the Register - BLS-BLSA: Boston Latin School - Boston ...bls.org/pdf/publications/Register/RegisterWinter17v2.pdfThe Register | Winter 2017 3 the register The Register is published

The Register | Winter 2017 1

the Registerwinter 2016-2017

2 Winter 2017 | The Register


the register

The Register is published twice a year by the students of the Boston Latin School. Students in Classes I through VI are invited to submit their original writing and artwork. Pieces are selected by the Editorial Board of The Register on the basis of quality, not name recognition; the writers of all pieces remain anonymous to the Editorial Board during the selection process to ensure that no one is given an unfair advantage.

CXLII • WINTER ISSUE2017

The Register Staff

The Register would like to thank the Boston Latin School Association and its donors for

their utmost dedication and financial support in celebrating quality student artwork and writing.

Thank You

LiteratureEditor-In-Chief

Nikita Desir

Assistant EditorTim Liu

Editorial BoardAhlam AbdiLily DoyleKathy Mei

Laila PearsonCynthia Phan

Copy EditorsTim Liu

Imogen WattsJiaxin Zeng

ArtEditor-In-Chief

Annie Chen

Assistant EditorsHui Shi

Li (Sherry) Xu

Art AssociatesUmaiya Eman

Gavriella GonzalezMindy Hoang

Joanne LauBonnie Li

Samantha SimpsonImogen Watts

Leeanna YeSadeya Zeman

Design & LayoutEditor-In-Chief

Yinyu Ji

Assistant EditorsLauren JiangTing Wei Li

Design & Layout AssociatesSerena CaiKelly Chin

Hayden CodigaEliza Fleming

Rachel Lee

Faculty AdvisorsMs. Jesse Mavro Diamond

Mr. Jeff Mikalaitis

table of contents

August • Caroline Tevnan • Poetry

Ode to the Night • Christina Pham • Poetry

Leopard • Umaiya Eman • Art

Newcomer • Griffin Black • Art

Astronomy • Xiadi Zhai • Poetry

Uncertainty • Aileen Luo • Poetry

Dawn • Stephanie Wu • Art

The Artist • Chris Dew • Poetry

Who Is He • Gavriella Gonzales • Art

Tan Line • Xiadi Zhai • Poetry

Rainy Day • Anneli Merivaara. • Art

Bird’s Eye View • Aine Griffin • Poetry

Price • Xiadi Zhai • Poetry

Fishing at a Former Slave Port in Ghana • Xiadi

Zhai • Art

Time • Christina Pham • Poetry

Doll • Jasmine Nguyen • Poetry

Tignon • Artem Babinov • Art

Untitled • Lily Anderson • Art

Reflections • Eliza French • Prose

Glow • Ina Beinborn • Art

A Letter for You • Chris Dew • Poetry

Virginia • Molly Flanagan • Art

H.F. • Caroline Tevnan • Poetry

Underground • Imogen Watts • Art

Repetition • Caroline Wright • Poetry

Seeing Stars • William Burnett • Art

Once I Wondered • Ana Battaglino • Poetry

Infinite • Norah Brady • Poetry

Aries • Jenny Katz • Art

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

24

25

26

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

38

39

40

41

42

42

The Days • Grace Zaborski • Poetry

Fine Dine & Feline • Ada Chai • Art

Playing Koi • Jenny Katz • Art

The Last of the Wild Horses • Mike Gross • Poetry

The Red Room • Gavriella Gonzales • Art

Universe • Wes Mallory • Poetry

Bella • Isabelle Cadene • Art

Outside Cover: Speicherstadt • Ina Beinborn, II • Photography

Inside Cover: Antelope Canyon • Bonnie Li, II • Photography


Dear momWe’re almost at Eau ClaireThen we loop back up to Duluth in two days time

We’re dividing up the midwestAnd our timeZig zaggingNorth star to dairyland

I’m writing this with a dried up blue ink penAnd marking the map we were givenBy the state park front deskSo, sorry if this is too faint to readI’m trying my best

Still I like the change of pace hereWe’ll go full 8 (circle)

This feeling

It might be over soon

— Caroline Tevnan, I

august


I want this image to beembedded into my mind:

The blazing moonLike a white gumballbetween my thumb and finger

Hovering inches away fromthe willow treethat perches in my backyardYet seen by millions around the globe.

