Irving’s feet.
Oren realized that a clu vines was inching close The opening led into a more closed tunnel, at the end of which was a large cavern with a high ceiling, teeming with plant life. The walls were covered with luminescent moss and algae, tree branches grew awkwardly out of the walls, and more vines lay on the floor. The green gas was denser here as well. The change in scenery did not hold their attention long as they noticed with excitement that the walls of the cavern
“Hey, watch the floor,” Oren yelled to Irving. Irving glanced at the ground and aimed his apparatus to cut the vines. The vines suddenly sprung toward him with cobra-like speed and wrapped around his legs, immobilizing him. Irving began screaming in terror and cut the vines haphazardly with his apparatus until it overheated. Oren ran over to help but stopped after seeing there were now too many vines to
p. 31 |
creative fiction
uster of er to Irving’s feet.
Aaron Bonaparte ’25
“Irving, I think the gas is doing something to your brain,” Oren said, “Wait here. I’ll get a spare helmet out of the ship.” “Don’t. The air is breathable. Take your helmet off.” Irving sounded demanding now, yet his smile was still plastered onto his face. “Relax, Irving,” Oren said nervously. His hand hovered over his holstered apparatus. He glanced up to the wall of the cavern. The eyes were now looking at him.
He observed Irving’s corpse, matter-of-factly taking into account the events that had just transpired. He stared blankly through the charred hole running through Irving’s skull. This was not the first time one of Oren’s partners had died on the job. In fact, Irving was the
”
Without warning, Irving started sprinting wildly towards him, taking no account of the vines which no longer reacted when he stepped on them. Oren began backing away and unholstered his apparatus. He aimed for Irving’s and waited until Irving was right on him. He pulled
the trigger, and Irving fell lifelessly to the ground in front of him.
He stared blankly through the charred hole running through Irving’s skull.
step over. He stood there helplessly as Irving futilly tried to escape the vines that were wrapping around his body. It was then that Oren realized what the circular patterns were: they were eyes, and they were staring at him. The vines came up to Irving’s helmet, and they squeezed on the glass until it shattered. Once his helmet was broken, the vines relaxed and slowly released him. Irving fell to the floor, twitching violently. Oren watched in horror until Irving lay still. Half a minute passed, and Oren wondered if the cave’s green gas was toxic. Suddenly, Irving got up and turned to face him. Irving’s expression was unreadable, almost unnatural. His face then molded into a reassuring smile. “Hey, Oren, the air here is breathable. You can take your helmet off!” Something in Irving’s voice had changed; it sounded almost AI-generated. Oren thought the gas must be the cause.
”
It continued until the glass shattered, sending glass shards onto Oren’s face.
p. 33 |
third partner Oren had seen die in his career. Harvesting was a dangerous job, and they both knew the risks. Oren turned around and began to make his way back to the storage unit. He had barely made it a step of the way when he felt something tightly grab his right ankle. He looked down to see Irving’s hand holding him with an iron-like grip. Before Oren could react, the corpse yanked at his foot and pulled him to
creative fiction
the ground. Oren went for his apparatus, but a vine wrapped around his right arm before he could reach it, and many more came to bind his limbs to the ground. Irving’s corpse climbed onto Oren and began punching the glass screen of his helmet. It continued until the glass shattered, sending glass shards into Oren’s face. Its task seemingly complete, the corpse fell to the ground again. Oren tried to hold his breath, but the vines held him in place until he had to gasp for air. Once he inhaled the gas, the vines released him. Just one breath sent him into the same horrible twitching fit that Irving had experienced. Oren twitched and twitched until his body calmed down. He lay motionless for a while, staring up at the ceiling. He began experiencing a small high, and the high grew into an inexplicable euphoria. He suddenly got the urge to share this wonderful feeling. He sat up and threw what remained of his helmet to the floor. Then, he took the most valuable spice plant they had collected from the storage unit and made his way back to the ship. As he left the cave, the vines wrapped around Irving’s corpse, covering him completely, and they released an acidic substance that began to break down his suit. Oren, now back in the cockpit of the ship, primed it for take-off, cleaning the glass shards out of his face as he went. He then piloted the ship off the ground and out of the planet’s atmosphere. After setting the ship’s autopilot back to the Station, he sat satisfied in the pilot seat and waited. He held the spice plant tightly, his proof of the riches to be found in the depths of a mysterious dwarf planet of the Dowry System.
XAN Matuch ’25 artist
SPOTLIGHT
NOTIFY ANYWAY Written 10/7/24.
Ian Rosenzweig ’25
p. 37 | personal narrative
“I
find silencing notifications rude Like the point of a phone is to get in touch Let me get in touch” I texted a friend.
Unnav Sharma ’25
“I notify anyway I don’t care if I’m disturbing you” I added in another conversation with the same friend.
I don’t actually take issue with cell phones’ Do Not Disturb feature. But as soon as Apple began informing me when a contact was in DND and providing the option to “notify anyway” — presumably a feature akin to an emergency exit door or a panic button — I felt slighted by notification silencing. If I was texting you, I had something to say, and it probably required a response. Reflecting, I should have been more sensitive. Was I really arrogant enough to believe that my text was more important than whatever my friend needed to focus on? My friend didn’t mind my notifications — especially because those that smashed through the sacred DND barrier frequently centered on our nonprofit work and were somewhat urgent in nature — and she even eventually added my number to the list of “allowed notifications” in her Focus settings.
nothing of it. They enter these shelters, typically wait 10 or so minutes, and then they re-enter their lives and proceed with their days as if nothing has happened. They need these notifications for survival. My sister and I got the app to stay up to date on everything that the media deems irrelevant — particularly, the rockets that Israeli Defense Forces destroy before they land and obliterate the lives of innocent citizens. Those foiled terrorist attacks, apparently, aren’t worth news As much as I didn’t think about my friends’ rea- coverage. sons for using Do Not Disturb, I thought about my own (somewhat hypocritical) use even less. I keep my ringer off, and the Red Alert buzz is similar enough to the Snapchat buzz that the I’d use the setting all the time when in class or when a particular group chat was overwhelming- two are frequently indistinguishable. ly active, and the buzz of my phone on the table As I study or write, hear the telltale signs of the rivaled the cicadas outside my window. group chat, and flip over my phone to enter Do Not Disturb, my heart often sinks. Every once in a while, the notifications would grow annoying enough that I’d flip over my Instead of a deluge of new chats from a group phone, see the familiar names of my friends chat of friends, I’m treated to a list, each entry whom I deeply value pop up, and enter DND. punctuated by a red box with a wireless signal icon: Last fall, my sister and I both downloaded an app called Red Alert after the October 7th terrorist attacks on Israel. The service is intended Rockets Attack: Nachaf for Israeli citizens; it notifies them when rockets Rockets Attack: Kfar Vradim Rockets Attack: Pri Gan or other hostile forces have been fired into the Rockets Attack: Zarit, Shomera, Shtula, small nation, and it names the cities affected. Pekiin The app lets citizens know when to enter the bomb shelters that are commonplace in Israel, the way we see a Wawa on the street and think Sometimes, a Hostile Aircraft Incursion joins the mix. My phone buzzes over a hundred times a day with these notices. But no matter. I can just toggle on Do Not Disturb. But Do Not Disturb on an iPhone is frankly no different from Do Not Disturb on a hotel room door. That makes me, and my “notify anyway” button, the unfortunate janitor who ignored the sign and walked into an occupied room.
p. 39 | personal narrative
For months, I turned a blind eye to Red Alert when I needed to focus on a particularly nasty integral or force-feed myself a chapter of The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. And with my phone silenced, the rocket attacks disappeared. After all, it’s not like the hostile aircraft incursion in Ashkelon could press notify anyway and reach me in Philadelphia. Lucky me.
“
I’m lucky to have a Do Not Disturb button. with the incessant buzzing. The brief detriment to my focus is nothing compared to the fear and suffering – plaguing real people – that the staccato vibrations represent. In fact, the world may be better served for my attention staying with I haven’t silenced Red Alert since. Nor do I move my people rather than anywhere else. away from my phone during the app’s often extensive periods of activity. Even if I’m trying to My choice here may appear self-flagellating and even self-sabotaging. I truly am lucky to study, read, or sleep, I force myself to contend have a safe environment in which to pursue my education, spend time with my loved ones, eat, and sleep. I’m lucky to have a Do Not Disturb button. I scolded my reflection on the black screen of my silenced phone one late night. “They’re literally being bombed, and you’re annoyed by your buzzing phone?”
