XXIII, N0. 1 a creative arts publication of bristol central high 2013

Day lilies – colorized Digital photo – by Danielle MichauD 2013

Rantings

So Quick to Pass Judgement2 bchs - signatures - 2013

By Brandon Brady 2014

Many a time, have assorted folk posed this question to me:

“What do you plan on doing with your life, post-college?”

My answer is simple but not so conven-tional:

“I plan on pursuing a career in music.” And typically, comes the stock answer:“Okay; that’s a nice dream, but what do

you really want to do?”Do people seriously believe that state-

ment is just something you can say to someone with that kind of a career choice? How dare those people even enter-tain the thought of looking down on another’s future because of its circumstan-tial nature? How is it okay for someone to

be so stuck up that they can put down someone else’s future, the idea of the life they dream and hope and pray for? More importantly, why do we let these people say these things?

I’ll tell you exactly why we shouldn’t. I wouldn’t judge lawyers or physicians for their career choices; why is mine so easily ostracized? I’ve been told repeatedly that I’ll “never make enough money.”

Seriously? MONEY IS NOT WHAT I WORK FOR. A musician does not become a musi-

cian for the money; we do what we do because it’s our dream. So what if I may not have a brand new car in a few years, or live in a big house with a big yard? I’ll still be satisfied with the fact that I lived my life the way I wanted to. Years from

now I may not have a lot of money to throw around, but I guarantee that I’ll be happier with my life than most of these people, these cackling hyenas who think their money and materialistic views can be the badge they flaunt to gain access to “the good life.”

We as musicians and artists and writ-ers may not live the same life or share the same dreams, but we certainly make more of a difference. Artists give light to an otherwise dark world. Artists bring people together who otherwise would quarrel. Artists are the ones who make the world as beautiful as it is, and how dare anyone doubt our hopes of wanting to do so. We are not of the commonplace; we are not one of the factory-born standardized flocks that will resonate with group-think

banter about semantic topics that reap-pear so endlessly in tabloids, in blogs, online, on cable, on Twitter, ad nauseam.

It really grinds my gears when people ask me what I really want to do with my life. Why should I ever be judged for want-ing to follow my dreams, be it dwelling in a realm of circumstance? We have chosen the path not commonly taken. We do not blindly follow in the footsteps of those before us. We do not deserve to be looked down upon for our dreams.

It’s literally physically sickening to hear someone be so stuck up and preten-tious to look down on our future as art-ists. Word of advice? Don’t ever look down on an artist’s future.

Editor’s note: You could end up in his song or her mural... and it won’t be pretty.

By Veronica Martinez 2014

To all our likely candidates for academic honors;

To every teacher who smiles more at

the lazy jokers than the seri-ous workers;

To every tough guy who pushes and glares in the hall-ways; To every loudmouthed, fortunate but ignorant, and ungrateful group of friends who has known each other since middle school or earlier; And to every teacher who insists that group work really is beneficial if you just give it a shot; To everyone who’s ever put me down, This one is for y’all.

You don’t know as much as you think you do.

You absolutely don’t know me, but more than that, you don’t always know that I exist.

I work every day to main-tain good grades because I’m not from a Yankee family with money, and the chances of my going to college are slim with-out scholarships.

I listen harder than any of y’all do in classes, attempting to tune out your overwhelm-ing chorus of Did you hear

about’s and Where were you for’s and I can’t believe she/he’s.

I sit alone because even the very few who are familiar with me have better

friends, common activities, sports, drama, what have you – all beyond me.

I am a voice that goes unheard lost in a sea of the superiors.

The funnier, the smarter, the more outgoing, the older, the sportier, the bet-ter.

This is to you, from me and from every-one else like me, who cannot stand up tall enough to be seen, who cannot scream loud enough to be heard.

You’re so much better off than any of you realize.

Try to remember that – tomorrow when you slack off on homework because you know you’ll be forgiven by flashing a pretty smile and a “whoops-a-daisy” shrug; next weekend, when you have so many friends that your biggest problem is picking who to hang out with when; next month, when you blow off studying because you think you’re so smart; next year and in the next few years, when you’re in college or in the work force and meet people like me more intimately, people you have to room with or study with or collaborate with.

You’re on a pretty pedes-tal you don’t nearly deserve, while there are kids like me in the pit working our hearts out without an ounce of a reward.

Looking Down: Rant On

lucas – Pencil drawing – By tiffany laBarre 2015

By Garrett Cyr 2016

August 23, 2012. 6:30 in the morning. I wake up with a big bang. I rose from my bed, shocked, and heard the worst things: “Wake up, Mom!”

and “Call 911!” and after ten minutes of agony, the police and medics arrived. Just 11 minutes and 36 seconds on scene, and it was time to go to the hospital.

When we got there, we received the worst news of our lives. “We called it,” the nurse said with tears in her eyes. And it still haunts me today. I never thought that this would hap-pen to me. I thought that it was only some-thing you would see in movies, or read in books of fiction. There is the awful feeling of knowing that your best friend, the one who you told everything to … is gone. I realized many things while going through my mom’s death. I realized that there are many stages of grief, that there is so much change after-wards, good and bad, and that sadness never goes away.

What many people don’t realize is that grief happens for a long time, it doesn’t just happen for a few weeks; it goes on for years, even forever. My most common grief stage is anger and confusion. For me, being angry is getting upset at every little thing. It’s also not having patience with others. Being confused is another common grief stage. Sometimes, I think it’s all a dream, and nothing happened. The worst part about that is when you realize it’s not a dream. It’s almost like reliving the day when you found out the bad news.

Change. Do you like it? Maybe you do, maybe it’s

for the best ... or maybe not. The change for my family was very hard. Having to do things so differently than what you usually do is hard. For example, I do my own laundry and clean up the house - just your everyday things

that all moms do. Having to take my mother’s role was not only challenging, it was depress-ing. To take her position just felt weird to me. It didn’t feel right. However some change is good, such as spending Christmas on vacation for the first time or getting a new couch to change everything up a little. Don’t get me wrong, change is good, but sometimes change can be a little too much to handle. There is always change... People might not notice it, but over time, you start to realize that on a daily basis you’re doing the dishes, doing chores you aren’t used to doing, the things my mom always did … and right away, if you start doing what she used to do, it hurts. Over time, it becomes something you just get used to doing.

The sadness of losing someone never goes away. The pain gets easier but it is never going to completely heal. Dealing with this sadness is very difficult. Some people can’t handle it. They miss the person so much it makes them depressed and not interested in life. Some people don’t show that they’re sad. They keep it inside because they don’t want to make anyone else sad, and they want to be strong for their family. In my personal experi-ence, I sense this from some of my family members.

Everyone has bad memories, some are serious and some aren’t. I consider this seri-ous because aside from going through a death, its many stages of grief, change, and sadness, there is just the fact I will never see my mother again. There is a never ending pain that goes with that. Many people go through deaths of family and friends, but not many people go through the death of their mom, in their teenage years. That pain never com-pletely leaves; there aren’t any moments where you don’t miss the person. For me, I know my mom will always be on my mind, every day; she is my one lasting memory.

Missing Her bchs - signatures - 2013 3Personal Narratives

LoneLy House – Charcoal Drawing – By Marissa DesCHaine 2013

By LiLLian sunDGren 2015

Icould sit here and tell you that my philosophy of life is to live like there’s no tomorrow. I could con-vince you that the key to life is

always keeping your head up, and looking on the bright side when things get rough. I could say that my philosophy of life is that life is like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re gonna get (Thank you, Forrest Gump). But that’s not what I intend to do. I won’t feed you fairytales, or any mushy gushy words that are trans-parent and weightless. Despite my criti-cism of well known and cliché quotes, I do have a motto I live by. My philosophy is simple; Make time to take a wrong turn. There are people who figure that life

should be compared to complex math equations, and that only the lucky ones get to find the answer to life. If you’re one of them, you may look at my philosophy and scoff. Taking wrong turns is the exact opposite of what you want to do to get where you want to be! But what I’ve found out is this: If you end up taking a different path somewhere along the road, then in the end you’ll find that it was actually the right one.

