CELEBRATING TODAY’S CLINTON SPORTS TEAMS

MagpieSpring 2015

MAGPIETHE

Established 1903

SPRING 2015 Volume 90 No. 1

A Literary - Arts MagazinePublished by the Students

of

DeWitt Clinton High School 100 West Mosholu Parkway South

Bronx, New York 10468

Santiago Taveras, Principal

THE MAGPIE

Vol. 90 SPRING 2015 No. 1

Staff Editor-in-Chief Alejandra Garcia ’16

Cover Illustrator Joseph Bennett ’15

Writing Contributors

Art Contributors

Faculty Advisor Ann Neary

Faculty Art Advisor J. P. Bonanno

Sports Photographer Henry Ordosgoitia ’77

Graphic Designer Gerard Pelisson (Retired Faculty) Hon. ’03

Assistant Principal, English Gabriela Panagiosoulis

Assistant Principal, Art Richard Fleiss

Published by the students of DeWitt Clinton High School

Bronx, New York

Yomira Almanza ’15Monique Beckford ’15 Azariah Bedminster ’15

Abel Castillo ’15Gelsey Ciriaco ’15

Delgado Corcoran ’15 Edison Estephane ’15

Destini Febus ’15

Tayvonne Moody ’15 Jeraldine Morrison ’15

Jordan Pedroza ’15 Marlon Ramnauth ’15 Stephanie Reyes ’15 Sidney Skolsky ’23

Alpha Velez ’15 Lauren Waldron ’15

Kaygon Finakin ’15 Carlos Garcia ’15

Danielle Hazart ’17Mia Hylton ’15 Nishat Islam ’15Bintou Jabbi ’16

Yousuf Kamal ’15Krishna Kemraj ’15

Lusaily Marmolejos ’15

Sajon Rattigan ’18 Jasmine Robles ’15

Mubtasim Sabab Sawonto ’15 Moheb Shaikh ’18 Amini Suchi ’17

Daniela Torres ’16 Daniela Yauri ’17

Paola Garcia ’17 Engels Gomez ’15 Matthew Jankie ’16 Elizabeth Kim ’18

Aaron Luke ’15 Richard Mensah ’15

Kyra Myles ’17

Cover Illustration: Joseph Bennett ’15

Acknowledgment of Alumni Support

Christian A. Johnson, Class of 1922, was an honor student and the star pitcher on the Clinton  baseball  team.  His  many  talents  led  him  to  a  successful  career  in  utilities,  finance,  and  corporate management. In 1952, twelve years before his untimely death at 59 years of age, he established the Endeavor Foundation to support the best of human “endeavors.” It is his foundation, headed today by his daughter Julie Johnson Kidd, that funded the revitalization of the Magpie in the mid-2000s. Additional funding comes from generous gifts from Richard Magat ’43 and Lawrence Newman ’48.

A grateful DeWitt Clinton High School acknowledges three of its greatest sons.

Dedication and Thoughts ............................................................................................. 7

Mubtasim Sabab Sawonto, Birds (Illustration) ........................................................... 8Jeraldine Morrison, My Heritage Poem Tribute to Jamaica ...................................... 9 Mia Hylton, My Heritage Poem Monique Beckford, Ode to My Homeland

Bintou Jabbi, No More Pain Azariah Bedminster, Oh No! Not Dreaming! ............. 10Gelsey Ciriaco, Random Wishes Alpha Velez, Why I Don’t Date Dominicans ........... 11 Tayvonne Moody, The Mini Origami Kit Yousuf Kamal, A Walk by the River Yomira Almanza, To the 4 Train

Stephanie Reyes, 21 Questions Azariah Bedminster, Boom! Boom! Boom! ............ 12Daniela Yauri, Owl (Illustration) ................................................................................... 13Nishat Islam, Concealed Within .................................................................................... 14

Alpha Velez, The Tennis Court Alpha Velez, Match Destini Febus, My Soccer .... 18 DeWitt Clinton Sports, DeWitt C-L-I-N-T-O-N Boom! ............................................... 19 Celebrating Clinton Sports ............................................................................................ 20

Daniela Torres, Positive (Illustration) Engels Gomez, Negative (Illustration) ......... 26 Lauren Waldron, How to Be a Positive Person

Marlon Ramnauth, True Confessions of a Class Cutter ................................................ 27 Sidney Skolsky, Failing, Failing, Failed

Edison Estephane, Choices Amini Suchi, Kitten (Illustration) ............................... 28 Lusaily Marmolejos, This I Will Teach You Tayvonne Moody, And This I Can Teach Elizabeth Kim, Squirrel (Illustration)

Abel Castillo, Carlos Garcia, Kaygon Finakin, Delgado Corcoran, ............................... 29The Story They Always Tell

Delgado Corcoran, Fire and Earth Sajon Rattigan, Wolf (Illustration) ................... 30 Kyra Myles, Wolf (Illustration) Engels Gomez, Lion (Illustration)

Tayvonne Moody, Be Yourself? Jasmine Robles, Dual Face (Illustration) ............. 31 Krishna Kemraj, Friends of the Bone Saw Krishna Kemraj, Burning Out ............. 32 Krishna Kemraj, An Axe in the Woods

Kaygon Finakin, Memoir Kaygon Finakin, Where I’m From ................................. 34Matthew Jankie, Manny Pacquiao (Illustration) Aaron Luke, David Wright ......... 35

(Illustration) Paola Garcia, Young Woman (Illustrations) Moheb Shaikh, Joker (Illustration) Richard Mensah, Woman (Illustration)

Azariah Bedminster, Why Write? Jeraldine Morrison, What a Woman Wants ......... 36 Jeraldine Morrison, Avoided Jeraldine Morrison, Truisms

Delgado Corcoran, Why Write? Danielle Hazart, Cigarette Burns .......................... 37 Danielle Hazart, Like the Wind Danielle Hazart, Hypocritical Teacher

Jordan Pedroza, Number 29 .......................................................................................... 38

1. HERITAGE

2. EXPRESS YOURSELF

4. DISCOVER YOURSELF

TABLE OF CONTENTS

5. WHY WRITE?

3. ATHLETICS

DeWitt Clinton Memorial in Greenwood Cemetery, Brooklyn

7

MY THOUGHTS

By Mrs. Ann Neary

Every year I am amazed by the generosity of heart from students who are willing to share their thoughts, their writing, their art. They bravely step forward and allow others to follow their journey as they explore the world. This year was no different.

To every student who accepted the challenge of creation, I say thank you. Thank you for letting us all in to see the world through your eyes. It is just that sort of generosity that fosters empathy and kindness, and makes the world a better place to be.

I would be remiss not to thank those organizations who sponsor so much of our creative work: Theatre Development Fund gives us a playwright every week to work alongside students and sends our classes to Broadway shows; 92nd St Y brings students to meet with writers and listen to them read from their latest publications; Hudson Review brings writers into the classroom and sponsors trips to the opera and The Poet’s House holds poetry workshops and sends us a visiting poet. All of these activities open the doors of the imagination and makes the impossible seems possible, in writing. Thank you.

Thank you also to our principal, Santiago Taveras, for his recognition of the importance of the Magpie in the history and tradition of our school and to our alumni for their encouragement and participation.

DEDICATION

By Alejandra Garcia ’16

Creativity is something that everyone has the capability to achieve. But some go above and beyond in their efforts. These are the ones who have the honor of being called artists. Many doubt the ability of mere high school students, but those who doubt are in the wrong. The proof is published in all the editions of the Magpie. These students are artists, they have stories to tell and images to draw.

They are brave enough to share, which is what makes the Magpie so important to me. It is an honor to be part of something so powerful, and to know that I am sharing such amazing art with everyone else.

