A Summer Storefront
Tatum – Avery Pellicciotti
A Summer Storefront
Harper Hubbard
A perfect summer day in downtown Boston. The sun shines through the large glass windows of the newly opened store called Infinite Finds. Speakers softly play music by The Weekend and Coldplay as customers enter the store.
Customers are immediately greeted with a fun and upbeat atmosphere with photos of iconic moments from the 2010s Boston sports scene, like Tom Brady’s Super Bowl wins and the Red Sox’s 2013 championship, hanging on the walls.
As customers examine the aisles they find much more than memorabilia. There’s an all-you-can-eat brunch buffet featuring freshly made French toast, crispy bacon, and a large pot labeled “Grandma’s Mac and Cheese,” bubbling away with savory goodness. The air is filled with a sweet aroma and the comforting scent of these delicious dishes.
The shelves are freshly stocked with Nike sneakers and Birkenstock shoes. More so, sandals are perfect for the warm summer days in Boston. Above the shelves on the walls, the customers see pictures of beach sunsets from Cape Cod and Anna Maria Island in Florida.
In the back aisle of the store they find an array of TV’s all playing movies featuring Adam Sandler, with the biggest one in the center brightly displaying The Waterboy.
As the customers swing back around towards the front to check out the other isles, customers are greeted by two friendly dogs at their feet—Norman, a large white Bernedoodle, and Truly, a smaller mini Goldendoodle, wagging their tags in excitement.
Customers make their final swing around to the front of the store and they are met by a chocolate water fountain with what seems like infinite rows of strawberries, and bananas for dipping.
After customers exit the store, they pause for one last glance at the front of the establishment where a mural of the 2011 Boston Bruins hoisting the cup looks down at them.
A Cup of Soup
Sunset Surprise – Henry Zhang
A Cup of Soup
Julia Burnette
I open my eyes to the light of the early morning sun streaming in through the slats of my new wooden blinds. My kids call them “plantation shutters” to sell me on how fancy this place is. I try to sit up, gingerly turning on my side so as not to place too much pressure on my sore shoulder. I attempt to stand up, painfully aware of how fragile I’ve become, resting on the edge of the rumpled bed, waiting for the right moment to gather a little energy to reach for my walker. My urine-soaked pull-up uncomfortably sags between my legs, and so begins the shuffle to the bathroom for the long, humiliating process of trying to clean myself up.
The Occupational Therapist was visiting for a few weeks when I first came out of the hospital. She showed me how to do things that had been second nature for decades. Wash my face with a washcloth and brush whatever teeth I have left. Her name was Lori. She had a big toothy grin and called me sweetheart. I hated that, but I didn’t say anything. It was good just having another body next to mine, breathing in her slightly sour smell mixed with some kind of spicy essential oil. I gaze at myself in the mirror, turning my head this way and that. I put my fingers on my hooded eyelids and pulled them up—a lifelong desired surgery.
I try to remember the plan for the day, no doubt another episode of Wheel of Fortune on the shiny new flat screen my daughter insists I will enjoy. Or maybe a doctor’s appointment. I shake my head, a soft fog clouding the instructions she rattled off on our nightly call yesterday. I feel my way, reaching around the sink for the small blue cup containing my bleached dentures, and slip them unsteadily into my gummy mouth. I glance up at the mirror again. An image of an old, wrinkled woman stares back at me. My thoughts drift back to my youth, to moments long gone but still painfully vivid. Watching my children play, bright with imagination, savoring the sound of laughter as we fished along the banks of rocky rivers and lakes. How I yearn to feel the warm sun on my face and experience the gentle breezes of places I am resigned never to see again.
My daughter insists reminiscing is a sure way to delve into needless depression. I often hold the telephone away from my ear during her monologue. I close my eyes as her sharp voice insists I join the ladies’ bridge club or ride the facility bus to browse at Walmart. I am perpetually reminded of her education, lofty career…her expertise. “Mom, this place is so cute! No need to worry about anything anymore. It’s like a hotel. I’m jealous!” her tone dripping with forced cheerfulness as if to coax a smile from me, to make me grateful for her decisions—anything to have me acknowledge how kind she is for always having my best interest at heart.
