The

Boulevard

the loose leaf issue fall 2012

5“Baby I’m Jus’ Spreadin’ da Love”

by Baylee Cifreo

7“A Knight on the Prowl” by Margaret Ann Cook

table of contents

11“Falling for Food” by Taylor LeBlanc

15 “Break a Leg”

by Kathleen Love

17 “Hurricane Culture in 3 Acts”

by Nicole Newton

19 “The McElveenator”

by Rahul Rao

23“Diner Dash”

by Logan Roussel

27 “13th Gate”

by Alexandra Webre

Artwork by Nick Leo

editors’ note Dear Reader,

Welcometothefirstissue of The Boulevard, Epis-copal’s new online student magazine. All of our prose is consideredcreativenonfiction,a genre that uses narrative and story-telling techniques to pres-ent factual information about ourselves and our community. We invite you to im-merse yourself in our autumn-themed issue. The loose leaf issue, of course, both roots us in a changing season and signals the turning of yet an-other school year. Our work this quarter focuses on everything from fall comfort food and the dining hall changes to haunted houses and hurricanes. Our magazine can be read from front-to-back in one sitting, or readers might pick out different pieces at differ-ent times. The work is meant to endure, despite the chang-ing seasons and the changing school year. We hope you will engage with us and consider what fall in Louisiana means to you. We are indebted to the brilliant artwork and graphics from Ms. Kate Trepagnier’s AP Art class whose work you will see featured throughout the magazine. Also, thank you to Ms. Dianne Madden and Mr. Jason Hubbard and the Music & Media class who provided design support, as well as the student body who submitted magazine names. Enjoy!

The Blvd. WritersArtwork by Erin Tsai 2 1

©2012Episcopal High School Press Baton Rouge, LA All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means in-cluding storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from EHS of Baton Rouge.

nicole newton halloween football and cool weather

contributors’ page

margaret ann cook gumbo footballbonfires boots dressing

t aylor leblanc leaves pumpkins and hooded sweatshirtskathleen

love sweaters hot chocolate leavesbonfires

We asked our contributors to describe what fall means to them in five words...

rahul rao pumpkins sweaters football apple cider

logannii football pizza cake chillin’ confessions roussel

alexandra webre “the year’s last, loveliest smile” william cullen bryant

Cover Art by Kelsey Phares

baylee cifreo boots cinnamonbonfires sleeves football

Artwork by Hannah Arceneaux 4 3

Pointe Coupee, Eunice, Westwego, Mamou, Carencro. These are the Louisiana places that go unnoticed and forgotten. Yet it is in these small pockets of our state where the heart of Cajun cul-ture lurks—the cast iron skillets, holy water in the closet, ‘Jambi is goin’ get us, never eat gumbo with-outfilé,crawfishandcracklins.Thisiswhatsmalltown Louisiana is made of and where the soul of Cajun culture lives. Driving across Westwego, Louisiana, was a somewhat lonely adventure. I set off with my cam-era, my notebook, and the promise of the Salaville Cajun Heritage Festival. A million anxious thoughts ran through my head: What if no one speaks to me? Will I be an outsider intruding on their local fes-tival? What story will I leave with? The roads leading to the festival were very isolated with the occasional elderly man sitting on his front porch. After feeling like I was lost the entire time, I decided to ask two strangers for directions. They were as pleasant as they come and directed me straight to the festival. This has to be good sign of what the people were going to be like, right? Pulling up to a gravel lot with only a few parked cars, I did not think this was going to be much of a festival. Approaching the tent where I was to pay to get in the festival area, an elderly man with a thick Creole accent and a girl who appeared to be his granddaughter greeted me with the biggest smiles and the loudest, “Nice to have y’all come out and see us!” It was as if he instantly knew we were outsiders but somehow made us feel like we had found just the right place. I really appreciated this because my grandfather is as Cajun as they come and this made me feel right at home.