8

Mubtasim Sabab Sawonto ’15

1. HERITAGE

9

My Heritage Poem Tribute to JamaicaBy Jeraldine Morrison ’15

Jamaica, the land I loveflowing  with  frest  waterand happy weddings with graceful doveswhere you can buy a bag of fresh juice for a quarter.

Jamaica, the place I grew upwhere  hummingbirds  fly  highLasko  always  fills  my  cupand mango trees touch the sky.

Good vibes, cool runnings,Parties that never stop,Weddy Wednesday, always stunningEvery gyal a one drop.

My Heritage PoemBy Mia Hylton ’15

I may look black,but I am so much more.

A mix of a rich and extraordinary culturethat loves to be explored.

Part of the American landbut with Jamaican blood raging through me, you understand.

I may look like just a color,but I am so much more:

Proud, proud and never ashamed.

Ode to My HomelandBy Monique Beckford ’15

Waking up to the singing of three little birdsand your mother yelling, “Do your chores!”Living in a place where your yard is your market:mangoes, cherries, lovely fragrant spices,we become farmers who reap what we sow andhome butchers who become home chefs.

Our Friday night vibes never end and we party till the AM.Then we head home, sleep and do it all over again.But Sunday we praise the Lord.Then home to eat our food and shout, hoot and hooray.

10

Oh No! Not Dreaming!By Azariah Bedminster ’15

Oh no, not dreaming; I persuaded myselfA dream that I dreamt, was it truly what I dreamt?Or maybe, JUST maybe, it was really an attempt--

An attempt that may have foreshadowed what I dreamt.I know I don’t make sense but all these patterns are my consent

for what may happen in the present tense.

Is this love that I see or just a tease of my misery?Is it lust that he feels that causes all this mystery?

Is it true what they say?“What is thought before night can be seen throughout our sleeping sight.”

Or is it me that refuses to believe what I’ve dreamt?Or  was  what  I  dreamt  actually  a  clarification  for  what  I  meant?

That night by the pond when our mouths metGave  me  chills,  those  fireworks  shocked  me  into  his  arms

I thought, “Was that his attempt?”Attempt that made me dream

what I dreamt.But today I came to my senses:

all these thoughts tempted me to dream what I dreamt.

No More PainBy Bintou Jabbi ’16

The rain comes crashing down Bouncing on and off the concrete sidewalksMy emotions grow overwhelmingly Frustration spreads through the room at the speed of lightMy eyes clamp shut, breaths come out ragged.Fists ball tightly around the couch holding on for dear life.Pain is temporary, quitting is forever.My  eyes  aren’t  open  but  they  find  the  light    All of my anxieties wash away as the swift wind blows through the window.My wet tears evaporate into the thick atmosphere. An unsealed heart burning in pain from the fresh, new wounds

DeathThe pain is gone, so are you. There is no life without pain; once you part ways with pain you are gone.Forever.

2. EXPRESS YOURSELF

11

The Mini Origami KitBy Tayvonne Moody ’15

I had no choice, I had to pick From a bag of gifts my grandfather bought.Who knew?What a valuable lesson this kit has taught. The mind works in many ways Folding back and forth as if it plays Pressing sides against one another Opening and closing.

When he gave me this I thought it was nothing But he knew I'll make it into something….

Random WishesBy Gelsey Ciriaco ’15

As long as you hold my hand,and I hold yours,we have only to worry about the journeynot who is with us.Our footprints will leave the faintest trace of a beautiful beginningto an unknown ending.

To the 4 Train

by Yomira Almanza ’15

The sound of the 4 trainis like elevator music:calming, reassuring, monotonous.A daily reminder thatlife goes on and on and on.Shuffling,  sliding  feet,eyes avertedwatchful glancescontinue the daily countdown

Why I Don't Date DominicansBy Alpha Velez ’15

I sit and watch as time passes by. A glimpse of a women comes to mindIn a rush cooking, cleaning, as a baby cries

Bang! Bang! Bang!The door bellowsA man joins her, with no loving embrace.

“Mujer y la comida mia! Conyo apura.” Curse after curse after curseA tear slides.

Where’s the love, where’s the appreciationHow fast time has gone by.

No longer sitting and watchingNow it’s not any womenIt is me cooking.

Bang! Bang! Bang!The door wailsMy husband is home, with no affectionate kiss

“Mi comida conyaso.”Curse after curse after curseA tear cascades.

I turn and see a little girl sitting, staringHow fast time has gone by.I turn to her to offer advice, but she puts her hands up and says,“Don’t worry, mom. I’ll never date a Dominican.”

A Walk by the RiverBy Yousuf Kamal ’15

Looking  at  the  river  as  it  flows  through  my  mind  trapped in my own thoughts--in a bindThe 30-foot trees fueled my imagination, Decided to take my pen and notebook out for this creation.

Thinking about how deep the ocean is…Is life really a quiz?Felt so content, like I could live next to this riverBut that thought vanished as I began to shiver.

Meditated as long hours pastOur mind is so little, yet very vast.I decided it was time to scootOnly problem was, I failed to recall the route.

21 QuestionsBy Stephanie Reyes ’15

I've always wondered whyGod made me the way I am. Why am I part of a minority race? Why do I have kinky hair? Why am I curvy unlike girls in magazines?

I  stare  at  my  reflection.  Is this really me? This that I see, is it what others see?Could it be, perhaps, that I see what I want to be seen as?

I look out the window to the world around me.I wonder if it’s all really there. The  trees  filled  with  leaves.  My friends at the park up the street.

Do we all truly exist? Are we just entities of the unknown?Pawns in someone's game of chess? Why are we here?Is what we see on the news real or just a distraction?

What is life? More importantly, what makes it better than death?

I guess these are questions I’ll never have the answers to.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!By Azariah Bedminster ’15

I hold my head high but I failI persuade myself, open myself to courage...but for the moment I fail

I try to be victorious...but of course, I failAt this very moment my heart pounds

BOOM! – BOOM! – BOOM!My hands and feet sweatDRIP! – DRIP! – DRIP!

I am discouraged and at this very moment…I FAIL!

The fear of failure disgusts me but the love for cheer excites meI think to myself,

“Do it for the team! Fight for the extreme!”But at that moment, that moment of fear, dripping and popping out of me

At that one little moment, I fail...

12

Daniela Yauri ’17

13

14

The café was bustling with noise and movement that Tuesday afternoon, more so than usual. It was an uneasy feeling that Lance had gotten when he looked around the packed store. There were too many onlookers, too many curious eyes and ears. Teenagers were laughing and typing their lives away on their phones. Parents tried to keep their kids bound to the table when all the kids wanted was to run away from their tight grasps.

Lance turned his attention from the tiny booth he sat in inside the corner of the café to the young woman who had walked in a bit earlier. She had a carriage beside her chair with what seemed to be a baby girl in their wailing, while a young boy, pretty much a toddler, sat across from her. He continuously reached out and snuck a cookie from the young woman’s plate and shoved it in his mouth before his mother could see, though she didn’t seem to notice anything other than her phone.

Lance shook his head and looked down at his little book that was on the table in front of him. It was this lack of attention that people had that made Lance so irritated. How did the young girl sitting a few tables down from him not notice how the boy who had his arm around her shoulder continuously steal glances at young blonde girl that was accompanying them? How did the woman at the counter not notice how the cashier had pocketed the money she had just given him to pay for her order? It was attention to detail that was what mattered most.

“Such a shame what happened to that young girl. She was so young. And papers say it must be the same person that kidnapped the other young girls too.”

Lance froze. An elderly woman sitting at the table to his right was talking to an-other elder woman, who had the newspaper held up to her. She nodded and sighed.

