English Honors Tea Essays

8/12/2019 English Honors Tea Essays

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Margaret Stover

Class of 2016

Four AM Fishing

The familiar scent of bitter coffee and old sweaters permeated with salty air day

after day hung low in our 89 Volvo station wagon while Paul Simons You Can Call

Me Alspilled out in broken crackles from the aging radio. My dad drove with one hand

on the steering wheel while laying the other atop the fly fishing rods delicately balanced

between the rows of seats. The deserted roads gave the appearance of a ghost town; the

early morning muffled any sounds typical to a summers day. As we pulled up to the

dock where we store our boat, I reached into my pocket and ate the banana I had packed

to stave off my hunger before our post-fishing diner breakfast. We tiptoed down the

gangway, cautiously avoiding the creakiest planks so we would not wake up people

summering in their boats. I took in the silent Great Salt Pond, the flat surface reflecting

pink in the sunrise, interrupted only by the occasional outcropping of beach grass or the

rocky shore, while my dad rigged the rods, putting deep green Slug-gos on the spinning

rods and organizing the flies he had tied the night before to put on the fly reels. Just

before we pulled away from the dock, I left my peel on the dock to ward off bad luck.

We puttered out of the harbor and then gunned the engine once we reached the cut

into Block Island Sound. The damp ocean air swirled and whipped as our speed

increased, plastering me against the back of my seat and sticking my hair to the

windshield on the center console. We headed toward the North Rip, where Block Island

Sound meets the Atlantic Ocean in a long, shallow reef, and the place where baitfish

collect in the binding currents, drawing bigger bluefish and striped bass, exactly the fish

we were seeking. The landscape of the island rose and fell, from lofty clay bluffs to


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grassy lowlands and long pebble-strewn beaches, and became more and more visible as

the suns light transitioned from a soft pink to burnt orange.

We pulled to a stop just over the line of the currents, the two bodies of water

distinct in their color and wave height. The seas surface lacked any signs of whitecaps

and merely billowed in intermittent rollers, gently raising and lowering the boat. My dad

and I prepared our casts in the bow and stern of the boat, aiming for a flock of birds

feeding on the same baitfish as the bigger fish beneath the surface. We both caught a

bluefish apiece on a spinning rod, both watching as the slim gray-blue creatures dove

spastically out of the water to snatch our lures. The spitting wind died and my dad handed

me a fly rod. Standing on top of the bow platform, carefully gripping the deck with bare

feet, I cast back and forth, raising the rod from 2 oclock to 10 oclock, trying to

delicately place the line on the water among the bait, hoping to attract the attentions of a

large striper.

My dad stood on our large cooler in the stern, also fly-casting. Our lines swished

back and forth, with no wind to drown the sound of the lapping water on the hull or to

soften the whiz and plunk of the line and fly as they settled on the surface. We stood and

fished as equals and in an oddly meditative manner, a feeling that relied on the

unpredictability and uncontrollability lying in the pursuit of the next big fish.


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Lauren Rubino

Class of 2014

Love Has Evolved Without Eyes

There was a time when a quarter pressed into palm of my hand meant the world. Before I could

see its scars, its dulled and grimy imperfections caused by aimlessly migrating through back pockets

and cash registers and unwashed hands, or that one regrettable sojourn at the bottom of a parking

meter, I saw that it glittered. Back during the muddled days of summer, every moment felt like a

vintage photograph with its hazy, amber hue, and I would clasp both hands around my coin, as if

enclosing a butterfly, and carefully bring it to that old, red skyscraper of a vending machine, pressing

my face against the glass as a precious five-pack of gum uncurled. I would waddle back to my beach

towel and sit cross-legged, watching my brother build sandcastles, slowly unwrapping each strip before

crumpling all five pieces into my mouth in one ceremonial swoop. I would taste summer: the chalky

residue of Juicy Fruit mixed with the burn of salt water at the back of my throat and the sweet sting of

sun screen.

As a child I often walked with my hand up and head down, guided by the grasp of my mother,

searching the streets for forgotten gold: a little penny shining near the edge of a sewer drain or a dime

hiding amidst cracks in the sidewalk. My father began collecting coins at age twelve, receiving a sleek

silver dollar every week for his paper route, and by the time I was four years old, I had spent most

nights following my father's trail down the steps to our basement, where, in a little room out of sight to

the untrained eye, I sat and watched him, hunched over with a magnifying glass, as he inspected the

coins in his vast collection, and occasionally give him a nod of approval as he presented me with the

newest addition to the collection.