The stream of starlightStruggling to break throughthe veil of clouds

I want to shrink into dust, driftingJoining the indigo blanketBecoming a part ofthe night’s serenity

— Christina Pham, III

Ode to the Night


LeopardUmaiya Eman, Class II

Scratchboard


NewcomerGriffin Black, Class III

Digital Art


| astronomy |Nebulae appear along her cheekbonesand galaxies form across her abdomen.

They decorate her milky skinlike the topography map of a foreign planet

with craters and basins.There are stellar clusters

and clouds of dust and mixes of ionized gas

but I never saw theblack holes

or bits of dark matteruntil it was a little too late.

Until it had been decided for her already that she belonged more among the constellations

than here on Earthwith people who couldn’t understand the infinities

she heldwith people who never knew about them

at all. The image of lilac and plum and indigo and mustard and peach swirls

on the canvas of her pale skinand how beautiful she looked

before I understood how or whyis burned into my mind

for what seems like forever.Perhaps I will find her in the sky at night

or perhaps I will find her in the grimy bathroom mirror.

— Xiadi Zhai, II


I. a world wherea despairing love will never last long enoughor mean enoughto fix meor to fix you.where everyone is brokenor breakingor falling apart.where we put each other downto hide ourselves.where fear guides usand guilt and sadnessguard our hearts.

II. i dream of fields of cloversof an earthly promiseof stars and galaxiesof the empty vacuumin which we reside.our own lives seem so minisculein the endless dark.

III.what a lonely, lonely world.in space and in one’s minddisconnectedimpossible to understand each otheror ourselves.day after day, the same routinethe earth continues to desperately spinthe stars continue to desperately burn.and i do not know who i am.

IV.a sympathetic smilea repeated greetingan awkward glancerain: one drop, then twothen a lightning storm of numbness.bells ringingcars honkingtrains rushingpeople shoutingdrowning under the voicesdrowning under themselves.does it all mean anything?

V.i do not know what it is to be human.whether it is communicationor the advent of cultureor the abilityto fall or break or drownwithout realizing it.

—Aileen Luo, V

uncertainty


DawnStephanie Wu, Class I

Ink and Acrylic


He was a real artist.His skin was the canvas for the cigarette burns running along it.He hated to be the one to let them down.The man hated to be a burden. Always.Constant streams of apologies were the only way for him to tell people how he felt.They were streams that ebbed and flowed along without pause.A soul is now a mechanized sort of thing.Industrialized, pulverized, perfected until the fatty oils pump out of our black hearts.We’re all like that, you’ll see, but it’s not in our nature.It’s just something we’ve inherited.The artist surveys his canvas.The pockmarks and imperfections dot his pale white skin.An artist he was not, but a man he was.A man who abstracted the truth, hid it behind layers and layers of lies.All this trouble to seal up the real him.A prison of his own making.It takes a perfectionist to be able to see how disappointing it all was.The nonsense, the jest, the arrogantly long hours of self reflectionturned to self mutilation that guided him to this world of despair.A place where every whisper was an echo of times long gone.Your words reverberated through the jagged edges and came back to you.It was you all along.The dim light of the moon blinded him.The night was too bright for his taste.He closed his eyes one last time.Fate just wasn’t in his corner now or ever.As he watched those around him trudge on with no eyes and ears,He joined them.The walk ruined him.Though throughout the pain he could only think of one thing.He was an artist.He couldn’t help but laugh as he trudged on into the uncaring void.He was an artist.

