The Current - Spring 2021 by The Rivers School

The Current

2020-2021

The Current

The Rivers School 2020-2021

A Brief History of The Current

According to Mr. David Burzillo, a History teacher and the school’s archvist, The Rivers School published the first edition of The Current in 1924. Not much is known about how the magazine came to be called The Current. Since Mr. Rivers had held a contest to determine the school’s seal, motto, and song, some believe that he also held a contest to come up with the school’s magazine name as well. Initially, the magazine published four different issues: fall, winter, spring, and a graduation issue put together by the senior class. The Current served three different roles: a literary magazine that included book reviews, poems, and short stories from students; a school newspaper that reported on major events and provided recaps of the athletic seasons; and a yearbook for the senior class. These days, The Current publishes once per year and aims to showcase the best artwork and writing in the upper school.

Editor Note and Introduction

The Current is Rivers’ literary arts magazine. In putting together this year’s issue, we strove to capture all of the artistic talent that Rivers students have to offer through collecting prose, poetry, 2D art, and 3D art from both the Middle School and the Upper School. This year’s magazine specifically includes students’ work from the spring and fall of 2020 as well as the winter of 2021. We would like to thank the Art Department and the English Department for helping us with all of the behind-the-scenes details along the way. Lastly, we would like to recognize Josh Rocha, Olivia Segel, Keira Thompson, Matt Beber, Izzy Chitkara for their dedication to the club and willingness to learn the skills it takes to put this magazine together. Enjoy!

Fondly, Emily Stoller Senior Editor

Dedication We dedicate this year’s issue of The Current to Mr. David Saul, who for thirty-eight years has inspired hundreds of students to develop a passion for photography and the visual arts. That passion is showcased in this publication and will become a permanent part of the Rivers community. We wish him the very best in his retirement.

Table of Contents Alicia Garza: Existing in My Skin is Activism Adebiyi Oyaronbi ‘21.................Front Inside Cover Peeling Jenna MacDonald ‘21...............................................................................1 She Won’t Be the Last Meredith Shah ‘21.............................................................2 Zakim at Night Mark Ryan ‘20............................................................................. 3 Vans Lauren Corliss ‘20........................................................................................ 4 Curvy Nights Madi McShane ‘20......................................................................... 5 Like Clockwork Marin Broderick ‘22................................................................... 6 Untitled George Reinhardt ‘20..............................................................................7 Pop Box Romy Arie ‘21......................................................................................... 8 Taming the Beast Ceanna Kinney ‘21.................................................................. 9 Multicolored Pinpricks of Light Maggie Leeming ‘21..........................................10 Dewdrop Sophie Gourinovitch ‘20...................................................................... 11 In the Time of Covid Adebiyi Oyaronbi ‘21.........................................................12 Strung Along Life’s Whims Chelsea Yan ‘25..........................................................13 Unanswered Questions Joshua Rocha ‘21............................................................ 14 Timeless Maggie Leeming ‘21...............................................................................17 Poetic Justice Keira Thompson................................................................................18 Zen Teapot Jackie Benjes ‘20................................................................................ 19 Brr Maddie Foley ‘22............................................................................................ 20 Winter Glow Luciano Lewandowski ‘23.............................................................. 21 New Path Dana Lowitt ‘23.................................................................................... 22 Blueless Matt Cormier..............................................................................................23 Untitled Lilly Branka ‘20....................................................................................... 24 Blah Jenna MacDonald ‘21..................................................................................... 25 Syncopation Alex Hiatt ‘21................................................................................... 26 Affection Maggie Leeming ‘21.............................................................................. 27 Song of the Frogs Sylvie Pingeon ‘21.....................................................................28