Once, peering over my father's shoulder as he cleaned the most recent newcomer, I asked him to

identify his favorite coin. With a smile, he turned to a box shelved out of sight in the corner of the

room, and carefully pulled out a small browning penny in a plastic capsule. Inspecting it in my hands, I


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frowned at my father's choice. It did not shine with the brilliance of the Gold American Eagle coin or

contain the same intricate designs of the British India Queen Victoria rupee. Tracing my fingers over

the smooth, dulled face of the old penny, I noticed that Lincoln was faded, his distinct features no

longer distinguishable, appearing solely as an outlined form. My dad explained that this was a 1914 D

Wheat Penny, and that even with abrasions, its wear from decades of circulation, it was more valuable

than any of the sparkling coins that lined the walls of the small room. I looked up in shock; they were

brilliant coins that lined the walls, the shiniest coins, brand new, never circulated and never touched.

They were commemorative coins celebrating the giant panda or Apollo 11 or the Beatles. But they

were coins without stories. Molded to perfection and shined to unnatural extents, they bore no scar of

adventure, having never journeyed beyond the confines of their plastic casing. They had been created

to be seen, admired in windows, and they could be reproduced with the click of a button.

But that discolored little penny, like a wayward traveler, has wandered through decades and

milestones and tragedies, gaining scars with every adventure. It was not made for admiration, but it has

gained a value throughout its lifetime that only those who have evolved without eyes can see.


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Allison Yeh10/5/13

English Seminar, Mrs. MoosSense of Place Essay

The Drugstore Hymn

As if bathed in bleach, the store radiated clean white rays of light onto the dingy

sidewalk of 79th Street. Neatly organized rows of consumer goods stocked the racks:

hairbrushes, toothpaste, crackers, soap. A city dweller with a purpose hunted down the

aisles for her needed item, her check off on a long list. The other, more leisurely shopper,

blocked the passageways, analyzing every label that enticed her. The cashiers waited

indifferently at the counter. Next in line please. they intoned, eyes glazed over as they

grabbed and bagged, grabbed and bagged. The pharmacists waited comfortably on the

opposite end of the cashiers counter. Once a customer arrived, the doctor vanished into a

secret back door, his white coat swooping behind him as he turned. After ten minutes,

when the customer had almost lost hope of retrieving his medication, the doctor

miraculously reappeared, delicately carrying a convenient paper bag at an inconvenient

price.

I visited Duane Reade at least twice a week, if not more, during my middle school

career. Whether I needed school supplies, a birthday card, or bag of chips, the store

constantly satisfied my every desire. Julie and I had our favorite aisles. We camped out in

the nail polish section, painting each nail a different color, evaluating every shade of pink.

We spent hours in the face-wash section, searching for ingredients, arguing over the

transformative magic of each brand. Sometimes we skipped the snack section entirely,

knowing we would end up leaving the store with at least four boxes of Cup n Noodles as

our dinner. Overtime, the cashiers began to recognize us and our habitual purchases.


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Duane Reade was not just a nearby drugstore, it was my backyard, my playground. A

sleepover with a friend meant a visit to Duane Reade to purchase the latest J-14 magazine,

or to stock up on candy bars to hide from my parents.

Before calling a taxi to take me to Penn Station last September, I stopped at Duane

Reade again. This time, while dragging my oversized suitcase through the automatic doors,

I inhaled the scent of fresh latex gloves, I felt the clean florescent lights strip my appearance

of any shadows, and watched the customers inch down the single-file line. The ghosts of

Julie and I, with our loudly printed LeSportSac backpacks, haunted the aisles as well. I saw

us daring each other to buy a pregnancy test. I saw my seventh grade self timidly deciding

which Venus razor would offer me the glossy legs of a high schooler. As if the store had

unleashed its archived security tapes, my Duane Reade memories came to life again, played

out across my mind. After checking the time, I refocused on my immediate mission.

Knowing the stores layout by heart, I headed straight to the stationary aisle, in search of a

notebook for my first year at boarding school. I settled on a small, plain, black journal -

$4.99. While walking to the front of the store, I passed the row of nail polishes, a spectrum

of red and pink. Thoughtfully, I selected Essies Ballet Slippers, a light shade of pink, both

elegant and serene. I stood in line, listening to the ending lyrics of the familiar, comforting

song of my youth, Next in line please, and waited patiently, nostalgically, to respond.