Baby, I’m Jus’ Spreadin’ da Love

As I walked through the festival grounds I noticed a live band and a small group of people gathered in their lawn chairs socializing and en-joying the atmosphere. An old couple was danc-ing in the middle of everyone, sharing a tender moment. It was the sweetest sight I’d seen in a long time. I was surrounded by the aroma of freshly made gumbo, and different traditional fall

foods. The town had literally been recreated on the grounds with small signs over the surrounding patios, as it was before hurricane Katrina destroyed everything. I breathed in that moment and took in the makeshift town-within-a-town and the tightknit small com-munity. I began to smile because IhadfinallyrealizedexactlywhatIwent there looking for. The Cajun

culture I grew up with was the same that I was experiencing right here. Whoever from wherever is made to feel welcome at any moment in time.

I was right at home.

Cajun culture is often best conveyed through food. Nowhere is this more apparent than at Cajun restaurants. I don’t mean the big ones you can get to just off I-10. I mean the real, authentic ones where “Mama” is head chef. I recently visited one of these in Carencro, LA, named Paul’s Pirogue. To get there you have to go through the main streets and turn off past the high school. Just down the road from the Catho-lic church and cemetery sits this wonderful little hole-in-the-wall.Youdefinitelyhavetobelookingfor this place because you would never just run across it. The waitresses wore shirts that read

“Needless to say, it tasted like butter churned

by angels.”

“Meet me at Paul’s Pirogue” on the front and on the back, “Lisez d’autre cote,” which means, “Read the other side” in Cajun French. Walking into this restaurant, I was sur-rounded by old cypress walls, mounted crab traps, iron pots, and driftwood. Paintings of cy-press trees and old cabins created a rustic ambi-ance. On the menu there were traditional south-ern dishes such as gumbo and seafood platters, but I decided to try something a little different this time. I ordered trout stuffed with crabmeat and shrimp. Needless to say, it tasted like butter churned by angels.

***

My grandmother sits on the back porch of her small brick house, inherited from her great aunt, and looks onto the thousand acres known as their backyard. Driving back there you have to stopandopenacattlegateeveryfiveminutes.Pasttheherdsofcattle,youarriveatfieldsfullof pecan trees, canals, and the occasional aban-doned shotgun house. Walking under the pecan trees, over the small wooden bridges, sends an indescribable feeling down my spine. There are pecans everywhere during the fall, and the beauty of this place does not compare to any-where else in the entire world. This land has been passed down in my family for hundreds of years. Everyone in town owns land around ours, and I think I speak for everyone when I say we would not trade a single memory we have of spending time back here for anything anyone has to offer. I am so blessed to have such an amazing culture.

Just this year, my grandfather moved to Ten-nessee and opened a store with a restaurant attached called Cajun Corner. Of course he has to make his mark wherever he goes, but the people who live at the foot of this mountain in Tennessee had no idea what was in store for them. He serves jambalaya, white beans, hog’s head cheese, cracklins, and, of course, his famous gumbo. He is far away from home, but somehow he brings his culture along with him wherever he goes. He is the epitome of what an old fashioned, Cajun man represents. As he was dressed in his usual Panama hat with the feather on a tilt, and his white shoes, I asked him how his new business is going and he said in his thick Cajun accent, “Baby I’m jus’ spread-in’ da love!”

By Baylee Cifreo 6 5

It is Friday night, and scanning the crowd all I see is a blur of white. Everything is moving in slow motion. The finalbuzzersounds,andthechaos erupts. But this is differ-ent from just any Friday night in the bleachers watching our boysfightfora“W.”Itisdiffer-ent because the team across the yard line staring back at them is wearing black and yel-low. Both sides are undoubtedly mumbling threats through their mouth guards at their oppo-nents. While the stands are a constant source of spirit, noise, and excitement, the sidelines have quite the opposite atmo-sphere.Thetensiononthefieldcan be felt by every fan in the area. It is a funny thing what a rivalry can do to people. Sud-denly the people who could not tell the difference between a quarterback and a tight end care about football. Suddenly the alumni who swore they would not set foot on campus af-ter graduation are all piling back into the stands. A football rivalry between two schools is never justplayedonthefield.WhenIasked senior cheerleader Taylor Leblanc if the rivalry was limited tothefootballfieldandtheplaysshe commented, “The time lead-ing up to the U-High/Episcopal game is a time when your

friends become people you aren’t allowed to know; you don’t acknowledge them. I’ll pass my U-High friends and we won’t say a word to each oth-er.” The weeks leading up to thegamearefilledwithasmuch

trash talking as an LSU-Alabama game. #EHSSUCKS becomes a familiar sight on Twitter. As it trends among U-High students and alums, the hash tag is in-cluded in every tweet whether it is relevant or not. The Episcopal students counteract the hashtag with typical sarcasm. Students from Dunham, Catholic, and St. Joseph’ssitandwatchfightsplay out as our rivalry takes over the social networking sites. The U-High/Episcopal rivalry seems like one from the beginning of time. Not a single student from either school can tell you how far back it goes or why it even started. Even when

