XXII, NO. 1 2011-2012A CREATIVE ARTS PUBLICATION OF BRISTOL CENTRAL HIGH

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2 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 Appetizers

By Chris NiCastro

I hate to say that I was sucked into the infamous phenomenon that is Twitter. I felt at the time as though I was miss-

ing out on a worldwide sensation—a piece of counterculture that would change the way we communicate with one another. Users are allowed to write blurbs of infor-mation—in the confines of 140 charac-ters—and express their ideas to the world. However, what I found was that, by joining, I was contributing to a Huxley-esque downfall of American literacy, syntax, and language that will be studied by archaeologists for millennia to come.

i - the “hash-tag” The idea of the hash-tag is quite a

helpful one. After the archetypal, “tweet,” the tweeter adds on a

pound sign—or “hash-tag,” if you will—fol-lowed by a category that describes the preceding tweet. The hash-tag then tags the tweet which allows other people who are talking about the same topic to see what other tweeters are tweeting in their tweets about tweets by tweeters. Okay. It’s a noble and fair concept—but it has been bastardized into something that is utterly useless but used only for pointless style.

The following sentence is an example of a tweet with proper use of a hash-tag. “I took my dog for a walk earlier. I love that little guy. #mydog”

The following sentence is an example of a tweet with improper use of a hash-tag. “I took my dog for a walk earlier. #Lovethatlittleguy”

If you hash-tag sentences, no one will ever find your tweet by category, and the point of the tag is moot. I can get over myself if people simply don’t want to be found through their tagging, but then what is the point of tagging anything in the first place? There is none at all—BUT WAIT. There’s more. People are now even start-ing to hash-tag on FACEBOOK. I want to clear something up; there is no purpose to hash-tagging on Facebook. It doesn’t do anything. It doesn’t link to tags by other people, it doesn’t even become highlight-

ed. The Twitter users of this generation—let’s call them the Darwinian Evidence—do not understand this concept at all.

But I digress.

ii - grammerrrr It pains me to say that the American

school system has failed the teenagers of this country in the field of gram-

mar. I, being one of the failures, don’t think no good when it comes to format-ting sentences, even in an informal man-ner. Recently, I asked one of my class-mates to look at a sentence I had written to see if he could recognize the grammatical error within it. The sentence read, “Where is the best place to eat at?”

My classmate, dumb-founded, could not find a single problem with the grammar in the sentence. Twitter has also brought about aberrations of lan-guage that I never thought possible. “Defiantly,” “defi-nateley,” “definitley” and “definetlay” are all REAL-LIFE examples of Darwinian Evidence attempting to spell, “definitely.” The above fallacy has become such a phenomenon to the point where it has inspired the web-site http://d-e-f-i-n-i-t-e-l-y.com just to steer Twitter users back on the right track.

The previous idea leads to the next issue with Twitter. When restricted to 140 characters, people cannot fully express their ideas wholly and correctly—especial-ly when the teenage girls of today feel the constant urge to have multiple repeated consonants on the end of their words, such as, “I love the holidayssssssss (sic).” The first time I read this particular tweet, I wondered if the tweeter had a speech impediment that caused the voice to resemble that of a snake or if the keyboard had become jammed and there was no access to a backspace button—the possi-bilities were endless. However, this was a choice of style. The Darwinian Evidence had felt that the extra hissing at the end of the tweet would add emphatic pizzazz,

or pizzazzzzzzz, if you will. It is, though, more tolerable than phonetic spelling.

U cant undrstnd how anoyd i git wen ppl tipe funetikly on twttr. I realize that when texting and instant messaging came about, typing phonetically was hip—it was a modern day Morse code, so to speak. Unlimited texting plans were unheard of, and texting in conversational form was considered rude. When needing to type a long message without going over the char-acter limit to avoid additional charges, typing words like “people” as “ppl” or

“that” as “tht” was understandable. In this day and age, though, there is no excuse. In reality, it is much more difficult to use 4’s for A’s while making sure the recipi-ent understands the meaning

of the message. For example, if I were to type as many tweeters do, and wanted to say “I love apples,” I would write, “I luv 4ppls.” However, “ppl” meaning “people,” would cause

4ppls to mean both “apples” and “four peoples.” In addi-

tion, there is the recent trend of Capitalizing Every Word In A Tweet. When Typing Out

Tweets In This Manner, One Wonders If There Is A Subliminal Message Within The Tweet In Acronym Form— in this case it would be, “WTOTITMOWITIASMWTTIAF,” which is an acronym synonymous with inanity.

But—I digress.

iii - the QuestioNPeople always argue what the real

question is that we should be ask-ing. Some say the question is, “To

be or not to be?” Some say it is, “Why not?” Some even say the question is, “Who is John Galt?” All of the above are the wrong questions to be asking. The correct question that needs to be asked daily is, “Is this worth tweeting?” The amount of unneeded tweets is asinine. Teenage girls manage to create so much rage using only 140 characters—in fact most of these tweets I do not feel at lib-

erty to repeat due to their indecency and sheer anger. While young males are able to shake off anger through a fisticuff-rumble by the skate-park or a round-house-kick to the bedroom door, young women resort to Twitter to spread rumors and hate. Twitter was meant to be a haven where users could get across the information they needed to have known by others in a fast and easy man-ner. The reason CNN and MSNBC and local news stations have so many follow-ers is because it allows their followers—those who are above Darwinian Evidence on the hierarchal chain—to be informed of breaking news quickly while also pro-viding mobile links to more in-depth articles regarding the tweet. Useful tweets are contemporary news headlines; they are things people care to be cognizant of. Though I hate to break it to the broken-hearted girls of America whose boy-friends left them after discovering their internet paper-trail, no one cares to know about the mentioned “s*ut” he left you for. The repercussions in the coming years for people tweeting this way will be immense.

Young people who are abusing Twitter and do not pay attention to what it is that they post online are now stepping into college—as surprising as that may be—and will eventually be in career mode. They will be in great shock when they lose their chance at a dream job when their would-be bosses check their twitters as back-ground precaution. Now is the time to ask yourself —“Is this worth tweeting?”

But—I digress. Twitter began as a noble idea. Staccato

prose written by commoners could have led to a writer’s revolution. Hemingway would have adored the concept. However, all the wrong people use it for all the wrong reasons and have debased its pur-pose in the world. I can only hope its a fadddd. #rant

Chris Nicastro is a 12th grade student at Bristol Central High School. You can follow him on Twitter at @c_nicastro

#Rant about my generation and @Twitter

VisioN oF the PoetFrom rhythmic meters to daring free verse,BC poets capture brilliant images and plunderemotional vaults in exquisite verse.Read award winning poetry by Daly,Finn, Guiont, and Pecorelli (pp. 18-24). mr. Poe - Portrait By Paul lowiCki 2011

eYe oF the artistInspired by a kaleidoscopic world of color,line, texture, value, and space, BC artists draw us in to view the universe through their eyes.Visit the Portrait Gallery (pp.12-13);match artistic vision with poetic verse (pp. 18-23).a DiFFereNt surrouNDiNgsculpture - By DomiNiQue CamPos 2012

inside

Fiction bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 3

A Short Story By JeSSe GrieBel

5:30 A.m.

For the first time in years, Ron White woke up before his alarm. More noticeably, before his wife. In fact, he’s been lying in bed all

night, restless and unable to fall asleep. His head is pounding, eyes are stinging, and he contemplates calling out of work for the first time in his life. But he knows he won’t, he never does. Speaking at con-ference meetings always kept him up, but not like this. This time it was different. The coppery taste in the back of his throat was something new, and so was the com-plete sleeplessness. Usually he was able to fall asleep for an hour at the very least. He got out of bed, awkwardly careful not to disturb Sarah. She would do the same for him.

7:30 A.m.Ron arrived at work; the hundred floor

trip to his office never feels any shorter. The same sight for thirty minutes of climb-ing stairs; aging concrete and rusting hand rails, clumsily painted over every few years. At least the walk to work was pleas-ant, nice and sunny out, not too windy. It helped take his mind off the conference, but here in the stairwell, there was nothing else to think about.

8:23 A.m.And it begins; the conference nerves

kick in. Ron’s breakfast starts creeping up in his throat, and his hands begin to per-spire. The lump in his throat grows into a stone as he tries to recall a fraction of what he’s prepared to say. The other men and hand full of women start to slowly pour into the room, and he barely notices. Shuffling franticly through some papers, he feels overwhelmed by anxiety, like the air in the room is being vacuumed out and only he notices. This isn’t the average con-ference room jitters; something doesn’t feel right.

8:46 A.m.Halfway through his speech comes a

sound so loud that he can feel it in his teeth, in his bones. The room shakes, and the women scream. So do a few men, but they make no sound. His ears are ringing so loud that he can’t hear his heart beat, despite the fact that he can feel it palpitat-ing in his chest. The temperature in the room spikes and Ron feels like an ant under a demented child’s magnifying glass. Six seconds have passed. The next five feel like an eternity as he stands in a daze, try-

ing to understand what is happening around him. Glass flies by the windows like confetti, but no one sees it. The first thing anyone notices, including Ron, is the smoke. It’s like an ethereal sheet of coal, flowing through the once bright sky. Everyone is standing, gawking out the win-dow, trying to make sense of what they are seeing. The first concrete thought to form in Ron’s mind is Sarah. Not her face or anything about her, really; just the name; a single word.

8:48 A.m.Ron finally breaks the trance, reaching

into his coat pocket for his cell phone. He redials her number five times, his hands trembling so much he just can’t seem to hit the right numbers. When he finally man-ages, it goes straight to voicemail, her sweet familiar voice letting him know she’ll return his call if he leaves her a mes-sage. He hears the beep to leave his mes-sage, but he can’t think of what to say. Finally, he says, “I think we’ve been bombed again, I see a lot of smoke, but I’m okay. I didn’t charge my phone, so I’ll talk to you when I get home. I love you.” The words taste foreign and echo in his head. Bombed? Could they have really been bombed again?

8:55 A.m.

Screaming. That’s all Ron can hear. No one knows what’s going on, everyone is on cell phones hearing different things, from terrorists to

bombs to an airplane crashing into the building. How does an airplane hit such a large building? People everywhere are in a panic, and he can’t focus enough to real-ize that the smoke is getting worse. It now looks like it’s midnight, at 9:00 a.m. Several people have tried to go down-stairs, but there is no downstairs any-more. Just fire and metal and cement, loosely hanging from a gaping hole, like a sinister mouth, threatening to swallow the building whole. With the last bit of his cell phone battery, Ron calls his father.

8:58 A.m.“Dad, I’m fine, but do you know what’s

going on? No one is telling us anything, and everyone’s running around shouting and screaming something different.” Ron has always been able to look to his dad for strength, but this was an exception. He could hear the fear, the pain in his father’s voice as it cracks.

“A plane flew into the tower, a little more than halfway up the side. There’s a lot of fire and smoke, and they are evacuat-

ing everyone below. They said they are evacuating everyone inside your building, too. Lord, I think every police and fireman in New York is out there. Just be careful, Son.” Son? He hadn’t called Ron “son” since he was eight, playing Little League for the Ravens. It brought him an odd calm.

8:59 A.m.It has been fourteen minutes since the

explosion, and Ron still hasn’t moved more than fifty feet. Subtract his pacing, and he might as well have stood still while the whole world crashed around him. Not so much a thought, but an urge, passes through him, and he decides to see if he can get out of the building, despite the announcements to stay put and keep work-ing.

9:01 A.m.

Ron moves on leaden legs, and every step takes slightly more effort than the last, as if wading through tar. Panic is rampant,

with people running around every which way, but Ron is oblivious to them. They have their own lives, their own families, and he has his to worry about. The same familiar stairwell he climbed, just a little over an hour ago, looks so sinister as he descends. Every stair seems to be fighting against his weight, trying to throw him back, away from his destination.

9:02 A.m.Halfway down his second flight of

stairs, it happens again. This time with far less force, but it’s such an unforgettable feeling, instantly etched into his nerves. Another explosion. Ron loses all previous composure, and all thought is torn from existence prematurely. He runs.

9:15 A.m.They were right, there is no down-

stairs anymore. Ron tries to comprehend what he is seeing, but it’s far too much. The stairs aren’t there, but then again, neither is the sky, nor anything tangible. There’s just black, taking up the space where once there was air, making breath-ing impossible. He turns around and runs back up a flight, with the notion that this is it. He knows deep inside that he won’t be going home tonight, that he won’t be seeing Sarah, or his father, ever again. The feeling hits him all at once, like a vice grip-ping his heart, yet somehow comforting, numbing. For once in his life, he decides to do something for him, and only him.