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Sam Verney

Class of 2014

The End of Man

When, in Robert Penn WarrensAll The Kings Men, a pensive Jack Burden

reflects that all knowledge that is worth anything is maybe paid for by blood (647), he

addresses an inextricable connection between truth and destruction that runs throughout

the novel. This idea of the destructive power of truth recurs all throughout literature, from

the downfall of Oedipus to Macbeths resultant power trip upon learning the truth of his

future as king of Scotland, and inAll The Kings Men, truth tears men and women apart

like a wicked wind whipping through the novels pages. Jacks use of the phrase

knowledge that is worth anything (647) introduces some ambiguityas to which

knowledge reaches worthiness, but throughout the novel, knowledge that is worth

anything aligns itself into two major categories: truth about the world the characters live

in, and truths the characters unearth about themselves. By contrast, these pieces of

knowledge have an inverse effect of often salvaging characters inward lives, leaving

them internally intact but morally or physically lost, with an understanding of their place

in the world that has damned them. When Jack philosophizes, The end of man is

knowledge, but [] he cant know whether knowledge will kill him or save him (14),

he presents an artificial dichotomy: truth does not either save or destroy, but rather does

both at once, destroying a mans outwards life while saving his inward one.

Truth about the world has the power either to lead a character to a thoughtful,

balanced life or to splinter his internal structures by stripping away his sense of place in

the world. When Adam Stanton discovers his sisters affair with Willie Stark, his


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definitive view of the world in terms of good and evil collapses, leaving him morally and

mentally adrift, without a sense of place in this strange, unfamiliar, morally complex

world. When he proclaims he will not be paid pimp to his sisters whore (586), he

reveals his moral confusion, seeing himself and his sister, formerly paragons of virtue in

his eye, as embodiments of sin and corruption, his clean, surgical view of the world torn

asunder. This truth, that the world exists in shades of grey even for the whitest of knights,

prompts him on to his bloody confrontation with Willie, paying for the knowledge with

the blood of two men. On the other hand, when Cass Mastern learns of the ramifications

of his actions, he acquires a sense of place in the world, ultimately leading to his painful

death, a death which he freely accepts, telling his brother that he, Cass, is the lucky one

(243). His ownership of the responsibility he holds for the death of his friend Duncan

Trice helps lead him to the pacifistic role he plays in the army. Regretfully stating, I

have used up my right to blood (280), Cass indicates his understanding of the world as

one in which a man may only shed so much blood before he himself falls before deaths

rising tide, a cause-and-effect relationship embodied with the image of the spider web.

Similarly, when after the events of the novel Jack proclaims, the world is all of one

piece (283), he shows hisown understanding of the cause-and-effect nature of things, an

understanding paid for with the lives of Judge Irwin, Adam Stanton, and Willie Stark.

Regardless, this understanding grants him a sense of place in the spider web of a world,

allowing him to live with the consequences of his research into his fathers past.

More importantly, throughout the novel, Jack makes significant discoveries about

himself and his own past, which help break him out of the nihilistic shell in which he

hides from his own pronounced lack of identity. At the price of Irwins life, Jack learns


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the truth of his own parentage, the pieces of his past finally falling into place as he comes

to understand from whence he came. Furthermore, Jack not only acquires knowledge of

himself, but also, by the death of Judge Irwin, he redeems his mother, rekindling the love

shed buried so many years ago, the only true love shed ever felt towards a man.

Lamenting, It was Monty. It was always Monty (646), Jacks mother reveals to her son

the love shed hidden from him his whole life, helping complete his fractured picture of

his family life. When Jack reflects, I thought how by killing my father I had saved my

mothers soul (647), he acknowledges the simultaneous decay and rebirth of his mother

in the aftermath of a loss that forced her to finally acknowledge the inner workings of her

own heart. Crises and devastating losses often rekindle a sort of familial love that time

strips away, as shown by both the reconnection of Jack and his mother, and by the

developments in the Stark household in the aftermath of Toms accident. Willies

termination of his relationship with Sadie and his return to his wife demonstrate the sort

of values hed pushed aside during the riseof his power, his sons well-being the price of

the values hed clung to early in his life, values lost to the sands of time. Ultimately, this

return comes too late, but at the end hed returned to himself and his family, the Willie

Stark who knew his own self, and knew himself to love his wife and his son.

Whether through knowledge of the world or knowledge of self, characters benefit

from truth by acquiring a sense of place, or losing that sense of place and losing all. Even

in the bloodbath that buys him the knowledge he needs, that sense of place and self

guides a man, steering him home through the flaming wreckage of the life hed

surrendered as the price for the knowledge that both saves and kills him.


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Trung Vu

Class of 2015

The Massive Sticky Thing

In middle school I lost so many things that my mom, after buying what I vaguely

remember was my one-hundred-and-thirteenth box of pens, told me that my mind must

always be up on the clouds. The phrase resonates with me so much that it sticks to my mind

like chewing-gum on shoe soles. In fact, I often think of my mind as a giant red hot-air

balloon whose only purpose is to float among the creamy clouds of meaningless

philosophical musings.