Table of Contents Beyond Expression Lindsey Filoon ‘21................................................................ 31 3peat Dylan Mentis ‘20......................................................................................... 32 In Shadow Lauren Barich ‘20............................................................................... 33 Tea Clouds Kate Eselius ‘20.................................................................................. 34 Reflections and Connections Ceanna Kinney ‘21................................................ 35 Flying Keira Thompson ‘22..................................................................................... 36 Scattered Communication Lindsey Filoon ‘21.................................................... 37 Up in Flames Logan Ngai ‘22............................................................................... 38 Dear Grandpa Maddie Wambach ‘21.................................................................. 39 Fairy’s Petal Andrew Ho ‘25................................................................................. 40 Geometric Gaze Nick Hardy ‘20...........................................................................41 Eyes Annabelle Hasselbeck ‘20.............................................................................42 Grove of Trees Christina Kew ‘20......................................................................... 43 A Goodbye to Childhood Emily Stoller ‘21...........................................................44 Longing Cailyn Murphy ‘23..................................................................................46 The Frustration of Falling Short Max Meyerhardt ‘21..........................................47 Opposites Attract Jackie Benjes ‘20...................................................................... 48 Freckles and Glasses Keira Harder ‘22................................................................. 49 Her Story Emily Stoller ‘21....................................................................................50 Tyler the Creator Lauren Barich ‘20..................................................................... 53 Beauty in the Struggle Bennett Cavallo ‘25......................................................... 54 Conflicted Lindsey Filoon ‘21................................................................................. 55 Theme for English B Block Abby Weiss ‘21...........................................................56 Bleeding Blue Max Gold ‘23.................................................................................... 58 A Dark Night’s Wish Chelsea Yan ‘25...................................................................59 Central Park 5 Adebiyi Oyaronbi ‘21...................................................................Back Inside Cover

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Peeling, Jenna MacDonald ‘21

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She Won’t Be the Last She won’t be the last. In fact, the first, in a long line Of women with power, for whom we asked. She’ll join the cast Of those, too, who escaped confine. She won’t be the last. Her story will be told in books of the past. The White House redefined By women with power, for whom we asked. A mother, daughter, aunt, and friend steadfast, Matriarch of her family combined, She won’t be the last. To fossils who’ve held her position, she contrasts So, a future, her legacy will align For women with power, for whom we asked. Defeat litters our past, But now a reset, a new time. She won’t be the last Of women with power, for whom we asked. Meredith Shah ‘21

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Zakim at Night, Mark Ryan ‘20

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Vans, Lauren Corliss ‘20

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Curvy Nights, Madie McShane ‘20

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Like Clockwork, Marin Broderick ‘22

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Untitled, George Reinhardt ‘20

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Pop Box, Romy Arie ‘21

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Taming the Beast, Ceanna Kinney ‘21

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Multicolored Pinpricks of Light your name drips off the tips of our tongues in silvery beads like a half forgotten dream quietly slipping away before we dare to remember the air nervously holding on to that fragmented feeling before diffusing into the dark like mist in the halo of a streetlamp and like a dream you seem just out of reach sitting on the horizon between this world and another streaking our skies with only the vibrant colors of memory that could not begin to describe the taste of your full brilliance and i know that if i were to open my eyes i would begin to fall up up up further out of your warm dark hold and so i squeeze my eyes tight staring at your multicolored pinpricks of light that still dance across the backs of my eyelids Maggie Leeming ‘21

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Dewdrop, Sophie Gourinovitch ‘20

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In the Time of Covid, Adebiyi Oyaronbi ‘21

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Strung Along Life’s Whims, Chelsea Yan ‘25

the current Unanswered Questions Phone in hand, pillows surrounding me amidst a sea of blankets chilled from lack of use, I make myself comfortable on the sofa as the phone rings once...her face becomes clear in my mind, there, right there...twice...the rest of her body, poised, hair messy from sleep, reading glasses still on...three...she answers, more quickly than I expected, catching me slightly off guard as I slide back in my seat, roll back my shoulders, and clear my throat in preparation. She asks me how I am, what I’ve been doing to pass the time. I do the same, perhaps more quickly, more adeptly than her aging mind can work these days, but she answers me nonetheless. “Walking the dog, reading of course, lots of reading, and knitting your sweater.” Her words flimsy and wavering as they travel from her to me across streets and roads and people I don’t know and I wonder how she is, what she’s feeling, but her tone is slightly deflated and a little tired and I decide, despite my eagerness to always be in the know, to just listen. “Yeah, well, you know how things usually are around here. Not very much action anyways, but I picked out lots of good books to read on my Kindle, so I’m all set.” And as she continues, her words tremble and vibrate towards me like small vessels, fragments of her soul oozing from her body and spiraling towards me. I envision her there, on her brown leather couch, reading whatever book she’s reading at the moment, one pale hand alternating with the other as she turns page after page, fumbling at the edges every now and then, too eager to move on, to see what’s next, to escape the confines of these claustrophobic pieces of paper pushed against one another, stuck in place. “I can only knit for so long, you know. I also haven’t taken out those few inches at the end to make it shorter for you yet, but I’m planning on it of course. I want you to feel comfortable in it!” So sitting there, my legs crossed, I stand up, almost as if to walk over to her, to embrace her? No, that couldn’t be it. She’s miles away and we’ve both begun to feel that distance now, she knows I’ve dialed those 10 digits that connect us, weave us together, out of fear. Pity. Love. Isolation. And maybe I should consider it a good thing, a gift to be able to sit down and call her and talk to her and check-in but it all feels surreal.