— Chris Dew, II

the artist


Who is he

Gavriella Gonzalez, Class IVMarkers


my father has strong square fingersthat look as if they have a tremendous grip.I have never seen them disadvantaged—they are steady when consoling me,warm when I forget my gloves,and firm when opening glass jars of my mother’s peach jelly.

but right nowthey seem clumsy and weak and fat

as I watch him try to pry off his wedding ringfor the first time in 32 years.

the skin at his joint scrunches up into a ripple of freckled flesh.

“worthless,” he mumblesbefore finally nudging it off in a forceful pull.

his finger is pinkfrom the abuse it has gone through

but I can still see the distinct tan line.32 years in the making.

his fingers have always appeared to be able to hold on to anything for an extended amount of time but I suppose that ring was the one thing he just barelylost his grip on.

— Xiadi Zhai, Class II

tan line


Anneli Merivaara, Class I Pastel

Rainy Day


Bird’s Eye ViewA girl sits in my field, Dozing by the lake,The long blades of grass dancing around her. She doesn’t know I’m there. She listens to cries of the sheep, and the rustle of lambs returning to their mothers. She gazes at the birds, dotting the cloudless sky like paint splatter, And the fish sending little bubbles to the top of the water. She doesn’t hear me breathe. She thinks not of the house she came from, miles and miles away. She thinks not of her bruised, dirt caked feet and the mess they walked away from. She thinks not of whose hands she sees beside her, she forgets her name. She doesn’t feel my hand on her cheek. The cool mud seeps into her dress,But she doesn’t flinch. She rolls onto her back, arms outstretched, And cradles her world. She is me.

— Aine Griffin, Class III


there is a flashing neon signfor sale in the 99 cent store.

it lights up in blue and red and green

and reads “peace.”how much do you think

it is worth?a dollar?

two?and how much do you think it is

actually worth?millions of lives?countless years?

or is it not for sale, or is it never for sale,

because no one would buy it anyway?

— Xiadi Zhai, II

Price


Fishing at a Former Slave Port in GhanaXiadi Zhai, Class II

Photography


How could one simple word,four mere letters,contain so much divinity?

When Death is grasping onto mewith his fingertips,what will be my last thought?What would be my last wish?

Perhaps my last thought would bean image of a clock.How its handles are constantly teasing you

How, as you stare at its numbers,Time will drag his feet, andseconds would feel like centuries.

How, when you’re in a happy moment,Time will run a marathon, andcenturies would feel like seconds.

Perhaps my last wish would beto transfer all of the time

I’ve spent staring at a clockinto the moment of my last breath

So that maybe I couldhave an extra yearto wish my loved ones a farewellbefore I die.

Or maybe not.Perhaps I will insteadclose my eyes

with nothing on my mind,waiting for the seconds to tick by,peaceful and patient,

while a nearby clock continuesmeasuring timewithout me.

—Christina Pham, III

Time


I see you coming down the aisle. You hold crumpled up dollars in your right hand, smiling as you walk along the freshly waxed floor. We make eye contact. Next thing I knew, I was in your arms, heading to the place you called home.But I didn’t know about you.I didn’t know that you hid in your room at night and cried.I didn’t know there was a storm behind the pink flowers on your door.You would run in and lock your door, collapsing on the floor where you had left me.Running your fingers through my hair comforted you more than me.I didn’t know you were scared of your father,Who came home every night, dragging his feet as if they were in mud, Reeking of alcohol.I didn’t know that a man could turn his drowsiness into rage, with a roar louderThan one of a lion being threatened of his kingship.Your mother was the poor antelope who couldn’t escape, prancing around to keep his attention away from you.She could only protect you so long.Soon, you showed up with purple polka-dots on your skin, dark like the ones on my dress.You wouldn’t come to play with me anymore, even when you cried.I should have known from the quiet sob, It was a plea for help.I saw the days you began to just lay in bed, not getting up for anything or anyone.The tears had stopped streaming a long time ago. The sniffles were now replaced by the deafening silence of the room.Your hopes of being a ballerina had faded more than the pictures on the wall.Your father was long gone, but you would still peek out to see if he had returned.I didn’t know that this faith could still remain.Your mother began to lose the small ounces of hope that remained between the two of you.Little by little, things began to disappear.Trophies, stuffed animals, Even your prized crown you won at the dance competition.