I think more frequently about my past as I watch my life unfold in front of me. Sometimes it scares me to see all the pos-sibilities. But that’s just a cover for the fear of doing something wrong, and no one should really worry about that. The only people that worry about that end up holed up in their houses, scared of loud noises and bright lights, keeping cats as

their only friends. I had been on a path headed to a similar fate full of friendly felines. Some kids are born dare devils, and some are born with a more conscien-tious mind. I was the latter, and still am, just on a much less severe level. Elementary years were the worst; I had an irrational fear of birthday parties, sports, clubs, or “play dates”. Any invite directed towards me sent waves of uneasiness and fear into my brain, crashing into and inevitably submerging the part of me that just want-ed to have fun. One experience that I viv-idly remember occurred when I was 8 and my younger brother had recently turned 6. We both got invited to a birthday party at a gymnastics center. My mom conned me into thinking I’d be fine; nothing bad would happen. I actually believed her, until we arrived at the gymnastics center

and the mom of the birthday girl explained to us that there were huge trampolines that held the potential for at least 3 flips. I freaked out, picturing myself jumping, falling, hitting the trampoline wrong and dying. Long story short, my mom and I left the gymnastics center, leaving my brother to have the best time of his life.

Once at home, I immediately regretted not going. But now, I feel the exact oppo-site. I realized that if I had in fact gone to the party, I wouldn’t be the person I am now. It seems insignificant; but in reality, this was what helped me to realize that what may seem as the wrong thing to do may become the source of something good. That life isn’t all about being careful and trying too hard to be up to everyone else’s liking. That taking a wrong turn can lead to something wonderful.

Recalculating the Wrong Turn

Poetry4 bchs - signatures - 2013

FloatersThe Eunice Award - Best Poem

You may see SeagullsTucking their wings beside themAs they bob on the blue ocean,The tide carrying them awayWith no sense of direction.

But I seeSpecks of dust on a blue gown.They lie unnoticed until, with a swift shake of her skirt,The Atlantic whips them off her, unfolding them in the air.

They swarm around her, Waiting to settle on her hips which sway to some internal beat.All the while she dances,

A salsa, a cha-cha,Her partner the moon,Pulling her to him.They are forever ensnared.

Yet you see seagulls,Resting on a quivering ocean.The sun, an orange bead in the horizon,And you are content.

Allyiah Guiont 2014 EuphoriaAn enchanting bond

echoing with imperfectionswhispers as a withering flower,

enchanting me with its fragrant perfumes;As persistent as an aching hunger

that resonates within me.

Through a glorious vision she trembles rhythmically

with a breathtaking melody,waiting to encompass the

body of surrounding beauty.

The notes and rhythmsglide through my mind,

Just like a swan floats down a river.A shy hum begins to radiate

from my pen onto paper; modulating into an elegant lullaby.

Her euphoric melody,more joyous than the bird’s,

enrich the angelic harmoniesmirrored in my psyche.

Say goodbye with agentle whisper to the solid ground.Traveling on the wings of her hymn

I begin the heavenly ascent to a serene cloud ...

Paradise.

Graham Washburn 2013

No. 27Years from now I can’t tell you if I see you, or if I don’t see you Years from tomorrow I can’t tell you if this place we stand in will still be here Years from yesterday I can’t tell you if these words will hold much resonance How naïve of me, of us, to entertain the thought that in a few days, months, years or decades that any of this will still be standing and not swept into the air like thin lines of dust from bookshelves. Empty eyes of men in shambles may become these buildings in later times “broken” spilled across the corneas of their gazes, oh so endless. I don’t know what the future with-holds from us common passersby, Time is nothing but a bus, and our hearts are passengers We may be silent on cold seats, next to one another as strangers Or our veins intertwined like nervous fingers of the petty love we once shared But this bus does not wait for us We may get off at different stops, and share older storms with newer hearts, Or sit alone in a bathroom, hearts beating ever so rhythmically through the arteries we expose I suppose you’ll never really be ready to see what’s inside a bus named “Uncertainty”

Brandon Brady 2014

Hallway RealitiesReally. Is that completely necessary?I don’t need to know how long his tongue isWe obviously know you’re togetherThere’s no need to advertise that

Really. I’m trying to get to my class. Why don’t we hurry this alongI get it, school’s boring and longBut two miles an hour is ridiculous

Really. Are you going to stop. Right here. IN THE MIDDLE?!Did you get dropped on your headOr did you forget where you are

Really. Do you need to speak that loud?So we all can hear it, as one big crowdI don’t need to know how your weekend wasI can just read that on Twitter, thank you very much

Really. Do you all need to use the same stairwell? If you can take 4 minutes to say goodbye to this week’s loverYou can take 4 to get out of my wayPretty please

Really. This is the entrance.Not the STOP RIGHT HERE entranceMove. Now.Please.

Rachel Petke 2015ArchitecturAl DrAwing – charcoal

By SABrA VAllier 2013

Thinking Inside The BoxI don’t like putting poetry in a boxOf rhymes and lines and stanzas.It feels like art lumped into blocks, Losing form and warmth and color.

It’s like trying to contain the oceanIn lakes and crates and buckets.It seems like an impossible notion,Like the trials and guiles of Hercules.

The rhymes always feel like soldiers,Pushing and smooshing me into line.I’m always looking over my shoulders,Fearing and veering from attack.

But this poetry can’t be that bad, For I’ve rhymed and I’ve lined and I’ve lived.This poem is complete and I’m glad. It was fun, but I’m done with the box.

Amelia Schuler 2014

TimeSeamless and unraveling

That which frays the oldAnd tangles the young.

Invisible threadsThat tie the new and the forgotten.

Every lovely kissAnd each sweet goodbye

That leaves usYearning,Pleading,

For just another moment more.That endless interpreter

That which forcesEach of our ignorant eyes

To openAnd see

That this cruel world we live inIs not so cruel at all.

That there is life everywhere,Love everywhere,

And with each bittersweet endThere is a beautiful new beginning

If only we step outside.

Olivia Calfe 2014

Prevention Don’t do it. The girl you liked, the boy who laughed, the parent who failed to see your need for attentionaren’t worth ending everything. Put it down. I know that you hurt. I know what it’s like, thinking that the physical is easier than the mental or the emotional.For every person who ever dismissed you as unimportant or insignificant, I know what it is like to stand where you standand to feel like you feel. But I also know that every person who’s ever done what you did either died because of it, or learned later that it wasn’t worth it. Find something else. There are so many other things you can do to cope, so many people who love to listen and advise and simply be there. I know the feeling that no one else cares in the world,but people do.You are just as strong, beautiful, independent, intelligent and desirableas any other person in this world, and anyone who tells you differently has a similar but different problem than you have. They too feel hopeless, alone, depressed and rejected butinstead of internalizing their pain, they vocalize itand fail to see that the feelings of others will be destroyed. For those of us who have survived,be strong, because we all know you can. You don’t have to do it. You can put it down, and walk away.You can survive.

Veronica Martinez 2014

CiaraYour advice seeps through meBecause you’re the only one I trustEven when I have my doubtsYour opinion turns mine into dust

Your 6.5 years ahead of meDoesn’t seem too farYou were and will be my best friendEven though we’re apart

Your intentions are always goodEven in bad situationsI try to mirror your characterI hope that doesn’t seem like manipulation

I reminisce about our car rides at nightGoing to little storesBlasting the music and singing alongYou gave me those memories and more.

Haley Knox 2015

bchs - signatures - 2013 5Poetry

ArchitecturAl DrAwing – charcoal – By MorgAn BiBBins 2015

Poetry6 bchs - signatures - 2013

ArchitecturAl DrAwing – charcoal – By kAtie pelkey 2014

LIFELife is like artwork

You can sculpt like RodinOr paint like Da VinciOr maybe the best you can doIs a few simple lines

Some need rulers and guidebooksOthers sketch free handAnd doodle on notebooksAnd sidewalksAnd skin

Sometimes the work is appreciated and praisedBut far more often the meaning is lostOr there was never a meaning at allForgeries of others’ worksMediocre copiesDrawn by inexperienced hands

PRAYERSFor Sandy Hook

Wrapped presents sit waitingForeverThe once lighthearted anticipationNow hangs limply out of sightThe scattered remains of Christmas dreamsLie lifeless on the floorAlong with the dreamers.

Left is the stale scent of injusticeTwenty-six hearts bleeding Silent screams echoing across time and space.The souls of many, full of laughter,Empty, seep into the carpet.

Young, innocent, and joyfulThey ended with spirit in their heartsTaken with their hope and promise Still wrapped around their fingers.

Sleep tight, little angels.Find a soft place in Heaven.Smile down to your families. Tell them to stay brave,Like you.