Her once tiny pink fingers squeezed around my hands. Her luminous eyes would imploringly search my face for answers. Sometimes, we would wear matching handmade aprons and languish in recreating trusted recipes from scratch, guiding her clumsy measurements. We would sit for pretend tea, pouring make-believe liquid into tiny porcelain teacups. My very existence is encapsulated into this mini replica of my being. I would love to feel her hand in mine and savor the gentle warmth of her fingertips. I settle on the knowledge that she still calls. I am ashamed for resenting her independence and disappointed in my selfishness for not letting go.
My children don’t visit often. Both have their own families and careers and live a plane ride away. I always assumed I would be with them and they would care for me in my old age as generations of my European family had done. My grandmother stayed at my mother’s house when I was growing up. I remember her tiny gray braids tucked under a faded babushka swaying as she deftly stirred pots of fragrant old-world soups and stews. As years passed, her rheumy eyes became vacant. Her threadbare aprons hung limply in the back closet. Her days now spent in the sitting room, humming and stroking her baby doll. How many times now I wish I had dementia. Then I wouldn’t have to think about this, my life. Then and now, now and then, like an old rocking chair. The years seemed to pass slowly. Now, suddenly, it seems like life has happened all at once.
Sinking into the recliner, a sigh escapes. My kids have decorated this new place with knickknacks from home. Most of my furniture was left behind, donated, or sold at a Saturday yard sale. My new place is a sterile one-room studio on the top floor. My family decided after my hospital stay I’d better go to a safer, smaller place with “help” if I needed it. There was always a joke when they were little, “Will you love me enough to change my diaper when I am old?”
I put on my glasses, smudged with fingerprints, and close my eyes. I can almost hear my old rooster crowing at four in the morning and see myself pulling the pillow over my head to muffle the sound. There are memories of the crisp morning air as I let the chickens out, the dew clinging to my boots as I hurry back to the house to start the day’s work. I would breathe in the fresh country breeze and admire the lushness of the trees around me.
Like the generations of my mother before me, I also used to make big pots of brothy soup. Simmering fresh, meaty beef bones from the local butcher for hours before meandering into my little garden to gather root vegetables and snip fresh herbs from large terracotta planters. In my dated but practical kitchen, I’d gingerly wash the damp soil from the folds of dark green leeks, then peel the new potatoes, slipping their tender skins into the compost. The whole house would linger with the aroma of thyme and marjoram long after the soup was put away in the fridge for lunch the next day. The hot sting of tears burns my eyes.
Slowly limping to the sitting area, I stumble and reach for the shiny stainless fridge to catch myself. Tiny magnets hold up an array of sweet handmade letters and photographs of my granddaughter in her pink leotard. She is gracefully captured in one photo doing a split jump on the balance beam. My mind folds back to the days when I, too, was that flexible and cheetah-like. A neck full of first-place medals worn with pride. My brain swirls like a whirlpool of energy and vigor, but my body is weathered and tired. The sands of time leach away bones and muscles. A suffocating feeling swells in my heart.
The blue veins on my hands crawl over my fragile bones through paper skin. The shakiness is worse now. I can no longer hold a pen or even type out a number on my cell phone. Luckily, my children have pre-programmed the needed contacts: a myriad of doctors and long-distance numbers of old friends. The loneliness is overwhelming. My husband has long since died. My sweet marmalade cat was given to a neighbor when they moved me here. I can still imagine her purring beside me at night as I close my eyes.
It is past noon now, and my diabetic sugars are low. I reach for my medications. They shine pearly white from the plastic pill box. I wonder what I will have for lunch. Maybe I’ll open a can of soup.
A Starlit Reverie
Mosscape – Chloe Fox
Sofia Herbert
The human eye can see up to about 9,096 stars across the entire sky, but since we can only see half of the celestial sphere at any given moment, we really only see about 4,548 stars in ideal conditions. So despite our considerably large celestial scope, we can only feasibly see some negligible -illionth of the universe’s 200 billion trillion stars at a time. And in all honesty, it’s probably best that they’re so far away; on average, each star is about 4.4 nonillion pounds (100 solar masses) and emits 386 septillion joules of gamma radiation per second. It’s difficult to comprehend, but the point is they could kill you instantaneously.