the current I imagine her as she gets up from her spot on the couch, the sun from the windows above her glazing her wilted skin and radiating through her body, mingling with oxygen and dispersing through the protruding veins on her forearms and her short, wavy strands of hair, so much like mine, filling her and attempting to reach her, to really talk to her, to scream at her that this is temporary, that, yes, you will see them all soon, and, yes, these times are scary, and, yes, they love you, of course they do, and they miss you and your bright laughter and the way your eyes crease up into little crescent moons when you smile. “What have you been doing, Sweety? Do you have any work to do for school, or is everything cancelled for you too?” The unknowns hurt. They ache and they weigh down on us both no matter the differences in our realities, and I want to hug her and tell her it’s fine, that everything’s going to be alright, that she’s safe. She’s knitting now, in my mind at least, you know how they tend to wander when you’re swallowed up in someone’s words and thoughts, wavering, diving in and out of focus. Her lap covered with yarn, it’s almost celestial, those purples and blues and greys swirling and swarming and covering her thighs and stomach, transforming her into a heavenly body, something divine. Hands moving intricately with her knitting needles, they dance together, back and forth, up and down, twirling and pirouetting and shaking the earth beneath her she is so powerfully delicate, so wholesome. “Yes, Aunt Lori gave me a mask to wear when I go out, but I’ve been trying to go during senior times despite how early in the morning they are. I know, it’s too early, right? That’s life, I suppose…” 12 years old, and I’m in the kitchen with her now, we’re baking rugelach, half chocolate half cinnamon, but only half the butter we need because both of us forgot to go to the grocery store and pick more up, but we laugh anyways, and the rugelach are still delicious and satisfyingly beautiful propped up on the China plate with the sky blue swirls we decided to display them on for the entire family to see, and I want to be with her again, to slide my fingers against her soft hands and squeeze them against my own. “I’ve got to go now, Sweety, but thanks for calling. I miss you all! Alright, mhm, see you soon. I love you.” The phone beeps and I’m alone there now, legs no longer crossed, staring at the fire-

the current place, lacking flame. Who, me? No, the fireplace, of course. Flickering and full, she is there now, a few feet away, not too close but not too far, and we both see each other without sight and smile and we wave at each other without any real reason except that it’s been a few weeks and that already feels like too much but we can’t do anything to stop it, to close this distance, we have no power, no way around it, no way to close this gap, whether it be mere feet or many, many miles. All we have is hope, hope for the next phone call, the next conversation, and, eventually, the next embrace. Joshua Rocha ‘21

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Timeless, Maggie Leeming ‘21

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Poetic Justice, Keira Thompson ‘22

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Zen Teapot, Jackie Benjes ‘20

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Brr, Maddie Foley ‘22

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Winter Glow, Luciano Lewandowski ‘23

the current New Path I cannot tell you what the fates have in store, Or why I walked down that moonlit path I had never walked on. I strode from the trees and frosted Undergrowth to the road across. I walked in footsteps bigger than mine Passing snowdrifts and dripping icicle Trees. And the wind tugged at my mittens all the while. The footsteps stopped at a tree, And I knew I had to choose. To reach for the milky moon or go back The way I came. I wish I could say I went forwards, But the shadows were too much for the moon, And the path too far from my own. Instead I carried my shadows through the snowdrifts and snowflakes To my cowardly little home. I long to tell you I went back out after that night to fight my shadows in the still cold, But I couldn’t find the moonlight. Now my footsteps have grown And they trace that same tracks In the woods I know. Perhaps, one day, you’ll follow my Footsteps. I hope you will brave the snow. Dana Lowitt ‘23