Lance inclined his head slightly, enabling himself to hear them better. “I’m telling you Maggie, it just isn’t safe in this little town anymore. Can’t even

walk  outside  without  feeling  terrified.”  The old woman holding the newspaper nodded her head in assent. “And to think

Carol, that little girl grew up in this town. Anyone who knew her knew she was a sweetheart,  wouldn’t  hurt  a  fly.”

Lance felt his stomach churn at this. He turned his head down and focused on the book in front of him. Only now, he didn’t seem the book. He just saw the face of the girl, the one that was missing. Lance knew her. She was someone Lance would see occasionally at the library, but she always stopped to say hi to him. What haunted him most was that he saw her that night, the night she went missing. He saw her walking back from the library at night. Lance had approached her, asking if she needed any help with the bags she was carrying. They walked to the parking lot where her car was parked together when Lance had asked if she wanted to accom-pany him to dinner the next night. She looked a bit surprised but declined. Lance had tried to persuade her but she only seemed to look uncomfortable, even taking a few steps back from him. She demanded that he left and that had been all that Lance could remember from that night.

The next morning, Lance woke up with a large headache. His clothes were soak-ing, possibly from the large downpour from the night before. He was caked with dirt. The worst part was that his hands and clothes were splattered with blood and he had scratches all along his arms. He didn’t understand any of it. He rushed into the shower, washing off all the blood. He then burned the clothes.

Lance’s head began to pound mercilessly and the loud chatter in the café and bright lights were in no way helping him. He picked up his book and rushed out the store, only to be met with pouring rain. Lance walked over to his car and hopped in. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the steering wheel.

By Nishat

Islam ’15

CONCEALED W ITHIN

15

He didn’t know what was going on with him, but it was continuing for weeks now. He couldn’t go to his doctor with this. He knew he would be of no help. Lance took a few deep breaths before he lifted his head off the steering wheel and placed the eyes in the ignition. He began driving down to his small home. It was on the other side of town, close by the woodsy area that out skirted the town. Lance lived alone in the small, two-story home. After she had left him, Lance didn’t know what to do with the house. He still lived there, hoping she would return. A part of him knew she would not return. Her parting words had been that she was absolutely sick of him, that she couldn’t spend another minute with him because of how sad their marriage had gotten. Still, another small part of him still hoped.

What had hurt him most was that she had taken their child with her. He was only four years old. He needed a father. As he parked the car in the garage, he winced, thinking of how similar this had been to when he was a child. His mother had taken him from his father and life had been hell for him. She had spent every moment she could to abuse him, calling him hurtful things. But eventually, Lance could not even remember this. He would just wake to new bruises on his body.

Lance walked to his front door and fumbled with the keys in his pocket. As he pulled them out and began reaching for the lock, a loud voice stopped him in his track.

“FBI! Lance Winchester, drop the keys and put your hands where I can see them!”

Lance turned around and his eyes widened in shock. Three police cars were pulled up by his house along with two large black vans. Lance turned his eyes to the man who had his gun pointed at him, his black bulletproof vest covering his chest with the words FBI written across it in large bold letters. He saw three other FBI agents with  their  guns  pointed  at  him  and  all  of  the  police  officers  by  their  cars  had  their  guns pointed as well.

“What’s going on?” Lance asked, his voice shaking.“Drop the keys and put your hands up Lance, now!” The man’s voice was so assertive and powerful that Lance’s eyes widened in

surprise and he found himself doing exactly what the man had said. As soon as his hands were up, the man had ran up to him, holstered his gun, and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. He spun lance around and cuffed his hands.

“Lance Winchester, you are under arrest for the kidnapping and murder of seven women. You....”

“Whoah whoah, wait! You’ve got the wrong guy! I haven’t done anything wrong here....”

Lance’s protests were cut off by the man who continued to read him his Miranda rights as he escorted him to the police car. Lance looked around and saw that some of his neighbors had stepped out of their homes and were looking onto what was going on outside. All Lance could comprehend was the word “murder” over and over again. Even through the entire ride to the police station, all Lance could think of was that word.

Surely, they had the wrong guy. Murder? That was absurd. Lance  was  escorted  inside  the  station  by  two  police  officers  and  led  straight  into  a  

gray steel room with a table in the middle and two chairs on either side of the narrow table.  The  officers  sat  him  down  and  cuffed  him  to  the  table  and  left,  but  not  without  giving him a look of disgust. The door closed behind them with a loud clang and Lance stared ahead at the mirrors in front of him. He was pale, shaking even. This had to be a mistake he thought. He stared into his own eyes, seeing the shocked and scared look.

The  door  opened  and  the  man  with  the  FBI  vest  walked  in  with  a  file  in  his  hand,  

CONCEALED W ITHIN

CONCEALED W ITHIN

16

only now, he didn’t have his vest on. He sat down across from Lance and stared at him. His dark brown eyes were piercing Lance in such a way, that it made Lance uncomfortable and look down at his cuffed hands.

“My name is Agent Henrickson. Lance, do you know why you’re here?”Lance looked up at the man. His short brown curly hair gave him a young look,

making  him  look  twenty  five  at  most,  but  his  entire  demeanor  made  him  seem  older.  His eyes had that look that seemed as if he had already seen too much in the world. How old could he possibly be? He then realized that he was asked a question.

“You...you guys said something about murder. I don’t...I don’t understand. You have to have the wrong guy. I’ve never hurt anybody,” stammered Lance.

Agent Henrickson gave him a calculating look before turning his attention down to  the  file.  He  pulled  out  a  few  photographs  before  laying  them  out  in  front  of  Lance.  Lance took a peek at them before he turned away immediately, repulsed by the sight in front of him.

“What’s wrong Lance? Don’t you recognize them?” Agent Henrickson leaned back  into  his  seat,  but  he  looked  angry.  “Because  we  definitely  couldn’t,  not  after  what you did to their faces.”

Lance’s breathing became ragged. He shut his eyes, trying to get the images out of his mind but they just swam before him.

He looked at Agent Henrickson. “This wasn’t me. Why would you show me this? This is horrifying-“

“I know it’s horrifying Lance. But you still did it anyways, didn’t you?” Agent Henrickson’s eyes were blazing with anger now. “And you kidnapped that young girl the other night too, didn’t you? Where is she Lance? Where’d you keep her?”

“I don’t know! You’ve got the wrong guy! I didn’t do this, you have to believe me” Lance protested.

Agent Henrickson shot up out of his seat, slamming his hand down onto the table. “You did this Lance! You took these women, kept them for days, torturing them, and then  finally  killed  them!  Now  where  is  Lena  Waters?”  Agent  Henrickson  shouted.

It  was  as  a  flip  had  switched.  Lance  looked  up,  now  calm  and  cool.  Only,  he  was  no longer Lance. Agent Henrickson could tell from the whole change in his appear-ance. “You know, shouting at Lance only scares him. He doesn’t like it much.”

Agent Henrickson’s eyes widened in shock and he took a step back, taking in the scene before him.

The man sitting down across from him looked at Agent Henrickson for a bit before looking down at the pictures before him. He laughed a cold, cruel laugh. He pointed to a picture in the middle before speaking up. “This bitch was the worst. She turned down Lance so badly, poor bastard wanted to cry. Of course he always chose to go after every single bitch that reminded him of his ex wife. Brunette, small. He’s lucky he has me. I had to get his ass to get rid of her. God, was she a screamer. She spent the whole night screaming for help, knowing no one would hear here. Not from there.”

Agent  Henrickson  just  stood  there,  stunned.  He  finally  recollected  his   thoughts  before he sat down across from him. “So, do you have a name?”

The man looked up at the agent for a moment before shrugging. “Call me Nick.”Agent Henrickson nodded before looking down at the pictures. “So Nick, I’m

guessing it was you who did this.”Nick smirked. “Well, did you expect it to be Lance? That idiot couldn’t do any-

thing on his own. Always too scared. Even when that bitch left him, he couldn’t do anything about it. It’s always me that has to save his ass.”