Yet I endure the buzzing — not much of a heroic charge, but my best shot at one. I still push that “notify anyway” button, this time for myself. I can’t ignore Red Alert, not because I need to be told to enter a bomb shelter, but because I need to be in touch. Because sometimes, you need to know. Because sometimes, it’s worth being disturbed.
“ Where does that highway go to? ”
Phineas Manogue ’25
p. 41 | personal narrative
“Where does that highway go to?” - “Once in a Lifetime” by Talking Heads
A
t desultory points in car rides, what was once the background of the primary conversation would come to the forefront of my focus. “Hold on just a minute,” my dad would say if he gave any indication of his intentions at all. He would then reach for the knob and meticulously adjust the volume until it was perfect. With a nod of his head, he would silently tell me to listen to whatever was about to play: a guitar solo, a beat drop, or even just a lyric he found especially well-written. It was through these moments that my love for music became so deeply rooted. When I heard songs like Bob Marley’s “Buffalo Soldier,” Fleetwood Mac’s “Landslide,” and “Start Me Up” by the Rolling Stones for the first time, I was immediately attracted to the rhythm of the music. Other songs, however, did not reel me in quite so fast. For most melodies, this did not bother me as I would only hear them once throughout a couple of months. One of these unremarkable songs, though, seemingly recurred every car ride.
”
The questions asked throughout the song surpass rhetoric and edge the sphere of lunacy.
I never understood the appeal of Talking Heads’ Once in a Lifetime: aside from the chorus the song doesn’t rhyme, the beat isn’t catchy, and the lyrics don’t make sense. The questions asked throughout the song surpass rhetoric and edge the sphere of lunacy. I tend to tune out the lyrics of a song as I like to hear how the whole piece comes together, similar to viewing war as a clash between armies rather than many battles between two men. However, after what must have been my eighth or ninth listen, a particular question caught my ear: “Where does that highway go to?”
“
It goes so far that it runs out of places to go. I bet it ends. Not in the sense that the road will reach its destination and abruptly stop; The Federal Highway Administration ran out of pavement and called it a day. Rather the road extends into nothingness – it goes so far that it runs out of places to go. I bet that if I were to look to the left, the right, above, and below the edge of the highway, I would see the same thing, but I’m not sure what that thing would be. Would it be black? Would it be white? Would I even be able to see it? If the road was there wouldn’t it then be something? The very concept of nothing is incomprehensible just as the idea of everything is. Zero is as impossible as infinity, and just as complex. For that matter, in the distance between myself and the highway’s fringe, could
there not be an endless expanse of pavement? I could walk, I could drive – even teleport as far as I can see – and I’d never see the street’s terminal. Even so, I would like to try to reach the end – to wander the limitless highway and find its limit. Perhaps there is value in seeing nothing. When a researcher’s experiment leads to an unforeseen conclusion, they do not look upon their work as a failure, but as something that has been learned. Knowing what does not work, what does not exist, can be just as precious as understanding what does work, what does exist. Maybe we should all traverse the road to nowhere.
Unnav Sharma ’25
The Boss, The Bronco, And Me
Liam French ’25
p. 45 | personal narrative
If you could pick one song to be the soundtrack of your life, what would it be? What is your connection to the song?
“I
s anyone ALIVE out there!” Bruce Springsteen yelled to the crowd. I, a 7-month old fetus, responded with hearty kicks in the womb: “Hell, Yeah!” From my earliest consciousness, music has been an integral part of my individuality. While my musical world has evolved from Sirius XM’s Kids Place Live to WXPN’s World Cafe, in my eighteen cognizant years, the one constant has always been my beloved, outspoken, charismatic, New Jersey singer/songwriter. Before Taylor Swift, before Ethel Cain, before Chappell Roan, Maude Latour, or Olivia Rodrigo there was The Boss. My first concert—whether I remember it or not—was a 2008 Obama rally & Bruce Springsteen concert at the Ben Franklin Parkway, where I sat on my mom’s shoulders and was introduced to her favorite Springsteen song, “Thunder Road,” which subsequently became my favorite Bruce song. Life seems to make sense when this song plays. It’s as if the world freezes, and I bask in this impeccable moment—suspended in time, flying down I-476 in my mom’s Bronco, top down, screaming away my worries at 80 miles an hour, as the whole family shouts at the top of our lungs, “Except roll down the window And let the wind blow back your hair Well the night’s busting open These two lanes will take us anywhere,” in cathartic unity. In my opinion, this is the greatest climax to any song, ever. As I listen to Springsteen’s piano love letter to Rock ’n’ Roll, the road stretches out before me, and through the window I see different versions of myself: one in my grandmother’s Mini Cooper on route to the Philadelphia Museum of Art; one with the dogs in the backseat on my way for a run in Wissahickon; another laughing with friends on the drive to a Philadelphia Union game. The “Thunder Road” before me is lush with opportunity, each lane a new adventure, each exit leading to a rewarding future. I find myself driving along this metaphorical highway in times of uncertainty, hands on the wheel holding on for dear life, foot on the gas chasing the opportunistic thrill, and eyes burning with the faith that life truly is about the journey, not the destination. Though I know that the “American Dream” is more or less a myth, the
blue-collar love story that “Thunder Road” embodies makes me believe in it, if even for a thrilling, fleeting moment. More importantly, Bruce’s lyrics make me believe in myself. Like a preacher, his song offers reassurance in times when I don’t have everything figured out, which has practically been my whole life. Full of hope and aspiration, Bruce gives voice to my sentiment—“it’s a town full of losers and I’m pulling out of here to win”— before ending the song with a promise of greatness and achievement, which I aspire towards. The passion in his voice and Clarence Clemon’s closing sax solo contribute to the vivid, cinematic narrative of the song, solidifying the truth in Bruce’s dream now becoming a reality.
p. 47 | personal narrative
Luke Ganley ’25
The Last Supper Xan Matuch ’25
p. 49 |
creative fiction
I Day of the duel
T
he American Sovereign lounged in the team room as chaos whirled around him. Yet it wasn’t truly chaos; his entourage, a veritable hivemind, worked with precision, sharpening his knives, cleaning his armor, and preparing his materials. Despite his extensive training, he felt the eyes of the paintings on the wall burning into his very soul, as he had every time he sat in this room. Waters, Keller, Humm, Achatz, Ramsay, and Crenn, the venerable founders of the proud country over which he now ruled, might have been opposed to this duel he was about to fight. Very opposed. But he didn’t see this as reckless; the Sovereign would not back down from a challenge like this. He was a battle-hardened veteran before taking office and had gone to a brutally competitive school for just this purpose. “The best the US has to offer,” according to his mentor. He had sacrificed years of his life, his friendships, and his family to master his craft. Even if it wasn’t fun anymore, he still loved to win. The duel was about to commence. He inhaled. Visualized the battle ahead. Exhaled. Putting his crown atop his head, he girded his armor about his waist, grabbed his knives, and gazed at the aluminum swinging doors ahead of him. As the emcee announced his name, the doors opened before him, and he was greeted by the roar of the crowd. Competing in the US arena is a singular experience. Unlike other nations, the US treats duels the same way that they treat their Super Bowl or World Series: not as politics, but as entertainment. It can be jarring at first, to be in there—the tremendous crowd, cheering every swing of a knife, jeering the opposing nation, and wearing head-to-toe American flags. Needless to say, competitors can struggle to adapt quickly to this environment. This perversion of the sport we love is painful. Yet this is the most impactful thing that America can do to you: once you’ve tuned out the atmosphere, the US isn’t a terribly challenging opponent. ~ Jeanne-Pierre De Cuisinières, “A Sovereign’s Guide to the World
II Three weeks earlier “Italy is challenging us for land?” the Sovereign asked, incredulous. Italy had never needed American land before. They certainly didn’t need it now, having won a vast expanse of Europe through various duels . “They’ve challenged us for the grape-bearing regions of California. Apparently, Tuscany just isn’t enough for them anymore,” an attendant said, sighing. “We don’t have to accept, of course—the last sovereign would have ignored it. The spoils Italy is offering aren’t worth all that much anyway, and the Napa Valley is priceless…” The Sovereign shushed him with a motion of his hand, considering Italy’s proposal. He was new in the office; he had beaten the last sovereign in a duel for the crown less than a month ago. The Italians were testing him here. Trying to probe him for weaknesses. How much was he willing to risk? Well, they would see that he had no weaknesses. “Tell them we will accept their challenge,” the Sovereign said. The attendant sputtered but was silenced by the Sovereign’s upraised finger. “On a few conditions. One, I don’t want their useless mountain goats. At least give me…I don’t know, I haven’t left the US in a while…how about Parma? And two, I get to decide what we are going to cook.”