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Blueless, Matt Cormier ‘20

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Untitled, Lilly Branka ‘20

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Blah, Jenna MacDonald ‘21

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Syncopation, Alex Hiatt ‘21

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Affection, Maggie Leeming ‘21

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Song of Frogs It was dark to the point where shapes lost color and then form, just blurs of shadow against shadow against us, shining in the moon and rain. Long grass wrapping around legs, Water sticking to skin, to clothes, to hair, like spiderwebs in late evening dew. The peepers hummed through the night, and below their music, the toads trilled a softer call. And we walked in the grass out to the road, where we danced on the dark pavement, our world shining with infinite tiny droplets, the single street-light as our spotlight, dimming the stars. And no cars drove by because the earth is dead at 11 pm, but for the toads and the peepers and us.

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And I could have stayed out, and you could have stayed out, but it was late so you walked to your car, and I walked to my room. The shut of my door and the hum of your engine clashed over the melody of the frogs, and the mist in my hair dried and your headlights cancelled out the glow of the streetlight, and the silence in my room fell stagnant and heavy, folding down on me over and over and over. And yes, there are things that I need to address, because one should not be dependent on air thick with rain and the sounds of the swamp, But now it is 2 am, and the wind is warm and the rain has slowed, and I have opened my window, and the peepers and the toads are still out, And they still are singing, Their throaty calls and high-pitched chirps

the current colliding and harmonizing. And there is something about the starlight and the song of the frogs melting through the crack in my window that breathes youth into the stillness of the air. No one could say that the earth is dead on these spring nights, And no one could say that I am either, because as I lie on my bed and you wind your way home on the empty roads, the frogs keep singing, and we all come back to life. Sylvie Pingeon ‘21

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Beyond Expression, Lindsey Filoon ‘21

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3peat, Dylan Mentis ‘20

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In Shadow, Lauren Barich ‘20

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Tea Clouds, Kate Eselius ‘20

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Reflections and Connections, Ceanna Kinney ‘21

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Flying, Keira Thompson ‘22

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Scattered Communication, Lindsey Filoon ‘21

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Up in Flames, Logan Ngai ‘22

the current Dear Grandpa dear grandpa, even now, i can imagine you sitting in your rocking chair in front of the tv, smoking a cigarette we all pretended not to see, watching the news and carving pieces of apple with your knife. it’s the same as it’s always been, i help nana bake you biscotti and lick the cream from my spoon with your blessing. it was a nightmare, the day you died we all came home to nana’s little kitchen we sat in silence, just remembering coffee and chocolate chip cookies untouched on the table until someone talked, told stories, lit the fire remembering all of the times we had: riding the backhoe, broken wrist and all, crashing the lawnmower into a tree dancing around the kitchen, my feet on yours, to the music that only us two could hear. we have sweet memories and tales of adventure. the wind was biting, the clouds dark and dense some prayed, crying, all but my eyes, we buried you, returning you to the earth a month before your birthday. the voices you heard them calling singing songs of grief and survival they played taps for you the hollow notes echoing off of the skeletons of oaks and maples, where you made our home encasing us, protecting us, shielding us as we stood together against the crystals falling from the sky together, we buried you in the notes of your pride. Maddie Wambach ‘21

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Fairy’s Petal, Andrew Ho ‘25

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Geometric Gaze, Nick Hardy ‘20

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Eyes, Annabelle Hasselbeck ‘20

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Grove of Trees, Christina Kew ‘20

the current A Goodbye to Childhood I remember you. The way you let me prance through the yard, Aimlessly, As the sun began to set, My hands and feet smeared with dirt, Never enough to wipe the smile off my face. You, my flashlight. I slowly learned my way When you were there, Providing the light, Protecting from tables on which I was bound to stub my toe. Even when everything was dark And hazy And scary And unknown, Years down the road, It didn’t matter. Surrounded by your light, I watched the monsters melt away. You made me shine Like the supergirl in the cape who could fly, Leading the way when I wanted To climb and then fall from that tree, To feel the blood pulsate in my head as I hung from the monkey bars, To soar on the swing, high enough to feel my heart leave my body. With you as illumination, I didn’t think or consider, I simply kept on glistening.