Rachel Andrews 2013

APOTHECARYWaiting, watching, hoping, prayingFor this confused group of peopleTo break the chains holding them backAnd destroy an addiction

Asking, reaching, placing, givingThe small bag of syringes to themAs they approach the counterWishing I could deny the request

Confusing, upsetting, worrying, questioningAll of the fake smiles and lies Flooding my small 18 year old mindAnd not everyone is diabetic

Wishing, dreaming, believing, imagining When walking out the doorThat small bag of syringes, still fullWill be a piece of this week’s trash

Ashley Poirier 2013

For the artist is not an artist at the beginning of his worksIt takes timeAnd practiceAnd challengesAnd mistakesBefore anything of worth finds its way on the page

We can’t expect to be great without tryingWe can’t expect our art will be as it was imaginedWe can’t expect that the paint won’t spill or the knife won’t cutWe can’t expect to always love how the piece turns out

Sometimes we can paint over what we have doneBut the eraser can only go so deepYou can only add so much clay before the base cannot support itself

In the endLife is what you make of itAnd how you make itMakes all the difference

Margaret Manning 2014

S-TALK-INGThis is a poem for my admirerWhose eyes so bright and curiousBurn holes in the back of my headWhose quiet footstepsSeem so loud when trailing behind my ownWho causally finds a seat next to mine As if it were just by chanceAnd although quite vocal on the internetThe silence now overcoming this situationMakes me cringe.This is how we communicateWith my eyesWith my footstepsWith the silenceMy actions scream the words I long to vocalizeThe words sitting on the edge of my tongueAnd tempt me to say aloudThe words clearly being ignored:I’m not interested.

Bethany Harnisch 2013

bchs - signatures - 2013 7Poetry

ArchitecturAl DrAwing – charcoal – By clouD wilk 2013

a creative arts publication of Bristol Central High SchoolBristol, Connecticut 06011-0700Faculty Sponsor: G. Gale Dickau • Email: galedickau@ci.bristol.ct.us

PEOPLE CHANGEThe seasons of the yearAll different in their own wayConstantly moving, changingAnd you don’t know what to expect

They all have different lifestyles, personalitiesAnd when you tire of one, another’s on its way So, when you think the sun has come to prosper Be careful of what the seasons have to offer

When the cold air starts blowingAnd while the leaves change colorsAnd fall off the treesTheir roots are still in place

They’re not dead, just waiting, For a reason to spring up again.So while you think change is for the better Nobody changes like the CT weather

Clint Taylor 2014

TURBULENCEBeing alone is a temperamental thingWhen performed in high spirits it’s hard not to sing

Your breeze blows unimpeded by forceYou fly true and follow your course

But when gliding across those valleys and plainsYour wind can be blocked by unwanted pains

For independence takes its tollAnd the feeling you felt takes on a new role

For loneliness is a perilous beastWhen it is not tamed it makes you its feast

The trick to saving the freedom you knewIs to find someone’s wind that blows your way too

Together alone your currents are doubledAnd by the beast you are no longer troubled

Margaret Manning 2014

JUMP THEN FALLOur entire lives are spentTrying to find a way out Of the labyrinth. We map out the easy way,Trying to escape challenges.Our goal is to survive,Not to live.At a younger age,It may seem acceptable to map it out.It may seem appropriate to aim for the future.Maybe even at that cliché middle aged crisisWe could aim for the future.But what about when we’re 66?Do we still push for the future?Or when we’re 99?What happens then?What do we do when there are no more dreams?We may have pushed so hard for the future, That we forgot about the present.We forgot to live.Caution ran our lives,Rather than the courage to dream.We were too afraid to try anything new.We did what was easier.And we forgot.To run rather than walk.To yell rather than whisper.To disagree rather than agree.To fight, to live, to love.To jump, then fall.

Colleen King 2015

bchs - signatures - 2013 98 bchs - signatures - 2013 La Galerie des Beaux Arts

A PortrAit of the Artist – Acrylics – By MArgAret MAnning 2014

canvas

blushed a pattern roundabout,and mid-toned pink lights

sound it out

fading creamy yellow blurs,peel and swill, crumbled, sore

a shade too dark amida peach just right,

white hues blanket mint goodnight

shapely rose spots, dotted redswirl and plunder

waterbed

makeshift pallet gray and bluecrater crimson puddles new,

pale umber like raw midnightbleeding in titanium white

violent magic in thick sea greentruest indigo serene

cerulean sweeping canvas barepetal gold sift pewter wear,

gunmetal silver trimmed with ash,earth-tone blush, clipped pitch black

burnt oasis color-strippedwasteland barren,

perfect.

olivia cyr2013

By eric Aldieri 2013

I’m in motion, speeding past the red orange leaves in Northern Connecticut. The vibrant colors blend together as I gaze out the

window of my car. I haven’t had this feel-ing until recently, but I have felt it so often in the previous months. It’s a feeling of complex happiness – the state of being almost too fascinated with the intricacies

of life. My mind fails to grasp it. How can a landscape be so beautiful?

I continue through Burlington, lowering the window down just a touch, so as to feel the cool autumn breeze seeping through the tiny gap. “This Must Be the Place” by Talking Heads comes on my iPod when I hit “shuffle,” and I know that this truly must be the place. It isn’t one particular place in the singular sense of the word, but a collection of places along this one single

route which I drive every Sunday morning during the fall.

I pass Hogan’s Cider Mill. The old rustic pickup truck is filled over capacity with perfect orange pumpkins. A young boy snacks on an apple cider doughnut. It’s autumn in New England, and my senses are bursting at the seams with exhilaration. I cannot handle it. I am so overjoyed by life that I almost get angry; angry that the human brain cannot ever genuinely com-

prehend how much this world has to offer.I proceed into Collinsville, and through

my window see the lively farmer’s market abundant with corn, apples, tomatoes – and happy people. My window is not a barri-cade, but an idyllic portal, through which I am enriched, through which I transcend my physical body, through which I connect to the people and places around me.

It’s fall in New England. And I cannot handle the beauty.

Falling for New Englandcovered Bridge – Acrylics – By BryAn dAly 2013

bchs - signatures - 2013 98 bchs - signatures - 2013 La Galerie des Beaux Arts

A PortrAit of the Artist – Acrylics – By MArgAret MAnning 2014

canvas

blushed a pattern roundabout,and mid-toned pink lights

sound it out

fading creamy yellow blurs,peel and swill, crumbled, sore

a shade too dark amida peach just right,

white hues blanket mint goodnight

shapely rose spots, dotted redswirl and plunder

waterbed

makeshift pallet gray and bluecrater crimson puddles new,

pale umber like raw midnightbleeding in titanium white

violent magic in thick sea greentruest indigo serene

cerulean sweeping canvas barepetal gold sift pewter wear,

gunmetal silver trimmed with ash,earth-tone blush, clipped pitch black

burnt oasis color-strippedwasteland barren,

perfect.

olivia cyr2013

By eric Aldieri 2013

I’m in motion, speeding past the red orange leaves in Northern Connecticut. The vibrant colors blend together as I gaze out the

window of my car. I haven’t had this feel-ing until recently, but I have felt it so often in the previous months. It’s a feeling of complex happiness – the state of being almost too fascinated with the intricacies

of life. My mind fails to grasp it. How can a landscape be so beautiful?

I continue through Burlington, lowering the window down just a touch, so as to feel the cool autumn breeze seeping through the tiny gap. “This Must Be the Place” by Talking Heads comes on my iPod when I hit “shuffle,” and I know that this truly must be the place. It isn’t one particular place in the singular sense of the word, but a collection of places along this one single

route which I drive every Sunday morning during the fall.

I pass Hogan’s Cider Mill. The old rustic pickup truck is filled over capacity with perfect orange pumpkins. A young boy snacks on an apple cider doughnut. It’s autumn in New England, and my senses are bursting at the seams with exhilaration. I cannot handle it. I am so overjoyed by life that I almost get angry; angry that the human brain cannot ever genuinely com-

prehend how much this world has to offer.I proceed into Collinsville, and through

my window see the lively farmer’s market abundant with corn, apples, tomatoes – and happy people. My window is not a barri-cade, but an idyllic portal, through which I am enriched, through which I transcend my physical body, through which I connect to the people and places around me.

It’s fall in New England. And I cannot handle the beauty.