9:32 A.m.The air on this side of the building is

surprisingly clear, with only a faint tinge of debris. The air is cool against Ron’s cheek, and despite the circumstance, he takes a moment to embrace how beautiful of a day it is outside. He leans against the windowsill, just letting the breeze flow through his sorry excuse for hair. He thinks about Sarah, about how much they had been through. Especially the miscar-riage, and how hard they had tried to raise a family, how much it had hurt to fail again and again. He thought about his father, how he had raised Ron on his own since he was seven, when his mother’s cancer had finally eaten away at the last of her strength. He also thought about how many experiences they had shared, like Sarah and his wedding, how beautiful she looked that day, and how proud his father was. The fishing trips in his youth, where his father had given him his first taste of beer, and where he had hoped to someday do the same with his son. He thought about everything his life had allowed him, and finally, he cried. They were tears of neither sorrow nor joy, but tears of com-pletion. Ron felt that they would have wanted him to have a choice in this moment. He knew that they would have.

9:48 A.m.

Sergeant John Penndel of the New York City Fire Department arrives at the site of the World Trade Center with a single lucid thought

in his head: the intent to evacuate as many as possible until the inevitable occurs. But the second he opens the door of his engine, he is frozen in place, in awe at the sheer scale of the situation. The instant he steps out of the truck, he hears a thud, so loud that he jumps. He turns to look at the truck, and reality sets in. A man is splayed across the roof of Engine 38, and he can’t tear his eyes away.

9 • 11 • 01

Skyline - Drawing By Joey klett 2013

Personal Narratives

By Derek Blais 2012

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had frequent visits with Gramma Judy and Nana, my great– grand-ma. To this day, they still treat me

like the President. I know as soon as I walk in, I’ll be greeted with two big hugs and two kisses on the cheek and then the classic Grandmother question, “Do you want something to eat or drink?” One thing Nana kept stocked in her pantry was “Rice Krispie Treats.” I could easily go through a box within minutes. I think I swallowed one whole once. I’ll bet if I walked in to their house right now, there would be a box in the cupboard, waiting for me.

I used to have a blast at their house; my Gramma basically let me do whatever I wanted when I was over there. I could yell, run, eat as much as I wanted, and ride my bike until the tires were flat. Occasionally, we would have to walk to the closest gas station with free air so she could pump up my tires again. One of my favorite activi-ties at Gramma’s was to take a playing card and attach it with a clothes pin to my bike, next to the wheel, so it would sound like a motorcycle. I used to pretend I was a dirt bike rider, and I would ride around the house until I imagined the race was over. I always won.

Over the years, I’ve probably gone through several decks of Nana’s cards. I can’t wait until the day one of them wants

to play Solitaire and goes insane because every deck of cards is missing a few.

One memory that I will never forget is the day that Nana was released from the nursing home; it was her birthday. My two siblings, two cousins and I watched her come inside the house for the first time in six months. She had had open heart sur-gery prior to that, and it took her a lot longer to recover than the doctors thought it would. We visited her in the nursing home almost daily until the day she got out. She worked so hard to get back to normal, and she knew she had us support-ing her every step of the way. Watching her open the car door, walk up the back porch and step inside the house for the first time was incredible. We had all made

signs that said “Happy Birthday Nana!” or “Welcome Home!” We went to lunch, and came back to the house to relax; it was just a good day.

I feel so comfortable at Gramma’s house; I know if I ever need to relax or have a nice conversation with someone, I can go to their house. Occasionally, I’ll look through some of the photo albums; my favorite picture is one of me, sleeping on the kitchen floor. The picture is a close up of my face. I’m wearing my footie paja-mas, my chubby cheek is smushed up against the floor, and I’m drooling a little. I still laugh when I see that picture.

I love visiting their house; I feel happy and at home.

A Visitor At Home

By Nicole Jacques 2012

About a month ago, amidst the hustle and bustle of high school life, my sister Stephanie and I found a couple of hours in our afternoon to squeeze in a

little prom dress shopping. Store after store, dress after dress, hour after hour, we scanned every store in the area, searching for the dress that absolutely no one else would have. Then, in one of those little bursts of genius that Stephanie often has, we decided to switch our tactics by visiting a couple of consignment shops, certainly the best place, out of any, to find something unique and interesting.

The funny thing about consignment shops, though, is that you never exactly find what you expect when you go in. No matter how many times I cross the state, exploring all types of shops, I never seem to be accustomed to surprises I find within. This particular venture was no different; however, as I gently pushed against the glass of the door to enter the store (Steph sprinting to the shiny gold dress on the center rack, and I to the vast collection of knick-knacks and accessories at the back corner of the shop), I had a feeling that this trip had promise.

Grazing through the random collection of throw pil-lows, picture frames, and books I set my gaze upon a small shelf of CD’s, tucked into the corner of the crowded bookshelf. Wandering over, and touching nearly every colorful item on my way, I reached the shelf and set my eyes upon a dusty stack of CD’s.

I read the names with little interest, thinking that con-signers never sold anything “good” to the shop. Michael Bublé, N’Sync, Whitney Houston; there was never any-thing good. “Where’s the Eminem?” I thought, “Rhianna? Beyonce? Coldplay? I’m wasting my time…”

Frustrated and ready to leave, I started to turn, only before catching a glimpse of bright green in the corner of my eye. The case was scratched and speckled with finger-

prints from frequent examination, yet all the more appeal-ing. At the top corner of the case, a curly, gothic script read “Good Charlotte,” and I grinned an internal smile.

Flipping over the case, I knew I had found gold. Amongst the spiky-haired gazes of the band members star-ing back at me was a track list.

Reading the list, I’m instantly back in 2005. I’m 10 years old, Steph’s 11, and we’re sitting by the computer, rocking out. Yahoo Music is pulled up on the browser, and

we’ve got our favorite tracks up. Volume all the way up, hair all down, we’re dancing wildly and singing at the top of our lungs. From “Boys & Girls” to “Lifestyles of the Rich and the Famous” and back again, a simple 30-second preview was the joy of our day.

Life was fun, times were easy, and music was loud.

That day I bought the CD, and this very after-noon, I am 10 again. Taller, wiser, and more stressed, a 16 year old and an 18 year old sit again in a spot that will all too soon disappear from their lives. Blasting the music (as that is the only way to really hear it), we still sing horribly at the top of our lungs, but our memory is tinged with reality. Back then, the music never had to stop, the laugh-ing could go on until bedtime, and the dancing was done without shame. Today, homework stops the music soon before bedtime and the laughing ends to make room for studying or scholarship applications. Dancing is suppressed (for who knows who might see you?) and false acts are put on like masks. Petty worries muffle the music.

What will happen next year, when our lives bring us in different directions? Does the music stop? Do we lose the joy of youth and the hap-piness of carefree life? Or does the music con-

tinue, internally, powering us through the rest of our lives? In the end, we will inevitably move on to live our hectic adult lives, but, from what I’ve been able to experi-ence again in the last month I can be sure that when push comes to shove, we’ll never truly lose the music. Sure, there’ll be times in life when the music gets pushed aside and we think we’ve lost it forever, but it will always be deep inside.

In the words of Good Charlotte, “Don’t stop looking, you’re one step closer/ Don’t stop searching, its not over/ [Just] Hold on;” the music is always inside.

Hold on to the Music

4 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012

bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 5Contest Winners

By RoBeRt Jacques 2014

People say that at some point in your life, you will hear the National Anthem and the words will click. For me, this happened when I was

playing in the 2008 Western Connecticut State Championship for Pop Warner Midget Football. When our team ran out on the field and raised up our helmets as the National Anthem was played; that’s when the words struck home. The Star Spangled Banner isn’t just a song about a long fought battle; it is a story of triumph when everyone thought you would fail. It is a story that reminds me of the Plainville Colts championship season.

The team was a mixture of sorts, rang-ing from me, a seventh grader from Bristol,

to freshmen from New Britain. I could see that this team was different from other teams I had played on. We did not share a bond from being raised in the same city. We weren’t in the same grades. But, we were connected by something deeper. We were a family forged by a common love of playing football. We were going to win, even though everyone else said we couldn’t.

And we did win. We had seven games in our season. We won them all except for one. We lost to Pomperaug, the best team in our division. We weren’t expected to win. But with the rest of the games, we proved that we could win. A 6-1 season was huge for a team like ours.

When we got to the playoff rounds, we were seated on the opposite side of the bracket from Pomperaug. If we wanted a chance to prove ourselves against them,

we would have to win all the other rounds. We did what we had to. We got to the Western Connecticut Championship.

When the game started, they played the National Anthem like they had at every other game but something was different this time. I started thinking about how the Star Spangled Banner became the symbol of our nation. The Americans had to defeat the British, the best army in the world. With help, they did. Our team had to defeat all the other teams. With one excep-tion, we had. We surpassed everyone’s expectations, just like the Americans. A team of misfits had defeated a team of greats in both cases.

Again we were engaged in a battle against our foes. It was the second time we had faced them. And again we were expected to lose.

The game started off bad. We were los-ing. Then we ran the best play we had. It worked. We were on top again. Our star spangled banner was still waving. We defeated the undefeatables. We were victo-rious.

How does this relate to the National Anthem? The Americans were the under-dogs. They had already won once against the beast. When they were called to battle again, the misfit army won because of their common bond. The Americans had won because of their love of democracy. We had won because of our love of football.

That night I learned what Francis Scott Key was trying to say when he wrote that song. The American dream does still exist. It can be claimed by those who work for it.

By ashley PecoRelli 2012

As I sit down at my comput-er, the dreaded happens: my mind is as empty as the white screen in front of me.

My writing space only adds fuel to the fire: the taunting blink of the cur-sor on the screen, the irritating squeal of eraser meeting paper, the unsettling hum of the computer, and, of course, the omnipresent blank page. Before I know it, it’s an hour later and all I have is a sentence and a half-chewed pencil. It’s times like these when giving up is the biggest temptation, so easily done. I’m tempted to turn away. But it’s these times when it’s most important to think about the bigger picture.

Writing itself is a concept unique for every person. To a preschooler, it’s seeing smiles on mommy’s face and looking down in wonder at a few shaky letters on a nametag. As time goes on, it becomes a meaningful pro-cess, something more than scrawling words between two lines. It’s at this point where the path diverges. To one student, writing is spouting out as much information as possible before the teacher calls the time; to another, it’s weaving together thoughts to cre-ate something new, a work of art. One person may consider writing to be paraphrasing as many SparkNotes of To Kill a Mockingbird as possible; for another, it could be the only thing that keeps him from cutting more scars in his arms.

To me, writing is everything at once. Not only is it the tense silence before a thunderstorm, but the beat of

the downpour, the crashing cymbals of thunder, and the growing wind’s crescendo; followed by the opening of a single flower’s petals as the storm fades. It’s creation; it’s destruction. It’s song lyrics inked on a pair of blue Chuck Taylors and messages spray painted on brick walls. It’s the stories woven by Austen, Capote, Picoult, and my ten year old sister. It’s an ele-phant finding a world of Whos on a speck of dust and a soldier clutching a letter from a home 7,000 miles away. Writing is as terrible and beauti-ful as what all of the tangled words twist to imagine and capture: this maddening, painful, and breathtaking life.

Words escape me from time to time, and it’s easy to believe that I’ll never find the perfect ones. Yet, as I’ve realized, this isn’t such a bad thing. The best part about this world is that there are as many topics as you are willing to discover. Writer’s block isn’t a lack of original ideas, but a lack of the ability to accept that whether you’re a high school junior or Emerson, writing will be flawed. As Margaret Atwood said, “If I waited for perfec-tion, I would never write a word.” It’s with this thought that I pick up my pen, turn to a new page, and square my shoulders, ready to conquer my biggest critic; myself.

“In writing, there is first a creat-ing stage--a time you look for ideas, you explore, you cast around for what you want to say. Like the first phase of building, this creating stage is full of possibilities.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

The Meaning of the Star Spangled Banner

527 imperfections

euPhonium – Photo collage By megan miRanda 2011

Personal Narratives

By William Damon 2014

White walls, children crying, people I don’t trust yelling, things flying through the air. If you didn’t already guess, this is just a normal day at a

group home. The only sure thing about a group home is that you never can know what will hap-pen next.