“What do you mean always? How long have you two known each other?” Agent Henrickson asked.

CONCEALED W ITHIN

17

Nicked laughed again. “Since he was little. He couldn’t even stick up for himself when that woman beat his ass. It was me that had to step in to deal with it for him.”

Agent Henrickson leaned back into his seat. He seemed to be thinking. “So you only come out when Lance is in trouble?”

Nick shrugged again. “Whenever he needs to deal with his shit, yeah. I suppose.”

“So Lena Waters. Did you have to step in for her?” Agent Henrickson knew he was treading on risky waters but he needed to know. Time was running out.

Nick smirked. “Maybe. Why do you ask?”Agent Henrickson kept from scowling, knowing that he wanted a reaction out of

him. “Just curious is all.”Nick laughed again. “Well, maybe I did, maybe I didn’t. Either way, whatever

happens, Lance doesn’t have to worry about that bitch ever again. He can thank me for that.”

“You expect him to thank you? What if he wants to see her again?”This time it was Nick that scowled. “Then he’s still that idiot he’s always been.

I’m going to have to help his ass out again. But that won’t happen.” Nick looked Agent Henrickson in the eyes. “That bitch can scream all she wants. But it’s no use. Just like Lance’s stupid mother. They can both hang from the same place, screaming all they want. It’s no use.”

Agent Henrickson shot up and headed for the door. He turned back around. “Thank you for giving us the location of Ms. Water’s.”

Nick looked taken aback. “What are you talking about? I haven’t told you any-thing....”

“You’ve told us enough. Enough to save her and enough to put you where you belong. Next time Nick, remember that you aren’t invincible.”

Agent  Henrickson  rushed  out  and  Nick  could  briefly  see  an  ensemble  of  police  of-ficers  and  FBI  agents  rushing  out.  Nick  picked  up  the  words  “woods”  and  “cottage”  and knew that was it. They knew where they were.

“Damn it!” he shouted. He should’ve never brought up that damn mother of his. They knew. They connected it. They knew that the small house in the woods where hikers  had  found  her  mutilated  body  was  where   they’d  find  her.   It  was  over  now.  Nick  slammed  his  fists  into  the  metal  table  in  front  of  him.  

When he looked up, Lance looked at him from the mirrors. He looked down at  his  fists,   now   red.  He   frowned.  He  didn’t   remember   that  happening.  He  didn’t  know what was going on. Where had Agent Henrickson gone? And why were those pictures still on the damn table in front of him?

Lance  looked  over  at  the  manila  file  and  pulled  it  towards  him.  He  opened  it  up  and saw his name written on a few of the papers. It felt as if his heart dropped to his stomach. The papers talked of reports of domestic disturbances from his home from when he was younger. They talked of his mother who was a raging alcoholic and how her  body  had  been  found  a  couple  years  back.  He  flipped  through  the  papers  till  he  reached a medical report. At the bottom of the paper, Lance read the signature of his doctor.  He  briefly  scanned  the  paper  before  his  mouth  dropped  in  shock.  

Dissociative identity disorder. Lance couldn’t understand. Why hadn’t his doctor told him? Why was he just

finding  out  about  this  now?  He  looked  over  at  the  mirror.  His  own  eyes  looked  back  at  him,  hauntingly.  Something  flashed  in  them,  something  he  didn’t  understand  but  recognized all too well. He’d been seeing that ever since he was a little boy.

The Tennis Court By Alpha Velez ’15

0-5I need to focusI can’t let them down and leave with a frown.I have to make him proud.

0-6Come on move!Focus!The game isn’t done.

0-7What is going on? I don’t lose like this. Backhand, forehand, running, waiting, across and back

1-7 My turn.

2-7 That’s it.Have faith.Look right Those eyes that push me with one glance,demand perfection. I  fight  against  his  rejection.  

2-8No!Focus! Focus!I’m still gripping

3-8 Backhand, forehand, running, waiting, across and back

4-8 I can win. I will win. I must win--For him.

4-9One more point, and  the  fight  will  be  over.  I dread the next words

My SoccerBy Destini Ferbus ’15

Kick, aim, shoot!Run, Run, Run!

120 yards of all you have got:determination, dedication, drive.

Prove it to yourself:You are the best.

Work until you bleed:Your hardest is never good enough.

“Match” By Alpha Velez ’15

Tears brim my eyesI failed, I lost, He won’t smile. I want to run.

But head down I approach him.“I lost.”“No. You were defeated, but I’m proud. You never gave up. “

The truth?I want to run. Those 4 words, simple,Straight to the point.

Yet, I’m so done.With lies,With cries,With goodbyes.

I won. This is the end of our run.

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3. ATHLETICS

De Witt C–L–I– N –T– O – N , Boom!

Clinton, oh C linton, ever to thee,Fairest of high schools

G ive her three times three, oh students!Long may we cherish thee,

Faithful we’ll be,Clin—ton, oh C lin—ton,

For you and me!

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DEWITT CLINTON SPORTS

TODAY’S CLINTON SPORTS TEAMS - PAGES 20-25

De Witt C–L–I– N –T– O – N , Boom!

Clinton, oh C linton, ever to thee,Fairest of high schools

G ive her three times three, oh students!Long may we cherish thee,

Faithful we’ll be,Clin—ton, oh C lin—ton,

For you and me!

Home of the

Governors

20

Celebrating Clinton Sports

SOCCER GIRLS VARSITY

FOOTBALL BOYS VARSITY

BOWLING VARSITY

All photographs by Henry Ordosgoitia ’77

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DeWitt Clinton 2014 - 2015

The Governor

Is in the House

CROSS COUNTRY GIRLS

SOCCER BOYS VARSITY

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Pride Determination Quality

VOLLEYBALL GIRLS VARSITY

TRACK & FIELD GIRLS

TRACK & FIELD BOYS

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SWIMMING BOYS VARSITY GYMNASTICS VARSITY

BASKETBALL BOYS VARSITY

BASKETBALL GIRLS VARSITY BASKETBALL BOYS JUNIOR VARSITY

Home of the Governors

24

DeWitt Clinton 2014 - 2015

FLAG FOOTBALL GIRLS VARSITY

SOFTBALL GIRLS VARSITY

VOLLEYBALL BOYS VARSITY

25Editor’s note: We regret that we did not have photos for all DWC sports teams and clubs.

BASEBALL BOYS VARSITY

TENNIS GIRLS VARSITY

The Red and Black

CHEERLEADING

26

How To Be A Positive Person By Lauren Waldron ’15

Your mental diet determines your personality and your character and therefore everything that happens  to  you  in  life.  What  is  a  mental  diet?  It’s  when  you  feed  your  mind  with  positive  affirma-tions, information, thoughts and conversations. The brain controls the body; whatever you feed your brain, your body corresponds with it. Therefore, feed your brain with healthy thoughts.

Mental  fitness  is  like  physical  fitness.  You  develop  elevated  levels  of  self-­esteem  and  positive  attitude by doing good things. Here are keys to becoming a positive person: First, speak to yourself; control your inner dialog. This means, whenever you are in a degrading situation such as when someone tells you that you are incapable of doing something, tell yourself “I can do it” or “I’m not backing down.” Second, visualize and see your goals as already accomplished. What you “see” of yourself on the inside, you will “be” on the outside. Third, be careful in your choice of people with whom you live or associate. These people will have considerable impact on your emotions and your success.

Following these guidelines will help you become a positive person. Start today. Associate with people who are positive, happy and optimistic, who show promise of going somewhere in life. Tell yourself that you can and will accomplish your life goals. And dream big. You are worth it.

For Better or Worse:

Two Pages on the Decisions We Make

Danielle Torres ’16Engels Gomez ’15

4. DISCOVER YOURSELF

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True Confessions of a Class CutterBy Marlon Ramnauth ’15???