doll


All gone.It was just you and me.You grabbed me from under the bed.I hadn’t seen you for years.All the brightness I saw in your eyes had vanished, replaced with all the sorrow and heaviness of the world.The warmth of your hand felt familiar around my waist, but you didn’t seem like the same person. I got one last hug from you before I was sold in your driveway to the little girl down the street.I glance over her shoulder at you one last time.Tears are streaming again, but no words. Just silent tears.I have learned something from you.You showed me courage when I saw weakness.You showed me light when I saw darkness.You showed me hope when I saw despair.I just wish I could have known how to show you when you saw nothing.

— Jasmine Nguyen, III


TignonArtem Babinov, Class I

Acrylic on Canvas


UntitledLily Anderson, Class I

Edited Digital Photography


She is sprawled across the ground, alone, with the lights and the reflections. She carefully pulls layers of adhesive tape off of the roll, cuts them, and expertly maneuvers them onto her calloused toes. Once each toe is wrapped in the thin material, she shoves her feet into a pair of pale pink pointe shoes. Standing up, she aggressively knocks her feet at an angle to wedge the shoes into place. She walks over to the barre. The satin shines faintly under the fluorescent lights of the ballet studio. She steps up onto pointe and examines her feet in the mirror. With a tilted head, she swivels around the box of the shoe and observes the shape of the shoes. Then, suddenly, she bends her knees forward and forces her feet into an arched contor-tion. Not satisfied, she leans side to side and pushes the arches with her hands. The girl flops off pointe and marches back to her bag. One shoe is ripped off and the arch is vigor-ously bent. The other shoe quickly follows suit. The girl stands up and steps on the shoes until they crackle like a freshly baked baguette. With practiced, automatic hands, she tears the heel of the sole from the shoe and fights with her scissors until the nail pops out. Then she slams the tip of the shoes against the Marley, over and over again. The jarring bangs break the tranquil silence of the empty studio. Finally, the girl gives them a final slam and wriggles her feet back in. She puts her hands on her hips and rolls up and down through her feet. She floats to the back of the room and tentatively takes an elegant pose. Then, she drops her arms and crosses the room, pausing at the rosin box. After scrubbing rosin all over the bottom of her slippery shoes, she jogs back and takes her starting position. In her mind, pianos delicately sing like water rippling over stones. Her body starts to move. Each swish of an arm, each extension of a foot, each flutter of a hand is breathtaking. Her toned calf muscles pop out as she leaps across the studio. Her sharp feet flicker onto pointe and then just as quickly finesse back onto flat. Whens she finishes, breathless, her eyes are teary and her expression is cold. She begins to obsessively repeat double pirouettes. The first two are breathtaking: swirling, light, and smooth. Perfection. But the third is messy, not quite right. After 15 attempts, she stumbles, dizzy. Vociferat-ing oaths, she slams her heel into the ground and violently shakes out her sore legs. Then she forcibly takes a deep breath, puts her hands on her hips, and faces the back wall while blinking away hot tears. “Your turns were a mess, Charlie.” Charlie spins around and sees a figure standing accusingly before her. They are dressed alike in simple black leotards with pink tights, but that’s where the similarities end. This girl has chunky thighs, a flabby waist, and a plain face. Her eyes are dull and her body is devoid of the lean muscles so often coveted by dancers.