Let me explain to you what a group home really is because it might not really be what you think it is. When you live at a group home you have no family and most of the time you don’t even have any friends and you always have to watch your back.

I’m only 12 years old and I live at a group home. Every morning I wake up to the same screaming, the same yelling, and the same old get the h*** up. Each morning I tend to think about killing myself, but then I know I will never have the guts to do so.

Then one day there was this man named john and his son Will. I wasn’t related to John but he gave me that hope of being related to him some time. At that point I didn’t realize it wouldn’t work out.

One day while I was over his house, John and I were playing checkers and I beat him. Then I played Will in checkers and as I was about to beat him, he flung the hole checker board. From here everything went downhill.

Will really started to hate me, only because of the fact that I got more attention from his dad. I loved it there but all because Will didn’t like me I was starting to lose the chance to have a home. This brought back the suicide thoughts.

Eventually I couldn’t stay there and had to go back to my old group home. This really made me mad. After that big disappointment I was always getting in trouble for violence and trying to run away. While I was still living in the group home, I was unaware that I had an aunt that was trying to find me and give me a home.

For some reasons that I can’t explain to you I had already tried to kill myself once. Even though I didn’t plan on really killing myself it was more so just for the attention. People at the group home would always say I couldn’t handle living in a home, and I was starting to prove they were right. That is until I started to see my aunt.

At first I was only seeing my aunt at the group home, which soon led to my visiting her at her house. Then I went to live with her, and I still live there now. One person can change another per-son’s world inside and out. For me that person is my aunt and because of her, I have a good home and a family I can trust.

This was a story about a boy’s life and how he had to live it; this is a story about how one person was another’s hero; and this is a story of pain and of love. This is a story about how I had to live my life. This is only the first chapter of my life, and I won’t let it end here.

GROUP HOMEBy alexanDra PeaBoDy 2013

Isee skies of blue, and clouds of white. Decadent dollops of whipped cream suspended in the sky. If only I could dip a spoon into that fluffy myriad of marshmallow. Where is the Big Dipper when I need it? Lounging on the lush emerald lawn

there are a thousand places I have to be. The only place I want to be is right here. Stop and smell the roses. If only there was a rose bush to sniff, I could discover what all the hype is about. Here on my little patch of grass the bustling world seems a lifetime away. All alone on my little patch of grass I can slow down and take the time to pick out shapes floating in the atmosphere. I feel insignificant compared to the colossal earth. How did God possibly fit the whole world in his hands? Gazing up into the heavens I ponder, muddle, and meditate about the supreme mysteries of the universe. Why is the sky blue? Not the scientific reasoning behind its unique compila-tion of azure, cerulean, cobalt, sapphire and turquoise, but who decided it should be blue? Would the world be the same with pista-chio, mahogany or even crimson swaddling the earth in a protective cocoon of gases? Why do the clouds appear in different shapes depending on the observer? Dragons and dolphins can materialize alongside puppies and pineapples from varying vantage points and levels of imagination. On my little patch of grass, everything is an enigma waiting to be selected for my scrutiny. One train of thought chugs along at a leisurely pace, unconcerned about what lies at the end of the tracks, for I have no answers of what tomorrow will bring. I can only live in the moment, the here and now, and experience all life has to offer. I lounge on thousands of blades of grass, leaving my mark on the world in the form of my unique body imprint. And I think to myself. What a wonderful world.

Woolgathering

TriPle ScooP TriPTych - linoleum Print By coDy marTin 2012

6 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012

Grand Prize Winner

By Olivia Cyr 2013

Mom’s hands are still as beautiful as they were in my parents’ wedding photograph, where my dad places the ring on her fin-

ger. She complains that they’re dry and calloused. I think they tell a story.

Mom takes off her rings only to do the most necessary tasks. Other than those few moments, she wears them all the time. She places them on the shelf in the bathroom when she showers, washes her hands and face. When she cooks, she puts them on a napkin, and begins vigorously stirring pots and pans of stew or sauce and chopping vegetables. I watch from the counter beside her, each one sparkling under the kitchen lights. Her engagement ring, her wedding ring, her anniversary diamond from my father. She wears it religiously. I can’t blame her. The day a man gives me a diamond is the day I stop shooting down women for weeping over jewelry as gifts.

“Isn’t it pretty? My husband gave methis,” she tells me sometimes, holding

her hand out and admiring it. I like it very much. That’s not the ring that gets my interest. The one I love is the purple dia-mond on a golden loop she wears on her right ring finger. When I hold her hands I always stop to look at in, or run my finger over the stone.

One day I ask Mom why she wears it. She pauses for a second.

“I never told you the story?”She has briefly described the day it hap-

pened, but I don’t know the details. She explains that she had my sister on June tenth, 1991, and two years later tried to have another baby. She miscarried that child. Everyone in the family was upset. My mom was devastated. You can imagine why I had nothing to say at the time. My sister wanted a baby brother or sister and had come so close to finally having one but it just didn’t happen. I was far below the surface of the world. I was curled into a ball, alien eyes shut, barely a person yet. An egg, a microbe of sleepy flesh and water and air.

My parents almost gave up. Somehow God decided to step in and work His per-fect magic. It was a surprise when my mom became pregnant again. I know how tightly she must’ve held onto this new baby, and how when she looked down at her slowly growing self she imagined what little life she was about to be taking care of. Would my sister have to struggle with a brother of a confusing alternate species? Would she hate having a little sister who would think she knew everything? I think about it now, about the child that could have made its way to the world. Surfaced its head and blinked wide eyes, greeting the earth and its loving parents. That child could have been made to be the newest addition to the family, and had a life of frazzled and loving proportions.

My parents discovered through an

ultrasound that their baby girl was successfully growing and healthy.

My dad and mom awaited the arrival of their daughter and Mom was excited as ever, as I grew stron-ger within her. I itched to get out into the fresh air, and meet my cre-ators, from what little I remember. Okay so I don’t remember anything at all, but something tells me I was ready to face the world.

So in November I was born. It was a nice day, my mom tells me now, and it was 10:10 in the morn-ing. I couldn’t go home yet, as if my parents hadn’t had enough worries over the last couple of years. The baby’s heart was beating irregu-larly, the doctors told them. We need to keep her, just as a precau-tion. She’ll be fine, go home and rest.

It turned out I was fine, and so I was whisked away to the car, wrapped tightly against the blus-tery cold, my mom wheeled out smiling with relief, my dad hold-ing me, a bite mark on his hand. Mom tells me now the delivery was just a little painful.

For the next few days, Dad walked me around the house, introducing me to the family, giving me a tour of the couch, the freezer, the cat, and the television. It was all so beauti-ful, Dad. Thanks. My sister emerged from her little world, and held me at all times, ecstatic to finally have a sister.

And so followed three care-free years of butterflies and sunshine and sunsets, starry nights and overalls and sand and dirt. Then two of pre-school age experiences, and five years of speech and atti-tude and silly moments and tickling and eating my first bite of grilled cheese, my sister look-ing at me expectantly, rolling her eyes as I exclaimed what I had been missing out on all this time. By fifteen I knew everything about myself and my family, except for why my mother wore a purple ring. And so brings us to this day, this moment. The moment I sit at the breakfast table early morning with Mom and she tells me the story of the baby who gave me a chance to meet her. She tells me she bought herself the ring as a reminder of the baby she will always love.

I asked her once if she wishes maybe she had had that child instead of me.

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” She wraps an arm around me, kisses my fore-head. I think I know exactly what she means.

Things couldn’t have been better with my relationship with that child since then. Whenever I say little prayers, I say thank you. I don’t know what he or she was

going to be. I think now I’ve graduat-ed the title to “my guardian angel.”

In my life I have overcome a lot of anxieties, including depression and self-injury, low self-esteem, bad body image, anger problems, and bullying. In my lowest times, I felt like Ophelia, portrayed by John William Waterhouse as a girl putting flowers in her hair and saying goodbye to her lover before she drowns in a lake. In each case I have been able to find a micro-scopic glimmer of optimism in praying. Not just to God, but to my angel. She has perfected my faith in almost every way, including my belief that life is always worth living no matter what, and that I must appreciate things that are not perma-nent; like my life and the lives of others. As I am getting older and going through hard times, I am seeing awful situations unfold before my eyes in which I am sometimes forced to bite my tongue or to fight back.

However my angel is my constant reminder that I have to pick my battles and be the stron-gest I can be. For her. Because she has no chance to start over, and I can’t bring her back. So in a way, I like to think I live vicariously through her. At present, I only enjoy looking at the painting of Ophelia, not actually wishing I were her. My angel tells me I don’t have to take that road.

Before my mother told me about her miscarriage, maybe I would have gone on feeling unappreciative of what I have and the people whom I love. Maybe I would be self-absorbed and uncaring towards people who lose a child and never recognize that life is a precious thing. Because of my angel and her bravery to slip away and let me through to the world instead, I was blessed with my first and now millionth breath of fresh air.

Guardian Angel...You Help Me Shine

Self-Portrait – By Olivia Cyr 2013

bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 7

College Essays

By Nicole Jacques 2012Salve Regina University

It’s mid-August and I’m upstairs in my bedroom, playing dress-up like I did as a kid. Only this time, it’s not tutus and old bridesmaids’ gowns

I’m trying on to strut around the house—today, I’m choosing the outfit I will wear in my senior picture.

My bed looks like a warzone, and it’s my high school years that are battling it out. The dressy pink shirts of freshman year have taken the head of the bed, but the trendy scarves and jackets of sopho-more and junior year have taken the offensive and are beating back the sea of my old fashion decisions. The class war-fare is becoming intense. Clearly, I need reinforcements.

It’s time to call in the cavalry; Mom. As any good general would do, Mom

sat me down and broke it to me hard. “The decision is completely up to you,” she said, explaining that, in senior pic-tures, you shouldn’t dress as your par-ents want you to appear, but rather as what you think you look like: a reflection, to the world, of who you have become and what you someday aim to be.

In that moment, Mom forced me to answer a question that I avoided

throughout all of high school: Who am I? Sitting down for a moment, I did some soul-searching. I got up and began scanning through the mess, all the while repeating to myself “What do I normally wear to school?”

Finally, I started to make decisions. I picked up a long-sleeved, black shirt and one of my favorite necklaces. Then, it was time for the jeans. Choosing the

perfect pair to fit the outfit was a diffi-cult choice.

At first, I didn’t even consider my old pair of LEI’s because of the tattered hole below the pocket. But on second glance, they were perfect. I remembered the moment I got that hole; junior year, right before I walked into my first Video Production class. I thought back to that day, and the dreams that Video Production had instilled in me. It was in that class that I began to dream of some-day working my passion of journalism into my hobby of video-making and using that combination to benefit society by giving all people an informed and panoramic view of the world.

Fast forward to the next day. In each flash of the photographer’s camera, I saw pieces of my future coming togeth-er. In one I saw myself cutting video clips in a TV studio; in another, myself interviewing people; in every one, I was enjoying my life. In that 30-minute ses-sion, I realized that one day I would be able to provide people with information to change their world.

For most people, the memory of their senior picture is unimportant; for me, it is pivotal. My picture is more than just a representation of who I was then; it’s a reflection of who I have become.

By emily Zygiel 2012Stonehill College

When most people talk about drawing, what they describe is an uncontrolled outpour-ing of emotion. With no

plan in mind, their hands move of their own volition. My brain works differ-ently; I take on each drawing in the manner of a logical problem that needs solving. My emotion does, of course, inspire my artwork, but never so over-whelmingly that I deviate from my sys-tem. While others develop a plan as they go along, mine starts before my pencil touches the page. If I were to explain the process that I go through to create each piece of art, I could only describe it in one way: the scientific method.

Problem: The hardest obstacle to over-come is a blank sheet of paper. In front of me is a tree, just a tree, the same tree that I would have drawn as a cloud on a stump as a kid. Now, it more nearly resembles an object just as complex as a strand of DNA, and just as impossible to manually repli-cate.

Hypothesis: In physics, before solving any problem I first need to determine a frame of reference. The same goes for my drawing; I choose to view it from the

ground, which sets it against a brick building and the clear sky. To start, I divide the tree into sections. In the first section, I notice that the top of the brick building serves as a tangent line to one of the largest branches. This observation gave me a place to start, and from there one step leads to another.

Experiment: Progress is never made in science without delving into the unknown. While drawing, my hands always know their next step; first I lightly outline, then I shade defining shadows, then I fill in details, then repeat as many times as necessary. However, my mind never knows exactly where my hands are taking me. I wouldn’t be learning if I already knew the answer.