It  all  started  in  9th  grade  when  I  first  cut  school.    I  followed  the  wrong  crowd.  I  know.  I didn’t know better back then. They seemed cool.

Cutting became a habit. I didn’t need to follow anybody. Second semester I started to cut school for no reason. I just went home and watched TV. Yea I know. It sounds stupid. It actually is. I would cut after 5th because that was when I had lunch. I had math 6th period and I hate math. I used to leave right after 5th just not to go to math. Because.

I didn't think that I screwed up because on the Regents I got a 64. I said to myself, “Maybe kids that went to the class have a lower grade than I do.” Not that I knew for a fact that was true--but it kept me from panicking.

I did not worry. I said to myself, “I'll make it up in summer school.” Not that I asked if there was summer school. But it made me feel like I had a plan.

I  made  it  to  10th  grade.  I  was  doing  well  in  the  first  semester.    I  probably  cut  no  more  than eight times! A record attendance for me.

But second semester I was in a really bad car accident. I was out from school for two months to heal. After I recuperated at home, I said to myself, “I failed already so why go the rest of the semester? It’s almost over.” Not that I checked.

Anyone see a pattern? I am still here. My fellow 9th grade classmates graduated.

Failing, Failing, FailedBy Sidney Skolsky ’23

I am a failure. I’m not ashamed of it, for I am a successful failure. I know how to fail with tech-nique. Some fellows, when they fail are in doubt until the last moment. Then it is the teacher who decides for them. But I am different. I decide for myself and let the teacher follow my decision. I never hang in the balance. I receive 10%, 20%. You see, there is never any doubt.

When I fail in any subject, I’m neither discouraged nor disappointed. Perhaps it is because I expected  it,  or  that  it  is  a  habit.  They  say  that  a  habit  starts  like  a  thread  and  finally  weaves  itself  into  a rope. If that is the case, I’m bound tightly with barbed wire.

Come, gentle reader, become a failure. Is there anything more interesting than Failure; anything duller than Success? When success comes, all is over. The occupation has vanquished; ambition soon will depart. But with Failure all things are possible. After one has failed, next term’s work is much easier. Again I beg of you gentle reader—attend the failing classes. Become a failure....

I have a confession to make. Every once in a while I pass. Accidents will occur you know. Some-times I write the correct answer without knowing it. I tried my best to fail, you see. Then again, trick questions catch me.... So I warn you fellow Flunkers, beware of trick questions. There is always some one trying in some way to make us pass. Beware....

I fear only one thing. That is the rule which forbids one from remaining in school for more than six years. My time is almost up. I shall have to pass a few subjects or go. But I will not break my custom  of  failing.  It  would  be  breaking  faith  with  the  rest  of  the  flunkers....

Note: Sidney Skolsky, class of 1923, may have preached failure at Clinton, but his life was very  successful.  He  was  the  Hollywood  reporter  who  first  named  the  Academy  Award  “Oscar.”   He produced several movies and had a long-running Hollywood column in the New York Post.

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ChoicesBy Edison Estephane ’15

Track, soccer, education tooWith my life, there are so many things I can doBut excelling at all is too toughMostly my short life has been roughFocusing on one is my best option.

But how soon will the others be forgotten?The memory of them is in my rear view And I always question whether one will pass meStill, I can’t linger on the ifs and maybes When every night the world shows me new possibilities. Amini Suchi ’17

Elizabeth Kim ’18

This I Will Teach YouBy Luisaily Marmolejos ’15

My mother always told me to believe in myself.It  is  the  first  step  to  success  in  life.  To love myself deeply and know my worth.

I have insecurities, I bet you do too.So I will teach you to leave those behind as I have.It’s important.

She said, “The person you are is what makes you special-- Caring, sweet, and loyal.These are the traits that make everyone love you.”So this I will teach you: You matter.

And This I Can Teach By Tayvonne Moody ’15

I will practice what I preach: Always smile.That's my style. Inside I maybe mad or sad. Outside? I am nothing but glad.

So when you look at me, you think I’m cool to stay so positive. That’s my style.And this I can teach.

By Delgado Corcoran ’15

I never met any of my uncles. They all died long before I was ever in the picture. To be completely honest, my family has been plagued by early deaths. My grandmother on my mother’s side died in a car crash, in a light green mustang (she had good taste). A car crash took my eldest uncle. His younger brother died from AIDS, early on, before doctors could do anything to help him or ease the pain. My youngest uncle took his own life, haunted by mental illness and taunted by his stepmother. He thought that was his  only  way  out  of  the  pain.  The  only  uncle  on  my  father’s  side  died  fighting  for  his  country.  A  Puerto  Rican immigrant, he wanted to show his gratitude to the country he called home. I never got to meet any of them. When my Mom speaks of their deaths, it can feel as though she is rubbing death in my face. But then I remember. We are Irish. Death is not the end all be all. Death is a reminder to live now. While you can. The story they always tell is one of death. But the story they live and always have lived is a story of remembrance. Remembrance of those lost. They made your lives better while they were here.

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THE STORY THEY ALWAYS TELL...

By Carlos Garcia ’15

They say he was murdered,Shot and killed,While as young as the Gerber baby.

Well maybe not that youngBut 17 or 18.Doesn't even equal the amount of hours in a day.

Blasted by a gun to his face,By whom?A stranger, a killer, a robber--they say.Silent I stay, not knowing much about it.

But hearing how his funeral in Ortiz was so crowded.How much he was loved as a brother,A friend, a boyfriend, a beloved son to a Puerto Rican

father and mother.And how he went through a lot while alive,And how unfortunate he was not to survive.Just a kid trying to construct his life,Then gone forever.

Makes me wonder……

By Abel Castillo ’15

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve heard this story less and less, but I can remember the days when I would hear it every week. Sometimes twice! I knew this story or some variation of it was coming whenever I either lost something, asked for money, or went school supply shopping. I’ve heard it so many times I can hear it in my head in his voice. “When I was your age, I had to share a pencil with  my  brother,  we  would  break  it  in  half  and  fight  over  the  eraser.”  He  always  makes  me  out  to  be  a spoiled child and although the story might not be true, that’s the story he always tells.

By Kaygon Finakin ’15

Fourteen children in poverty with no mother to look after them, and their father, an uneducat-ed farmer in rural Jamaica who couldn't dream of making enough money to feed 15 mouths. The closest school was miles away in Williams-field.  And  on   top  of  being  hungry  most  of   the  children didn't own shoes.

But one was determined to be educated. My mother, self-proclaimed diamond in the rough standing at a mere 5 feet 2 inches tall, made education her life's goal. Despite fainting from hunger, and blistering her feet by walking miles of unpaved roads, she did not give up. Angry, determined, and strong she submerged herself into the advancement of her own mind. She is the epitome of a strong black woman. She is the muse of African-American artists, and a clear reminder that success is not measured by the dollar, and does not mean you're a millionaire.

Of 14 children, only one graduated Williams-field’s  All  Age   school,   and   of   the   many   who   attended, she was the only one to further her stud-ies in the UK. She is more than my mom. She’s more than my biggest supporter. My mother Ivette   is   inspiration   personified,   it’s   the   story  they tell me and the story I will always tell.

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Fire and EarthBy Delgado Corcoran ’15

Fire: burning whatever there is for fuel like a starving man eating anything for food. There is a certain beauty in unchecked desire; thirsts that can never be quenched no matter how much rain falls. Destruction has a bad reputation, it is undeserved. So much opportunity comes from destruction. If forests were never burned to the ground, how could that ground be replenished? If the Roman Empire never fell, we would not have life as we know it; the English, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Romanian languages would have never existed. Like life from a moth-er to her child, love is what gives that child new life.   Fire   loves  what   it   burns   because   fire   gave  it life. A connection and transferal of life at its most pure form. A surrendering of life that it may flourish   again   anew.  There   is   a   balance.   Fire   is  the enforcer. A beautiful enforcer of that which must be true, everything has an end just as it has a beginning. Everything has its place and its time. Fire ensures everything ends so something else may begin.