I asked Coach Richard, a long-time football coach and the new Dean of Students at Episcopal, where the rivalry came from, he simply responded, “Well, that’s a good question.” But we do not question it. We inherited it and will continue it without a second thought be-cause it is what we know. We are subjected to the rivalry at such a young age that it has become something that does not just affect the identity of our two schools, but it has an

effect on who the students are. I asked a U-High senior and avid fan, Tyler Mynatt, about his thoughts on the rivalry, and he said, “Well, I’ve been at U-High since Kindergarten so I’ve been brought up to hate Episcopal and that’s exactly how I feel. People there tend to be decent human beings, but because they wear the label of an Episcopal Knight, I have no respect for them. Say what you want about me and my school but your opinion means nothing to me because Episcopal is the lowest of low.”

Such strong words for “just a game.” Bear in mind that U-High is not the only school with strong feelings about the rivalry. While talking to Charles Creed, Episcopal senior and president of “Fan Club,” I asked him just how much he hated U-High. “On a scale of 1 to 10… I don’t know, I just hate them!” Whether you attend U-High or Episcopal, odds are you will have strong, bitter feelings about the rivalry along with

overwhelming spirit and pride for your school. And these feel-ing are not going away anytime soon.

*** “Hello?” “EPISCOPAL BEAT U-HIGH!” “No y’all didn’t...” “NO WE REALLY DID! WE BEAT U HIGH! 6-7!” “Oh my God! I’ll call you back!” I can still remember this phone call between my sister and me. My sister had already graduated from Episcopal at the

time and had never seen a football season where Episco-pal stole the “W” from U-High. When she hung up she immedi-ately called her friends who had graduated from Episcopal to cel-ebrate the good news and then her friends who had graduated from U-High to rub it in. They were so bitter you would think they were still in high school. But that is not an uncommon thing when the Big Game rolls around. We see teachers and parents alike turn into teenagers

hell-bent not on winning, but beating the other team.

*** With our ears ringing fromthefinalbuzzer,everyonepoured out of the bleachers. The chain link fence separat-ingusfromthefieldwouldnotget in our way. Leaping over it, some got pulled back by secu-rity guards, bitter coaches, or parents. Still, a sea of white coveredthefieldasstudents,parents, alums, and teachers stormedthefield.Theexcite-ment of beating U-High cannot be explained; after all, it was

8 7

something most of us had never seen before. Tears streamed down every senior’s face as they didatthefinalbuzzerofeveryU-High/Episcopal football game. But this time they were not hit-tingthefieldheavywithfrustra-tion, anger, and disappointment. Thistimetheywerefilledwithjoy and pride. The Class of 2011 would be known as the class that “reversed the curse.” Sud-denlythefieldwentblack.Inanattempt to make our victory as short-lived as possible the lights were turned off, the scoreboard that illuminated “6-7” and displayed our victory went dark, and every last fan, teacher, parent, player, and coach was escortedoffthefield.

But to the Episcopal community it was just the begin-ning. For months every time we passed a U-High student, “6-7” was mumbled under our breath. If this was something that would only happen once a decade, we intended to milk it as long as possible.