Conclusion: Chemistry has taught me that it is almost impossible to have zero percent error. My completed piece is far from perfection, but I am never ashamed of it because everything I draw reflects a passion of mine. Anyone who knows me would say that I am competitive, athletic, and scientific. It has always been hard for me to see how I could succeed in school and art at the same time, and as a result I didn’t take a single art class for 2 years. It was not until I started think-ing about what to write this essay about that I realized that my artistic side and

my scientific side are not in conflict because not only can they coexist, but also their existence in my mind is depen-dent of each other.

Communicate: For me, this is the hardest part, but I know that it is neces-sary. Scientists need to submit their findings so that others can learn from it and build upon it. In the same fashion, artists need to present their work for critique so that they can improve. The difficult part is taking that leap, making that part of myself vulnerable. However, art makes me happy, and improving is what I strive for; therefore, I straighten my shoulders, and subject my finished work to judgment in any form that it may come.

Worth A Thousand Words

The Art of Science

8 bChS - SignatUReS - 2011-2012

The A TeamBy elise galipo 2012

University of hartford

Have you ever felt like you weren’t good enough? Yet someone came into your life and helped you along the way. They had such an impact

on you that they helped to change your life. They believed in you when no one else did. They made you into the person you are today and you have them to thank for this.

The day my life changed was the day I met Mike Smith. In 2005, Mike Smith was the head coach of the U-11 FSA Soccer-Plus Team and the Trinity College Women’s Soccer Team. If you were trying out for the FSA U-11 Team you could either make the “A” team or the “B” team. Trying out for the FSA Team for the first time, I only made the “B” team, but that wouldn’t last very long. As a young soccer player, many coaches thought I had speed but no skills. Yet, after Mike had watched me play numerous times, he thought more of me. He thought I had true potential and could be an amazing soccer player and he wanted me on his team - the “A” team.

Mike always believed my work ethic was my best quality. He thought I was the hardest worker on the team but that I needed to get my skill level up. He would stay after practice just to keep working with me, whether it was to work on my touch or to work on shooting. He had confidence in me that I would go far with my soccer career. He helped me to gain confidence in myself and told me to forget what anyone else said. He told me I had my future in my own hands and if I worked hard enough for something I wanted, I could accomplish it.

Mike made me believe in myself. He showed me the true lesson of life: That if you have a dream, go and get it. When I was little, my dream to play college soccer never seemed reachable. I figured it would always be just a dream, not reality. Yet, Mike changed this. He made me gain confidence in myself not only as a player but as a person. Due to my small height and size, many people thought it would be impossible for me to play Division 1 Soccer; but not Mike. He believed in me from day one, the very day that he chose me to be on his team. He pushed me and trained me harder than I thought I could work. His confidence and coaching has finally paid off. The true reason I will be playing Division 1 College Soccer is because of Mike. His influence on me was greater than anyone else’s. Due to Mike’s true belief in my ability to be a great soccer player, it made me into the player and person I am today.

bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 9College Essays

By NathaN Casale 2012northeastern university

The year is 1996. A father purchases a stuffed yellow bird for his two year old son with money that could have purchased four gallons of gas or three loaves of bread. Instead, he inadvertently

bought his son a source of values, confidence, and most importantly, a friend.

Fast forward two years, and shift the setting from Bristol, Connecticut, to Disney World in Orlando, Florida. The line to Goofy’s Barnstormer is slowly dwindling and the boy, still clutching “Baby,” the stuffed yellow bird, can hear the screams of the ride’s passengers as they whiz by. The little boy is scared. His parents told him the ride would be a good experience, but he is unsure now. Finally, the wait is over. It is the boy’s turn to ride the coaster. He is nervous, and doesn’t know what he should do. It is at this moment that the boy looks down to his hands, and see his little yellow friend, urging him to step into the cart. Despite his fear, the boy takes the advice of Baby and sits down in his seat. The ride is unlike anything he has ever experienced before: 180 seconds of pure excitement, a literal roller coaster ride of emotions from nervousness to excitement to fear to relief. When the ride ends, the boy cannot help but smile. He’d done it. He’d flown out of his comfort zone and loved where he landed. Baby had given him the ability to try new things, to go against the grain, and to change as an indi-vidual.

The boy is now 16. As vice president of National

Honor Society he is heading freshman orientation at his school. He must speak in front of over 40 fellow NHS members, as well as say a few comfort-ing words to hun-dreds of incoming freshmen. The boy is once again ner-vous and unsure of what will happen next. The time comes for the boy to make his speech. He is sweating and his mouth is dry on his trek up to the podium. What is a 30 foot walk feels like 30 miles. Finally, the boy reach-es the podium. He wishes he had somebody to comfort him at this moment. The boy suddenly remembers his childhood companion. The yellow mass of stuffing that carried him through the hardships of his youth. The boy recalls the warmth and security Baby offers, and immedi-ately feels relief. He opens his mouth to speak and the words flow from his lips, like a river, surging with confi-dence and power. Just the memory of his faded yellow friend is enough to give the boy the confidence he needs.

My parents did something remarkable that day in 1996. They managed to exchange a five dollar bill for something of infinite value; a value which can’t be mea-sured in dollars and cents, but in love and experiences. Baby is not simply a stuffed toy, but a piece of me; an object of incalculable value.

By Matthew trelli 2012bryant college

Three years ago a conflict began for me between desire and self control. Each November brings along two of my favorite things, wrestling and Thanksgiving dinner. Unfortunately, these two

things don’t work well with one another.It’s been an ongoing struggle between

turkey and me; turkey has come out victo-rious each year by a slim margin. In the world of sports, weight is as important to wrestling as spray tanning is to the cast of Jersey Shore.

Each year we make the trip to my grandmother’s for Thanksgiving. The sec-ond I enter the door, my nose is attacked by the aromas of food. I find myself sub-consciously staring at the plates of des-serts in front of me on the kitchen table. If I manage to make it into the living room away from all the food, I know I can be strong.

It’s time. The moment I’ve been dread-ing since the beginning of the week. My grandma calls everyone to the dining room. I walk in cringing at what I’m expecting to see. It’s as I suspected, a table long enough to fit all 20 or so of my family mem-bers, covered from end to end.

The worst is yet to come. The food gets passed around, starting with the vegetables. The vegetables are the first part of the test. It seems to be an easy one only trying to

catch me off guard but I have no problem handing them over and moving onto the next dilemma. I’m handed a bowl of stuffing. This one seems to get to me. I feel my stomach stirring so I hand the stuffing over to my cousin. I made it. I reach the most difficult part of the test. My dad walks in with turkey sitting on a platter. When the turkey reaches me, I begin to cave in. As my fork digs into

the juicy piece of fowl, I catch myself. I drop my fork knowing I nearly ruined it all.

Everything I’d worked for was almost lost in those ten seconds. As if that bat-tle wasn’t hard enough, I’m forced to sit at a table overwhelmed with compli-ments about tender turkey and moist mashed potatoes. Cooks always say it takes hours to prepare and only seconds to consume, but for me it seems like people are eating for an eternity.

It’s over. The turkey defeated me once again. I return to the living room, vulnerable and exhausted. My grandma does it. It’s the finishing punch. She says two words: “Dessert Time.” I go to the table and see mountains of cookies and

brownies. I remember I have a trick up my sleeve. I pull out a piece of EXTRA dessert gum. It’s my only way out. It tides me over while my cousins devour every crumb.

On the way home I think about Thanksgiving next year. My wrestling career will be over. Come November 22, 2012, NO TURKEY will be safe!

THANKSGIVING DINNER

BABY BABY BABY

By MitChell GaGNoN 2012Fairfield university

When most Americans take foreign trips, they see and learn so much and often have a new outlook on the rest of the world when they come back. The summer

of my junior year I was fortunate enough to take a trip to Italy with the Latin program at my school and I came back to Connecticut with a different outlook on something that other people might see as silly or trivial. This new outlook I developed was about the simple gesture of giving up my seat.

While taking a public transit boat late at night from Venice to another small island during my first day in Italy, sitting down I realized how tired I was. When I was admiring the differ-ent traits of the Italian citizens I sud-denly realized that there were many older Italian women who were standing on this rocky boat. I thought to myself that these gracious elder Italian women must be ten times as tired as I was, hav-ing worked all day in the city, so I rose out of my seat and using hand gestures offered it to the closest woman to me. She graciously accepted my offering and warmly smiled at me. No one else on this public transit boat probably saw this simple gesture but the warm feeling in my heart made me set a goal to give up my seat as much as possible.

So as my trip in Italy continued on whatever public boat, bus, or train I was on, I made sure that I would offer my seat to whomever seemed like they needed it more, such as one Italian mother who was carrying one young child and pushing another in a stroller. The warm smiles and “grazie” that I received in return were worth more than the actual act of giving up my seat and provided my extraordinary trip to Italy with more meaning than I had ever imagined.

Returning to the United States I never forgot about my new priority of giving up my seat and used it to find a deeper meaning in society and human nature. Even though some snobby New Yorkers may never show any type of appreciation towards this act, the world is generally good and there is always some gra-cious older Italian woman out there who will at some point provide a deeper meaning for your simple acts. So whether it is “Thank You,” “Grazie,” “Merci,” “Danke,” “Do Jeh,” “Arigato,” or any other word of gratitude in any language, always know that there are people in this world who appreciate simple acts. In order to make a positive impact on this world, you don’t always have to go over the top by traveling to some poor foreign nation and raise millions of dollars to build a school for the children, but instead just do something as simple and meaningful as giving up your seat.

Giving Up My Seat

College Essays

HISTORY: Q and A

By Alino Te 2012Worcester Polytechnic Institute

Cambodian history begins on page 237 in my history text book… My Cambodian history begins with my father. He struggled through killing fields; through landmine fields; through

the disease infested jungles of Cambodia and Thailand; and even the struggle of coming to and assimilating into America. His trudging through near death experi-ences with mortar shells and even befriending a horse for companionship, has inspired me more than words can even begin to describe. My father’s words went something like “Do something incredible with the life you were given!”

My father came to America to avoid the Khmer Rouge and to give his future kids a better opportunity than he had. I’ve taken on eight college cours-es in two years, bal-anced varsity sports, and have up kept these dashingly good looks! If he can han-dle cold and lonely nights in a dangerous jungle then I can han-dle a harder educa-tion that I intend to pursue in college. I want… no! I need the challenge. I strive for the difficulty and the rigor of everything.

I didn’t apply to college for a cupcake ride through the park! I want to virtually sit in my father’s jungle with a horse companion and struggle through the night. I shall not be satisfied with handling something less than near impossible. The more improbable, the better! Nothing is unachievable; therefore I want to achieve it all. My father’s hauntingly inspiring words will resound in me wherever I go, with whatever I do, including engi-neering or in any work I get to use my hands. Well, those aren’t really his words; his words are more akin to: “If it didn’t kill you, it’s another reason to live and do something incredible!” My father was educated to about grammar school back in Cambodia so his word choice is very humorous and heartwarming!

I want to show my father that he did not come to a foreign land for no reason. He currently works as a concrete truck driver and still has hopes of a great future. His resilience and optimism are truly qualities to be respected. I want to be an engineer; nothing as diffi-cult as my father’s arduous task, but it will be something to make him proud!

Now, what will I do?A) Do my best and more in everything I do in collegeB) Succeed and make my father proudC) Learn everything I can to be successfulD) All of the aboveThe answer is D.

By Aubrey Palmquist 2012Salve Regina University

Istep to the line, the air is crisp, and my body is paralyzed, awaiting the sound of the gun to signify the start of the race. Every girl looks from left to right and wonders who she can

outlast and who can outlast her. Inside my stomach twists and turns fearing what the possible outcomes of the race could be, imagining the worst, and pray-ing for the best. The gun goes off and the runners fend for themselves, racing like a herd of sheep for a position. It is a known fact that the first 400 is the most crucial stage of the race; one must conserve energy for the bigger obstacles to come. My body is being thrown back and forth between other contenders, but I can’t reveal fear or show weakness.

The first mile I begin to get into my rhythm, slowly moving up, elbowing here and there to show I’m not backing down. All those runners who led the first part of the race are now falling back, becoming more defeated as they see themselves falling further and further behind. At this point I can see the top pack of runners in front of me and realize it’s now or never. No battle can be one with-out the determination to do so, and no athlete has more determination than I.