Earth: it is the dust beneath our feet, the rocks, the dirt, the sand, the ash, the mud, and the salt. We think of land as our land but that is a lie. Rather, we are this land’s people: birthed from the  dirt,  our  lungs  filled  with  the  air  of  trees,  our  feet  forever  planted  on  its  ground.  From  our  first  steps out of the ocean to our last steps. And when we do take our last steps, our bodies fall into the embrace of its arms. Like that of a parent hold-ing the body of their dying child. A life brought into this world from the dirt only for pain of a loss far greater than that which was, but of that which could have been. A life taken away before the days that were promised came to fruition. The earth beneath us is where we began and it will be where we end our short time.

Kyra Myles ’17

Sajon Rattigan ’18

Engels Gomez ’15

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Be Yourself?By Tayvonne Moody ’15

Be yourself ? My parents say this all the time But when I do, they tell me I’m out of lineWhen you are yourself, you’re most comfortable But to others your behavior is a little skeptical Trying to please everybody is so annoying Always changing your personality to please becomes so boring I try my hardest to make them pleased But for them my feelings have to be seized. I’m not happy my days turn crappy never do they ask, “What’s wrong?” It’s a never ending song “Are  you  okay?”  Or  “is  everything  fine?”freaking annoying I just want some time to think things over- Can I cry ? Can I just lie in the corner?

Everyone thinks I have multiple friends but inside I feel like the biggest lonerMy “friends”They think I am a giant clown Always joking. When really I'm hiding. People do not know my true feelings I'm too busy living in someone else's

I CANNOT ANYMORE !!Feeling imprisoned behind electric fences I want to escape and explore But once I feel I've gotten far obstacles seem so tough I stop to think And my world shifts BACK ??

Jasmine Robles ’15

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It lays there among its brethren,it simply waitsfor an opportunity to be useful.He is the least skilled among his brothers.He isn’t gracefulOr precise.But he can cut,oh, can he cut.

The Doctor doesn’t care for him,says he’s dull.But the Doctor still comes around. Time to time.

Today’s his day.

A young girl lies before him,bones protrude from one of her legs,Breaking  off  in  several  directions,  like  a  fleshy  

cactus.The how doesn’t concern him.He is put to work.

The beginning is easy. The soft stuff is removed with little effort.It makes a squelching sound.As he moves back and forth.Back and forth.Her skin parting before him.

One of the nurses is so taken by his handiwork she has to leave.

A faint retching sound is heard in the distance.That is no concern to him.He tears and rips the soft stuff.But he then hits the white.The white was easy to cut through when he was

young.

But age has softened him.The Doctor is exhausted.Sweat drips from his brow.But he just can’t seem to stop himself.

Back and forth.

The squelching has become a grinding.The girl is still sleeping.Most of the people he handles are.He recalls one gentleman who woke up while he

was working on his arm.The man was so excited the nurses had to restrain

him as he screamed.He created a groove in the white thing.Great progress.

But he must hurry up.If too much red escapes the patient has to go to

sleep.They go into the morgue.But that’s not so bad.He gets to see them again.The bone has been sawed through.

He has been tossed aside.And his smaller, swifter relatives are made the stars

of this performance.He lies in a little metal pan.Crimson tides wash over his body.It’s cool.“Good job,” he tells himself.And he lies there.WaitingFor a new friend.

Friends of the Bone SawBy Krishna Kemraj ’15

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Burning OutBy Krishna Kemraj ’15

Only so many hours in a day.Only so many days in a year.Only so many years in a life.

Life moves on.You are forgotten.

Make connections.Do something amazing.The world is burning.

Run.

Main CharacterI look out my window some days,and I see people walking.I am the main character,but perhaps I’m not.

Perhaps.

I’m a bright window at dusk.A casual passerby?A voice in the crowd?Another  pair  of  shuffling  footsteps?

Maybe I’m a hero.

Or maybe,I’m  a  second  fiddle,  a  foil,A push for someone else.I’ll never know, but I’ll keep looking.

Walking:I walk to forget.Or … to remember?Perhaps  to  find.

But I can’t seem to stop.Left.Right.Left.Right.My feet ache. My back feels as if it’ll implode.But I keep walking.Because one day I’ll be old.And I won’t be able to walk.

An Axe in the WoodsBy Krishna Kemraj ’15

A  new  axe  lay  near  a  freshly  chopped  stack  of  fire  wood.It’s lodged in a nearby stump.A log cabin stands in the distance; a testament to a simpler time.A cobblestone path leads to it.It snows.It rains.The seasons come and go.The  stack  of  firewood  becomes  rotten.The earth takes it back.Time passes. The weeds come.The ground shifts.The path erodes.The path is gone.The  cobblestones  have  fled,nowhere to be seen.The log cabin; rustic from birth, has begun to suffer.It is strong.But its foe is unrelenting.This  is  a  fight  it  can’t  win.One winter evening, the groaning of the shifting structure is

silenced.The roof gives in,the interior is exposed to the elements.It too perishes inevitably.More time passes.A doe stumbles upon a new feeding ground.She enters a mysterious structure.Carelessly walking upon the carcass of a time forgotten.She leaves returning to its normal path.Among the swaying weeds a lone tree stump remains,an axe head is lodged in a rift in the top.The handle has left,the axe head is alone.It’s been alone for a long time.“Where have the people gone?” it thinks to itself.“What use is an axe no one can swing?When will I go to where the people are?”A blunt axe head lays under mounds of sod.Forgotten by time.“When will I go?”

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My heart raced as I looked up at the house. Taking a deep breathe, I pulled the now wrin-kled  paper  from  my  back  pocket,  fingers  shak-ing. With another deep intake, I started up the steps. The rumors were that she was back. This would  be  my  first  time  seeing  her  since  the  great  disappearance. My thin body ached with each step, and I slowed as I neared the entrance. Behind me, in the oblivious world, birds sang sweetly and trees danced. Yet in the back of my mind, I heard the voice of my present caretaker telling me to hurry back. I wanted to see her. To give her the paper I now held in my hand. Ripped from a unsuspecting composition note-book,  the  paper  seemed  so  insignificant  in  that  very moment. I recalled feeling a sense of regret at taking such care in the meticulous writing I'd

Where I'm From By Kaygon Finakin ’15

I'm from the land bordered with trees Where the dandelions are eerily teased by the bees.I’m from the gardens of roses and love,where the neighbors looked out for everyone.

And those trees that stood great and tall,Kindly offered their bearings to all.Where the laughter of children was more than enoughto calm a day that had once been rough.

I’m from the hangout spot down by the square,Next to the school where we all met.I’m from “Nosey Sally” and “Broken Tom” In the little community we all called home.

I am from a “keep it up” mother,from a “my little soldier” father,An “I'll watch over you” grand ma,and “Be good” grandpa,An “I'll always love you” sisterAnd a “you're my prize” brother.

I’m from a memory never to be forgotten, Where the boys climbed trees and the girls were

spoiled rotten.I’m from that time; “the good ole days”Where before the great house 24 puppies laid.

etched on the scrap of the paper, because in that it meant nothing.

So concerned with this, my innocent mind did not register all that had happened. I remembered about a month ago, I was living with her; my best friend, my sister. Then she left, she left us behind. The innocence of my mind didn't com-prehend the abandonment. Even as I climbed those steps and my throat burned with the tears that   rose   and   stung   the   flare   of  my   nostrils,   I  didn't perceive the situation the way everyone else saw it. To them she was “no good” albeit no one tried to understand her. The hot summer sun caused my tank top to stick to my back, the clips in my hair felt all too heavy for an 8 year old child.