And what is a star really, if not a giant plasma ball with the (statistically improbable) capacity to completely obliterate humankind? Yet, I have not met a single person who hates looking up at the stars at night. I have not met a single person who fears the twinkling lights that adorn the lifeless, silent night sky; moreover, I have not met a person who does not unconditionally love stars.
Maybe this is because a star has never literally hit Earth, and likely never will since Proxima Centauri, Earth’s closest star, resides 4.24 light-years (or 24.9 trillion miles) away. If there was a statistical chance a star could demolish Earth at any second, I imagine we’d like stars a lot less.
Thankfully, we can appreciate their dangerous potential and fantastical beauty from afar, but it’s a star’s overwhelming being—its utter duality—that truly makes it beautiful. And the same goes for all of nature. The great horned owl, for instance, is not only bewitching because of its majesty; its captivating quality derives from an otherwise beautiful bird’s capacity to be mercilessly gruesome. We love duality because it is between awe-inspiring and awful that we remember our own precious, infinitesimal mortality. I’m sure mice don’t feel the same way about owls, but as apex predators, humans have the luxury to romanticize dangerous things.
Sometimes, though, these dangerous things aren’t 24 trillion miles away in space or nestled in their nests in treetops—sometimes these dangerous things are curly-haired boys with an irresistible sense of humor and an unhealthy fascination with history.
A year ago, I went camping with a few friends, and on the last night of our trip, I met a boy. Well, I knew of him already, but I didn’t truly know him. And that’s how every good story that fails the Bechdel test starts.
As the sun began its descent into the treetops, we trekked to our campsite. Flashes of amber and gold filtered through the leaves and onto the muddy path as we fell into step with one another. He brought up a college we were both applying to. It was a safe topic for a first conversation, but once we started talking we couldn’t seem to stop. He had a strange, awkward voice as he spoke and the cadence of his words betrayed his near-perfect English, but I adored it. I couldn’t tell you why. I still can’t. As soon as he started speaking, I knew I’d do anything to hear him keep talking.
He brought up how he loved Spanish—after all, he spent the better half of his life in Mexico—so I asked him what his favorite word was. He listed off a few words, and his accent made me smile. Finally, he paused for a few seconds and told me it was “vergüenza” because he just liked the way the word looked. Or maybe because he liked how it sounded. I don’t remember—I wish I did.
As we walked, he told me stories about his life in Mexico. He talked about his younger sister—their princesita—and his older brother, but I barely heard a word. I liked the way he talked—I liked the way I could feel how much he loved them. At one point, he shifted to talking about history. He spoke so vivaciously, that he stumbled over his words and his eyes glittered with fascination, which I know isn’t quite how you’re supposed to describe teenage boys, but all I could think was that I adored the uninhibited passion that consumed his words. He eventually quieted and, somewhat ashamed, confessed he was a complete history buff by way of an unnecessary (and gravely belated) apology. I rolled my eyes and dismissively asked him to keep going, which set him off for another five minutes about the Cold War and how mad he was it hadn’t been on the U.S. History exam. As he talked about Truman’s foreign policy, I found myself wholly enraptured by this curly-haired closet nerd.
I don’t remember the walk itself or the scenery around us. We’d been walking for an hour by the time we reached the campsite, and he made it feel like no time at all. 1
We set our sleeping bags across from each other in an unspoken agreement. Not side-by-side because we weren’t that close, but not three feet apart like we were strangers—a comfortable one foot apart because we were familiar. We talked as the surrounding chatter died down and the fire’s crackles subsided until we were the only ones awake. Nestled in our sleeping bags, we talked as the orange sky smoldered to midnight black like an ember, and we talked as the sky deepened a twinkling sapphire. We talked until darkness masked our features and our hushed voices were the only things between us.