Approaching the second mile I close the gap and I’m racing side by side with the leader. At this point the mental stage takes over, and who has the desire to fight through exhaustion will be determined. In front of us

lies the green monster, the hardest part of the course, where giving up is not an option. In order to conquer my opponent I need to tackle this hill as if I were a quarter-back in an NFL championship game. I push up the hill but when I reach the top she passes me, and once again

takes the lead. Once the thought of back-ing down crosses my mind, I think about the lasting image that I will leave behind, showing everyone it is okay to give up in times of hardship. I refocus myself on the race and reach the last mile. This is the point in the race when your legs feel like jelly, sweat is pouring off your body, and each breath hurts. It comes down to who has what it takes to be a champion, and who will push past pain to win.

Although she overtook me on the hill, I slowly begin to make my comeback. I feel a sudden burst of energy and in the next moment I’ve taken the lead. I can see the finish line and hear the breath of the contender behind me. I can’t let the fear of her passing me take control,

there’s no backing down. A spectator begins to cheer and yells, “Who has more heart? Show me who has more heart!” Those words enter my head and there’s no ques-tion that I have more heart, I’m going to prove it. I cross the line, hunched over and struggling to breathe, and realize I am the conference champion. I look up to the sky and wink. Nobody understands the wink but me and my best friend, my grandpa. I feel this sudden rush and know that was his approval. I showed him I can battle a race like he battled cancer, even though only I can truly claim the title of champion.

MORE HEART

By Mark Winters 2012University of Connecticut

From a very young age, I have always dreamed of becoming an engineer. I spent most of child-hood playing and building with

Legos. It would be this simple child’s toy that would continue to feed my ambi-tion and desire to become an engineer.

The first time I got a hold of a Lego set. I was about five years old. I was vis-iting my Oma and Opa’s house in Germany. In a wooden box under the corner of the bench in the family room was a small collection of a few thousand Lego pieces. This was the beginning of my addiction to creation and construction. I began sim-ple, building small cars and houses; every now and then I’d construct a ship out of a preexisting set. I quickly advanced to more and more sophisticated projects, building planes, tanks, trains, helicopters, anything I could imagine.

For years I continued to feed my addiction. Quickly I built a massive collection, particularly of my all time favorite Star Wars sets. I can recall many days when my room would be transformed into a war zone, with hand crafted bunkers, trenches, and vehicles sprawled every-where. I always loved to add my own accessories to pre-made sets, more rooms for my make shift soldiers to sit in, more armor and armaments to attack their blocky

adversaries. This was my childhood. I enjoyed buying and building new sets

as often as possible. I enjoyed the satisfac-tion of completing a challenging set or adding some new tools to my imaginary arsenal. My greatest accomplishment came in completing a 3,000 piece Lego Star Wars Death Star II Collectors Edition set when I was twelve. This massive set took me a solid week and easily eight hours to complete. However, even after completing the set, I was still not satisfied. I began to discover a verity of structural issues with the set, causing it to be very rickety. My biggest fear was that all my work would come to a sudden and violent crash if it splattered across the floor. So,

naturally, I began to add my own sub assemblies to rein-force the base of the model. My knack for construction and creation led me to consider a career in which I could perform the same tasks. It was then that I began to real-ize that engineering was the carrier path of my dreams.

My young adult life has reached a new climax. As I stand at the threshold of adulthood, the time has come to decide my future. Engineering is that future. My pas-sion for creation and construction from a very young age has prepared me for this day.

Today is the beginning of my dream of becoming an aeronautical engineer. This is just the start of a new beginning.

BuIldIng A dReAm

10 bChS - SIgnatUReS - 2011-2012

ColleGe eSSAYS THAT WoRKConsults Available - See Mrs. Dickau

The Writing lab - 127

College Essays

By Ashley Pecorelli 2012Vassar College

The first time you take that long-dreaded jump into the deep end of the pool is terrifying. Something is so foreboding about

the blue chlorinated water; perhaps it’s the juxtaposition of the clear, sunny day and the unknown darkness of the bot-tom. Maybe you feel uncomfortable hur-dling into the water without the safety of slick inflated rubber chafing against your chest. Or, it could be the worry that when you finally do touch the bottom, the depths will swallow you up and you won’t make it to the top. No matter which way you look at it, the summer you learn how to swim can be one of the most challenging obstacles you overcome in your life.

Granted, that summer isn’t normally the summer before your senior year in high school; you aren’t usually a sixteen

year-old terrified of drowning; and you generally can hold onto the concrete side of the deep end without hyperventilating.

The reason for my phobia stems from a near-death experience at age three on a family trip to a lake. Being so young, I was not allowed to go in the water with-out my Ariel floaties or my mother. But something about the water just drew me in: the way it threw colors when the sun reflected, the mystery of what was lying underneath, the weightless feeling it gave me. So, when my mother’s back was turned, I climbed onto the dock, scooted my bottom to the edge … and jumped.

I am by no means fearless. I will not watch any movie featuring more blood than a Mickey Mouse Band-Aid absorbs. I immediately exit any room in which I hear even the faintest noise of a fly buzz-ing. I will not sleep without my feet tucked safely out of reach underneath my blan-ket. Yet nothing haunts me more than the memory of almost drowning. The feeling

of being completely submerged and pow-erless is one that has paralyzed me for fourteen years.

For the longest time, I did nothing about it. I made excuses, held onto the side of the pool and waited; for what, I’m not sure. One day this summer, something finally cracked. I grew tired of watching the swan dives of my friends, their silhou-ettes cast in shadows below them. I wanted that freedom, suspended in weight-lessness, my own final frontier. To their surprise, one day this summer, I let go.

And sank.What I felt at that moment was a con-

centrated mixture of numbness and panic with an unexpected dose of wonder at how beautiful the sky looked from under-water. I found myself rising to the surface with ease, banishing my worries of being stuck at the bottom to the shallow end with the rest of my inhibition.

One day when I was three, I jumped off a dock, emerging drenched with fear.

One day this summer, I jumped off a diving board, my mind as clear as the water.

One day, I’ll jump into the ocean.

THE DEEP WATER

By hristos GiAnnoPoulos 2012Worcester Polytechnic Institute

One of the most essential skills every student must master is the all-important work ethic. The ability to self-motivate is absolutely nec-essary for success no matter what your goals

are. It was only during this past summer working at a rental company that it occurred to me that the work ethic most students develop in school is not adequate for the rigors of “the real world.” Schools motivate students through grades and test scores, such as Connecticut’s Mastery Tests and CAPT. By senior year, students are already stressing out over testing well, rather than learning well.

I first looked into getting a job in order to save for college last spring. When I saw the ad for part time work at “A local rental company” at school, I jumped at the prospect of employment. That afternoon, I drove straight to Grand Rental Station, filled out an application, and handed it to the boss. He mulled it over briefly before asking, “Can you start Saturday?”

Filled with the enthusiasm that only the newly employed enjoy, I replied, “Absolutely.” After only a few weeks of work, I realized why I was hired so quickly. In contrast to last season’s less than motivated employees, I looked like exactly what the boss needed.

I later realized that the work ethic I developed through school wasn’t quite enough. Without the instant gratification of grades, I needed something else

for motivation, especially when it came to the “combo bounce house.” When I think of irony, these particular bulky, heavy and all around cumbersome inflatables come to mind. The extra large combo bounce house which brings great joy to the children also brings pain and hardship to those tasked with its delivery and set up.

This joy-pain irony presented itself on a sweltering hot day in the middle of June. My co-worker Andy and I were tasked with picking up the sports-themed

combo. We began to pack up the bounce house as usual; pulling out the three foot stakes and unplug-ging the blower. Everything was going smoothly until we put the combo on the specially made dolly and tried to push it up the hill to the waiting van. Half way up the thirty degree incline, Andy and I ran out of steam. There was no way that just the two of us, with a com-bined weight of less than 300 lbs., could push the combo up that hill. Even though we could have called the shop for help, we decided to solve the combo problem ourselves.

After a few minutes of reenact-ing the Sisyphus myth, we inge-niously tied a rope to the dolly and the trailer hitch of the work van and pulled the bounce house up the

hill. The plan was just crazy enough to work. From that one painful experience I learned every

life lesson about work ethic I’ll ever need. True motiva-tion is all about wanting to reach your limit and then finding a creative way to go beyond it.

Sisyphus vs The Bounce House Dum Spiro Spero(While I Breathe, I Hope) 2012 Class Poem

it’s funny how you can measure four years in breaths

inhalingas your fingers grasp that first handlemetal smudging with the evidence of your nervesa simple action you’ll repeat, yetto this time your mind always returns

and then, a week later, letting your breath gothe carbon dioxide swirling with faces memorized,names forgotten, and the realization that next week,you’ll do it again

but the breathing gets easierthe respiration becomes less scientificwhen you realize that everyoneis taking in, holding, letting gothe same air

before you know it, you’re walking across a stageshoulders tight, fingers trembling, breath coming in spurtsin out in out in outyou remember the first time you walked through the doorand finally smile, because this is just another one

if you happen to look out at the sea of faces,look closer, and you’ll seethe subtle rise and fall of shouldersblending, creating a steady rhythma pattern to which, you now realize

you’ve been breathing all along

Ashley Pecorelli 2012

bChs - sIgnatures - 2011-2012 11

bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 1312 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 The Portrait Gallery

By Dominique Campos 2012

By sarah Wojtusik 2012

By niCole

Worrell 2013

By kevin mulvey 2012

By niCole

frutChey 2013

By Chris semrau 2013

By ashley tWiggs 2012

By anDreW vallee 2013

ThanksArt Instructors Leslie Fernandez & Jessica Stifelfor their expertise & inspiration

Wayne DePaolo of the Bristol Pressfor his design skills

andBC Principal Peter Winingerfor his school wide initiative toBe Creative!

bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 1312 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 The Portrait Gallery

By Dominique Campos 2012

By sarah Wojtusik 2012

By niCole

Worrell 2013

By kevin mulvey 2012

By niCole

frutChey 2013

By Chris semrau 2013

By ashley tWiggs 2012

By anDreW vallee 2013

ThanksArt Instructors Leslie Fernandez & Jessica Stifelfor their expertise & inspiration

Wayne DePaolo of the Bristol Pressfor his design skills

andBC Principal Peter Winingerfor his school wide initiative toBe Creative!

College Essays

By Taylor SaSSu 2011Marist College

“Good morning! How are you today?” “Good, thanks. How are you?” “I’m good, thank you. Can I get you some

drinks?” As a waitress at The Parkside Café, a

small, quaint breakfast restaurant in my hometown, these words are a part of my Saturday and Sunday morning script. Although the lines seem ordinary, my job is anything but. How could it be? With specials such as sweet potato home fries, “Thanksgiving Day Omelet,” and “Campfire French Toast,” The Parkside Café isn’t your average breakfast destination. The buttermilk pancakes melt on your tongue and the veggie omelets would please any proud PETA member. The specials, how-ever, are only for the daring. You can’t be cautious and eat “El Toro de la Cocina,” a breakfast sandwich consisting of four eggs, six pieces of bacon, four sausage pat-ties, and four pieces of cheese all between two Belgian waffles.

“EL TORO DE LA COCI-NA!” JR, the owner and head chef, yells from the tiny kitchen as he cooks the fantastic feast. That kind of breakfast deserves some kind of recognition.

Every day begins miserably at six as I hit snooze on my alarm for the third time. “I swear I’ m quitting today,” I think as I crawl out of bed. I’m not a morning per-son. I drive to work on the dark, empty streets and dream of the nap I’ll take when I finally return home. Once I actu-ally arrive at work and smell the New

England Coffee, I begin to rise and shine.I walk into the dining room to find

James, a crotchety old man who gets the same thing every morning. I eagerly run up to take his order. I don’t want him to get too angry.

“Would you like a decaf coffee?” I ask him, already knowing the answer.

“… And a banana nut muffin!” he yells back at me with his raspy voice. I quickly turn around and put in his order. I then turn to Chelsey, the other weekend wait-ress, and laugh. It’s the only way I can possibly put up with James and his abrupt remarks.

When I notice James is almost done with his muffin, I grab him two coffees to go and the check.

“I need a tray!” he yells back at me.“We’re all out. I’m sorry,” I reluctantly

respond, hoping that the apology will help ease his anger.