A WCA competition is more than just a duel between two nations. It is a true art form...There is something magical about watching sovereigns sweat in the crucible of this fire, toiling away alongside their opponent in a high-stakes match to decide their country’s fate…It is truly a joy! ~Takumi Mishima in the Introduction to the “WCA Rulebook”
p. 51 |
creative fiction
III Day of the duel The Sovereign grated garlic cloves on autopilot. He had practiced this dish thousands of times. His five-spice marinade was critical to the success of this meal: imitators had tried, but none had been able to beat his “Potato-Crusted Duck with Spinach Emulsion and Five-Spice Marinade.” He had chosen the theme of duck for a reason: this recipe could not be beaten. The Sovereign recited his recipe like a mantra as he worked. He didn’t hear the roar of the crowd. He didn’t hear the Italian Sovereign working across from him at the other station. All he heard was the Five-Spice Duck mantra in his head, in his heart, grilled onto his very soul. There was a robotic quality to his approach—no wasted movement, ingredients, or time. After three hours of nonstop work, he put the duck into the oven. He finally had a moment to breathe. When the timer rang, he would serve the unbeatable Five-Spice Duck to the astonished judges. He smiled to himself. Sometimes the attendants tried to make him change the dish, but he always refused. Wherever he cooked it, it always won. It was perfect. He didn’t even need to taste it. The Italian Sovereign couldn’t beat him. How could she? He glanced over at her, certain that he would see the hopeless look of despair as she realized that he had won.
“
The issue was that she was cooking something... new. Yet she was humming. Humming! As though this was some sort of game. As though this competition, which he had spent his life preparing for, was nothing more than an average day in the kitchen! She had a spring in every step. She smiled at him. A nagging feeling began to simmer in the Sovereign’s mind. She wasn’t using
“We must continue to refine and evolve, otherwise we will stagnate and become irrelevant...
a recipe. This wasn’t terribly uncommon; most chefs memorized their recipes. The issue was that she was cooking something…new. He knew every recipe ever published in the Post-BANQUET Era. There wasn’t a recipe he hadn’t heard of. For the first time since he could remember, he broke into a nervous sweat. But his timer dinged, and he pushed his feelings aside like he always did. He had to get back to the Five-Spice Duck mantra.
Judging is critical in a WCA competition. We hold the fate of nations in our hands. We must take cooking to its absolute limit, with every day of toil in these kitchen walls. The cooking competition BANQUET was an awakening for many chefs. We must continue to refine and evolve, otherwise we will stagnate and become irrelevant… ~Virgilio Martinez, “The WCA Judge’s Handbook” IV “Tell me something, chef,” said a British judge, taking another bite of the Sovereign’s food. “Do you like to paint?” “What do you mean? I haven’t painted since grade school,” the Sovereign said. The judge stared at him. “Does cake decorating count?” The judge raised an eyebrow. The Sovereign pushed on, growing defensive. “Why are you asking me this anyway? I’m a chef, not an artist.” “I can tell. Your cooking, quite frankly, is as unartistic as it could possibly get.” The other judges nodded their assent. The crowd began to boo and jeer. Yet the critique continued. “You follow a recipe as well as the rest of us, probably better, but this dish lacks elegance. It’s like eat-
p. 53 |
creative fiction
Milan Varma ’25
ing a plate full of stagnation. Did you even taste this?” The judge held out a forkful of Five-Spice Duck. The Sovereign stared at the perfectly-cooked meat. What could possibly be wrong with it? He took a bite. The dish turned to sawdust in his mouth. It was the taste of years of plateauing. If it were a painting, it was a drab, gray canvas. All around the arena, his face was projected on huge jumbotron screens. Now, all he could see was
his own face, twisted in a look of disappointment. For the first time since the duel began, the crowd was silent. A tap on the shoulder made him spin around. The Italian Sovereign wordlessly took the fork from him, replacing it with a plateful of her own duck dish. The first bite was the greatest thing he had ever eaten. It was like she had whispered to the duck herself, had told it what flavors she wanted out of it, and the duck delivered. It was tender beyond belief. It didn’t just melt in the mouth; the mouth melted along with it. If he had painted the entire canvas gray, hers was a vibrant Van Gogh. This tasted like everything he had lacked for the past few years. What he had originally loved about cooking: the feeling of surpassing the recipes to create something new and original, to push the limit of his own talents. He needed to travel, to learn from others. To reignite his ideas, find new innovations. To discover what was happening beyond the world of the arena. The Sovereign didn’t even wait to hear the judges announce their votes. He just shook hands with his opponent and the judges, grabbed his knives, and took off his crown. As the weight left his head, he felt freed. He tossed it to a shocked attendant. “Give this to the Vice Sovereign. It’s his turn now. I’m heading back to the kitchen.” He exited through the aluminum swinging doors and back into the world of cooking.
p. 55 |
Unnav Sharma ’25
creative fiction
A JOUrney WITHOUT
Byron Yang ‘28
answers An EMPEROR-inspired short story.
p. 57 |
historical fiction
the road ahead with the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, and her younger brother clung to their mother, small hands gripping the folds of her coat. It was January, and the cold was unrelenting, a bitter force that cut through even the thickest layers of fabric. Everyone was determined only to stay warm and move forward, but the girl’s mind wandered with heavy doubts and quiet hopes that felt as fragile as the frost beneath their feet.
“
And just like that, they “her tone carrying the finality of left, slipping into the someone grasping for control in an dark, silent streets. uncontrollable world.”
O
ne night, without warning, her parents violently shook her awake.
“No, this can’t wait until morning. No, you can’t say goodbye to your friends,” her mother whispered sternly, her voice trembling yet firm. And just like that, they left, slipping into the dark, silent streets. Now, trudging through the cold, she kept her thoughts to herself. Her mother was certain the South was their best option, speaking of it as if it were a promised land. Her father never voiced his opinions, so there was no point in asking him—his silence was as much a part of him as the breath he took. Her older brother focused on keeping them together, scanning
She worried about her friends. Were they fleeing south too? Would she ever see them again? Would they ever return home? Or would home become nothing more than a memory? Why did her mother insist on carrying that heavy sewing machine instead of letting them bring toys or books, something to remind them of their past life? And if only she could speak English—maybe then she could ask the soldiers where they were going, if they had a plan, if they knew what lay ahead.
The soldiers seemed to like talking and laughing, their loud voices carrying through the crisp air. Perhaps understanding their language would provide the reassurance she craved, a glimpse into their thoughts, their intentions. In the quiet moments, she longed for a life where conversations weren’t laced with uncertainty and fear.
“Once again, she was forced to leave everything behind.”
Instead, the family simply followed in silence, blending into the mass of desperate souls moving like shadows along the frozen road. The smell in the air was unfamiliar yet strong, acrid and thick. Rumors spread that the American soldiers were burning their own ammunition—supplies they were forced to leave behind as they retreated. They wanted to ensure that the communist North couldn’t get their hands on it. Her mother insisted that the best course was to follow the Americans, who were moving south, their trucks kicking up clouds of snow and mud.
didn’t speak English, yet she sensed that even the soldiers were uncertain, their faces a mixture of exhaustion and frustration. Her father, as usual, remained silent behind a stoic expression, and her older brother offered no room for discussion, his jaw set with quiet determination. With no better alternative, they followed, their footsteps merging with the countless others that trailed behind the foreign troops. As they walked, distant ammunition exploded like fireworks, echoing through the frigid air. Each blast sent shivers down her spine—not just from the cold, but from the memories they dredged up. The war had already turned her life upside down once before.