We talked about our favorite TV shows and our dogs and our classes for next year. But sometime in the morning, something between us shifted. We lay on our stomachs and looked out at what little of the forest was illuminated by the moonlight. He talked about his grandparents and his mother, and he listened as I talked about my own family. He told me the story of how his parents met and how his family moved to Long Island when he was eleven. Later, I felt the anxiety laced in his voice when he confessed he was scared he didn’t know what to do—who to be. He told me he didn’t see himself as a doctor and he obviously couldn’t be a historian because he needed to make money. I wanted to tell him that regardless of what he became, I was confident who he became would be amazing. And I believed that with all my heart, but I stayed quiet. Revealing that I thought the world of him after knowing him for four hours seemed too sudden.
Around four in the morning, when the stars glowed their brightest, he turned over in his sleeping bag across from me and gazed at the sparkling sky in awe. Distracted, he asked if my camera could take a picture of the stars—if my fifteen-dollar (expired) disposable camera from Walgreens could truly capture the array of blinking lights above us.
I shook my head, but I took the picture anyway. I took the picture because I needed to know what it was in the stars that made him smile like that, but what I really wanted to capture on my expired Fujifilm camera was him. Which I knew was impossible and futile, because the photo would be underexposed and disappointing compared to what I saw. He was my star, and I looked at him the same way he looked at the shimmering constellations strewn across the night sky—as if there was something mesmerizingly beautiful and quietly horrifying about the matter before us.
The picture was underwhelmingly black when I reviewed the film a week later. Apparently, my year-old Fujifilm didn’t find the stars as dazzling as we did.
Like billions before me who have found fear and beauty in a celestial sky, in an altar before God, or in the words of a song, I too have found yet another mysterium tremendum et fascinans—a mystery before which humanity both trembles and is fascinated, is both repelled and attracted.
Falling for hauntingly beautiful things is idiosyncratic to the human experience. Falling for constellations, for sunsets, for art, for songs, for people—that is human nature. That night, the latent danger and twinkling beauty of the stars above paled in comparison to the boy who lay two feet across from me. And this was terrifying because I love the sky.
- And that’s the power of teenage boys: reducing writers to cliches.
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The Secret
Thunder – Henry Zhang
Jaden Colson
I have always heard talk about the popular heirloom that has been passed down in my family. But I have never seen it in my life. All of my Aunts and Uncles and even some of my older cousins have. My cousin Z said that it glowed like a cartoon with the blade Excalibur; my uncle Don said that it was something that the government has been looking for for many years but has never found. This had me thinking the whole family was the most wanted in the world, which made me think . . . WHY DO WE HAVE THIS THING? But something told me he was just joking because after I asked my other cousin Laila, she said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever smelt, like combining every sweet thing and turning it into a perfume. But then my aunt Tammy said when she touched it was a combination of soft like jello but hard like a diamond. I questioned if this was the longest prank of all time, starting from when I could actually understand words as a little kid to a teen obsessed with a goofy object that’s not even real. Then I look at my journal (I started it when I was 10) with all of my ideas of what it is: a BEN 10 watch, a fountain of youth, a dragon, the pills from the Matrix, a Unicorn, a couch or some special shirt. I don’t know. I just don’t understand the hype of something I’ve never seen.
James’s Pawn
Venturing – Cashier Brooks
James Parviz
As customers walk in and observe all of the items on the shelves of items to purchase they see me as the main seller waiting for somebody to approach me. The wood planks along the walls with the carpeted floor cushioning their shoes make them wonder what the style of this shop is. Customers of all ages gaze upon the different sections and wonder how this caliber of a collection has been acquired. The 5 sections in the store consist of Jordans, jewelry, vintage clothing, soccer cleats, and electronics. The younger ones will mostly go for the jordans and vintage clothing, but the older crowd will really like the electronics and jewelry. My store will be on the corner of a well constructed street. This street will be in sunny San Francisco near the bay area. The tropical weather will attract a ton of people and give a nice warm environment and a chill vibe for customers. The people in San Fran are super nice especially around the bay because of the warm atmosphere and cheaper cost of living. The inside will be filled with plants and wood will make up all of the walls and cabinets. There will be a big window on each side of the double doors to walk in. The banner will have the name of the shop as well as my family name. We will buy and sell the various items in the sections listed above. The workers I will have will have to approve all sales and purchases with me as I am the main pawner. The nonstop work throughout the day will sure tire me out and I will hop straight into bed after I shower and brush my teeth in the back.