“Bring me a bag!” At this point, I’m completely confused but don’t ask ques-tions. I put the coffee cups in the bag and think, “Only James.” A few minutes later, he gets up, grabs his bag, and successfully makes it to the door without any spills. Chelsey and I look at each other in amaze-ment and then burst out in laughter.By nine o’clock, the rush comes in. I run to tables, give out menus, get drinks, give out more menus, bring extra cream, get more drinks, take four orders, bring out food, and repeat.

The rush doesn’t stop, but then it’s ten thirty and my favorite couple has finally arrived. They’re an older pair who walk to the restaurant holding hands. Wherever they sit, I’m sure to take their order. I get

their drinks, a decaf and a diet Pepsi, and just one menu; he already knows what he wants.

“Ten eggs over easy and dry rye toast,” he says jokingly as I laugh along. He then proceeds with his actual order. “Bacon, egg, and cheese on lightly buttered rye toast.”

I then turn to his wife, who usually needs a minute, but nine times out of ten, she asks for, “The same with lettuce and tomato, please.”

“Great! Thank you!” I say as I take their menus. They smile back very sincerely as I walk away. As I rush around the restau-rant from table to table, they sit at theirs, always smiling and making conversation with one another.

When I give them their check, he says, “Oh. We don’t need this,” joking once again. We all laugh together as he hands me some cash and tells me to keep the change. I thank them and they continue to sit and chat for some time before they walk out holding hands and tell me to have a good day. I say the same.

The day starts to slow down, and it’s about time, two o’clock to be exact. After eight hours of running around, it’s a relief to catch a break. We slowly begin our clos-ing routine: bring out the trash, refill ketchups and syrups, clean out coffee pots, dry dishes, and so on. Finally, I take off my apron.

“Quarter of seven?” my other boss, Leanne, asks me as she hands me my share of the day’s tips.

“Sure!” I answer cheerfully, not think-ing about the consequences I’ll pay next Saturday while I’m waking up, planning

on how I’m going to tell JR and Leanne that I’m quitting due to lack of sleep. But as I walk out the door, everyone says, “Bye, Taylor!” and I think about how I wanted to quit this morning.

“What was I thinking?”When my friends ask me if I like my

job, I answer, “I love it.” They think I’m crazy. I get up every weekend at six in the morning and leave my house at six thirty; most of my friends don’t get up that early for school. I truly love my job. There’s no other job I could ask for that could bring the things that I get out of it. I meet new people, see old friends, and make conver-sation with strangers. I’m not going to get that by sleeping in every weekend. My job is worth the sleep deprivation, sore feet, and hours spent on the treadmill to burn off double-decker BLTs. No matter what, I will never quit. I’ll always consider it, however, when that alarm rings at six o’clock on Saturday morning.

By andrea diVenere 2011University of Connecticut, Honors Program

Recently looking through my baby pictures it seemed every other picture I had was of me covered in pasta sauce or shoveling cold

green beans into my mouth. Food has always played a large part in my proud Italian life.

In fact, food fueled the early start to my mathematical talents. Long car rides were spent playing number games: “If Grandma ate one apple and Mommy took two more…” Double digit addition and subtraction became a breeze by the age of four. My five-year-old Sunday morning breakfasts entailed learning long division on napkins and successfully adding up the bill would merit a lollipop.

However, addition was not solely aimed at winning treats. My Aunt Margaret helped me use addition to become aware

of health. She was diabetic and was thus limited in her daily sugar intake. Before any snack, even if it was just for me, I began checking the labels. I’d always opt for a fresh kiwi over a candy bar. My Papa’s garden made healthy choices easy. Grape tomatoes were finger food while helping him weed and fresh berries were never in shortage. These healthy habits continue today. While I’ve become a health conscious athlete, I must admit I still can’t resist broccoli rabe, eggplant parmigiana, or a homemade cannoli.

Though these are Italian classics, I see dinnertime as a blank canvas. Whether it’s adding new vegetables to my mom’s chicken soup or making a new marinade, I believe food should never be boring or predictable. The first time I tried a recipe for a grilled peach parfait I was amazed at the combinations of flavors. Since then, I love the challenge of making something delicious and healthy out of anything. It’s

to this creativity that I credit my aspira-tions of becoming a chemical engineer in the drug development field. Taking simple ingredients and creating an innovative masterpiece is how we’ll eventually reach coveted scientific breakthroughs.

Sometimes, however, the combination of ingredients does not result in such a masterpiece. I remember the first time I made my dad a meatloaf based on his deceased mother’s recipe. When the oven buzzed, I was eager for his approval. Seeing the look in his eyes and tasting the awful concoction was heart-wrenching, but it made me stronger. Failure happens, but giving up was not an option to me; it never is. After my second attempt, the joy of success was enormous but even more rewarding was the look of happiness in my dad’s eyes as he recalled childhood memories.

Food connects me with similar family memories. Sunday dinners at my grand-

parents’ house were once a weekly ritual, uniting the comforts of food and family. Now, my mom and I make every attempt to have regular sit-down dinners. Getting a chance to catch up after a busy day has always helped me step back and be thank-ful for the life I have. It’s this delicious and loved life that I can proudly credit for all my success.

Parkside CaFÉ

Food For Thought

14 bCHs - signatUres - 2011-2012

By Stephanie JacqueS 2011Salve Regina University

The second day of 10th grade, I walk into Mr. Greenleaf’s Algebra class. This would be my new service-learning class. Service-learning is an opportunity to gain credit for tutoring other

students in a class, and since I want to be a teacher, this would be the perfect opportunity for me. I look around to see who the people I will be tutoring in this “basic-level” math course are. As I scan the classroom I see all types of people, from incoming freshmen, to sophomores who could not pass this course the first time around, to one senior, who needs this class to graduate, but missed it in prior years because he was spending some time in jail. The thing I find most alarm-ing, however, is the way students seem to naturally divide themselves along racial and ethnic lines.

I locate a seat in the back of the room; it might unof-ficially be deemed the “Hispanic” area as though stu-dents had segregated themselves there. They assume that I am just another student. I fit in with them because my Italian heritage makes me look as though I am a Hispanic student. The boy that is seat-ed next to me says “Hi” then turns his head back to the front of the class-room. Already I feel good about this ges-ture of kindness, and feel as though I will fit in with the group.

Over the next few weeks I saw that this class was just like my classes. There were some students who were disorderly and uncontrollable while others just wanted to concen-trate and learn the concepts to receive a good grade. Around the second week of class I started tutoring a boy who didn’t understand the basic concepts of math. From the beginning, he stood out from the rest of the class. This boy had an actual desire to learn the mate-rial, but he honestly did not understand. Every day, he would do his homework and come into class to find that, though he’d tried so hard, his answers were wrong. All he needed was some extra help. Starting the second week of class, I sat with him while he worked on sample problems. I watched and pointed out errors he made. Before the end of the first quarter, the boy’s grade went up from an F to a B. All he needed was the one-on-one attention that I was able to give him. Even though I know he was the one who did the work, it felt good to know that I had helped him understand the concepts.

Overall, the students in this class were very positive and willing to learn and try in class. Attitudes like this changed my idea of what I want to do. I’ve always known that I wanted to be a teacher, but the experience I gained in this class confirmed my dream. Before my experiences in this class, I had expected to teach every student in much the same way. Now I know I want to teach those “academics” to do more than float through high school. I want to be a teacher who helps all kids achieve, regardless of their status.

bchS - SignatUReS - 2011-2012 15College Essays

By elizaBeth Fitz 2011Salve Regina University

“In a world that is constantly looking forward to the future for answers, I have always looked to the past.” I don’t know who said this first, but I can certainly identify with the sen-

timent. My passion for history defines me as both a student and a person. My fervor for the past led me to one of my other great passions: reading, which has been such a huge part of my life. Having such an inter-est in what I was learning has also given me the push to make me the best student I could be. My relation-ships with my family, especially my grandfather, have been richened and enhanced by a shared love of his-tory. My personality also has been influenced by my love of history. Undoubtedly, history has shaped me into the person I am in the present.

I was in second grade when my infatuation with his-tory began. While I was searching the stacks in the library for something to read, I came across a curious title: Elizabeth. In my second-grade mind, it made per-fect sense that someone had written a book about me, so of course, I checked it out. As soon as I started read-ing, I became entranced in the story of a young princess who was shunned by her father to grow up penniless in a house far away from the palace, tormented by her half-sister Mary. My heart swelled with the contentment of a happy ending when she was crowned queen of England. Then my teacher told me something amazing: it was a true story. I was shocked; amazed that finally I had come across a fairy tale that was actually true. I started going to the library twice a week, devouring everything I could find about history. Although I had always liked reading, my sudden interest in history instilled in me a passion for reading that has made my school career more successful, and my whole life more fulfilling.

My passion for history has always made the class itself one of my favorite subjects. In 8th grade, I received the History award, an honor that I was nominated for not only because of my A+ in the class, but my fervor for the subject that my teacher saw in me. In high school, as classes became more difficult, even History presented a challenge. My first AP class was US History, and it was certainly a shock to my system. Although I did not attain the level of excellence I usually achieved in the course, I enjoyed it immensely and even enjoyed the projects we were assigned, especially the project we were given to interview a person over 50 years of age. I interviewed my grandfather on my father‘s side, a World War II veteran. Hearing his story fascinated me. Never before had I heard a first-hand account of the history I so enjoyed reading about. This inspired me to

talk to all my grandparents about their lives grow-ing up. I had always been very close with all my grandpar-ents, but I had never thought to ask them about their childhoods.

At the beginning of my junior year, my grandfather on my mother’s side was diagnosed with a glioblastoma, the same tumor Ted Kennedy was afflicted with. It was the first time I lost a close family member when he passed away, and I was devastated. My junior year was spent in constant fear of what was going to happen to my Grampy, and the pain my whole family felt as we watched him deteriorate. My mother spent the last three months of his life living with my grandparents, and although I spoke to her nightly over the phone, and I understood why she needed to be there, I felt lost. My performance in school did suffer during this time, some-thing I am not proud of, and I know my grandfather wouldn’t have been either. He passed away April 21st, 2010. It is in large part thanks to him history is such a large part of who I am.

Every Saturday for as long as I can remember, we would go to my grandparents’ house for dinner. My brother and I would always drag out the box of toy soldiers from my grandparents’ closet, and re-enact battles from American history, always with my grandfa-ther looking on. He would gently correct us when we tried to pit the British redcoats of the American Revolution against the Civil War confederates, or giving soldiers from the 1700’s mortar launchers.

Dinner table conversation was always fraught with friendly conflict over politics and other grown-up things, but my grandfather was always ready to explain any-thing I didn’t understand. I learned more at that table about how to debate intelligently than school has ever shown me. Whatever I wanted to do, my grandfather would support me, whether it was at my dance recitals, school musicals, band concerts, or reviewing my report cards. My grandfather without a doubt has made me the person I am today, by teaching me everything he knew, and always encouraging me to learn even more.

History has taught me to see the world from a differ-ent perspective than others of my generation. I have always been an “old soul,” as my grandmother terms it. My favorite movies are Sunset Boulevard and Casablanca, and my favorite books are by the likes of Emily Bronte and Thomas Hardy. It also seems weird to my fellow students that one of my favorite hangout spots is the library. I can while away hours searching the stacks for all the books bearing the emblem on the spine reading “Historical Fiction”. The music on my iPod consists of Tudor-era madrigals, Broadway musi-cals from Showboat to In the Heights, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, and Lady Gaga (I’m not a complete anachro-nism). My friends and I can go from chatting about the heinous new clothes at Forever 21 one minute to vehe-mently debating the merits of the healthcare plan the next. I have not completely alienated myself from my generation. My interest in history has just given me another way of looking at the world, and how I can exist and thrive in it.

Foreign Service Learning History Buff

reFlectionS - photograph By leSter little 2012

College Essays16 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012

By Sean Mccarthy 2011Marist college

When I was younger, maybe in third grade, I learned that I had been deceived. There was no Santa Claus. I wasn’t

devastated - I had figured as much and besides, I was still going to get presents. Although, it did take me a long time to realize that I had been lied to. In fact, I only arrived at this conclusion last year. Now I know that most people find it cus-tomary to tell their children that a fat man in a red suit commits millions of home invasions all in one night, but this isn’t the lie I am talking about. When I finally blew up Santa’s spot, I was told that he doesn’t exist - not that he wasn’t real. Yes, there is a big difference.