By Margaret Ann Cook

Artwork by Emily Hayden 10 9

Falling for Food

Entering the Rossos’ kitchen,thereisaspecificsmellof garlic and vegetables—the kind of smell that is warm and spicy and reminds you of fall. To no surprise, there are little baked goods shaped like small loaves of bread already laid out on the countertop, even though that course is likely hours away. In honor of the season and new weather, those small desserts are pumpkin Nutella bread. The main dish is a hearty stew with tomatoes and shrimp—Louisiana gulf shrimp of course. The Ros-sos wouldn’t have it any other way. That’s how we do it in the South. No matter the season, you can always count on being floodedwiththesmellofsouth-ern cooking when you walk into the Rossos’ house. Whether it be chicken, a meaty stew, or a vegetarian dish, there is always something homemade going into or being taken out of the oven. You can taste the amount of work and care that goes into each meal; each detail given its own amount of attention. Mrs. Leslie Rosso is wearing her signature apron, bright red with the blue design of little village people throughout. She looks at home in this kitchen, as do all the family members. I always expect to see a kitchen with countless items laid out on the

counter, displaying all the work that has been done. But each time, no matter the point I arrive in the cooking process, I am surprised. The kitchen is pristine and shiny, like no one has even touched it in a week. To me that’s what southern cooking is all about: clean-cut, yet experi-mental. Organized, yet happily messy inside the pot. Living in the South, we are constantly privileged with greatfood,andfallisspecificallya good time for reintroducing our taste buds to this famil-iar cuisine. Episcopal Senior, Amelia Rosso’s family cooking epitomizes fall comfort food. Amelia’s dad, Mr. Jimmy Rosso, is the owner of the successful lo-cal restaurant, Monjuni’s. It is an Italian restaurant with locations in Baton Rouge, Shreveport, Rus-ton, Monroe, Bossier City, and Lafayette. Italian food may not seem to traditionally partner with southern cooking, but Mr. Rosso does things a little differ-ently. He takes the style of an Italian restaurant and puts it into a small town Southern feel. The restaurant is very homey and you can feel it right when

youwalkin.Itisfilled,literallyfloor-to-ceiling,withdecora-tions: little grapes hanging from above, wallpaper with vineyards, and shelves in the windows full of their signature ingredients. Monjuni’s is always full of regu-lar customers who come back for the atmosphere and also for the sweet sauce. His sauce is a family tradition, which brings

the southern vibe back to the fore-front. For those of you who haven’t had it, you’re missing out; it’s a taste that can only be described as a rich, tomato sweetness that goes perfectly with the salty pasta or meats.

This sauce was a recipe passed down from Mr. Rosso’s grand-mother, and when he opened the restaurant, it became his secret ingredient for success. Obviously food is a big part of the Rossos’ lives and their love of it is what unites them. In fact, that enjoyment is so huge that Amelia herself is

“To me that’s what southern cooking is all about: clean-cut,

yet experimental. Organized, yet hap-

pily messy inside the pot.”

even considering culinary school for her future. When I asked the family what food meant to them, Amelia immediately replied, “Well, I mean, it’s something we can all do together.” Mrs. Leslie added, “We can all relate to each other through cooking. We always have a fun time planning meals around seasons or even special events.” She pauses and laughs a little, “Like for the Olympics, the royal wedding, or even maybe just a big football game.” Clearly food becomes part of their family “to do” when something big happens. I love that. It’s very seldom that you findafamilythatenjoyscook-ing this much and includes it as part of their must-do daily routine. And when you are lucky enoughtofindsuchafamily,you’re probably in the South. Back in the Rossos’ kitchen, everything is home-madeandnothingisartificial.Each dish is given special care and that’s what elevates this cuisine to a new level. In other places, food may not even be considered a part of the culture. But down in Louisiana, it’s an

art form we use not only to nour-ish our families but to express our emotions. We may use the actual cooking to do so, or we may use the time it takes to cook the meal as a time to con-verse with family. For the Ros-sos, cooking is almost like their secret family language. It’s their favorite form of communication, and each person in the fam-ily has a different way of doing things. “When Amelia bakes, she just takes the vanilla and doesn’t even measure it, I’m always, ‘Oh God please no!’ I like for things to be measured,” says Mrs. Leslie. This is her way of cooking: clean and organized. Amelia, on the other hand, is clearly a little different. In her words she just likes to “kind of feel it out.” Her dad is the same way. They just have this natural cooking talent so they are able to simply guess and get a perfectly constructed meal. “Amelia and Jimmy never even need a recipe,” Mrs. Leslie says with a little smirk on her face. When fall comes, the