Falling for New Englandcovered Bridge – Acrylics – By BryAn dAly 2013

By OLIVIA CYR 2013University of Maine, Farmington

The elvio AwArd: BesT College essAy

Walking into F-South 3-1, the smells of split pea soup, day-old coffee, and the yeasty scent of stiff white bed sheets

hit me. The room’s white walls and muted TV are comforting. I clutch my clipboard and peer around the divider with extreme caution, hoping to find a fully clothed man lying comatose in his bed. Instead, I find a shriveled, pale body half out of his chair, screeching, “NURSE!” He’s distressed and frightened. He takes one look at me and cries even louder. I place my clipboard on the bedside table, swoop to his side, and kneel, taking one of his white-knuckled hands. I ask what’s wrong, and if he needs help. I shake with worry, trying to right his position without fracturing his small frame. He sits upright on the command of my guiding hands. The panic drains from his eyes, his mouth relaxes into a loose O, and he sags back into the chair, looking at me with calm and awe.

“What is it?” I ask again.“I needed a cup ’o water,” is his simple

reply.Just another day on F-South. Nurses

whiz by in navy blurs; doctors in pallid lab coats snake stethoscopes around their necks. Families gather around the bed of their loved one, weeping and holding hands on bad days, laughing and story-telling on good ones. The cafeteria buzzes with life, griddle sizzling with golden grilled cheese sandwiches and pizza. Caseworkers clack down hallways chatter-ing on cell phones, clouds of dusty floral perfume in their wake. EMTs burst through the ER doors, holding oxygen masks onto lifeless mouths, invisible capes flap-ping on their shoulders. Pharmacists rush to pack-age medications before clocking out. Underdog volunteers with plastic badges and tightly laced sneakers pad to each department, fulfilling their two-hour stint.

I wear my Bristol Hospital uniform proudly. I respond to patient requests or demands; it’s my job. I do every-thing from making paper copies for my supervisor, to making beds in

Physical Therapy, and smiling away the troubles of patients. Since I’m not a peo-ple-person, I never thought I’d enjoy vol-unteer work, but I do, even on my worst day. I feel good when I’m helping others; in doing so, I’m slowly healing myself. It’s always been hard to find my niche in high school, never sure what made me happy. For four years, it has never occurred to me to do anything but volunteer my free

time. I feel grounded.

The homeless at a soup kitch-en, a busy children’s museum,

a colorful preschool daycare, a struggling math student all call on me for help. I give them my time, my heart: the greatest gifts. With my vol-unteerism comes empathy and compassion. I’ve come to realize what is most important by giving my time to others. I have gained a great respect for those less fortunate, and

for people who are incapable. Wherever I go in life, I can know there’ll be a place where I can help, and I’ll finally be home.

College Essays

By ALexAndRA PeABOdY 2013George Washington University

It is a Saturday morning, 11:49 AM ET and I am sitting in a local Starbucks typing this essay. It is 5:49 PM in Rome and someone I will never

meet is sitting at an outdoor cafe also sipping a cappuccino.

It is now 12:01 AM Sunday in Hong Kong, 9:01 AM Saturday in Seattle. I have yet to live the time passed in China; I have already lived the hours Seattle has not seen. Sir Sanford Fleming manipulated time zones on paper for convenience; I manipulate them in my head to ponder the con-founding concept of time and what it means to be an infinitesimal component of the billions of life minutes being lived right now. It astounds me that at the same time a business executive

on Wall Street is crunching numbers, a homeless man three blocks away is beg-ging for change. While a woman in the Middle East is being punished for wearing revealing clothing, a woman in Amsterdam wearing next to nothing in a window is

not given a second glance.As I am typing this essay and

nursing my cappuccino, the woman a table away is pouring over her law textbook. Will I be her in five years?

American tennis star John Isner knows the value of time after playing the longest ten-nis match in history at Wimbledon two years ago. After a total of eleven hours and five minutes of play, he walked away victorious.

Isner has lived countless hours since then. Have any been as significant as those eleven?

It takes about thirty minutes of sipping steadily for a coffee to grow

cold as mine has. Even as I am sitting still, the world is spinning undeterred as it always has. People have the tendency to think they are the center of the universe. Their schedules are the only things that matter and there is not enough time to think about anything else. Those people run the risk of being narrow-minded.

In this one instant - Saturday at 12:28 PM, from my perspective - billions of peo-ple all over the world are going about their daily lives untouched by my life, my life untouched by theirs except for in thought. What is being done to make these instants worthwhile? I am making my minutes count by typing this college essay. The woman next to me is studying for a career in law. We are at different times in our lives, living the same minutes.

It is important to be aware of time without necessarily being aware of the time. If you are too busy watching the clock you have no time to watch the world. It is 12:43 PM, just as it has been 12:43 PM thousands of times before and will be thousands of times to come. What matters is what I make of my 12:43 PMs, keeping in mind all of the other 12:43 PMs equivalent to mine yet decisively different.

Finding Home

Percolating

10 bchs - siGnatUres - 2013

By SHeLBI BURnS 2013University of Vermont

It’s raining – the audience is soaked to the core and my eyelashes drip with crystals of water which fall, icy and perfectly round, onto my

bare legs. It’s raining and cold and utterly beautiful: soft, hazy lights reflect off a translucent pool of water, flecked by raindrops, surrounding the stage upon which the lead singer sits – a melody flows from his mouth, pours from his fingertips, and settles comfortably into my ears. It’s raining and we don’t care; the Counting Crows are performing and the world seems to have stopped, frozen in time. The scene recreates itself flawlessly in my mind’s eye; the details stream from my memory as effortlessly as the rain fell that summer evening. The perfor-mance opened wittily with a song as appropriate for the weather as could be – “Rain King.” The disposition of the audience immediately changed with the first chords of the song: the low, anticipation-filled hum accelerat-ed into a roar of recognition and excitement in mere seconds as the music enthralled the spectators. The song ignited something within us – it hinted at the possibilities of the con-cert in the rain, underneath the stars, brightened by the lights – something that would only come to fruition later, in Sullivan Street.

The feeling became apparent to everyone within that song – I began to feel the tug, the ache, the clenching of my heart, taking pieces from me. I felt the flutter of my soul as it was rising over the crowd, holding my pieces, meshing with the others. I saw them fall over the audience, gracefully down to their heads like ashes after a fire or autumn leaves from their homes in the branches of oak trees. I saw them fall right there into the outstretched arms of the woman dressed completely in red, singing every lyric as if she wrote them herself. I saw them falling into the old man’s weathered head, and the young man’s fast-beating heart, and my companion’s eyes, bright and awed as he took in the scene just as I did. I saw them falling into others as theirs fell into me.

PIECES

bchs - signatures - 2013 11College Essays

By Shayna youman 2013Loyola university

In the band room of Torrington High School, roughly a hundred musi-cians will gather to

listen to their latest challenge: Abram’s Pursuit. This grade four piece was created by David

Holsinger, and inspired by a story from the Book of Genesis. The medi-um with which their concert band director will introduce this mirac-ulous piece is a CD, a CD which was given to him by the band director of Bristol Central High School, John Abucewicz. My band director. The CD is a recording of one of the most exhilarating and inspiring moments of my life. At a concert last year, the con-cert band of which I am honored to be a mem-ber performed Abram’s Pursuit. Now, due to our success with a very difficult piece, other high school directors are using our performance to introduce this piece

to their students.It is a very long piece, roughly five

minutes in length despite the back-break-ing speed (or lip-breaking, in the case of a musician). From the initial brassy burst, the audience is absorbed by Holsinger’s interpretation of Abram’s pursuit. The softer measures give off a

feeling of a hastening journey until the peaks of utter excitement and

thrill. The deep brassy tones hammer the audi-ence, signifying the intense struggle endured by Abram as he endeavored to res-cue Lot, his nephew, from Chedorlaomer, King of Elam.

Admittedly, I was not familiar with this biblical story before my own band direc-tor introduced Abram’s Pursuit to my life. I was—like many other high school stu-dents—focused on my own pur-

suits: the pursuit of a driver’s license; the pursuit of a successful senior year; and, of course, the pursuit of college admis-sion. And yet, Abram’s Pursuit is a key-stone in my life, without which I never would have realized that success is sweeter with sweat. Holsinger didn’t name his piece Abram’s Accomplishments. Abram’s Pursuit is neither about his suc-cesses, nor his failures. It’s about the miraculous, heart-wrenching experiences that made his journey worth the work.