The adults in my life tried to tell me not only that there was no man named Santa, but also that he has no impact on the world. However, I can now see just how real Santa truly is. Kids light up at the very thought of him, as he provides hope to many hopeless children. He is featured on television, in storybooks, and is a bona fide Hollywood star. He exists. I thought my parents would understand this, since they both are devoted Catholics, and believing on faith alone is a corner-

stone of their lives.. However, in third grade I was left with the wrong impres-sion of Santa, as a mere figment of our imaginations with no ability to have a measurable impact on the world. In other words, meaningless. This is the very rea-son that throughout middle school I despised English class because what we were discussing were mere ideas and notions; I loved science because it was empirical and real. Yet, as time passed and I grew older I began to like science less and English more. I came to realize just how real and powerful ideas could be.

Today I believe that what is “real” is whatever I want to be real. Ask my par-ents; for them, Santa Claus meant nothing, but their religious faith has stayed with them through the years. Agnostics argue that you cannot prove God exists, but He exists to my parents as well as millions of people the world over. Merely the idea of God ensures His presence throughout the world and His impact on humanity. Consider the concept of time, which is simply an idea as well. Can you imagine what would happen if all the clocks in the world disappeared? There would be chaos. And mathematics, another system of complex ideas. There is no such thing as the number four, just the meaning and value that we have assigned it to catalog

our world. When I was a small child, Christmas

was magical. The waiting, the excitement, the joy was delightful. Santa Claus may have been a fable told to me to explain Christmas, but he existed in my eyes. Upon discovering that there was no Santa, I tried to discard anything that didn’t have evidence - a huge mistake. I now under-stand that an idea is the most powerful thing in the world. No matter how much force is in a nuclear missile, there’s still an idea in the head of the man with his finger on the trigger. The majority of a college application consists of tangible informa-tion on the applicant, when what really should be the deciding factor is hardly part of the application. Ideas are what make people great, what drives them to success and encourages them to impact society.

Now, if there’s one thing I do have it’s ideas. I want to change things, shape the world, and inspire others. To do this, I could either be the best at what everybody else is doing, or I can be original and new. I don’t want to just be better than my predecessors, but an innovator. I feel that these are the people who make an impact and are remembered for their achieve-ments. I have unique ideas that nobody else can duplicate, ideas which I hope can

have profound effects on people and the world. Long ago, I thought that the only things of importance in life were those that could be seen, manipulated, or mea-sured. The fortunate realization that I was wrong has helped to make me the person I am today.

I am not the only one that can be so easily manipulated by ideas. If you thought that my story about Santa Claus helped to make my point, then I applaud you. Just to let you know, it isn’t true. I hope that it served its purpose - to illus-trate the power of ideas. And, although I fabricated the plot of my story, what I’ve said about myself today is genuine. I have some good ideas that can make a real dif-ference - all I need is a chance to share them.

The Santa Effect

 By Logan goMez 2011st. John’s university

Goose bumps frame the surface of my skin. I shiver as they make their way up my arms, starting from the miniature hairs on the

back of my hands, and ending at the top of my shoulders. My knuckles begin to cramp like my hands have been glued shut in the form of a fist. If steering wheels could talk, I bet it wouldn’t have anything pleasant to say about me right now. My seat has been pushed so far forward that my stomach has become a close acquaintance of the steering wheel as it rests on my lap. It’s hard to say which part of me the steering wheel is more familiar with. Was it my ghost white knuckles, or my stomach?

An irrevocable silence fills the car and breathing just wasn’t an option for me at this point. The steady ticking of the left blinker is currently taking advantage of my sanity as I stare at the traffic light hop-ing it doesn’t turn green. I look quickly to my right, but only so that my eyes move because the muscles in my neck weren’t going anywhere. My Father’s sitting in the passenger seat perfectly content and I envy every second of his patience. This is

going to be my first left turn with a whole line of cars behind me waiting to make that turn as well. Was I expecting to be the only car on the road? Well, I was hoping at least. Fortunately, the light is still red. Isn’t it great how long you can sit at a light? I don’t understand why people always complain. As long as I’m at this light, I don’t have to move anywhere and that is perfectly fine with me. I suddenly begin to feel a little more comfortable and reach to soothe the goose bumps living on the surface of my arms. A horn blares at me from behind and I look up at the traf-fic light. Shoot! The light is green! Instantly, the goose bumps I just wiped away were back to stay. A few beads of sweat drip down my forehead and my Dad is no lon-ger calm, cool, and collected.

“Go!” He yells. I tap my foot on the gas and begin to

take my first left turn ever! I finally calm down and realize that driving isn’t so bad after all. I mean, all you have to do is relax and follow the road right? Wrong. All you have to do is relax and follow the road at the proper speed limit! I, on the other hand, was driving a whole whopping 10 miles an hour.

“Logan, you need to drive,” my dad stresses. “Pick up the speed you have cars behind you!”

Oh yeah, that’s right, I have cars behind me and apparently driving 10 miles an hour is very unsafe. I decide that I should apply a little more pressure to the gas pedal in hopes that the next light will be red as well, but, today was not my lucky day. I saw nothing but green lights for the rest of the drive home! That was the best part of my first driving lesson

with my Father, we were finally home. I stepped out of the car and went directly to my room. I didn’t want to talk about driving, nor did I ever want to have another “driving lesson” again. What’s wrong with me? Doesn’t driving mean freedom? No. For me, driving means doz-ens of goose bumps, cramped up fingers, and a stressed out Father! The word free-dom cannot even be considered on the same level of what driving means to me.

During the fall of one’s senior year, it is assumed by Bristol Central peers that you drive and have some way of transpor-tation to and from school. However, my situation is almost the exact opposite. I am nowhere near close to a license because I’ve only had a permit for two months and my first driving experience mentally thwarted me from ever wanting to get back into a car. Even still, I knew that driving was something all people should be able to do and strangely enough, I was probably one of the few friends in my circle who was avoiding driving at all costs. It was a silly little fear that needed to be squashed. So, two weeks later, I decided to get back behind the wheel and this time, I went with a new approach that didn’t involve dozens of goose bumps, white knuckles, or clenched fists.

Goose Bumps, White Knuckles, & Clenched Fists

By Ethan WashBurn 2011SUNY – ESF

SUNY- ESF (State University of New York, College of Environmental Science and Forestry) was one of my top college choices for various

reasons. I am interested in majoring in Environmental Engineering, and have always loved being outdoors and in nature. After visiting ESF I realized how environmentally conscious and focused the school is; I found this to be very impressive.

I have been interested in the field of engineering for many years now. In mid-dle school, I participated in a program called CPEP, which stands for Connecticut Pre Engineering Program. I was a member of CPEP in 6

th, 7

th, and 8

th grades. The

program was run by a few of the science teachers at the school; we worked on vari-ous projects throughout the year, which were concluded by May, for CPEP Day. At CPEP Day, all of the schools in the state that participated gathered at the University of New Haven and competed against each other. Throughout my years at CPEP, I competed in the egg drop, mouse-trap car race, and the marble rollercoaster events. Although my group didn’t always win, that wasn’t the point of the program. The objective was to introduce problem solv-

ing skills to teens, and teach them how to work cooperatively in a small group. Looking back on CPEP, I realize how many valuable skills I gathered and how important it is to have those abilities now.

My interest in engineering continued into high school, where in 10

th grade I took

a class entitled Principles of Engineering, or POE for short. Principles of Engineering was a basic engineering class that focused on problem solving, working in small group, and understanding different engi-

neering degrees. We had a few projects that were similar to those of CPEP, but they were more complex. For example, our mouse-trap cars had to compete in three challenges: a drag race, a tractor pull, and an accuracy test. Throughout the competition we were only allowed to make one change to our cars, whether it be gearing or tire size, etc. This added some complexity to the simple mouse-trap car race from CPEP. For POE we also completed an Engineering Field Report, where we had to choose a particular field of engineering and interview someone from that field. I chose to interview my dad, Brian Washburn, who is a Geological Engineer. Through this project I learned much more about my father’s schooling, and what it takes to be a Geological Engineer. Overall, the class was very infor-mational, and provided me with many unique opportunities.

It was after completing my Engineering Field Report for POE that I decided that I wanted to become an Environmental Engineer. I was very intrigued by my dad’s line of work, but don’t want to do exactly what he does. Environmental Engineering seems like the best option, it com-bines my natural love of the environment with my adept problem solving skills. After visiting SUNY-ESF this summer, I became aware of how environmentally focused the school is, and it is my top college choice because of that commit-ment.

bchS - SigNatUrES - 2011-2012 17College Essays

By shannon houlihan 2011Johnson & Wales University

Most people find the efficiency of microwavable foods and the simplicity of making a quick peanut butter and jelly sand-

wich to be sufficiently satisfying after a long day. Don’t get me wrong; I always enjoy a good PB&J, but my absolute favorite part of the day is forgetting about what is next on my to-do list and taking as much time as I want to prepare a wonderful meal for me and my family . All the mindless chopping, peeling, and waiting those soccer moms, CEO’s and impatient teens hate, I can’t live without. Cooking allows me to reflect on my day, be creative, and most importantly makes me happy.

Growing up I played softball, basketball and golf. I skied during the winter and played the drums, but I could never truly

say I was passionate about any of these activities. I hate to say it, but television has changed my life. Food Network may be one of the greatest shows ever created. Who doesn’t want to watch a half hour special on steak, or virtually travel to China where not a single restaurant serves fortune cookies? I have learned so much just by staring at that black box parents desperately try to drag their chil-dren away from. Watching Food Network has inspired me to be more creative when it comes to trying new ingredients and dishes, and I am beginning to carry that adventurous quality into other aspects of my life. The familiar phrase “you won’t know if you like it unless you try it” may have been annoying when I was little, but today I believe it’s a very valid point.

Similar to abstract art or emotional music, cooking is a way to showcase unique qualities and characteristics that can’t be expressed through words. The one ingredient that I can’t live without

and best expresses my personality is pea-nut butter. It’s sweet, it’s salty, it can be creamy or crunchy, breakfast or dessert, and it always puts me and my stomach in a good mood. My obsession with peanut butter shows that I enjoy the simple, yet delicious pleasures of life.

As hard as it would be to resist my love of peanut butter, if could cook any meal for my family and friends, I would make them whatever they wished. Without a doubt, the best reward I get from cooking is the joy of others. Food has a magical way of delivering love and appreciation that can’t be acquired from anything else.

For my sixteenth birthday my friends and family threw me a surprise birthday party. After I realized that the subtle movement in the living room was not a threatening intruder, I had a permanent smile on my face for a week. To thank my friends I did what I know best, and invited them over for a dinner I lovingly pre-pared. We laughed and reminisced about

the party, and most of all enjoyed each other’s company. Seeing that their smiles were as big as mine the moment I opened that door, once again filled my heart with gratitude for having such wonderful friends and family.

The Food Network

POE, not the poet Mind The Light First Place – Tunxis Poetry Challenge

I was hoping to be happy by seventeenBut chained on the steepThe fire was never foundBound by water, without airA flame could never flourish here

Not the fault of the uninformedFire eludes those who despairTo chance was the hope left Of making each body warmed And aware

Day after day, the routine resumesPicked at, healed, repeated this wayMonotony settles into the cracksTo wrinkle the souls And make minds lax

So clean off the wicks and Strike up a matchCover the flame from the harsh wind that racksTo give up, give out, give in . . .You’re only seventeen, you’ve got to Begin.

Hannah Ullman 2011

Poetry18 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012

Buzz CutFor GrandmaFirst Place - 2011 Regional Academic Bowl

The joyous memoriesThat swam their way throughmy mindDrownedAt the sight of the smooth, sinister razorThere it sat, so still and quiet, on her marble kitchen tableBegging to be usedBut, I, fearful of the loss ahead, threatened it with my piercing gaze

It was indifferentA hand reached out and swiftly grabbed it,and carried it away in solemn procession, bold footsteps echoing.There she lay on the mattress, sheets askew like the thoughts in my headScattered, with no known directionThe switch flipped; the buzz rang. The bladesScraping her tender scalp, screeching against skin, rumbling bones-Her golden locks falling to the wooden floorLifeless were they, shorn from their home; a warm scalpLock by lock, hair by hair, heart by heartDropped like the seconds on a clock3, 2, 1: (Eeeennnt) Out of time.