But still I kept moving forward. See, to me she was the source of my love and protection. A sister with a kind heart that would move moun-tains   for  me  and  fight  my   fears   away.  A   sister  that for as long as I knew, only sought to put a smile on my face. Our silent relationship was just that, silent. Yet sweet and appreciated.

And  then  I  was  finally  at  the  top  of  the  steps.  The  first   thing  I  noticed  was   the  door  was  un-locked and wide open. “Lacy?” My voice broke with emotion. She didn’t answer. I kept walking till I was at the room door, also wide open. She lay in sweet serenity fast asleep in the middle of that August day. She shifted as I climbed unto the bed, much too high for me then. It was one of  the  first  times  I  made  it  up  on  that  very  same  mattress with ease. “Kaygon?” The sleepy voice said in a daze as she looked at me with heavy lids. “Kaygon” she said again with more realiza-tion. She got up and cried, pulling me into her arms. Her body shook with the force of tears and I cried as well.

We stayed like that for a while, before pull-ing apart. Silently, I showed her the paper, now more wrinkled than ever. Written on it in my crooked penmanship it read, “happy birthday.” I was again ashamed of my makeshift card, and I held my head down as she started to cry again. She took the card, murmuring a thank you and kissed my forehead lovingly. “I left you and here you come, with a card, wishing me happy birth-day. My only sister, do you know I love you?” I nodded silently wiping my tears. For at that moment just like the trees and the birds chirping away, Lacy and I were at peace as well.

MEM0IR By Kaygon Finakin ’15

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F E L L A -V I S I O N S :

REAL AND

IMAGINED

Aaron Luke ’15

Matthew Jankie ’16

Moheb Shaikh ’18 Richard Mensah ’15

Paola Garcia ’17

DEWITT CLINTON HS:

These three poems were written by Jeraldine Morrison ’15, who was invited to attend a writer’s workshop at the Poet’s House in NYC.  She  was  a  semi-­finalist  in  the   Regional Poetry Out Loud contest in February.

AvoidedI acknowledge my status as a strangerColorful clothes, odd accentOut of sync with the other kids on the playground.Unaccustomed to their games.

I am uniqueBut I bask in my oddnessUnafraid to be meLeft as an outsider.

I fearlessly embrace my unusualnessAvoided.

What a Woman WantsWhat a woman wants is an undeserving heart,One that sends shocks of dizziness through her.A strong man with eyes deep as whirlpools.Someone to keep her grounded amidst a world buzzing like bees.A carefree soul,Brave soldier,To make even the bitterest of hearts awaken.What a woman fears is history repeating itself,For a snake to bite her with fangs of dishonesty.For his eyes of whirlpool depth to drown her in sorrow.For her heart to turn black like a dead rose.

TruismsBetrayal is being honest with yourselfBoys can be emotional tooChildren are not always innocentCrime is not just another word for politicsDeath isn’t scary, it’s the dying part that frightens usDreaming is our own twist on realityEmotional responses are never wrong when you are a womanEating chocolate is the best way to cure heartbreak.

By Azariah Bedminster ’15

People write for obvious reasons: to express themselves, remember their thoughts, entertain others, or simply to occupy themselves. Some people even write because they have an essay due before Friday night. Though that can be stressful because procrastination always makes it so, writing is a very beautiful thing.

I enjoy writing.And I love the enjoyment I have seeing others reading my work. Writing is simply talking with my hands.

Some People Say, “Why Write?”

36

5. WHY WRITE?

37

THE POET’S HOUSE

Danielle Hazart ’17 competed in the Regional Poetry Out Loud competi-tion and attended the Poet’s House writing workshop on May 2nd. “Cigarette Burns” was created from lines found in other poets’ work. The other two poems, from a writing prompt.

Like the WindI admit I do not know HowTo sit still without purpose.When people sitHolding cement blocks in their lapsOr being consumed and swallowed by quicksand.

I Prefer to moveEffortlessly, as leaves in the wind.Bringing this vessel wherever I can.Limitless.Unrestricted.

Hypocritical TeacherI admit I do not know howTo sit still or move without purpose.Who are you to judge my inability,When you taught me this way?You guided my hands, my feet, my bodyInto moving like water.And now you have shunned your own student!Was that easy?To show me a life you despise?You are the more complete fool.

Cigarette BurnsOur kisses taught us all the outs and ins.Lips that taste of tears, they say, are the best for kissing.You would know since you have caused tears to dry on mine.

Your  last  kiss  left  fire  in  me,Burning my creativity.

I will forgive but not forget.Because women and elephants never forget.

(with thanks to Robert Pack, Dorothy Parker, Maureen Haynes)

By Delgado Corcoran ’15

Why Write? Because we need to. Without expression through art and words, we are no longer people. We are no longer beautiful things that inhabit this world. We are destroyers and liars and cheats. But with art, with writing, we are thinkers and creators. Animals eat, think, and sleep, but they do not write. We are too alike not to cherish our differences from beasts.

Writing is the difference between man and animal. It shows how far we have come and how far our words can take us.

I Respectfully Say, “Why Not!”

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Scene: Junior and Joe are at the NFL draft. Junior gets  drafted  in  the  first  round  by  the  New  England  Patriots. He does not know that his dad Joe, who he hasn’t seen since his childhood, is there to “support” him. As Junior walks out of the confer-ence room, he sees his dad off to the side.

Joe: Jojo….Junior: (turns around) Nobody calls me that any-more…… Joe.Joe: Ahhhh….. come on, I always called you that, that was your childhood name. Junior: Does it look like I’m a child to you?Joe: No.Junior: So I don’t care what you used to call me. My name is Junior, got that?Joe:  You  know  you  seem  pretty  mad  for  a  first  round draft pick. The New England Patriots? Come on man that’s a legendary franchise!Junior: I am actually very happy.Joe: So what’s the tension for?Junior: I bumped into you, whoever you may be.Joe: (looks in disbelief) Are you serious? Junior: Does it look like I’m joking? I’ve never been so serious in my life!Joe: Why are you acting like this with me?Junior: Give me a reason not to.Joe: I am your father.Junior: You are no father of mine. Your name is Joe and that’s all I’ve ever known you as….Joe: Wow, what’s gotten into you?Junior: I’m surprised I even recognized your face, maybe it’s because you look like me, yea that’s right, you look like ME!Joe: (looks away)Junior: Hello strange man that looks like me.

Joe: (shakes head)Junior: What do you want?Joe: I just want to speak with you. Junior: I’m sorry, but I have no time. I have to go.(Junior begins to walk to his limo.) Joe: Junior…Junior wait! Listen to me when I speak to you, god damn it ! Junior: (turns around) What?Joe: Let me speak to you, stop pushing me away.Junior: Don’t speak to me like I’m your child!Joe: But you are my child….Junior: Okay, so don’t speak to me like you raised me, like you been here all my life…. Is that better for you? Joe: Whatever, can I just speak with you for a few minutes?Junior: What do you want? I don’t understand what you want! Is it the money? I’m about to be a millionaire and you want to come back? Now right? Gtfoh! You want some money? Here! (Junior throws money at Joe.)Joe: (picks up money and throws it back at Junior) Nobody wants your money! Don’t disrespect me! I’m a grown-ass man and I am your father!Junior: Any boy can make a baby, but it takes a man to raise one. Therefore to me you’re a little ass boy! (smirks) Joe: You gonna let me speak to you or not?Junior: No, I gotta go.Joe: No problem (begins to walk away) Junior: (To himself: Why did he come back? I thought he wanted money…but he rejected my money. Where has he been all these years? He was never around and I refuse to allow him back now…but then again that is my father, and I don’t want to reject blood…I mean, look at him, he

Number 29By Jordan Pedroza ’15

IS THE PLAY YOUR THING?Under the supervision of playwright Judy Tate from the Theatre Devel-opment Fund, Clinton students learn the art and skills of playwriting. Here  is  your  chance  to  help  fellow  student  Jordan  Pedroza  put  the  finish-ing touches on a play he is writing. Read the play and think about wheth-er you would add or change anything. If you come up with ideas, write them down and share them with Mrs. Ann Neary, faculty advisor of the Magpie. Hey, you never know. You may start writing your own plays.