Similarly, my pursuit has been enriched by the joyous and the heart-breaking experiences that speckled the path. My parents married very young, when I was two years old. After years of trying to stay together, their marriage failed and they divorced during the sum-mer before my freshman year. About a week ago from when I am writing this, minutes before my marching band stepped off a parade, I was informed of my grandfather’s death.

Struggles, as well as my triumphs, have only been a part of the larger pur-suit: to better myself, to be useful in society, and to help others to succeed in their own pursuits. My Abram’s experi-ence showed me the value of the chal-lenges we face in life, showed me that struggles make success all the better.

By ERIC aLDIERI 2013Villanova university

PresidentiaL schoLar

I needed money for the summer, but rejected the mere thought of work-ing the same monotonous routine behind a Dunkin’ Donuts counter

every morning, the option many of my friends had chosen. I needed an exciting job – something out of the ordinary. One day after school, the ideal opportunity was presented to me. My high school principal asked if I would be willing to babysit his six and nine year old kids throughout the summer.

He lived across the street, so no gas money was required. The schedule con-sisted only of week days, so I would still have plenty of free time, and the pay was much better than any offers my peers received. Why not?

The first day, the nine year old, Sean, punched the younger one, Patrick, in the back of the head. The second day, Patrick slipped in the pool and scraped his side along the plastic lining. The third day, a massive thunderstorm incited a riot of tears from both boys. Over that weekend, their beloved dog died. Things were off to a shaky start.

The next week, an intense feud over what movie to watch ensued between the children, the new dog used the basement rug as a bathroom pro tempore, and one of the boys refused to eat the masterpiece of a sandwich I had constructed – crust trimmed and all. The outlook wasn’t too positive. I began to count the hours from 7:30-3:30 in anxious anticipation for Mr. or Mrs. to return home.

But the third week, the landscape changed. I noticed the utter joy on their faces as they swung back and forth on their playscape as I pushed to help them attain height. I under-stood the frustrated concentration of ado-lescence as they des-perately tried to fit together two Legos that simply were not com-patible. Most impor-tantly, I recog-nized the b r i l l i a n t wonder of a naïve child as he ran his

fingers over the smooth casing of an acorn, asking me why God made them that smooth. As he lay there on the ham-mock, cradling the seed in his hands, studying all its intricacies, I saw myself. I saw the wonder that I possessed as a kid, and I realized I’ve never lost it. I’m still that curious child, marveling at acorns and the night sky and the autumn leaves. True, I may be wondering with a little

more complexity now, pondering the kinematics of the acorn as it falls from the tree with an acceleration around 9.8m/s2 toward the ground, but the principle remains the same.

The months spent watching the principal’s boys gave me a necessary renewal of my inner youth. I enjoyed every minute of my summer adventure in babysit-

ting, even the time spent remaking the peanut butter and jelly sand-

wich because I had not cut it “with the Lightning McQueen knife.”

Maybe, eventually, the spark of innocence so openly exhibit-

ed during childhood is lost; but for me, I don’t see that day coming any time soon.

The Pursuit

Adventures in Babysitting

By Ryan RaThKE 2013Fairfield university

Out on the track, there are thou-sands of athletes that compete, and of those there are very few that have a layer of extra skin on

their stomachs. In fact, I believe I am the only one. It may be funny to some to see someone with a skin flap, but I am here to reassure you that it does make you look absolutely ridiculous. What I’ve come to realize is that I have to embrace it as part of who I am. I wear this excess skin with pride, knowing of the road traveled to get where I am today.

The first road being Apple, mine of course, on the intial jog towards a major change in my life. I had joined the Bristol Central Outdoor Track Team in hopes of no longer being known as “the fat kid”. I was put on the distance team halfway through the season and did not have much of a desire to stay there. However, I kept my mouth shut and stuck to the challenging workouts scheduled for the team. I made the decision to get hungry. No longer for sweets and sugar, but for a healthier me.

Every time I wanted to slow down or stop I just told myself otherwise because I knew that I had to in order to be competi-tive. There were times when I just felt like quitting, like whenever I was abruptly awakened at three in the morning with a calf muscle cramping up. But somehow, I fell in love with the sport of running. Sometimes running knocks you down, like that time I fell three times in one race, but it also teaches you to have a strong posi-tive attitude, because I got up three times in that race as well. Through the sweat, blood, and pain, I kept on running.

When I ran I became thinner, and as I grew slimmer, my self-esteem and confi-dence levels skyrocketed. After I lost over seventy pounds, I became much more out-going, and even more involved in social atmospheres. I owe all of this to the devel-oping of the flap, and that is why I will never be ashamed of its physical appear-ance. The road to its creation was a bumpy one filled with its fair share of twists and turns, but at the end of the day I would seek no alternate route. Every time I look down at my stomach I am reminded that I can do whatever I set my mind to.

What’s All the Flap About?

By AMANDA GREENBACKER 2013Syracuse University

Iremember the first time I ever saw my grandfather cry. It was two summers ago at Laurel Music Camp. I had just finished my solo in Bizet’s

“Farandole” when I looked out into the audience and saw this huge, goofy, buck-toothed grin smiling back at me from the third row. I saw the tears run down his cheeks as he mouthed the words “You’re gonna go far, kid.”

My grandfather, Emil Politz, has worked hard his whole life. His entire being is built on an honor system. If you are able to help someone, you have a moral obligation to do so. No matter what you do, always do it to the best of your ability. And no matter what you wish to pursue, never step on anyone on your path to success. He has taught me

to never judge someone on appearances, to value the dignity of hard work, and to appreciate the small things in life. He has showed my brother and me that honesty is always the best policy, regardless of the consequences. But above all, he is a con-stant reminder to everyone that the fam-ily is a source of unconditional love.

When I was three years old, my biological father passed away. His

death is my first memory. But after his passing, my grandpa filled in as both a father fig-ure and a grandfather. Despite such a traumatic childhood, I never once strayed from the path to success. Should I ever stumble, my grandpa would pick me back up and say “brush off the dirt and show them how you shine.” He has shown me

that there is always joy in life, even during

times of struggle.It is impossi-

ble to deny that my grandpa has influenced the way I live. Every

person I meet, regardless of their repu-tation, is a friend to me until they choose to be otherwise.

As a Drum Major, I am eager to help whenever my band-mates need assis-tance, be that as a fellow musician or confidante. I give credit where credit is due, and I’m always thankful for my family’s love and unwavering support.

With Grandpa’s moral guidance I have succeeded in joining the National Honor Society, as well as winning sev-eral awards for my leadership and citi-zenship skills. Most importantly, my grandfather’s ethics have translated into my music. Every day I sit down with my flute and try to make my tone just a bit better than yesterday. I focus myself on every note, every rest, so that the music is burned into my fingers. I pour my heart and soul into the entire piece. Every measure has meaning. Every phrase tells a story. The entire piece becomes what I will it to be – it becomes a part of me.

At every concert, my grandfather is

present. He sees that, in me, all of his hard work has paid off. And thanks to him, I will go far.

College Essays

By SPENCER JOHNSON 2013Marist College

My biggest competitor is myself. Like Charles Darwin’s theory of natural selection, I must compete with myself in order

to survive. I often ask myself why I run when I end up back where I started. The reason being is the journey I take. Whether being the 1600, 3200 or 5k, the journey is the same.

My journey begins at the start. The gun goes off and it’s a mad dash to secure your position. Elbows are thrown, and when it’s a crowded start the key is to put your hands out and push forward. There’s not enough time to say sorry to the run-ner you just kicked in the shin, or the one you just hurdled over. You must secure your spot and pick people off one by one. There’s never a moment in time where you should be comfortable in a race. You must advance and push through the dis-comfort and pain.

My voyage continues through the tun-nel vision spectrum through the winding trails and hills. I hear the steady rhythm of my breathing as I concentrate on only

looking forward. I hear no noise. I see no distractions. I must continue to stay focused and learn to obliterate the com-motion of the crowd surrounding the trail. The only voice I allow is my coach’s screaming, urging me to move forward and close the gap.

In moments where I feel like giving up, I think about what would happen if I slow down; the regret at the end of the race where I tell myself I could’ve done better; or the blame I’d put on myself for slowing down. I always ask myself why be tired now when I can be tired when I’m done running. I must compete with myself to focus on doing my best. Running isn’t just a physical sport, it’s a mental sport. My c o a c h always tells us this and this is true. The stron-

gest ones are the most confident and tough, and that’s what I aim to be. I can’t let self-doubt kick in and think about all the bad things that can hap-pen in a race. As a runner, you have more bad races than good, but these are the races that make you stronger. When things don’t go your way, you

learn from your mistakes and these push you forward. This is where the strong survive, where a new motivation to succeed is born, where champions are made.