I said that my musings are meaningless because they don't help me find a place at the

jam-packed dining hall where the only empty seats are at the varsity hockey table or because

they dont help me crack some jokes that would mark me as an acceptable member of

society. Instead, they keep me rolling from side to side in bed at one in the morning, thinking

about stuff like the meaning of life or the triviality of humans in the universe. Just three days

ago in one of those thinking sessions, I had my monthly existential crisis when I started to

question whether my life is just an ultra-realistic twenty-sixth century video game. What if

the people around me are just computer codes? What makes this life more real than a video

game?

The answer - a small packet of Vietnamese meat pie - arrived yesterday morning inside

a white box labeled "USPS Priority Mail". It was a promise that my friend Tri made to me

when I was lamenting to him about having to go to school in the freezing cold of New

England winter while my parents and my little sister watched the Lunar New Year fireworks

and drank fake wine at home. We had not talked for weeks since then, and I thought that he

had forgotten about the promise - about me.


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But now the meat pie lies in front of me as adamant proof that there are people in this

world who care about me. It reminds me of Tri and how he's always there for some FIFA

matches on his Xbox, or a Sunday morning coffee, or even a call at two in the morning. It

reminds me of my mom, who sacrificed a fortune to give me an education in a land that she

has only seen through the promotional posters that promise "the best education for your

children" and of those gunfight movies on HBO that she can't watch without lecturing me for

hours about the negative effect of glamorized violence on teenagers. It reminds me of the

time when I freaked out so much about the possibility of falling off the roller coaster that my

equally scared cousin shouted into my face: "Shut up and get on it, you coward."

I believe that there are certain things that pure logic cannot parse. I believe that life is

one those things, that there is no way to know whether or not my life is just a made-up video

game. But there's this massive sticky thing called love that binds everyone together in one

huge interconnected web and makes me believe blindly and devoutly in the realness of life.

And as much as I'm a die-hard fan of science and critical thinking, this time I choose to

follow my cousin's wisdom: to shut up, start believing, and enjoy the ride.


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Charles ShottonOde to the Crossword

When I visited my grandmother as a child, every morning I woke to the familiar sound of

pen scratching on paper. She loves crossword puzzles and would compete with her neighbor in

a daily battle to see who would unravel the clues and decipher the code faster, each one

peering over the garden fence to inform the other of her success, gleeful pride concealed under

a faade of courtesy. After years of watching her unravel even the most difficult of puzzles with

ease, I decided to spend more time solving them myself.

Over all other puzzles, crosswords undoubtedly reign supreme. Built upon clues that

repeatedly refuse to be bounded by or restricted to genre or theme, they are a veritable

celebration of disparate pieces of common, and sometimes uncommon, knowledge. Literature,

pop culture, history, religion, geography, science all melt together before finding their form in

that criss-cross of dichromatic squares, and to be conqueror of such a beast must bestow upon

the victor a rightful sense of pride. Recently, I have tried to fit more time into my schedule to

dedicate to crosswords. With each riddle decoded, I have improved, and though, as a novice, I

managed to solve only the most simple three and four letter words at the corners of the grid,

carefully circling the main body of the crossword for fear of being ensnared by a particularly

nasty question lurking in the puzzles interior, I soon felt the joy of vanquishing one of those

monstrous 15-letter, multiple word answers that spanned the entire width of the page. But

despite my growing skill, I am still held back by one thing: my fear of putting down a wrong

answer. You see, a crossword closely resembles a carefully thought out mechanism with each

deciphered clue clicking into place and bringing the puzzle a step closer to completion, but if

one letter is out of place, the entire grid maybe doomed.

What I admire most about my grandmothers method of puzzle-solving is that she never

uses pencil, insisting that the only way to fill in a crossword is in the permanent, thick, black ink

of a biro. How she musters the courage I do not know. I must admit to my own reliance on the


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comforting grip of a number two pencil, on the undeniable reassurance provided by the soft grey

trail of graphite, especially when in concert with a pink marshmallow of eraser. The eraser is a

true life saver or at least a reputation saver. With the aid of a small lump of rubber all errors

vanish, any mistakes disappear; I can never be wrong.

Sometimes, when you look at my grandmothers completed crossword puzzles, you can

spot an incredible anomaly. If youre lucky, you might catch a glimpse of a P that has a small but

evident growth out of the back of its head. It stands as evidence of a transformation undergone

by T to become P. It is proof of an error, a sign that even a master can make mistakes, but most

importantly, that these blunders wont stop them from eventually smiling over the top of a

garden fence to the astonishment of a disappointed neighbor. If my grandmother can accept

mistakes, why do I instead shy away, scared of what others might think of me? Why is it that

errors inspire such fear in me? In the future, I must try to become more confident in recognizing

my mistakes, greet them warmly and invite them in for they have so much to teach me. Next

time, I think that Ill fill in my crosswords with pen.

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English Honors Tea Essays