A grim silence meets her empty gaze, Realization sweeps over meHer delicate tendrils, shorn ringlets clumped at my feetThreatening the vibrant portraitThat still hangs in my mind

Morgan Finn 2012

Watchful EyesI shudder when they look at meThe way they doSometimes they stare, and then look awayBut I can feel eyes shuffle over every inch of meI can’t get away. If I were invisibleSurely,I know,I would make myself into nothingAnd float away on a particle of dust Away AwayThey would never know that now I canHear every syllable of what is saidAbout meAnd I can land on their shoulders and hear their

thoughtsBut they whisper.When I flutter away into the breeze outsideI can land on the hoods of their cars and watchThem driving homeI can follow the route and memorize it,So that I know where they come from.Once I am carried away by the wind, I can follow their feet and watch them escapeAs they always doWhen they don’t think someone’s watching. And I will pick apart their every moveAnd stare at them and watch themAnd hate what they doAnd hate what they sayAnd hate them just because.

Olivia Cyr 2013

MAN - Scholastic Art Honors - Charcoal By ANXELA COBA 2011

One Shade Of Grey

Before I could know myself,I knew the color of my skin.

Little boys at parks,Screaming I was brown because of sin.

The little boys’ mothers,Screamed “Ghetto!’

And “Go back to the hood!”My five year old mind,

Never understood.I thought it was so simple,

That we all could be friends.I thought we all could mix,

Like a bag of M&Ms.Then as I got older,

There were bigger boys in school.Now worried about being funny and cool.

The big boy said to me,“I bet you wish you were white.”

I wish we were all grey,And we could all be alike.That there were no colors,

No black and no white.

Allyiah Guiont 2014

bchs - signatures - 2011 -2012 19Poetry

DadYou were everything I wanted to beYet all the same you were nothingEvery day with you a fleeting memoryWhich I try to burn from my mind

I tried my whole youth To imitate youBut the older I grew The less I looked up to you

You would scream so loudThat I would run from the soundAnd you were so cold

And left scars so boldTrails of stories left untoldTraced along all that I am

But selfishness was your ugliest maskWhich you wore the mostYet still I regret the day I askedTo leave your life My only father

Violent and relentlessBut all the same I adored youWhat else was a little boy to do?

Frail and lostI followed you into the deepest shadesOf the darkest lies

You turned me into a weaponYour revengeOn a life you claimed was stolenAnd the woman you left broken

You taught me all of the thingsThat I will learn to never be.

Jesse Griebel 2011

MAN - Charcoal & Acrylic By CODY MARTIN 2012

MAN(UN)KINDAs a guy in this society you are taught from birthThat you have to be toughThat you have to be strongThat you have to be powerfulThat you have to hide your emotions to be accepted by others.So, can I be blamed for not being willing to open upTo tell othersTo express myselfTo write poems about deep or emotional things in life?In that way, all men are just tortured souls reallyConsistently afraid to be ourselvesConstantly afraid to let it outConstantly afraid to be deepConstantly afraid to express our emotionson any more than a superficial scale.And it’s horrible, but the sad fact is thatwe do it to each other and ourselvesBecause only men mock other menabout expressing the emotions we all have.

Anonymous

The Man Who Can’t Speak Who Stares Out The WindowThe man who sits by the windowrattles his chair, staring Beyond the walls of his own thoughts.A silent poet, his eyes move like pen strokes, Creating ink blots that splatter across his face.The expression leaves questions, unsolved riddles read in every wrinkle on his cheeks. The colors of the tulips brush across his mouth,So much potential to speak of beauty.His head erect, eyes narrowing to seeThe skyline, now plastered with browns and blacks,That stains his Garden of Eden.

No words can he project,A mime unable to share beyond theWalls of his own thoughts. A silent poet, grasping the wings ofThe raven that flies out of view.Swooping momentarily and then gone,Never to be seen again, taken by theWinds of the skyline now plastered with brownsAnd blacks. Taken,Never to be seen again.

Dana Amico 2012

Poetry20 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012

Van GoGh Landscape I - oil & pastels By sam auBIn 2015

IMAGE PILE:Snow in October

The white flaky snow falling on the groundThe cold air in the sky the darkness all around us The cold air in the house no heat just cold candlesFlash lights and lots of blankets going to stores seeingPeople sitting there trying to get warm no school for a weekNo warm showers fire pit going 20 people around it getting warmHaving S’mores and cooking hot dogs over the fire pit turning around Seeing all the dark houses and in your house you can breathe and see yourBreath sleeping in a small area in the cold dark house with a lot of people withYou trying to warm up with a pile of blankets and covers and some blankets evencovering the walls and windows to make the house a little bit warm then freezing again

Emily Dove 2013

In Front Of Me There is a quiet girlThat sits in front of me Her lips stay pursed in a hard lineOf concentrationHer eyes stay narrow at her deskAlmost closed She moves her pencil slowlyGetting acquainted with each and every lineRetracing themOver and over She stays stillSave the movement of her pencilAnd the soft tapping of her footOn the cold, hard floorHer breath is evenAnd when there is utter silence in the roomIt is the sound I notice most Her dark curls build a wallBetween her and realityThe wall is strongThe wall won’t fail The scratch of her pencilClaws at my curiosityI peek around her shoulderClothed in dark fabricI notice verseScrawled in her notebookTiny and neatWith doodles in the marginsThe last thing I notice are ripplesIn the page. Teardrops And I quickly look awayI do not read what she has writtenShe deserves privacySafetyAnd sanctuaryThis is her safe placeI vow not to intrude againShe deserves a placeTo be herselfA place where she doesn’t have to listenOr live up to expectations.She deserves peace and quietFor once There is a quiet girlThat sits inside me Emily Daly 2013

bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 21PoetryClose At Hand: A Graduation Poem

Celebrate years full of people who forgotten will not be;The strengths,The struggles,And the triumphswhich no single person could foresee.

Echo the ideas of past;Improve,Invent, InquireSpeak for those who were unable to ask.

Never forget where it all started;These halls,Each classroom,Childhood dreamsThat allowed you to live uncharted.

Thank those who have filled your daysWith devotion,Ambiance,And soulThat flooded you and fixed your ways.

Radiate into the minds of the manyBefore you,With you,After youBecause you shall never find life to be empty.

Adapt to a world of unprecedented promise;Create,Explore, Discoveropportunities before you that cannot be missed.

Love those who stood by you when you could not stand;Who loved you,Who taught you,Who are among youIn this very span of time and

Always remember that wherever you are,Central will always be close at hand.

Logan Gomez 2011

Looking BackI know you feel you failedBut I thank you because you tried.We all were a little disheartened,It really was a crazy ride.Yet we reached towards freedom,And breathed in its sweet mist.I feel like it was all a dream,A vision, a wish.Now I close my eyes and wonder,

What if it all worked out?Would it affect life as we know it?Would we fear? Would we doubt?Or would it bring us all together,I guess I just don’t understand.I guess it wasn’t really anyone’s fault,Just a piece of a greater plan.I hope I can still hope,That we still have a chance.That we will get better,

That we will advance.I hope there’s more to life than pain,I hope soon I’ll experience joy.And this time it’ll be for real,And not some devious ploy.I hope we’ll be able to laugh together, smile together,Without everything going wrong.And we’ll notice with little regret,We could’ve done this all along.

Allyiah Guiont 2014

Van GoGh Landscape II - oil & pastels By amBer raBoIn 2013

Poetry22 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012

Fall

Winter’s bone was dusted offWith the rest of the skeletons in the closetSuch a frozen soul was I to have seen itTo have seen it in all of its glory

Winter’s bone was beneath the placesYou’ve been, but will never returnLaced between the has-beens and will be’sCaught between sanity and happiness

Winter’s bone saw me Wrapped in a sea of threadsA pillow, my crownAnd the worn mattress, my throneA queen of the lump in your throatAnd the choke of your words

Winter’s bone told meTo come back to bedCaressing the curve And tempting the tongueWhispered to me so sweetly“Just a few more hours”And the blank pages filled my notebookWinter’s bone found meFallen from every string that grace had everElegantly woven into meFrayed at the seamsDead at the dreams andSilent at the screams

But Winter’s bone couldn’t keep meIt released me on no conditionBut my bare feetAnd bare willIt released me out in the bitter snowSpeechless tongue frozen on dripping iciclesIt released against its better judgmentAgainst all oddsAnd all rational thinking,Rhyme or reason

But once in a whileI believe it was I who left winter’s boneBecause I was always in searchOf summer’s soul.

Morgan Finn 2012

Spooling Twine

The cloud like smog blown into the mazeLeaves the infantile moon to shineHowever some are like the stars and prefer the covers of hazeWhen that security is lost they’d rather fall back in their light

Like the child in the classroom shying to the back of the lineLosing their courage in all the others mightNot all fit each other’s image not even mineAnd some unlike me enjoy the praise

There are incessant questions which cause frightOur camouflage crumbles we suddenly tumble out of our dazeOn to the surface of everyone’s sight We lose our footing in the great spools of twine

The lights and shouts sending us into our crazeWalking the lines drawn so fineAt the end of their blazeWe are at the top of our heightReady for our first flight

Hannah Carlson 2013

Trompe l’oeil – By CynThia romano 2012

Baggage Claim

Running back and forth, trying to catch up to myselfLife never takes a breakMiniscule thoughts dissipate into spaceThere’s no room left to waste

Waiting for a change only brings failureYou must build your world yourselfEven if boulders are dropped on your headCarry the weight; wait it out

Baggage loses weight as you start to settleBut who ever wants to be done?If happiness was promised and strength just givenThen how would life ever be fun?

Bobby Bridges 2012

bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 23PoetryThe Heavy Lifting

Veins bulging, eyes straining, teeth grinding, and sweat dripping.You hate the eyes on you, but it’s where you get your inspiration. It’s either you do it, or you don’t;That’s when you’re tagged a winner or a loser. You walk in the room anxiously, but with that good kind of nervous,that edge, the thrill. It’s not even your turn. Why are you sweaty?Your stomach’s in knots, ready to get rid of your last meal. You can taste it.You look up at the walls trying to get your mind off it. There is no escape.Walls of inspiration are closing in on you.Walls made of history, filled with statistics from the past.Do I let them down, my past heroes?You look in the eyes of the people around you, deeply in the eyes.You know what they’re thinking, and you can’t let them down. There is the sound of plates smashing to the ground.This is where champions are made; never to be bent over in defeat. This is what you’ve trained for. EFFORTAre you going to leave it all today? Are you all in? Is your mind right?You put yourself through it because you love it.You put yourself through it because it’s expected of you. GREATNESSYou do it because your father did it, your grandfather did it. It’s your time now. Are you ready?Your father’s words cycle through your head,“When you want to succeed as bad as you want to breathe, you’ll be a success.”GREATNESSEven when you come up short, you claw your way to try to obtain it. You realize it’s harder to stay a champion, than to become one.Your mind slows down; you realize the importance ofyes ma’am and no ma’am.Why pulling up your pants or being quiet in class is important.It’s your presence and your essence that determine outcome.Lifting the weight means always being willing to pay the priceTo earn RESPECTAnd you never quit. Never that.

Martin McNiff 2013Trompe l’oeil – By AmeliA Schuler 2014

a creative arts publication ofBristol Central High SchoolBristol, Connecticut 06011-0700 2012 Editorial BoardDana Amico - Morgan FinnChris Nicastro - Ashley Pecorelli G. Gale DickauFaculty Sponsorgaledickau@ci.bristol.ct.us

You, in the back of class, attempting to disappear,eyes negative slopes, concave downward,avoiding the carnage of red scrawls on your paperyou are the outlier That face walking past, spitting out numbersno eye contact, you estimate your resultgritting your teeth for the final calculationthese are points you haven’t plotted You, in the back of class, staring at the windowreflection as blank as your sheet of paper

confidence divided, doubt multipliedresenting what the calculator cannot fix That two digit number, controlling your fateyou let your fear be derived from its valueyour pain the second derivativeto which a limit does not exist You, in the back of class, losing yourself,take note: a number is constant, staying stillbut you are not; from this you will growyour future is undefined Ashley Pecorelli 2012

∞

24 bchs - signatures - 2011-2012 Featured Artist/Poet Katie Pelkey, Class of 2014,

is a gifted artist and writer who combined those talents in a challenging final project in Creative Writing.

After research into the minds and hearts, the hopes and fears, and the dreams and ideas of elementary school children, Katie sketched

and shaded the answers to life’s urgent questions in a book of sharply drawn and vividly illustrated children’s poems.

The collection is called Why is the sky blue? Four of its poems are included here. Further publication and a fall Author’s Visit to area

schools will be the focus of an independent study.