Life Store
Evening Footy – Damien Luciano
Henry Brathwaite
The tall all-white building stands out among the grey and black banks next door. The smell of concrete is everywhere. The front steps are covered in black and blue carpets, made from the finest wools. It’s extremely loud outside, from the construction. No lights are seen when walking into the door it is pitch black except for the tiny Chinese lantern on the worker’s desk. This desk however has something unique, it has jade Dragons imprinted on the smooth dark wood. There are many small rooms in this building almost like a hotel but the rooms are even smaller. The rooms have dark blue walls, that are softer than silk. Getting in those sheets on the beds feels like you have just awoken from a nap in a hammock on the sunny beach. That relaxed feeling suffocates you leaving your muscles numb. There is a fragrance in this store that reminds you of the beautiful rose gardens you see in the movies. You can smell the peppermint in the peppermint tea, while the smell of fruits carries over to your nose. This store is called Restore because it was built to restore your nerves with a good nap and a full belly of amazing food.
Our typical customers come from a long day of work to take a nap and eat or they come for a mid-day nap to prepare for an important meeting that they have in a few hours. There are all types of people showing up for some refueling. This creates a great atmosphere because it helps everyone learn new things about the cultures of others. The tables in the dining room are dark purple reflecting the comfortable store. The chairs speak out to you with deep voices with their bright yellow flair. The leftovers are put in a black metal box that has a big R on it for (Restore).
If the World was Going to End in Three Days
Dawns – Chloe Fox
Catie Chua
If the world was going to end in three days, then my nerves would swallow me. I would wander my house feverishly, and stop at the pantry, knowing most of the food inside would not be eaten in time. I would pray to every God I knew, hoping one would be merciful enough to stop the force that was going to destroy everything I’d ever loved. I would hole myself up in my room, surrounded by the melancholic ache of hopeless music while I sat on the floor and looked at old albums filled with memories of kindergarten-me playing with my sister, my parents, my grandmother. I would feel colder than I’d ever been.
If I was cold, then I would crawl onto my bed and curl up over my blankets. I would look at my saved posts on Instagram and Facebook and find myself drifting to sleep, thinking about all the different paths my future would have taken me. I would dream about becoming a mailman, delivering packages of happiness to every city in North Carolina. My stuffed bears that I had been sleeping with for the past sixteen years would be nestled to my chest, in tune with the slowing dissonance of my heartbeat. I would wake up in the middle of the night and find that my mother had tucked me in under a warm and heavy duvet. I would fall back into a dreamless slumber and acknowledge whatever was watching the world.
If I slept the first day, then I would want to be together with my family on the second. My father would FaceTime my grandparents from 2,000 miles away and we would say our final goodbyes. My parents would try to be strong in front of their own parents, but I see the fear in their eyes; my sister and I share a look of knowing that only twin telepathy could achieve. The call would end and we would all sit together in silence. Later in the day, when the sun would set and we would look out and see that everything is as it was before, my dad would turn the TV on and our family would find something to watch, taking turns choosing between cheesy Hallmark rom-coms and action movies from before I was born.
If my family watched movies for hours on end, then we would obviously have to end the second day with one last game night. I would pull out Scrabble and my mom would gather the board for Pictionary, and my dad would win both. My sister would pull out the Monopoly figures from her pocket, and I would get the wheelbarrow, as I always did. It would still be warm from her hand. My mom would win Monopoly. We’d all teasingly accuse her of cheating because nobody has ever won Monopoly, and we’d go to sleep with smiles on our faces and tucked deep into our hearts.
If we played games the second day, then we would throw an end-of-the-world party. It wouldn’t be a big party, just us and a few family friends that haven’t left North Carolina, but it would be the best end-of-the-world party ever. Not that there would be anything to compare it to; it’s not like anyone was alive when the dinosaurs saw the asteroids rain down from above.