When the Japanese occupation ended, she had begun to feel like a child again. They were settling back into Korean school, reimmersing in their culture and language. She had been ecstatic to forget the Japanese she was forced to learn, eager to reclaim her identity. Though she was nev“The South is that way,” her mother said, er studious, school had provided a sempointing in the direction the soldiers were blance of normalcy, a sense of routine she heading, her tone carrying the finality of had clung to. Then, one night, her parents woke her and told her there was no time someone grasping for control in an unfor questions or goodbyes. Once again, controllable world. she was forced to leave everything behind. But the girl had her doubts.She watched Now, they walked. The family shadowed the American soldiers—boys, really— the soldiers closely—stopping when the shouting at one another in tones that soldiers stopped, moving when they mixed confusion with fear. They didn’t seem to know where they were going. She moved. Her older brother was sent ahead
p. 59 |
Along the road,
FROZEN BODIES lay stiff in the snow,
abandoned for days... to find food while the rest kept their eyes on the Americans, desperate to keep sight of them. The soldiers never acknowledged their presence, nor did they offer any rations. Perhaps with so many displaced people wandering the roads, the Americans had simply become background noise. Or maybe they pretended not to notice, too preoccupied with their own uncertainty to offer comfort to strangers.
historical fiction
At night, they huddled together, sharing what little warmth they could. Her mother clutched the sewing machine so tightly that her knuckles went pale, as if letting go of it would mean letting go of their past. The girl’s stomach ached with hunger, but she knew better than to complain. She watched as her older brother bargained for food, using the last of their money to secure a few scraps of rice and dried fish. In the darkness, when her younger brother whimpered in his sleep, she wondered how much longer they could keep moving before exhaustion finally broke them.
”
The single word hit harder than the bitter cold...
Not everyone they passed was heading south. Some people believed it was safer to stay put. Along the road, frozen bodies lay stiff in the snow, abandoned for days. “Maybe that’s what they mean by the dead of winter,” the girl thought grimly. She noticed that these bodies served as grim markers. The closer they got to a town, the more she saw, their stillness an unspoken warning. It became a haunting pattern, stirring both dread and a morbid curiosity about fate, about how close they were to sharing the same fate.
One bitter evening, as they sat silently in the cold, her mother finally spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. “When we reach the South, things will be better.” Her voice wavered, yet she clung to that promise like a prayer. Her father merely nodded, staring into the blackness, his face unreadable. The girl wanted to believe her mother, but her mind filled with doubts and memories of better days now lost, the warmth of their home replaced by the relentless wind.
Unnav Sharma ’25
p. 61 |
historical fiction
After what felt like endless days of trudging through harsh terrain, they finally reached a refugee camp near Seoul. The sight of it filled the girl with a cautious hope. At last, a place that promised food and shelter. She glanced at her mother, who for the first time in weeks bore a hopeful smile, the exhaustion momentarily lifting from her features. Together, they stepped forward toward the camp’s entrance, their relief palpable. The guards eyed them carefully before shaking their heads.
“No.” The single word hit harder than the biting cold, cutting through the fragile hope they had carried. Her father, usually so quiet, erupted in anger, his voice sharp with desperation. “Why? We need shelter!” he demanded, his fists clenching at his sides. One of the guards barely flinched, his face unmoved. “You don’t need it as badly as the others,” he replied flatly. Too well-dressed. Too well-fed. Too fortunate-looking. The family had lost everything just like every other Korean
“‘She wondered if their fate was sealed, if the world would ever show them kindness again, or if every door would remain closed.”
With each step, the memories of childish laughter and warmth grew fainter. family, regardless of their former status before the war. Yet to these men, they did not appear desperate enough. The girl’s mother clutched the sewing machine as if it were the last thing holding on to hope, her fingers tightening around the worn handle. “Please,” her mother pleaded again, her voice trembling, “we have nowhere else to go.” The guard’s response was cold, final. “Try somewhere else.” Dejected and with hearts heavy as stone, the family turned away. The weight of rejection pressed down on them, crushing their hopes. As they resumed their journey along the cold road, the girl’s thoughts churned with anger and sorrow. She wondered if their fate was sealed, if the world would ever show them kindness again, or if every door would remain closed. With each step, the memories of childish laughter and warmth grew fainter. The girl clung to her secret hope that someday, somehow, things might change, but for now, the only certainty was the cold, unyielding road ahead and the silent determination to keep moving.
The Sloth Universe
Connor Simpkins ’25
p. 63 | creative nonfiction
The Sloth, however, is no athlete. The Sloth is one of the laziest animals on planet Earth. It spends twenty hours a day sleeping, moving less than forty yards in its waking minutes. Ten thousand years ago the Sloth was as big as an elephant, as heavy as an eighteen-wheeler. The Sloth used to be a giant, the ancient king of the jungle. But not anymore. Now, rather than trees and vines, the Sloth’s very being is its own expansive jungle, its shaggy hair forms its own ecosystem. The Sloth’s fur is a living, breathing organism, filled with plants, insects, and algae. Sloth-moths, Booklice, Beetles, Ticks, and Mites are all subjects of the Sloth Kingdom. Hundreds of thousands of living beings depend on the Sloth. The Sloth protects them and provides them with a home safe from predators and dangers of the wild world. From the perspective of these bugs, plants, animals, and bacteria, the Sloth still wears a crown.
“From the perspective of these bugs, plants, animals, and bacteria, the Sloth still wears a crown.”
A Sloth’s heart beats fifty times a minute, its lungs breathe nine times every sixty seconds. In any other creature, these vital signs would be indicators of a cardiovascularly fine-tuned specimen. Distance runners, triathletes, and boxers can only dream of reaching the resting metrics the Sloth achieves with ease.
Unnav Sharma ’25
p. 65 | creative nonfiction
Sloths, like kingdoms, are dependent on their subjects. Without the bacteria and algae on its fur, the Sloth wouldn't be able to camouflage into its surroundings. The Sloth’s distinctive green hue is the offering of its billions of subjects.
dren. A woman mourns the loss of a dear and beloved friend. A man relaxes on his beach vacation which he spent the last two years saving up his money to afford. For each of these people, the universe feels vast and infinite. To each of these people life seems inconsequential, their existence a drop in the Olympic-sized swimYet none of the citizens of Kingdom Sloth know ming pool of time. To each of these people, the how important they truly are to their home. universe existed long before them and will exist In fact, very few of them even know what their long after. Not a single one understands that home is. their universe depends just as much on them, as they do on it. Every day a Sloth-moth wakes up and goes to its Sloth-moth job. A Booklouse tends for its We have yet to discover the deepest secrets of Booklouse children. A Beetle mourns the loss the universe. Perhaps we live on a sloth, or in a of a loved Beetle friend. A mite relaxes on his multiverse, or maybe, we are truly alone. What mite vacation that he spent the last two years we do know is that the universe welcomed us saving up his mite dollars to afford. To each for a reason. In the same way the Sloth allows of these creatures, the Sloth is a vast and inbillions of microorganisms to exist on its fur, finite universe. To each of these creatures, life the universe allows us to exist on its planets. We feels inconsequential, their existence a blip in are made of the universe. Decayed remains of the course of time. Not one of these creatures long-dead stars are the materials that form our understands that their Sloth universe exists consciousness. In that way, we are the universe. through them, not in spite of them. For the We are no different from the mites, the sloths, Sloth existed long before them and will exist the moon, or the trillions of galaxies that inhablong after. it our night sky. When we look up at the cosmos we aren't looking at an unwelcoming empty Every day a banker wakes up and goes to her expanse, we are looking at ourselves. banker job. A father tends to his young chilEven when we feel small, we are infinitely larger than we could possibly imagine.