ReflectionsReflections


The chubby girl stares at Charlie and repeats herself. “They were a mess, and you know it.” Charlie swallows hard. “I know. I just can’t get the coordination down, I’ve been working on them, but you know that I’m not a natural turner—” “Stop making excuses. It’s pathetic. Do you think that was good enough?” The girl snarls. “It’s all about consistency. We both know that was far from consistent.” Charlie turns her back on the girl, breathing heavily. “Giving up already? I’m not surprised.” Charlie turns around and faces the girl. They stare at each other. “Your feet are flat. You need higher arches if you’re going to get a corps contract somewhere,” Charlie tells the girl with a wobbly voice. “Your calves need more muscle. But not stocky—no, they need to be trim. Your thighs are too big, and your stomach isn’t flat enough. Your arms should be thinner; your collarbones should be visible. Your eyes should be green, your hair should shine. You’re fat, and you know it. You’re just too lazy to get rid of all of it.” The girl stares back at her, devoid of emotion. Then a smile slowly creeps across her face. “But, Char-lie… I’m you.” Charlie freezes. Then, with a trembling hand, she reaches out to touch the girl. But instead, her hand touches a cool, reflective surface.** “Guys, where’s Charlie? She better not still be practicing that solo, because I’m starving. Can some-body seriously go find that girl,” Kiera moans. “I’ll go check the studio,” I sigh. I dart up the staircase and then jog over to the door of the studio. I pull open the door and peep my head inside. I pause for a moment when I notice that she is standing alone in front of the mirror, completely still, with one hand pressed against the glass. Her slender, practically emaciated shoulders are hunched over. Her wide hazel eyes are misted and full of fear. Her lean muscles jump out of her tights as she leans forward towards the mirror. I clear my throat, and she whips around. “Charlie, let’s go!” I shout. For a second, she seems caught in a trance. Then she blinks and smiles her stunning, graceful smile. “Sorry, I’m coming.” As I close the door on my way out, I hear her mumble, “I know.”

— Eliza French, II


GlowIna Beinborn, Class IIEdited Digital Photography


When the rain beats down on my head long enough for it to feellike forty lashes against my bare skin,I know you were thinking of me.Grey clouds soaring above me are oddly comfortable.Sunny days remind me of you:Not genuine with the feeling of despair trailing behind.Riding on the coattails of anguish must be a fun trip --We often did it together,Dancing in the moonlight.Seeing the shimmering void in your lips,I dance without a care.Not because we’re trying to forget what had to be done,But because it’s the only thing left.It didn’t make the charade feel any better.I see your thoughts of me starting to form in your mind.Property.Punching bag.Poet.I still dance, but now alone to the offbeat song surrounded by a world of mirrors.You are the last thing I think I’ll see before my world fades to black.Violet lipstick and deep ebony hair.The light reflects off each strand.A cosmos is trapped in your locks.Stars are littered across your eyes.The lavender velvet of your dressSways softly off your pale skin.This dance cannot last.Amber pearls orbit around your neck as you sway back and forth with me.

-What a lovely dress.-Yes, quite lovely.

We sit in silence as the tears well up.

-I don’t think I can do it.-You can’t.

— Chris Dew, II

A Letter For You


VirginiaMolly Flanagan, Class I

Scratchboard


H.F.the field can be our place

a worthy pilgrimage at thatbecause the ladyYou know, the one who sings the blues ?she’s the one who told me what a little moonlightcan do

those eyes !yoursbigger than moonsof galaxies that only exist in my dreams

and dreams -when you dreamdo you dream of me ?

or of those galaxies ?or of moons ?stars blazing overhead ?

i keep having this one dreamthe people are forestswhite, bright, misty forestsi can’t shut out the silence

i guess it was a revelationbut it’s just a dream to me now

and the field ?it’s just a place to me now

see, all you are is Black Coffeeand i’ll sit here stirring

You Go to My Headunder this Blue Moonit’s Funny That Wayon this Gloomy Sunday

someone

stop these Stormy Blues

— Caroline Tevnan, I


UndergroundImogen Watts, Class II

Pencil


When she kissed meI was engulfed in fireWhite flames spread across my body Until I burned to ash And fell apart in her hands

It seems like I’m always writing the same poem over and over againwords just shuffleOr come out backwards

My words to her are immortalized in that damn book

repetition I just crumbleover and over again

when I told her I loved hermy words crashed into her silencean empty response always followedwhich my heart scrambled to swallowstarving for love

My words to her are immortalizedin that damn book

I think it’s about time I burn it

— Caroline Wright, II

repetition


Seeing StarsWilliam Burnett, Class I

Digital Photography


Once, I sat on a trampoline at dusk.I don’t remember the hour,I’m not sure where I was,And I don’t recall the month.But the warm air smelled like green turning yellowAnd lightning bugs flashed through a purple sky, propelled by tiny fires.