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looks exactly like me…. I refuse to follow in his footsteps, let me see what he has to say. I can’t always be all hard balls.) Joe! Joe!Joe: (turns around)Junior: (pays limo to leave) Don’t be long!(Junior and Joe sit down on a nearby bench)Junior: So wassup ? What do you have to say?Joe:  Well  first,  I  want  to  congratulate  you,  you  did  it man. Junior: Yea you got that right, I did it…. Joe: I taught you everything you know Junior. After college ball, I devoted myself to teaching you the game of football. You were a child and we would always practice in the backyard. Don’t you remember?Junior: What when I was 5? I’m 21 now…. And that’s around the time you left…. I’ve been doing this on my own for 16 years now….Joe: How don’t you remember?Junior: Do I need to remind you what I remember you as? Joe: (sighs) Yes…yes I do, let me hear it. Junior: I remember you as the person that left mom and me, that left us to ourselves, to struggle. You never came back. Joe: I had a reason Junior: A reason? A reason! You had a reason to leave your child?Joe: Junior, I was forced.Junior:  This  is  bullshit  man,  first  you  had  a  rea-son, now you was forced? Which one was it? Joe: You’re mom must’ve never told you….Junior: Oh she told me alright, you got into an argument, you pushed her and decided you was going to leave us…. She said you didn’t want anything to do with her nor me.Joe: (mumbles) Wow….. Same old lying ass bitch….Junior: Excuse me? Don’t talk about my mother like that! (Junior swings, Joe moves immediately.)Joe: What the f*** is your problem? Junior: I don’t let anyone disrespect my momma. (He gets up.) This is OVER!Joe: Aye boy you my son and all, but the next time you swing at me we’re gonna have a problem, got that?Junior: What you gonna do?Joe:  I  didn’t  come  here  to  fight  you.Junior: What did you come here for is the ques-tion!Joe: Your mother has lied to you.Junior: About what?

Joe: My so-called “disappearance.” Junior: What you call it? A vacation?Joe: You done being a smartass?Junior: Are you done bullshitting me?Joe: But I’m not bullshitting you. Junior: All right I’ll think about it….Joe: Wow you’re so like me….Junior: Yea, yea, yea…. (Joe begins to search his pockets; he pulls out a paper and hands it to Junior.) Junior: What is this?Joe: Open it and read it to me. (Junior opens the letter, he begins to read.)Junior: Dear Joe Pedzora, the court has made a decision. As of January 5, 2000, you are to stay 100 feet from Evette Rodriguez and Junior Ped-zora. (Junior starts to read in a low, disappointed tone.) You are seen as a danger to these two, and if you are seen within 100 feet of these two, it will result in a jail sentence. If you have any questions you can reach us at 212-718-0627. Sincerely, The Family Court Of The State Of New York. (A moment of silence occurs.) Junior: I’m confused…. This can’t be.... Joe: The proof is in your hands Junior: How did this happen….? How? How? Joe: Your mother didn’t tell you the whole story. Yes indeed your mother and I got into an argu-ment, and out of anger I pushed her…. She fell to the  floor  but  got  up  so  fast…..  She  continuously  screamed at me, telling me to get out, so I did. I regret it. I do…. I wish I would’ve just apologized and stood in the house. I didn’t know what the consequences would be. I was out the house for about a week, when I received a phone call from the courts. Your mom not only pressed charges on me, but she got a restraining order against me as you can see. The courts made a decision…and although I didn’t go to jail…I received this in the mail. I would’ve chose jail over this any day. Junior: January 5th…2000.Joe: You had just turned 5 on the 13th….What a way to start off a new year right? (Joe looks down and shakes his head.)Junior: You remember my birthday?Joe: I’ve never forgotten about you period…. After the court made their decision, there was nothing I could. I was seen as a threat to you and your mom. Junior: (still looking at paper) Joe: (goes into his wallet and pulls out a picture of Junior as a child) For 16 years, 16 years to be

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exact, all I had of you was this.... I would stare at this day and night and just cry…. I was missing my son.Junior: How did you know of my success? How did you know I would be here?Joe: I’ve been watching you since Clinton high school, all the way through Syracuse, to now….Junior: Wait…. How do you know I went to Clinton?Joe: I don’t know if your mom ever told you this, but I too went to Clinton. What’s crazy is I wore number 29 just like you did…. Remember Coach Langford? Well he was my fraternity brother in college, and he told me about you coming to Clin-ton to play ball.Junior: So you didn’t think to come see me at school? I would’ve never told mom! Joe: How was I suppose to know that? I wasn’t going to take any chances. Junior, little did you know I came to every one of your games, from your  first  game  as  a  freshman  to  the  all-­star  game  as a senior. No matter whether it was home or away…I was always there, I always found a way to get there. Junior: So where were you when everyone would go to the stands to celebrate with their family, and I just had walk to the locker room alone like I was a f***ing orphan?Joe: You seem to not understand (shakes head), I couldn’t get that close to you…and I didn’t know if you would tell your mother.Junior: The restraining order only lasted till I was 18, what’s your excuse now? Why didn’t you come up to Syracuse, watch me play, why didn’t you huh? Joe: When you turned 18, you was in college. I had  no  job….no  money…no  car…and  I  definitely  had no place to call my own. There was no way I could make it up to Syracuse. Junior: (shakes head)Joe: It wasn’t easy for me either… having to sit in the stands and watch my son from a distance. I couldn’t hug him, couldn’t coach him, couldn’t congratulate him. I got up and went right back to where I came from every time the game was over. Junior: Where you been staying all this time?

Joe: Your grandmother, mama Fina, remember her?Junior: Yea I remember her, used to go there as a child all the time….Joe; Yea I remember those days (puts head down).Junior: What was the real reason you came here, Joe…. Is that all?Joe: That is all Junior, never wanted your money, never wanted to be apart of your fame. I just want my son back, back in my life. Junior: Why now?Joe: I’ve been watching the scouting report. When I saw you were the number one draft pick going into the draft, I had to be there. There was no rea-son not to be, especially being that the draft was in New York City. Junior: So you really have been watching. (bows head)Joe: Yes Junior….. I never stopped.Junior:  I  missed  having  a  father  figure…grow-ing up with just mom wasn’t easy. I had to do and learn everything on my own…sometimes learning the hard way.Joe: I am sorry Junior..Junior: No, don’t be sorry, you have no reason to be and I don’t hold grudges…. Never been the type. We have a lot of catching up to do…. Sixteen years worth.Joe: Are you up for the challenge?Junior: I really have to go, I’ve been here longer than I was supposed to.Joe: (shakes head)(Junior begins to write his number on a piece of paper)Junior: Here ( hands paper to Joe), don’t lose it. I don’t want any of these strangers calling me. (Joe stares at the paper.) Junior: Maybe I should take it back, I mean you are a stranger. Joe: Oh no….Junior:  I’m  just  playing,  now  fix  that  face  of  yours. Give me a call this weekend. I’ll meet up with you.Joe: Goodbye my son, and thank you.Junior: See you soon dad.

Number 29(continued from the previous page)

DeWitt Clinton High School

Bronx, New York

The

Magpie

Spring 2015

Established 1903