I’d Like it if you stayed
Legs Stick to the seats of the car someone grew into I forget the knowledge from the lessons that I went to —Lorde, “No Better” I remember the first time I heard “Ribs” by Lorde It was truly otherworldly, My first dose of Pure Heroine. Lorde, The ethereal messenger, Hand-leading me into the spoken word chapel of my childhood bedroom Communion wine spilt on my shirt as I spun round in the dim corner like A record left on repeat. Now, it drives me crazy, the “getting old”. Sleepovers are replaced with sitting on the couch till 2am laughing until our ribs get tough. The dreams of last night replay in our minds till they burst open, Sprawling out into the sunrise over suburbia.
p. 67 |
poetry
Separation is inevitable. The car seats will grow akin to couch cushions as We travel to our respective coasts, quagmires, and canyons In search of ourselves. And will we find ourselves, Or will we end up chasing the wild thoughts that move ‘Round our heads like a record player stuck in a loop? And what do we do when the record scratch comes? The dream, and what becomes of it is Entirely up to you. This I know. Ahead of us, lie many friends, and Many couches to lie on. The couple thousand days and nights ahead of us will surely toughen up our ribs as we sit on new couches and watch sunset turn to sunrise.
Liam French ’25
Only in Silence On quiet nights, to your smile I cling. When the last train stopped, when the night is old, I think of the smile that makes my heart sing. Sometimes it hurts, like a sharp cold sting. But often it won’t, a love warm and bold. On quiet nights, to your smile I cling.
Avery Jones ’25
When I think of feelings that my vices bring, when I grapple with demons new and old, I think of the smile that makes my heart sing. With the sound of owls or of rusted swings, When the trees tell stories before untold, On quiet nights, to your smile I cling. In the absence of crowns and diamond rings, When I lack riches of silver and gold, I think of the smile that makes my heart sing. In truth it haunts me. A clip on my wing. It grasps at my neck, a violent hold. But I welcome it. Like winter does spring. And I think of that smile that makes my heart sing. On quiet nights, to your smile I cling.
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poetry
CHRISTOS Patterson ’25
SPOTLIGHT
artist
p. 73 |
Born in the Marsh
poetry
No minnows dart in the water’s low tide, Beneath the swans that drift in ghostly white, It seems as if the forest’s heart has died. Soft mosses used to cling where thick roots still hide, Their emerald hues now lost in dim light. No minnows dart in the water's low tide. The cypresses once swayed, their arms stretched wide, But now they creak, their old trunks weak with blight. It seems as if the forest’s heart has died. In the cool night lonely spores dance, they glide— Their frail frames cut the air, like ghosts in flight. No minnows dart in the water’s low tide. The silent hush where wrens once sang with pride, Now echoes ring, no life is left in sight. It seems as if the forest’s heart has died. Yet dawn brings a breath - the water's soft tide, A murmur in the brush, a spark of light. Minnows now dart in the water’s high tide, As if the forest's heart had never died.
Alistair Wiedmer ’25
Remember to walk slowly in the sun. Walk, as it envelops you in its light. God forbid you take up your feet and run. Don't be a child who’s blinded by their fun: Chasing small birds, or a runaway kite. Remember to walk slowly in the sun. In the street, the brandishing of a gun Makes you recognize the darkness of night. God forbid you take up your feet and run. When your life is held in the hands of one, You finally realize, now clear in sight: Remember to walk slowly in the sun. Wishing on a dandelion for one More day walking, relishing the warm light, God forbid you take up your feet and run. There are no races out there to be won, There is no history to go and write. Remember to walk slowly in the sun, God forbid you take up your feet and run.
Walk Slowly In the sun
Will Suter ’25
p. 75 |
poetry
p. 77 |
poetry
A letter to my love who waits A response to The River Merchant’s Wife: A Letter by Ezra Pound.
Tyler Alday ’26
Every night I stare into the blazing moon thinking about the first time I saw you. Your beautiful straight-cut hair, gentle and smooth. I sit by the river in Ku-tō-en watching the water flow, But nothing feels as alive as when we are together. Five months feels like forever, As I dream about holding your hand every day. At sixteen I left you by the gate, Not knowing when I would return. I think of you often, That shy girl who never laughed and the girl who lowered her head. I never knew what our love held, But your quiet love filled the empty room that we stood in. I can only imagine your soft hands, They once pulled flowers by the gate but are now exhausted by waiting for my return. I think of your voice– Calm and timid, but full of your warm words. I miss the way you looked at the wall, Not because you were scared to talk, But because you hid your love and felt so much. I left to build a brighter future for us, But what is a future without having you by my side at all times? I promise My Lady that I will return soon. Meet me at Chō-fū-Sa. By the big trees where I took you to watch the animals play. I promise that I will never leave again. Our dusts will always be mingled together, Forever and forever, and forever.
The art of creating poetry by taking words, phrases, or passages from other sources and reframing them as poetry. Transforming non-poetic language from the world around us into something lyrical and poetic.
Found poetry
The HAVERFORD SCHOOL
Here at Haverford Haverford School Found Poetry
Michael Bartholdson ’25
p. 81 |
What does World-class Academics mean to you? Bigger than Vineyard Vines or Ralph Lauren Here at Haverford we are teaching tolerance Teachers zealously support this worthy cause Here excellence is not an act– it’s a habit. Words turn to actions. Then actions build character And for Fords, character is everything One Haverford: unlimited possibilities Art ignites change, Global Studies open your mind Service learning grows us into consciousness Every action defined by love and gratitude Here we redefine masculinity. Here we write beyond the boundaries. Here we become national champions. Here at Haverford Athletic and academic Engaged and exceptional Seventy zipcodes but here, Here we are all brothers What does brotherhood mean to you? Is something wrong with that Preparing boys for life? Preparing boys for what? Preparing boys to remain in gratitude Brotherhood is teamwork Brotherhood is friendship Brotherhood is virtue Excellence is habit here. Excellence is expected here. Here at Haverford
poetry
An American tragedy Haverford School Found Poetry
Cameron Esposito ’25
p. 83 |
The world is always changing. That’s just how it is. For the better?, is the question – there is always hope, Yet will it come? Choice must be made with courage, leaders chosen with integrity. Their ambition had been killed, sweating the last of its blood into the land of the free. The rich are richer, the poor are poorer. Corruption and secrets, Nothing I can do about it. Relax, breathe. You are growing into consciousness, class consciousness. It gives you the chills, wondering if democracy is backsliding. News outlets’ different sides, a people divided. Other countries looking in, awestruck, as our leaders sever ties. An isolated state, abandoning friends from the north, and neighbors in the south. It feels like just seconds ago, Sweet land of liberty, The moment has faded away. See how frustrating it is, thinking of what was, what will be. An American Tragedy.
poetry
Thou Guide of Tender Days Haverford School Found Poetry
Finn Kelly ’25
Excellence, character, wisdom, and a love for learning. “Preparing Boys for Life” racing through my mind. The competition had finally come. He quietly clacked away at the keyboard. His loyal service to the school. “Preparing Boys for Life” racing through my mind. The calvary is coming. The whisper of footsteps within these honored walls. “Preparing Boys for Life” racing through my mind. We might just win this thing. An unused life is an early death. Be a national champion. “Preparing Boys for Life” Racing through my mind. Will it ever end?
A parade of ugly Christmas sweaters Marches from the locker room. “Preparing Boys for Life” racing through my mind. You are growing into consciousness now. Healthy relationships, life’s lessons. Is there really a brotherhood of man? “Preparing Boys for Life” racing through my mind. Emanate positivity. I can. Education is the most powerful weapon. I am at work like a child at play. “Preparing Boys for Life” racing through my mind. He will grow into a great man.
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poetry
Ian Rosenzweig Class of 2025
Three questions and a suggestion Adapted from his reflection given November 18th, 2024.