I finally reach the light at the end of my twisted tunnel. I don’t look back and I stride down the homestretch at top speed. My journey is almost over, but I can’t give up until I

run through the finish. I cross the finish line, and I’m back right

where I started. What’s the point? The lesson is in

the journey. I can see my potential; there is more to be dis-covered. I just need motivation and my running shoes.

Grandpa’s Song

At the Start...

12 bChS - SignatUreS - 2013

By HUGO MARTINEZ 2013Central Connecticut State University

Despite it being one of the most exciting moments of my life, I just wanted it to end. While my band mates finished setting up, I was

daunted by the immense challenge before me. I would have to play a ten second introduction...alone. The audience would hear only me, every single note I played, whether right or wrong. The moment I started to play, the show would start. No conductor would be there to count me off, no friend to yell, “Go!” Just me, no pres-sure. My band mates gave me a signal that they were ready; I nodded, looked at the crowd one last time and began to play. Almost immediately I messed up.

My worst fear just realized, I continued to play, furiously staring at my guitar. For the remainder of the set I focused solely on my fingers swiftly mov-ing on the fret board, I couldn’t mess up again. Once we finished, the audience cheered and clapped. A sense of relief came over me as I gauged my first live performance: intense, terrifying and life-affirming.

That first performance marked a turning point in my life. For an entire year, my band did not have a drummer, and though I appeared disappointed, secretly, I was relieved. Having a drummer would have meant moving the music out of the basement and on to the stage, something I was not prepared for or ever thought I would be. I felt perfectly con-tent to confine my guitar playing to the safe walls of my basement, away from judging eyes and ears.

When my band finally did find a drummer and began practicing for our first performance, I real-ized that I had to play, if only to prove to myself that I could. I thought back to the times in my life when fear ruled me; when I did not take AP Chemistry because I assumed I would fail, when I declined offers to parties because I was intimidated by the number of strangers I’d encounter.. I used these past experiences to motivate myself, I would no longer be an observer in my life, I would play this concert even if I embarrassed myself, even if I failed horribly. Though I did realize my worst fear the day of the performance, I gained so much cour-age and confidence from my mistake.

That day was more than just the debut of my band, it was the day I became comfortable with the person I am and strive to be: a person who will no longer shy away from a challenge; someone who will confront the unknown rather than avoid it; someone who, a year ago, was full of self-doubt but now sees his future with certainty. I am ready to pursue college level studies on a different stage.

Different Stage

By Connor Johnson 2013Central Connecticut State University

It’s taken me 17 years to recognize what an influence my mother has had on my life. She is the kind of mother who is more likely to spend

a week on a dude ranch in Wyoming than at the beach in the Bahamas. My mother has been the coordinator of many family trips which com-bine a respect for history, attention to learning, and a feeling of fun and adven-ture.

When it came time for summer and the normal school breaks, my mother has always had something planned, whether we approved or not. From first grade on, my family has been throwing our bags into the car and heading off on new journeys. I have always been in charge of pack-ing my own bag and brought whatever I

deemed necessary to keep me enter-tained. As one of three brothers, I was always concerned about seating arrange-ments in a full car. The three of us would string together our imaginations to invent games to avoid the boredom of the dread-ed car ride. No matter how uncooperative we could be at times, together we fell into our “road trip mode” of teamwork the moment we reached the highways.

The summer after third grade, my mom booked a weeklong family stay on a dude ranch in Wyoming. I had no idea what to expect. I was stunned by the scenery and the way of life in practically the middle of nowhere. Riding hors-es, making campfires, and visit-ing Yellow Stone National Park made me realize I could survive

a week without any modern tech-nology and be completely fine with

that. A year later we took a trip to see the Grand Canyon.

After that, we toured the streets of San

Francisco on Segways, visited Alcatraz, and walked through

the giant sequoias of the redwood for-ests in Yosemite National Park. Not every trip has been “pleasant,” howev-er. For instance, the time we went to visit relatives in Huntington Beach, I caught a virus on the plane ride result-ing in a couple of overnight stays in the “Betty Ford Clinic.” Another time on our annual Thanksgiving trip to Nantucket, the ferry ride was so rough that I inevitably became sea sick “green.”

As the years progressed, there were many notable changes when it came to traveling. Being older and having more responsibilities, our job and sports schedules made it almost impossible to manage family trips. I have come to appreciate all the times my mother has had to deal with me and my brothers through years of our road trips. I have learned to truly value all the experi-ences I have been exposed to. Being a senior in high school, it saddens me to think these family trips are coming to an end. Hopefully with college around the corner, I will begin the next big road trip in my life. I will use my mother’s values of compromise and creativity to start my own journey.

By Cyrena aBBasi 2013University of Hartford

“Wow, he’s like so weird.” “Oh my god, he is so stu-pid.” “What is she wear-ing?!”

These comments are just some of the few that are “whispered” throughout the halls of most—if not all—high schools in America.

“Who does she think she is?” “I can’t stand to look at your face.” “You should just fall in a hole.” These are just a miniscule fraction of

the subtweets and status posts published on social networks that are viewable to virtually anyone.

Most students in high school are too immature to realize the impact that those words will have on their victims forever. Bullying—whether it is physical, directly said to the person, said behind her back, or posted online—will be embedded for-ever in the victim’s memory. I would know.

My freshman year of high school was probably the typical freshman year any-one could dream of. Getting lost on your way to class and having to awkwardly turn around in the halls in front of every-one? Check. Getting food thrown at you during lunch by the seniors because

you’re a “smelly freshman?” Check. Oh, and let’s not forget the ultimate freshman experience: Getting made fun of by a group of girls? Check.

My entire life I’ve struggled with bad skin; it runs in my family. Being the vic-tim of bullying really takes a toll on some-one who has always had insecurities because of something that they just can’t control. Walking into a class where five girls are blatantly trash-talking you can be pretty traumatiz-ing, especially when the cute varsity football player—who would later become my long-term boyfriend—is sitting there listening to girls make you look and feel so stupid!

My experience makes me a huge advocate for spread-ing awareness about bullying and trying to stop it. I know how much of an impact bullying can have on a person. For me, it has made me stron-ger, but for oth-ers that is not

always the case. Bullying—in all of its forms—makes people feel inferior and insecure. It makes people bitter. It causes suicides and other forms of self-harm. It needs to end. We live in a society that is overly judgmental and wants everyone to conform. But I say no. People deserve to feel good about themselves. People deserve to be happy. Most importantly, people deserve to be individuals with their own thoughts,

their own feelings, and their own interests.

Since that day, I have learned a few things about myself and humanity. I am a strong, intel-ligent, and talented young woman and I should not seek the approval or accep-tance of others. I am an individual with a huge heart and I know now how to ignore someone’s immaturity. Believing in that, I know that I can bring my unique person-

ality to any community I choose to join. I

take pride in hav-ing a concrete sense of who I am as a person.

Tour Guide

Beyond Bullying

By Melissa CuMMings 2013University of Hartford

“Runner’s set”… The gun fires. Spectators jostle for a view of the race. Runners squeezing, shoving, and elbowing one another to fight

for a lead spot. Meanwhile, I’m in a Porta Potty nearby, after being mistakenly told by a specta-tor that I had plenty of time before my race. I had just arrived to the meet after taking the SAT’s. It’s my last high school cross country invitational, and I planned on fin-ishing it with a bang. I exploded out of the Porta Potty and ran towards the start-ing line. As I see the runners get further ahead, I think of the quote printed on the index card my coach gave to me before my race: “All it takes is all you’ve got!” And on the back she wrote, “Today is an important race--run though, run strong!” More thoughts race through my mind; I haven’t even had time to get warmed up or stretched.