If we were going to host a party, then we would need entertainment. We would take out the bottles of spirits and vodkas and beers hidden on the top shelf of the pantry and all the adults would drink like the ball was dropping. I would pass out on the couch for one last midday nap until my sister would wake me up sometime after dusk, the stars still blinking lazily after being washed into the sky. She would drag me outside to my friends and one of them would point out something fiery and furious ripping through the atmosphere. It would pass over us until two more, then five more, then twenty more would cascade down like a meteor shower. The whole night would light up and heat would ripple across our faces, but we’d be too mesmerized to move. The earth would tremble and then everything would go silent. One of the tinier fireballs would thunder into our backyard and I would grasp the hand of something warm and sweet before being vaporized and tossed to the wind.
If the world was going to end in three days, then millions of years later, something smaller than a cat, with a body made of downy feathers, would be sniffing for worms or beetles over the remains of my house. If it dug deep enough, it would find my eighth-grade time capsule I buried in the depths of my house’s crawlspace. It would get spooked by the rustling of the tall grass, and scamper into a forest of bitter, inedible crabapples. Somewhere, thousands of miles away, a cervid creature with six legs and four sets of antlers would scrape against a metal sheet and create sparks that catch on dried leaves. A searing and shadowless figure would burst forth, licking at the sun-baked ground, and the cervid creature would be bewitched.
The Moves
Lil Lizard – Damien Luciano
Nico Gaddini
11 times I’ve had to move. And 17 times I have to either make new friends or rekindle an old friendship. I can’t even put into words the amount of times I’ve had to change schools or find new jobs. From Georgia, to Florida, to North Carolina, back to Florida, back to NC, BACK TO FLORIDA, to Georgia, then BACK TO FLORIDA AGAIN, then New Hampshire, different town in New Hampshire, NC, and finally different place in NC. And those are just what I recall.
The constant moving in my life has majorly changed my way of thinking and how I live. This challenge has been both a important piece of who I am. It’s helped me gain social skills and learn a lot about people, but it has also held me back. There are plenty of downsides to leaving your friends who you thought you’d grow up with. Trust me. I know. Each of my family’s moves have come with different adjustments. Sometimes I was living in a city and others the suburbs. The cultures are different and I know have 3 different accents that I switch from time to time.
My first move was when I was about 4 months old. From Atlanta to Fort Myers. I’ve only heard about this move since I was too young to remember, but I believe the reason I move so much is because I’m cursed. I moved at too young of an age and now the universe is out to get me. I swear it has to be. From here, guess what. We moved again. This time to Asheville. I stayed here for quite some time as my oldest memory is in that house. But there’s not time for that. We got 9 more moves to go. So, here comes Florida again. Basically my family’s favorite spot. This time I lived in Naples. A nice little town where I spent my 1st grade- 5th grade years. With a little gap missing in 3rd. This was alright as I had my first real connections here, although the kids were way too rich and spoiled. I had learned a lot from them and how not to act. The gap in third grade was the move back to Georgia. A little town named brasilton, where I was homeschooled for about 2 months until we ended up heading back to Naples. This one was weird because It didn’t even feel like I was truly ever there. The final days in Florida were 5th grade. I ended up moving to the complete opposite side of the country by going to live up in New Hampshire. This was were I would spend my middle school days. Although there was a different town there as well. My middle school years were a lot. That’s when I actually changed the most. I went from looking like a kid to looking like a almost teenager. A Tween. Looking back at the pictures is just horrible. Then we have good old North Carolina. Wilmington NC treated me well. My first highschool was there and all my friends were great. I actually looked like a high schooler and had my first parties here, and then sophomore year began. In the same place, but I started to act less like a teenager and more like an adult. That’s what really made me, well me. Unfortunately this all had to end. My friends. Which at the time felt like my family. I had to say goodbye. Now I’m here. At Ravenscroft. A new school in Raleigh NC.
With each move, I had to say goodbye to my old friends and hey to new ones. Most of the times I’d lose touch with them and never hear from them again. I think that was part of me being immature though. Some bonds I made lasted though and I have my growing up to thank for that.