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reflection
S
ibling dynamics are strange. One day, my older sister and I went from attempting to inflict the most severe pain that we possibly could upon each other to spending late nights hiding in one of our rooms talking about anything and everything. The lessons that I’ve learned from my sister – both directly and indirectly – are many, but there’s one that I’d like to share. So first I’m going to take you back. Back before my sister and I were best friends, before we bonded over awful homemade pizzas during COVID, and before we began our over 1700-day streak on Snapchat, which we joke represents the longest we’ve ever gone without getting angry enough at each other to lose it intentionally. We’re going back to when I was four, and my sister was six. These are our days of bloodlust and war, but also the days of my longing to be like my sister. My sister has always been more creative than I. She’s the only competent creative writer in our family, and her imagination is boundless. At 6, she had created a persona for herself. She was a chef, and she would tell stories during dinner about the thousands of guests she was serving at her small shack of a sandwich and wrap restaurant. She’d proceed to create the meals with her own dinner, wrapping, maybe, a piece of chicken and some broccoli into a piece of lettuce and giving it a clever name. In my desire to be as fun and creative as my sister, I’d follow suit. I suppose our parents permitted this odd process of playing with our food in an innovative way because it got us to eat well, or maybe it was just a break in the fighting. Very soon, I decided that it was time for me to open my own mock restaurant. I wanted to be in charge of the creations we ate and the story we told. But my sister informed me that my restaurant, which, according to her, was large enough to seat a thousand people, only got two customers a day, and they were our parents. My sister was very clear. This game was hers, and if I wanted a similar schtick, I’d have to be more original. To this day, my parents and I take jabs at my sister for her unwillingness to let her little brother play along and for subjugating me to her interests. Now maybe I’m giving you the wrong idea about my sister. She’s not cruel. She was doing her
thing, and she was adamant – although perhaps subconsciously – that I do my own thing. She was quietly teaching me that standing up for myself and maintaining my own interests, rather than falling in line behind someone else, is essential. Luckily, I had some practice with this. While I always wanted to tag along with my sister, I was far and away my own person in other arenas. This behavior often seemed to be to my detriment socially. In lower school, I didn’t play video games, and I didn’t follow the NFL. Much to the chagrin of many of my friends, I was much happier curled up with a book than I was doing pretty much anything else. And so that’s what I did. Because I had learned very early that conforming – changing myself to fit in – didn’t make me happy. That lesson had been beaten into me by my sister’s insistence that my restaurant was failing and that I couldn’t co-opt her game.
“
We can choose to grow to be someone new, someone who we want to be. I had learned that trying to be someone who I’m not just to be a part of things did not lead to equal friendships or positive relationships. Being someone who you’re not just to be a part of things doesn’t make you a part of things. It’s like putting on a mask to fit in. You’re not welcome. Your mask is. Of course, we can all change. Maybe we don’t quite know who we are. I certainly don’t claim to have it all figured out. We can choose to grow to be someone new, someone who we want to be. But to me, my conscience and my overactive mind demand that I remain true to my essence and that I stay independent of the tides that flow around me. This conviction is all tied up in a favorite saying of mine, which my grandmother quotes in Hebrew frequently. It comes from the Jewish Rabbinic tradition, written in Pirkei Avot, and it references a Rabbi named Hillel. The quote comprises three questions. The first translates to “If I am not for me, then who will be for me?”
ִמי ִלי, ִאם ֵאין ֲא ִני ִלי If I am not for me, who will be for me?
To me, Rabbi Hillel is not suggesting selfishness, but rather independence. Knowing yourself and making sure that you are taking care of your needs. Choosing to be happy. Being independent, and
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reflection
not conforming just to gain standing. Because no one will know who you are, let alone support you, if you’re not authentic. The second question that Rabbi Hillel asks, which certainly discounts any thoughts of arrogance, is “And when I am for myself alone, what am I?”
ָמה ֲא ִני, ּוְכֶׁשֲא ִני ְלַעְצִמי And when I am for myself alone, what am I?
For a long time, I seemed to have only internalized the first question. I was so determined to be myself and to achieve my goals that I put myself into a sort of lockdown. I barely had friends with whom I connected, and barely anyone knew anything about me other than that I was pretty much always working. But I learned that having people around me who care for me and for whom I care, who are looking out for me and for whom I look out, is essential. As I shared with the Third Form at the Camp Saginaw bonfire, even the strongest warriors need at least one mentor and one close friend. These connections can come from anywhere, and they can carry you through the darkest of times. But in my experience, and following Rabbi Hillel’s advice, they work best if they don’t come into conflict with who you authentically are. I can do for others, but they will not truly be there for me if I am not being myself. In other words, you have to show up with your mask off, or no one will ever know you enough to be there for you. To me, this meant that my closest friends became those whom I learned to trust through shared academic passions and with whom I became comfortable sharing myself to develop deeper connections. This doesn’t mean that looking for an identical personality is what creates close friendships. In fact, my sister and I couldn’t be more different – after all, she has won two NCAA field hockey national championships, and I’m, well, me. Rather, our shared experiences, deep trust, and mutual love for the classics bring us together. Many of my closest friends here at Haverford are the same. True connection is about being “for” each other, in Rabbi Hillel’s words, and doing so while staying “for” yourself. Finding common bonds and shared passions as our authentic selves is what strengthens the best relationships.
Now I must add one caveat. Because if we only seek out those with whom we think we have a lot in common, we’re closing ourselves off to a whole world of possibilities. Some of the most eye-opening discussions I’ve had have occurred when I least expected them. So I posit that listening with an open mind is an essential part of ensuring that I am not “only for myself.” It’s crucial never to be so arrogant to believe that you can’t learn something from everyone. My final note will be about the third question that Rabbi Hillel asks. This is the least concrete, and the one that I have the hardest time putting into action. It also adorns my laptop to remind me of Rabbi Hillel’s advice. Rabbi Hillel asks, “If not now, then when?”
ֵאיָמָתי, ןִאם ֹלא ַעְכָׁשיו And if not now, then when?
Of course, this is literally a suggestion to take action and not delay important things. But just as the first two questions function together, asking that we are both for ourselves and for others, the third question must also fit into the framework. And because to me, the first two questions are about putting oneself in positions of happiness – being true to yourself and surrounding yourself with others whom you can support and who can support the authentic you – the third question is also about happiness. It suggests that creating the conditions I just discussed is not worth delaying and that even outside of the intra- and interpersonal contexts that I’ve shared, creating joy is key, whenever and wherever. So that’s where I’ll leave this. Rabbi Hillel’s three rhetorical questions serve as a sort of guide for me, compartmentalizing the choices that I make for my happiness. Staying true to who I am right now, listening to others and being open to growth, finding my people, and simply making myself laugh whenever and wherever are key to my joy. And so I encourage you to think about what happiness looks like to you. If Rabbi Hillel’s questions or my interpretation help you, that’s great. But if not find something that is useful. How do you know if you’re happy? How do you check in with your authentic self? What do you need to make yourself happy and find your balance? Are there people who show up for the true you, and do you show up for them? Are you being true to yourself? And if not now, then when?
Michael bartholdson Class of 2025
DEFINING EXCELLENCE Adapted from his reflection given April 3rd, 2025.