Last year, injury and the decision to rest put me on the sidelines, watching my teammates start with hope and end with disappointment, but now nothing holds me back. They’re already almost out of sight. What will everyone think? My dad is in the crowd…All flashed through my mind within five seconds. Taking one look at my coach, then at the sky, I did the one thing I do best…run. I part the crowd, stirring comments and controversy as I charge across the field, hurdling the race ropes and trudging through the race-created mud, propelling my body up the starting hill staring at the race 100 meters ahead. What my mind wills, my body performs as I weave through packs of contenders, passing teammates and seeing expressions of surprise and hope as they will me forward. The tired breaths of my competitors drive me through to the final and fateful stretch of my race. My body aches but my mind says it’s invincible as I open the gap in back of me while closing the one in front of me, passing runners with each step. I get closer to the finish. With my arms pumping, legs reaching, and sweat dripping, I make the final push…closer, harder, faster. I finish. I crossed that line placing 53rd out of 213 run-ners. With the little energy I have left, I stagger my way towards my coach and family.

My teammates finish and gather up enough energy to give me a smile, reminding me why I run in the first place. When I reach my support-ers, I earn myself a medal, a “Well I’m not sur-prised” from Grandpa, a hard-earned and rare “I’m proud of you” from Coach, and a managed “I love you” from my dad. I ran my race the way my dad is battling brain cancer - less fear and more heart. I’m ready to succeed, pushing my way through anything life throws at me; the rest of my life, here I come.

Running for Grandpa

bCHS - SignatUreS - 2013 13College Essays

By SARAH OUELLETTE 2013University of Connecticut

“Hi my name is Sarah, how are you today?”

“Great, thank you. I would like one chicken bur-

rito, please. Senior discount!” “Sure! That will be $1.23 with the

senior discount. Second window, please.”

Six hours a day, three days a week, I greet hundreds of customers and take hun-dreds of orders. My job is far from simple and easy. It is the exact opposite. It requires patience, the ability to multitask, communication, and speed. I had no idea what I was getting myself into when I applied at Taco Bell, the most famous Mexican fast food chain in America. It may be difficult but at the end of the day I’m lucky to have a job that

teaches me such valuable qualities.

“My burrito is cold. This is ridiculous!”“I’m so sorry, sir. That’s our fault. Let

us make you a new, fresh one.”When I first started my job I did not

realize how much patience is required to deal with customers. It is not acceptable to argue back with any unsatisfied cus-

tomer and the urge to prove them wrong is hard to hold back at

times. I have been screamed at, food has been thrown at me, and many times have I been accused of ringing up the wrong order. No mistake goes unseen in the fast food industry.

Not only do I deal with customers, but I also have to take orders, make drinks, count money, and hand out food all at the same time, in

under a minute and fifteen sec-onds. The pres-sure is so preva-lent that I have cracked under it

many times. I was so overwhelmed; I did not know how to handle myself.

When it came to communication skills, I was extremely unprepared and inexperienced. I was the girl who avoided all contact with strangers if possible. I didn’t want to put myself in any kind of awkward situation but my job required me to communicate with complete strangers. I never knew what to say, so I said very little. I appeared shy and timid.

One year has passed and as I look back on my experiences at Taco Bell, I realize I’ve grown. I now have a lot of patience when dealing with any situa-tion, no matter how frustrating it can be. I can also multitask efficiently with-out getting overwhelmed and my com-munication skills have gone through the roof. As a Taco Bell employee I have dealt with a variety of situations includ-ing handling customers, beating the clock, and fulfilling my job description as a drive-thru cashier. At times, my job is unbearable and often it has brought me to tears, but I have learned to deal with the situation at hand efficiently and correctly. Without Taco Bell I would still be that shy, impatient, slow-to-process teenage girl.

College Essays

By SEAn HEiSER 2013Boston College

The English language may not echo the prestige of such ancient languages as Germanic and Latin - the predecessors of most mod-

ern languages; however, it has certainly supplied its share of elite words, words that can redefine generations of humans. It takes a special circumstance for a sin-gle word to emerge from those ranks, a word that ignites both fear and respect within its subjects, a word that acquires absolute power over those it afflicts, a word with only six letters: cancer. Although this term originates from the Greek root “karkinos,” it is a word ingrained within the English language, a word that has established its supremacy in every culture.

Cancer does not exist as a single enti-ty; it is known by various nomenclatures, representative of the area of the body it determines as its next target. The internal battle a human wages against this crip-pling ailment is inconceivable, and it is a battle I had to witness from the sidelines as my mother clashed with breast cancer.

Powerless does not even begin to scratch the surface of how I felt that day my mother revealed this to my sisters and

me. That was two years ago, and the agony of hearing those words still reso-nates with me. My mother’s life depended upon her doctors’ expertise, while I was impotent in her battle against breast can-cer. Never in my life, both before and since, have I felt so paralyzed, so feeble, so inadequate. I was incapable of waging this war with my mother; the only sup-port I could offer was emotional, doing my best to ease her suffering during che-motherapy. Any chuckle or eupho-ria I could trigger within her was triumphant in my eyes. During this stretch of time, I assumed that it was para-mount to exhibit an opti-mistic and spirited perso-na, not just for my moth-er, but for the rest of my family; it was essential to remain confident given the circumstances. I took pride in this approach; I took pride in being the delegate of my family’s fortitude. I sac-rificed much because they deserved it.

However, despite my displays of

optimism and endeavors to generate even minuscule amounts of comfort and to help my family maintain high spirits, I was experiencing my own internal revolution. I will be the first to admit how naive I was before my mother’s struggle came to light, but the level of maturity I have achieved since continues to astonish even myself. “Never take anything for granted” was a phrase I had heard throughout the

years on numerous occasions, yet it never fully registered with me until I grasped the reality that cancer is so unpredict-able, that it commands respect because it has the potential to inflict exten-sive amounts of destruc-tion. My life transformed the day breast cancer pre-sented itself, and although

it was an arduous obstacle to cope with, it forever

changed my outlook on the significance of the present. I live

in the moment, because every moment

deserves celebra-tion, because every moment is a gift.

Taco Belle

Rooted in the Greek

14 BChs - signatUres - 2013

By SiLAS BROOkS 2013Bryant College

When you think of the term “mother,” the woman that gave birth to you” will probably pop into your head. But to me, a

“mom” does much more than just a mother. In my eyes, a mom is the woman that raises her child with unconditional love, teaches him right from wrong, and pro-vides him with everything he could ever want or need. I am very thankful to have not only a mother, but a mom as well. Not only is she my mom, she’s also my dad.

Growing up, I never had a father figure around to teach me the “guy things” like how to change a tire or how to mow the lawn. As if raising a child single-handedly wasn’t hard enough, my mom still found the time to teach me those kinds of things. My mom has taught me many things over the years. One of the most important things I believe she taught me was how to be a hard worker. She taught me that it doesn’t come easy; you have to work for what you want. I’m sure anyone can imagine how hard it is to be a single mom without a college degree, self- employed, and be able to keep up with a beautiful house and a car. She always put my wants and needs before her own. She didn’t have the kind of mom I had growing up. Her mom wasn’t on her back about her grades and volunteer work, but mine was, and as my college years are approaching me, I realize why she was so hard on me, and I couldn’t begin to put into words how appreciative I am of that.

Mother

COLLEGE ESSAYS THAT WORk

Consults Available See Mrs. Dickau

The Writing Lab - 127E-Mail: galedickau@ci.bristol.ct.us

By BREANNA GAGNON 2013University of Connecticut

Physics, Calculus, Psychology, English and Government; what on Earth would posses me to willingly take five AP courses my

senior year? Maybe because ever since I was eleven, I have never taken the easy way out. At eleven, I learned that life isn’t easy and that you have to make sacrifices in order to be successful. When my mother was diagnosed with Breast Cancer in 2007 my life was turned upside down and I had to adapt to a life full of responsibility.

On the day I returned home from spending two days in Philadelphia on a school fieldtrip, my moth-er’s friends, along with their children, were over for a party. My brother told me that my par-ents had important news for me. When I questioned my mom,

I was instructed to wait until later. I was so naïve, I thought they’d bought me a gift. How I wish that had been the case.

After rejoining the other kids, my brother’s friend blurted out the two sim-ple words, “Breast Cancer.” I was shocked. For a moment I couldn’t think and the room started spinning. My brain couldn’t

wrap around the fact that something this extreme could happen to my

own mother.After the party, my parents

sat down with me. My mom tried comforting me by saying she would be fine and that her condition wasn’t serious. All that I could think of was, “How could she be con-cerned about me right now? She was the sick one! Of all things she’s worrying about me?” I spent the night lying in bed trying to suffocate the wails of my sobs with my pil-low.