The toughest part of moving was the schooling though. Moving to a new school almost each year took its toll on my learning and sometimes I would have to tutor for countless weekends just to get back on track with my new classmates. Some schools taught differently which was the hardest part to get around. Just when I was so used to being able to ask my teachers for help, I would move to a big school where the teachers had no time for me. Thankfully that isn’t a problem at Ravenscroft.
Finding new jobs was also very tough. As a kid who always had to pay for himself, I’ve taken time to find jobs before I move, so I could immediately start making money for myself when I get there. However this is pretty hard to do when you ask an employer to schedule your interviews for a month later. I’ve been turned down by jobs so many times that I lost track. However I kept trying because well, I need money.
Yet throughout all these moves and hardships I’ve faced because of them, I’ve truly become someone better. I’ve learned social skills, workforce skills, and different sports. My language has changed, and my look has too. From what I know, these things will keep changing as I grow older and meet new people. Hopefully for the better. And honestly, looking back at everything, I’m glad I moved so much. I am especially glad I moved here. At the time I moved from Wilmington, I thought my world was gonna end, but now it’s so much better. I met friends who I care so much about. If I had the option to go back to any of the place, I wouldn’t. Although I miss the times I had with my friends. Right here, right now Is so much better.
The Truth Behind Picky Eaters
Comfort of Home – Carys Thomas
Alexa Wadley
As I’m eating the chicken from the cafeteria at school, I hear others around me loving the same food. At the same time, I’m not enjoying it as much.
This brings me back to the one time I sat down at the dinner table with my family. I was used to my plain, lightly buttered pasta, and carrots. This time, however, it was not that. Instead, my nostrils opened up to an unfamiliar smell, a smell so bad I gagged. I wanted to be removed from the steam this food was causing. When my mom removed the cover of the pot, I witnessed a circular green vegetable I had never seen before. “Mom!” I said, “What is this?” “It’s a brustlesprout,” she replied, “C’mon, eat it, it tastes like candy.” I felt bad about not eating food somebody made for me because they tried. So, I reluctantly believed her as I took a chomp. BLEH. What did I just poison myself with? I didn’t have the courage to swallow the grossest thing that just entered my mouth. As I held it in my mouth, my mom asked me, “Isn’t it so good?” as she was gobbling up her whole plate full of them. I smiled at her, shook my head yes, and ran to the bathroom. I spit that disgusting green plant out in the toilet to hide the evidence. I then started to get this jealous feeling. Why do some people like food and others don’t? I just wanted to be able to eat food without feeling like I had to vomit.
As I reflect on this moment later in my life, I realize I’m the same. But why? Why are some people picky? After some research, it makes sense as to why I turned out like this. Being a picky eater is based on learning, not genetics. My mom and dad are both not picky eaters, compared to me who is, which makes sense. How is it learned? It’s learned by usually parental figures when they try to make their kids eat more. Trying to make somebody who is a small eater eat more, usually has the opposite effect. When I first interviewed my person, I had no idea that this was a factor. I asked her about she felt about the cafeteria food.
Me: How do you feel about the school cafeteria food?
Interviewee: I think it’s disgusting and it sucks.
Here I thought about how similar we were, both bonding over the same dislike.
When I went to interview her again, after finding out this revelation, I asked her, “How demanding were your parents about making you eat foods you didn’t like?” she replied with, “Yes, they would physically force the utensil in my mouth and didn’t let me leave the table until I ate it.” Wow. That was something. The forcefulness of parental figures making somebody eat develops a permanent picky-eater mentality.
To contrast this, I asked for a view of my friends. I asked them whether or not they were picky eaters or not. All of them replied no, and I asked if their parents ever forced them to eat anything they didn’t want. They all said no because they are open to new things.
The bottom line is that picky eaters form from nourishment, not nature. If a developing child is already cautious about eating certain foods, making them eat them is going to have the opposite effect of trying to fix their habits.