p. 93 |
reflection
I
am incredibly grateful to have attended two of the best boys’ schools in the world. Before I came to Haverford, I attended a prestigious prep school in New York. It is a school that has been around longer than the United States, as it was founded in 1628. In fact, it is so old that it had to shut down when the British invaded Manhattan Island during the Revolutionary War. Interestingly, at the time that Manhattan was invaded in 1776, it was already older than Haverford is now. In the time since, it has established a reputation of academic excellence. Each year, roughly half of the school’s graduating class goes to one of the top 15 universities in the country. Furthermore, the average SAT score of a student there is 1490. It is very proud of these statistics and regularly displays them. It is safe to say that success at my former school is defined by, and defines itself by, these metrics. This is the system I grew up in. Even at a young age, kids were already gearing themselves towards being “perfect college candidates.” Some families even go as far as paying massive amounts for a private college counselor in middle school. The school has been built for these families and their kids. It has developed a formula that prepares boys for elite universities. The formula is grueling, yet effective. Even if kids wanted to get engaged outside of the classroom, it would be almost impossible with the absurd amount of work placed on each kid. Three to five hours of homework and studying a night is considered average in ninth through twelfth grade there. And while the result is impressive, the process is simple. Beyond the fierce academic rigor necessary to achieve these results, the school gears all aspects of education towards how they affect a college application. They have decided that the importance of something is primarily valued by what it contributes to improving the chances of a boy’s application. As a result, this means cutting out everything that does not improve those chances. Boys will quit participating in their passions, whether sports, clubs, or theater, if they are told to or do not feel it improves their chances of getting into a top college. When most extracurriculars are deemphasized, academic excellence becomes a singular pursuit. You no longer develop teamwork as personal success becomes paramount to everything else. At my former school, there are obvious measures of success, grades and test scores, and every aspect of education is geared towards achieving those measures. As a result, when I came to Haverford, I was admittedly confused. I found myself doing less homework, but I did not realize that it resulted from a greater emphasis on engagement outside of classwork. This new approach towards finding success was so unusual
to me. It seemed as if the goal of education was different. I was no longer being told what success looked like. Instead, I was given the awareness of what I could be and then provided with the inspiration and process to become that. Unfortunately, I did not immediately appreciate this Haverford way. In fact, for a while, I continued to learn in the way I knew and had been taught previously. This led me to repeated confusion when it seemed like everyone was doing it differently than I was. For example, boys would not hesitate to share their study guides in group chats. Something that was rare at my school in New York. Aspects of school that have become so intrinsic to me now were entirely foreign to me at the start of my time at Haverford, such as attending sporting events. At the beginning of ninth grade, I would not attend any of the football games as I did not see the benefit to me, and instead, I would spend the time studying or doing something that “benefited” me. Over the course of my freshman year, and especially with the influence of upperclassmen, I started to appreciate the Haverford way. Eventually, it no longer felt like I needed to measure myself against others purely based on how I did on a test or essay. That being said, Haverford is no stranger to competition, but instead of competing against my classmates, I now felt like I was competing with them. Tests were no longer the vehicle to rank myself amongst the rest of the class; instead, they were another opportunity to work alongside my peers. When I finally started to grasp the Haverford way and the goal of education here, I felt like part of this brotherhood. At Haverford, excellence is more than just SATs or acceptance rates. We are able to embrace the various forms of excellence found in the individuals sitting to your left and right. When I look to my side, I see someone like Connor Simpkins. In addition to his academic success, Connor has found excellence through leading the honor council, managing the Index, and serving as a role model for the school. Or I see someone like Harry Koenig. Harry’s defense has been pivotal in our soccer team’s success over the past years, especially in securing the win on EA day last fall. Harry has also been a key part of our basketball program. Harry’s success on the field and court is in addition to his academic success. Another route in which I see someone finding excellence is Aaron Bonaparte. Aaron’s dedication to the arts through theater, singing, and photography is substantial. He represents the school at galleries and in publications, and, like the others, his contributions to the arts complement his academic success.
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reflection
Or someone like Elliot Lee. Elliot is a leader of our robotics team 169. Over the past four years, Elliot has helped carry the tradition of winning. He was so committed to the team that when he could not get into the school to work on the robot, he created a robotics lab in his basement to ensure the team was ready to win at competitions. Elliot is also a leader of the notables. Like Harry, Connor, and Aaron, Elliot’s dynamic success with the robotics team and the notables is in addition to his academic success. These four are among countless examples of people who have found ways to be excellent in addition to being serious students. I’m sure these four—and many others—succeeded not to bolster their application but for their passion and commitment to others.
”
The return we get from giving advice or lending a hand is meaningful. What is most important in all these cases is the process that they took to get to where they are. While each individual defines success differently, the process by which they found it is consistent. This process – that Haverford provides allows each student to define success his way. Still, success, no matter the form, is created through consistent learning, practice, and growth. Excellence at Haverford is when we are more than just outstanding academics. From being an academic and a role model to an academic and an athlete, guys at Haverford find ways to be multi-dimensional. No matter how you define yourself as more than a student, the steps taken as you achieve success, no matter the finish line, are the same. Genuine success is always built on hard work, which looks like dedicated practice to whatever you want to become excellent at. The guys I mentioned above would all agree that it took dedicated practice of their craft to find success. Along with dedicated practice comes the willingness to accept feedback and to ask for support. A famous saying goes, “If you want to go fast, go alone; if you want to go far, go together.” In practice, this means knowing when you need help because so many people here are willing to help you. Finally, it also takes a willingness to support others to see results. The return we get from giving advice or lending a hand is meaningful.
Growing into success takes time and will look different for everyone. For some, it comes fast, for some it takes a while, but if you are dedicated to the process and improving at your craft while being open to feedback and support, you enter a cycle where success will become inevitable. Additionally, by becoming multidimensional, we are preparing ourselves to adapt to a world that is increasingly asking us to adjust. Furthermore, Haverford shows the importance of defining what success means to you instead of accepting others’ expectations of what success should look like. Creating your definition of success does not mean isolating yourself. Instead, it means using the strong community here at Haverford to achieve your success. While strong academics can lead to success in college and a job, the eventual financial success is nowhere near as critical as the person you are. Haverford prepares us for what is often overlooked in school. The process of finding success at Haverford instills virtues in us, and these virtues prepare us for what truly matters. The lessons that the virtues at Haverford can teach you extend to what it means to be a man, a good friend, and countless other aspects of character. Learning the value of these traits can prepare you to be a good father, a good husband, and generally to create relationships of meaning beyond convenience. These are what truly matter. By being multidimensional, we prepare ourselves to find success where it truly matters. The other aspects of education at Haverford are unique in process. Academics at Haverford and my previous school are grueling. They continually take time and effort to see results. Haverford is unique in that it makes aspects of school challenging instead of simply grueling. Opportunities outside the classroom also take time but make you try something new. They grow your perspective. I genuinely believe Haverford is preparing boys for life, and I am incredibly grateful to attend Haverford. Looking back on my time here, I wish I had realized this earlier. I wish I had grasped the importance of the other aspects of school. One of my biggest regrets about the past four years is that I didn’t take advantage of everything this place offers. In addition to the experience, a club, sport, or performance gives you. That activity will help you develop aspects of character that prepare you for life. I believe that Haverford is at its best when we do this. When we are multidimensional. So let’s not lose what we do best. The more you put into your experience here at Haverford, the more you will get out. And the more prepared for life you will be.
FINN KELLY Class of 2025
Expectations Adapted from his reflection given January 16th, 2025.
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reflection
W
hiplash is a 2014 Christopher Nolan film that follows the journey of young drummer Andrew Neimann through one of the most elite jazz music conservatories in the world. In the opening scene of the movie, we see him meet his teacher, Terrence Fletcher. The rest of the film follows Fletcher’s teaching and mentoring of Andrew as his dreams of rising to the top of the jazz world and drumming world are fed with lighter fluid. The problem is that Fletcher’s teaching could probably also be described as psychological torture. I’m sure that you’ve all seen the “Are you rushing or dragging” scene on Instagram Reels or somewhere. We watch as Andrew basically goes crazy and strays away from all the people closest to him all because of drumming, but the movie ends with Andrew ending a performance with an incredible solo, and he seems to finally see eyeto-eye with Fletcher after two hours of us watching him try to live up to Fletcher. Now, Whiplash is probably my favorite movie all-time, and I implore you all to watch it at some point if you haven’t before. In one of my English classes with Mr. Pariano during the week before break, we actually discussed this movie, and specifically its ending. I don’t think Whiplash has a happy ending. However happy the movie may portray Andrew in the best moment of his drumming career, I believe that he strayed too far away from every other aspect of his life because of his obsession with drumming and because he felt like he needed to live up to Fletcher’s expectations. I rewatched Whiplash recently, and it got me thinking about what I wanted to say today, and I thought a lot about how the movie relates to my own experiences. So there’s me. All happy-go-lucky and doesn’t even know about Ms. Turlish’s class yet. For you all who don’t know, I have an older brother named Colin, you’ll sometimes hear me call him CK. He’s two years older than me, he went to Haverford, and now he’s away at college. Today, he’s one of my favorite people of all time. I can confidently say that there is no one that I trust more than him, and we have a great relationship. But, it wasn’t always that way. See, a funny thing about Colin and my relationship when we were younger is that we did all of the same things. We were a part of all the same activities, had the same hobbies, and oftentimes had the same goals, both in school and out of school. We’re both runners, we were both in all of the musicals here at Haverford, and we both were in Math Club together. On top of all these, we also shared a lot of friends outside of school. Safe to say, Colin and I are very similar. Sharing a lot of things and hobbies and friends was normal, but my problem was that he always seemed to be just a little bit ahead of me or just a little bit better than me in all of these places. He was a better runner than me, got better parts in the musicals, and was way smarter than me and got better grades than me. In our shared friend groups, he was the more talkative one and people seemed to like him better than the shy little brother that I was. This took a toll on me. I wasn’t happy being the worse brother.