the current With you, I never felt lonely. You refused to leave my side Even when I tried to make you dim, Placing my hand over your mouth, Wishing for nothing more than to leave you behind forever. Still, you stayed, And only grew brighter When I finally decided to loosen my grip and make shadow puppets instead. You beamed as my laughter infiltrated the darkness. But eventually, You began to fade With no warning And launched me into the darkness. No longer was I allowed to go sledding or make snow angels on snow days. No longer would I escape the consequences of my mistakes. No longer could I rely on you to guide me to safety as I lost myself in the darkness. I longed for you, Resenting all the times I cast you aside. By accepting that you are gone, I delve into the unknown. I say, “Goodbye” to childhood. Now it’s my turn. I summon my flashlight within. Emily Stoller ‘21

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Longing, Cailyn Murphy ‘23

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The Frustration of Falling Short, Max Meyerhardt ‘21

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Opposites Attract, Jackie Benjes ‘20

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Freckles and Glasses, Keira Harder ‘22

the current Her Story The girl’s dainty feet tip toe across the cold tile, As if she has no right to strike the sacred floor, The floor that is not hers, Because nothing in this house is truly hers. Her whimpers are muffled by her own hand as she looks into the mirror, staring down The shattered fragments of what used to be a happy girl, Her grasp desperately trying to paste together the decaying remains. Her hands convulse as she nudges the bathroom door closed To keep it from slamming Because if it does, Her mom will erupt, Spewing madness that will metastasize throughout the rest of her family. The girl timidly climbs into her most intimate place: The shower. Here she is caged, protected, secluded by these four walls. She’s shut out from What people demand from her, What she demands of herself, But also the inevitable disappointment. The boiling water scorches her skin, But she doesn’t feel pain. She can’t hurt any more than she hurts herself.

the current She throws herself up against one of walls And slides down, The tub her bed, The faucet her pillow. She lets the water run down her face, Indistinguishable from her tears. All she can think is How did I get here? She reflects on the fight, their yelling, her crying, All over one stupid college application. The question prompted her to tell “her story,” But she was immediately silenced, By her desire for perfection. So she sacrificed her independence and begrudgingly turned to her parents. They sighed, but they helped. She relied on their obligation, Which then made their help the last thing she wanted. The water puddles around her, Overcoming her, Synonymous with guilt, As she clenches every muscle to remind herself she is present, Capable of shaking off the weight of the water. As the girl studied the completed application, She realized it was not her story. But the way she felt was trapped in her throat. Instead, she tore the paper, The application emendable,

the current Her composure not, And bawled. How was she supposed to progress when in this instance she regressed to a five year-old self? She slips her fingers through the cracks in the tile, Simultaneously feeling the cracks in her own heart tingle and throb. She uses the wall as her safety rails, Struggling to regain balance, Wobbly at the knees. But her inability to verbalize her frustration, And lack of appreciation Triggered her parents. The daughter’s psychiatric shadow cast over her mom. And thus, war commenced. The girl flounders out of her sanctuary, Wringing out her hair, The water rains down along with pieces of her desolation, Her head lighter than ever before. No, she is not perfect, And neither is her family. Parts of the war will endure, But each day she will build a piece of her new self, A capable and resilient human being. And this will be her story. Emily Stoller ‘21

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Tyler the Creator, Lauren Barich ‘20

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Beauty in the Struggle, Bennett Cavallo ‘25

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Conflicted, Lindsey Filoon ‘21

the current Theme for English B Block I was told,

Go on home and create a page of something great. And let that page come out of you— Then, it will be true.