My muscles scrunched up, and my heart beat a little faster,And I wondered how it’d feelTo jump in the summer at dusk with fireflies.

Mama called me inside, and we left the next day, soI never jumped on that trampoline at dusk in the summer with fireflies

But sometimes I look at your eyesAnd I see little flamesAnd I smell green that hasn’t turned yellowAnd my muscles scrunch up and my heart beats harderAnd you smile, and I remember sitting on the trampoline, andI don’t wonder anymore.

— Ana Battaglino, I

Once I Wondered


Infinity is a funny concept. Because the universe is finite.Unseeable, massive, a great billowing sail swollen with star-filled wind.But finite.

What is at the edge of infinity?A waiting room—and an infinity of people waiting in an infinity of lines.

Eternity’s secretary sits at a desk at the end of the linewith a bowl of candy and a swivel chair.

Waiting.

— Norah Brady, IV

infinite


AriesJenny Katz, Class II Digital Art


Please just remember That hard times are temporary

The stress of the school dayIs not kept as its own memory

Please just remember Good times should be what you recall

Those moments with friends If you let them, can be the highlight of it all

Please just remember Your time here isn't forever

You choose what you will sayWhen someone asks:

“how was school today?”

— Grace Zaborski, II

the days

Fine Dine & FelineAda Chai, Class I Micron and Colored Pencils


Playing KoiJenny Katz, Class II

Micron and Watercolor Pencils


Children of an absent Godwho look for heroes in soda cans who find this world cold and odd, unable to meet with their demands safe behind concrete walls safe within plastic cages deaf to the world as it calls deaf to the battle as it rages Jesus stands on hamburger hill says to love but orders to killas Custer valiantly makes his stand and for a moment forgets he is a manmade of dust of flesh of bone a forgotten name on faded stonelive your life and live it wellJames Dean waits at the gates of hell to light your pipe or cigarette learn to lie or to forgetin the land where gold is green and peasants struggle to be seenalthough beggars ask for change they really seek stabilityas long as we are out of range drop the bomb of tranquilityperhaps another Eden will growand we will know not to go to Beatnik prophets dressed in rags who promise brightly colored flags sons of pagans, martyrs of sand

I pray one day you understand the woes of the common man whose fate was once to rebuild Rome but as of now is still unknown. burgers, fries and checkered tieskeep his people dumbfor if they were to all grow wise they’d each grab a gunand seize the day and seize the land build a Republic ever grand a split upon the serpent’s tongue but sadly this has all been done a crack upon the liberty bell marks where great Atlas felland shook the Earth to its knees no more kings left to appeaseand yet men are still slavesrevolution only saves the leaders of the victorious revolt who know a nation’s but a cult the wise men claim to have a cure for all that is unfair to climb the highest peak once more and step off into the air

— Mike Gross, I

the last of the wild horses


The Red RoomGavriella Gonzalez, Class IV

Markers


I want to give you The universe Which is exactly the problem

Not because it’s too heavy to carry to your house,And not because it’s too big to string up

Like your paper cranesBut because I don’t know how to figure out

Which part of it to get you,Because I don’t understand it.

Like the sunflowersThose were simple.

They were stems and flowers,Not love and death and stars and train tracks.

But take this poem for now. Cause I can’t wait to see your face When the universe shows up on your doorstep

In a little red box with blue ribbon.

-- 9/28/2016

— Wes Malory, II

univ

erse

Isabelle Cadene, Class I Scratchboard

Bella


inside cover


Documents

the Register - BLS-BLSA: Boston Latin School - Boston ...bls.org/pdf/publications/Register/RegisterWinter17v2.pdfThe Register | Winter 2017 3 the register The Register is published