In retrospect, this mindset didn’t make much sense. What never occurred to me was that all of these things were completely normal and almost expected for someone two years older than me. You know, of course he was a better runner than me, he had been running for two more years than me. But I didn’t understand this until I got older and more mature. Until I understood this, I actually really resented Colin. I felt like I was living in his shadow, both at Haverford and outside Haverford. I felt that anything that anyone wanted from me, they could get from him, but better. I felt that because he was worth so much, I was worth nothing. So here I am, in my most formative years, feeling like I HAVE to be as good or better than him. I was stuck thinking that I absolutely had to fill his shoes, that I absolutely had to live up to gargantuan expectations placed on me by my parents or by my teachers or by my coaches. And if I didn’t live up to these expectations, I was worth nothing.
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The most dangerous expectations are the ones that we THINK we HAVE to live up to. This isn’t an experience unique to little brothers. There’s an immense pressure placed on so many of us to perform, to be the best, to achieve certain results. What I hope you all can understand better than I did is that results don’t define us. My brother loves me, and my parents never actually cared if I wasn’t as good as him at everything we did. I was making those expectations up. They were little fabrications of my mind in my teenage angst. The most dangerous expectations are the ones that we THINK we HAVE to live up to. The pressure we feel from these expectations often make us result-oriented and cause us to miss all of the value in the work we put in towards these results. They can make us resentful, maybe cause us to lose some valuable relationships, just like I almost did. This idea is what I took away from Whiplash. As soon as Andrew meets Fletcher and gets these unbelievable expectations placed on him (maybe with some questionable psychological methods), we watch as just about all of his human relationships deteriorate. In one scene, he burns bridges with his family, dropping insult after insult at the dinner table. They never appear in the movie again. He meets and starts dating a great girl at the start of the movie, but later breaks up with her because he doesn’t want anything or anyone hindering him from getting the results he wants, hindering him from living up to Fletcher’s expectations. While the decision seems reasonable at the time, later on in the movie he realizes how lonely he’s become. Later in the movie, he actually reaches out to his former girlfriend and asks her to maybe catch up over some coffee. Unfor-
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tunately for Andrew, she has already moved on with her life, she wasn’t stuck in the mud of an all-consuming obsession like him. Where Andrew’s character faltered was in his failure to have balance, and this was caused by his laser-focus on trying to live up to Fletcher’s expectations. This is why I believe that Whiplash does not have a happy ending. Sure, Andrew was finally respected by Fletcher as a drummer, but at what cost? My story I told you all a little bit ago and Andrew’s story have a lot of similarities. I didn’t have balance in my life, and nearly pushed some of the people closest to me away because of it. What do I wish I knew how to do back then? I wish I learned how to find that balance sooner, how to not laser-focus my entire life onto living up to other people’s expectations of me. And also, I wish that someone told me that the world doesn’t end if I come up short. People don’t expect specific results from you. They expect you to do your best. But now, the introspective question then becomes, what is your best? And I said introspective there because that is entirely for you to decide. It is up to you to decide what your potential is, and whether you are going to do everything you can in order to reach that potential. Whatever results that you want to see from yourself, the destination shouldn’t matter. Whatever results you actually find, it doesn’t matter if they are the exact same as what you were hoping for. But it better not even be a question of whether you did everything in your power to try and reach those results.
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They can raise the bar out of where we can reach, out of our comfort zone. With all that said, I want to shift the focus a little bit. I titled this [piece] “Expectations,” so I have to look at both sides of the coin. I talked all about how expectations can be dangerous. This constant, looming fear that you absolutely HAVE to live up to xyz expectations or else you are a failure. Frankly, this widespread fear is one of my biggest critiques of a high-achieving place like Haverford. But at the same time, expectations and pressure give us fuel to reach our goals, and to even go beyond our goals. Other people’s expectations of us can help us find results that we didn’t even know we could find. They can raise the bar out of where we can reach, out of our comfort zone. That? That is one of my favorite parts about a place like Haverford. I could take this picture with the Sweater because of all the people who decided to raise the bar at Haverford. Now, the problem becomes navigating these expectations and finding the right balance to it.
That’s what I’m going to trust you all to do. Find that balance in your life, or even just in your Haverford experience. A lot of you might feel like you have a path already carved out for you. It might feel that everyone in your life expects you to do one pre-decided thing, whether it be get good grades, go to college for a sport, make music, whatever. I want you all to think about what I said earlier about finding balance. In order to find that balance, you might need to widen the path you’re on or find a new one entirely, even if nobody is expecting you to do that. Challenge yourself to do that. Take the external expectations that push down on you every day and tear them to shreds. Nobody expects the hypothetical Stanford-committed football captain to fill his evenings with voice lessons and theater rehearsals, but he does, and he lives for it. People could have known me as the runner. Maybe as the actor, maybe as the robotics guy, maybe as the singer. Nobody expected me to be all of them.
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Expectations give you a ceiling to rip a hole through and fly way higher than you ever thought you could. Expectations can be a gift and they can be a curse. On the curse side of things, too many expectations can break us down, leave us stuck in the mud with a sometimes unbearable burden that says we absolutely HAVE to live up to other people’s expectations. I hope I’ve communicated to you all enough that this feeling is immature and shouldn’t infringe on your life or your happiness. But at the same time, expectations are a gift because they give us something to either meet or prove wrong. Expectations give you a ceiling to rip a hole through and fly way higher than you ever thought you could. Think about it this way. Could you imagine what it would be like if nobody expected anything of you? In a way, that could be even worse. No matter what anyone else thinks, no matter what things people say behind your back, no matter what people think you can achieve or not achieve, no matter what results people expect from you, no matter what expectations you think you HAVE to live up to, the expectation that matters is the expectation that you will do your best, and it’s for you to decide what exactly your best looks like. If there’s one thing I hope you do because of this [piece]? Take control of the role that expectations play in your life. Don’t let other people force their expectations onto you. Don’t fabricate or make up expectations that people have of you that aren’t really there. And of course, set your own high expectations for yourself based on the things that matter most to YOU. Take control of the role that expectations play in your life, and you can reach your potential and be a lot happier doing it.
COLOPHON Front cover text is Alegreya (Regular) 45pt; Front cover subtitle is Alegreya (Regular) 25pt; spine text is Alegreya (Regular) 2pt; Pegasus title text is Engravers MT (Regular) of various font sizes; table of contents title texts, numbers, and author names are Neuton (Regular) of various font sizes; table of contents header is Engravers MT (Regular) 40pt and 80pt; all non-reflection title texts are Engravers MT (Regular) of varying font sizes; non-reflection author titles are Monarcha (Regular) 16pt; subtitles are Neuton (Italic) 12pt; all body texts are Neuton (Regular) 15 pt; standard pull quote text is Neuton (Regular) 35pt; varied pull quote text is Neuton of various font sizes and type; all reflection titles are Engravers MT (Regular) 57pt; all reflection authors are Engravers MT (Regular) 40pt; all reflection class numbers are Engravers MT (Regular) 25pt; all photo credit lines are Minion Pro (Regular) 10pt; page headers are Minion Pro (Regular) 10pt; the software used is Adobe InDesign CC 20.2.
Awards Columbia Scholastic Press Association Silver Medalist 2013 Silver Medalist 2014 Gold Medal Winner 2014 Gold Medalist with All-Columbian Honors 2015 Gold Medalist with All-Columbian Honors 2016 Gold Medal Winner 2017 Gold Crown Award 2020
Editors-in-Chief
Staff
Elliot Lee Liam French
Kai Degenhardt Mason Wiegand Xan Matuch Unnav Sharma Will Bradford Nicholas Zafiriou
Advisor Mr Pariano
Acknowledgements The Pegasus editorial board thanks the following:
All of our contributors for their hard work and limitless talent. Mr Pariano for his extended patience and guidance while advising our meetings and his smooth transition into our operation; Ms. Smith-Kan and Mrs. Hitchcock for their help and insight in the latter phases of the publishing process; The Haverford School English and Art Department faculty members for their encouragement; Mr. Casertano and Mr. Fifer for their support; The Haverford School Custodial Team for accomodating our late hours;
In an anonymous screening process, the Pegasus staff considers submissions and selects works for publication based on creativity, quality, maturity of style, and variety. Editors reserve the right to make technical corrections, although authors and artists reserve all rights to their individual works. The views expressed in this magazine’s published works are those of individual contributors.