My mom began che-motherapy treat-ments. She secluded

herself most of the time because the treatments made her tired and sickly and she didn’t want us kids to see her that way. My sister was a year old at the time and I took on the responsibil-ity of caring for her. My Dad would work late so it was up to me to raise her and attend to my younger brother as well. I had to put the needs of my siblings above my own in order to make my mother’s life just a bit more tolera-ble. I couldn’t imagine adding to my mother’s burdens.

I believe that this experience has made me into who I am today. I have always been told that I’m responsible and have a good head on my shoulders. I’m often referred to as a mother figure because I can be nurturing and protec-tive to people that are important to me. Being exposed to my mother’s cancer has inspired me to become a nurse so that I can continue to care for other’s loved ones the way that I did for my mother and siblings. Without this expe-rience I don’t think I would have real-ized the importance of family and how precious life truly is. My mother contin-ues to be my hero to this day.

By Grace Ullman 2013University of Vermont

It’s surprisingly warm and it’s surpris-ingly early for the first football game of the season. The band is ready yes, but emotions are running high no

matter – namely mine. This is my first and only year as the head drum major for the marching band and I can’t seem to keep game-day-jitters at bay. Running through the rows, I make sure everybody is ready to go out for half-time. We go through our checklist for performance, our checklist for life:

How are your feet? – Together!Stomach? – In!Chest? – Out!Shoulders? – Back!Elbows? – Frozen!Chin? – Up!Eyes? – With pride!Eyes? – With PRIDE!Sometimes when I’m nervous for a test,

for an interview, an audition – I go through this to keep my composure. Most essential is “Eyes with Pride.”

I’ve learned the importance of keeping my head held high. I can still remember the first quiz I ever failed: equilibrium in AP Chemistry, junior year. The world seemed to be closing in on me. But I focused on the action of my diaphragm and the flow of my breath. Meditating on the

moment, I brought myself back down to Earth.

The thing about failing is that it can only happen to the best of us; it can only happen to those who test their limits and experiment with life. I could have taken a lower level chemistry class, but what would I have learned – that NaCl ionizes in water? Through countless hours of study-ing for AP Chemistry, I learned more than the science.

I steadied my breath, cooled the flush of my cheeks, and sat up a little bit straighter. That wasn’t the end, just another opportunity to grow stronger.

Chest out, shoulders back, move on.

With the band now assembled on the field and me on the podium, the roar of the crowd dies down to a low rum-ble. I lock eyes with the new members of the band, hoping to impart some strength to them. The rumbling crowd turns into white noise and I begin to synergize with my band; I’m transported – in a different place.

White all around. Except for the alternating red-blue-red-blue. I wait out the longest 5 seconds of my life at the top of the race hill – then I’m gone. This is my whole world for the next 80 sec-onds. Ga-gung – ga-gung: gates hit my pole guards then slam the packed snow: the only sound I know. When I reach the bottom, I can’t recall a single second of it. Looking up, I see the crystallized pines for the first time and marvel. The azure sky makes my heart swell and I break out into a grin. How I survived another slalom race with ruts up to my

neck I couldn’t tell you, but I’d be equally as happy to smell the bad plumbing in the lodge as the fresh mountain air, just to know I’m alive.

Still breathing hard, I bring my arms down after the last cut-off. Four whistles and the band begins to file off the field. I know we’ve put out our best effort. The truth is in the 7 ½ minutes when 90 indi-viduals came together with

me and became one. When I ask the band again, we are one sound, we are seam-less:

“Eyes?” “With PRIDE!”

Maternal Instincts

Eyes? With Pride

By DAN WOLF 2013Greensboro College

While there are many people in my life that have influenced me in one way or another, it is my father that has had the greatest

impact on my life. My father is extremely talented and can do anything from building a shed to fixing the leaking faucet. It may have taken me 17 years but I really appreci-ate all that he has done to make me the person that I am today.

Since I was four, he has been my coach and mentor in soccer and most importantly my lacrosse. My dad played lacrosse in high school and introduced the sport to me when I was 8. Having your dad as your coach can be very trying but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. He was always there to see that special goal or play I made. I was never favored; if anything he was the hardest on me because he wanted me to be the best I could be. When it came time to step up as leader, I felt the confidence to do so just by watching and learning from him. As I got older, my aspirations to help others really emerged and I found myself involved in coaching and mentor-ing the youth lacrosse players and I can see why he volunteered all those years. It is so satis-fying to see children learning and apply-ing skills I taught them. In my col-lege search, not only am I looking for the best aca-demics, but also a lacrosse team I can be a part of.

My father has a very strong work ethic at work and at home. He always made sure I was there when he had to repair or build something so that I could learn how but at the same time spend quality time together. Those traits and knowledge have been passed down to me and I know that when I have a family and a home, I will have the confidence and the knowledge to do all of these things and be proud to say that my dad taught me how.

Along with these amazing traits, my dad is always making sure I know what’s going on in the world. We watch and discuss the news every night and 60 Minutes on Sundays. He is also the most patriotic person I know. We attend just about every Veterans and Memorial Day parade in town and whenever we encounter a person in uniform, he walks up to them, shakes their hand, and says, “Thank You.” I have great respect for any-one in the military because of my dad.

Everything my father has done for me has been done out of love and devotion to ensure that I become a well-rounded adult with old fashioned values, compassion, disci-pline and leadership. I feel that during my time at college, his impact on my life will not only help me to make the right decisions but keep me on the right path as I journey through life.

Father’s Day

bChs - siGnatUres - 2013 15College Essays

Creative Collaborations16 bchs - signatures - 2013

The World in Hand – By CHrisTopHer semrau 2013ap studio art portfolio

red sky at Night, painter’s Delight – By LesLie FerNaNDez – art instructor, BCHs

Based on an Interview of Leslie FernandezConducted by Christopher Semrau 2013

Everyone dreams. Everyone sleeps, often to dream. Everyone has ambitions and aspirations, some simpler than others. Leslie

Fernandez is such a dreamer; she has been teaching art classes at Bristol Central High School for sixteen years and has passed on that capacity to dream to hundreds of students.

Her dreams were fairly simple. She leads a simple life. She is married with two sons, Alex and Angel, Jr.; she enjoys the simpler things in life … gardening and reading. Her heart and soul are in art, though, which is what her teaching career has been all about. Her life is seeing things as they are and appreciating their colors and their flare and taking in what the world has to offer our senses. Gardening is creating and positioning flowers in a garden of color and enhancing aroma to be admired - almost another form of art. Reading is voyaging to distant lands in fantastical realms as the author paints words on the pages of a book – another palette for artistic expression.

Her dreams started early; she thought she wanted to be a fashion designer and attended Pratt Institute. Along the way, she worked at a veterinary office; Interned at Brooklyn Children’s Museum; and con-sidered a career as a librarian until she saw the overbearing formality of it. Her college experiences kept her well rounded and prepared for multiple careers, and she eventually settled into a drawing major. Art, looming like a recurring dream, was always a part of the plan.

Bristol Central has been the nest for most of her career. And what a teacher she turned out to be. Skilled in virtually any form of art, Mrs. Fernandez is not the least bit pretentious or pompous; she dis-plays her pieces as guidelines for students to follow or to simply admire. Students are kept on task and gently nudged along if they fall behind the generous time limits for projects. The results are amazing.

Mrs. Fernandez wishes to wake up to a fresh canvas and a glorious garden with-out any pressures when she leaves teach-ing. This dreaming goes deeper than that, though. She’s always been in love with the concept of dreams and where they take you; where you end up in a dream or after a dream; and how surreal a dream feels. All of this is reflected in her work, as a teacher and an artist. Dreams inspire; so does Mrs. Fernandez.

The Art of Teaching Art

T hrough its history, BCHS has been blessed with art instructors who help students see the world in profoundly captivating, com-

plex, and provocative ways. Brandon Zanauskas, Jessica Stifel, and Leslie Fernandez form the current triumvirate of creative catalysts who transcend the walls of their studios, burst through the concrete of classroom walls, and spill pools of challenging images into the cor-ridors of our building and our minds.

Always, there is the spirit of collabora-

tion that connects art to the entire learn-ing community. One such collaboration is evidenced on the center spread of this Signatures issue. Within the lines of Eric Aldieri’s visually stunning essay, “Falling for New England,” lies a landscape of words begging to be brought to canvas. Given the text, the AP Studio Art class did just that. The “Cornwall Bridge” rendering by Bryan Daly captures the artistic beau-ty of every syllable of the Aldieri essay.

Take it in. Page 9. – G. Gale Dickau

Enjoy thE ViEw