I should have it easy, right? I am sixteen, white, born in Lexington. I went to elementary school there, then middle school, then here to this high school on a lake in Weston. I am the only student with a hearing impairment in my class. The ride from Weston is 30 minutes to Lexington, past the park, through the town center, Hancock street, Adams street, and I come to Millbrook, one Millbrook Road, where I pull into the garage up to my room, sit down, and write this page: It’s not easy to find one voice that is true for all at sixteen, my age. I am not made from what people see and think and expect of me, what? I can’t hear you: what I heard, what you heard—we two—you, me, the sounds combine into a jumbled mess.

the current (Say it louder, please.) Me—what? Well, I like to play, eat, laugh, dream, and be loved. I like to joke, learn, compete, and question life. I like sports tickets for birthday presents, or movies—Miracle, Bridesmaids, or Avengers. I guess hearing loss doesn’t make me not like what other students like who are more able bodied. So will my page be slurred that I write? Like my speech once was. But it will be a part of you, and all who fail to hear me. You all who are able and unknowing of the struggle, yet still you say, “but it doesn’t really affect you.” That’s Freedom. Sometimes perhaps you can’t imagine the reality of my life. Nor do I want any part of your privilege. But we are all students here, that’s true! Sometimes I think the truly deaf ones are you, I hope now you listen to me— although you were born with the privilege—no hearing loss— and somewhat more free. This is my call to hear me now. Abby Weiss ‘21

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Bleeding Blue, Max Gold ‘23

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A Dark Night’s Wish, Chelsea Yan ‘25

Index of Submissions Romy Arie ‘21, p 8 Lauren Barich ‘20, p 33, 53 Jackie Benjes ‘20, p 19, 48 Lilly Branka ‘20, p 24 Marin Broderick ‘22, p 6 Bennett Cavallo ‘25, p 54 Lauren Corliss ‘20, p 4 Matt Cormier ‘20, p 23 Kate Eselius ‘20, p 34 Lindsey Filoon ‘21, p 31, 37, 55 Maddie Foley ‘22, p 20 Max Gold ‘23, p 58 Sophie Gourinovitch ‘20, p 11 Keira Harder ‘22, p 49 Nick Hardy ‘20, p 41 Annabelle Hasselbeck ‘20, p 42 Alex Hiatt ‘21, p 26 Andrew Ho ‘25, p 40 Christina Kew ‘20, p 43 Ceanna Kinney ‘21, p 9, 35

Maggie Leeming ‘21, p 10, 17, 27 Luciano Lewandowski ‘23, p 21 Dana Lowitt ‘23, p 22 Jenna MacDonald ‘21, p 1, 25 Madi McShane ‘20, p 5 Dylan Mentis ‘20, p 32 Max Meyerhardt ‘21, p 47 Cailyn Murphy ‘23, p 46 Logan Ngai ‘22, p 38 Adebiyi Oyaronbi ‘21, p 12, front cover, inside back cover Sylvie Pingeon ‘21, p 28 George Reinhardt ‘20, p 7 Joshua Rocha ‘21, p 14 Mark Ryan ‘20, p 3 Meredith Shah ‘21, p 2 Emily Stoller ‘21, p 44, 50 Keira Thompson ‘22, p 18, 36 Maddie Wambach ‘21, p 39 Abby Weiss ‘21, p 56 Chelsea Yan ‘25, p 13, 59

Scholastic Art Award Winners 2021 Gold Key Cailyn Murphy ’23, Chelsea Yan ’25 Silver Key Madeline Foley ’22, Ceanna Kinney ’21, Maggie Leeming ’21, Adebiyi Oyaronbi ’21, Eli Wasserman ’21, Chelsea Yan ’25 Honorable Mention Romy Arie ’21, Bennett Cavallo ’25, Max Gold ’23, Alex Hiatt ’21, Andrew Ho ’25, Ceanna Kinney ’21, Luciano Lewandowski ’23, Logan Ngai ’22, Adebiyi Oyaronbi ’21

Staff Emily Stoller Senior Editor ‘21 Josh Rocha ‘21 Olivia Segel ‘23 Keira Thompson ‘22 Matt Beber ‘23 Izzy Chitkara ‘23 Faculty Advisor Steve Cambria

This publication was produced by Signature Printing + Consulting using 120 lb. silk cover weight paper on the cover and 100 lb. silk text weight paper on the inside. The font used throughout is Minion Pro. The publication is funded by the school and also by student fundraising. There were 200 copies printed. The Current 2020-2021 The Rivers School 333 Winter Street Weston, Ma. 781.235.9300