A Call to Action
Helmet – Nick DeGiacinto
Nick DeGiacinto
There are 16,000 high school teams across America playing football. Millions of people gather together every Friday night in the season to rally around and support the team. Yet some schools need to give their team more effort. Some schools need people to rally in support. Some schools have all the resources in the world, but no one makes an effort to use those resources. This is the case with Ravenscroft. I made a trip down to the campus to investigate. I first venture to the weight room. In the most successful programs in the world, the weight room is always full of athletes throughout the school day. As I enter the gym, the darkness hits me like a rock. It feels like it has just become nighttime. It is as lonely as the Sahara Desert. The very few lights are from the fluorescent spotlights that highlight the empty racks. There’s a fine layer of dust over everything. Cobwebs and cockroaches scattered everywhere. In the east corner of the gym, there is an empty chair. Sitting in the shadows, this chair is full of memories. Many coaches have sat in this chair, yelling at their athletes as they push themselves in this once-great weight room. It is so quiet you can hear your thoughts. All the disappointing thoughts of not working hard enough and none of the work ever paying off come flooding back in the silence. Your silence gets broken by a buzz. A lonely fly is flying around, representing what used to be this fantastic weight room, full of life and glory. The now empty weight room, with the knowledge of what it once was, is overwhelming and utterly consuming every day. This barren weight room is a reflection of the attitude of the team in every aspect.
After the weightroom I decide to go interview several players for the team to get their views on it. I first interviewed Hayden Shoemaker, a sophomore who was the starting center of the 2023 season. I first asked him about how he feels about the support around general athletics at the school. He said that he “[feels] like school athletics and the support around it is pretty good.” This is quite interesting as, after my personal experience, there were very few fans who were not family in the majority of games. In most games, there were 10-15 of the 400 upper school students in attendance. Next, I interviewed Hayden Stafford, a junior who played defensive end. I asked him how he felt about school spirit around athletics, and he said that “especialy for football, there is very low turnout… and there is not many students at any of the games.” I then asked him how he felt about some team’s efforts to prepare for their upcoming season. He said that it is “pretty up to the athlete to prepare themselves during the off season. There is no actual structure or any real plans up until right before the season starts.” I took him saying this and looked into the coaching staff’s plan for the offseason. At the end of the spring season, every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday are team lifts and field workouts. The coaches are putting the opportunities out there, but the players are not answering. I am aware that other local teams that have a strong team culture will do student-led lifts. I inquired if Ravenscroft athletes did this, and he said that there is “not really [any culture]… in the weight room, there is not really any football players it is really mixed up and random and pretty empty. We are not doing anything at all together and not really bonding as a team.” This fits the research I did earlier when I visited the weight room during the school day.
My final interview to conclude my research was interviewing a coach, more specifically, an athletic trainer. I chose to interview a trainer as they are not biased. A coach for the team may be biased on the level of engagement from athletes. Coach Mike Rice has been an athletic trainer for Ravenscroft for the last three years. He has worked very closely with the football team and has developed relationships with both the athletes and coaches. I first asked him about school spirit around athletics, and he said that Ravenscroft has “pretty good school spirit with some sports and it is definitely lacking with others… [he] has seen less of a turnout of students at football games as the years have gone on. Basketball normally does pretty well and in the spring a majority of students are playing a sport.” I then inquired about his thoughts on teams’ effort to prepare for the season. He feels that “the coaches put together good things for the students to do in the off-season and it just comes down to the students actually doing it and it seems, atleast from my perspective, a handful of students will do what they need to do before the season but a majority do not.”
What is the point of all of these interviews? High school sports are so much more than just being on a team. It is a brotherhood. From my personal experience, the brothers I went onto the battlefield with will have my back for the rest of my life, and I will have theirs. I believe that every team should build this comradery. Some teams do not do all the things they can to build the brotherhood that results in success on and off the field. The early morning workouts and being there for your teammates are what make teams great. In my sophomore year, I was a part of a great team where everyone fought for everyone. We all worked together, and the whole school rallied around us as we rallied around each other. Football has taught me so many lessons. Football has taught me how to be happy with what you have while it is still here. Football has taught me to never take things for granted. Football taught me to never give up on what I want in life. Football taught me that there are going to be doubters, and you are the only one who can prove them wrong. Football has taught me that nothing is handed to you. Football has taught me that things can change at any moment. Football has made me into the person I am today. This essay is a call to action. It is a call for all players to work together to bring back the brotherhood so we may be great together.