Rosso family, just like many other families, changes things up a bit. We forgo our swimming suits for footballs and tank tops for cardigans. But this family goes the extra mile and adapts their menu with the change of the seasons. In fact, when I got thereMrs.Lesliewasjustfinish-ing up her homemade vegetable broth for all the soups and stews she plans to make this season. I asked her what her favorite foods for fall were, and her im-mediate reply was excited, to say the least. “Well, I like lots of soups and stew. And all of the squashes.Oh,andthefirstcoolsnap I love to make an apple cake. I’ve done it for like de-cades now.” The Rossos believe in using what is fresh and in season as many South Louisi-ana residents do. Dinner is served, and a hearty meal of shrimp stew and a green leafy salad is set in front of me. Dessert directly proceeds and, of course, without fail, they send me home with half of the leftovers. Southern hospitality at itsfinest.

By Taylor LeBlanc 12 11

How would you describe your style? “Inoneword:different”“Iwoulddefinitelyconsideritpreppy”

Who influenced your style? “My mom and Amelia Rosso” “Anyone I see, I’m constantly walking around picking up new trends and ideas”

What are your favorite colors for fall? “Red/brown” “Dark blues and greens”

Do you think you’ll win best dressed? Why? “Yep because I dress up everyday and “Depends on who votes for me honestly go hard on two days of the week” I think we’re both great candidates”

What do you like wearing the most? “Fun pants and bowties” “I like comfortable stuff and things that make people say ‘How original!’ or ‘That looks really sharp!’”

Fall Trends

Charles vs. James

Artwork by Colin King 14 13

egreak

aThe Dramatic Life of a Cheerleader

“You can’t do it,” Spencer said pessimisti-cally,asIracedtowardthebluespringfloormat.It was the summer before fourth grade and I was more determined than ever to show Spencer he was wrong. I stood at the edge of the mat ready to overcome one of my biggest fears: a running round off with four back handsprings, a feat I had worked on many times with my coach spot-ting me but never had the courage to do by my-self. As I stood there psyching myself up to just do it, I began by placing my right foot then left foot then right again, then hurdled and launched intomyfirstroundoff. The round off should have propelled me seamlesslybackintomyfirstbackhandspring,but I could tell something was off. My wrists were killing me, and by the time I reached the third back handspring, I was exhausted. I set up for

that last back handspring, and just as quickly as I propelled upwards, gravity brought me right back down. I landed right on my head and a shock radiated from the top of my head down through my neck. The feeling was extremely pain-ful, but I wasn’t sure what exactly had happened. All I could see when I opened my eyes were my coaches surrounding me. Their handsraised over my face, they asked me repeatedly if Iwasokayandhowmanyfingerstheywerehold-ing up.

***

“Cheer is crazy dangerous. You’re talking about throwing a person up in the air and being like ‘Yeah I’m going to catch them, no big deal.’ It’s all about trust, which makes the team closer than any other sports team, in my opinion,” says Taylor LeBlanc, who is one of the most fearless flyersIhaveevermet.Theactofbeingthrowninto the air and trusting that someone will be there to catch you on the way down is to me the ultimatetrustexercise.Theliteralandfigurativefoundation of cheering must be based on trust, which makes it a unique activity. My cheer stunt group changes with each new cheerleading season. Each year, we all must learn how each member functions, and we work on each person’s weaknesses. No matter who joinsourgroupeachyear,thefirstpriorityistobuild that trust. In the end, after all, it is a matter of safety. Over the years I’ve been not only involved in school cheer but also competitive cheer, and I’ve learned that part of being in a stunt group

is learning what others lack when stunting and helping each other improve. Throughout my nine years of cheerleading, constructive criticism has always been key to helping each member improve over time. Cheering can be an incredibly unifying and uplifting experience. But it does have its dark side. The National Center for Catastrophic Sports Injury research reports that 65.1 percent of all cata-strophic sports injuries are cheerleading injuries. Just within our small cheer team at EHS, we have suffered several injuries. Taylor LeBlanc’s knee at cheer camp swelled to the size of a tennis ball. Austen Turner fractured her back and nose. Sarah Day bit through her lip at an away game. Sunni Leaman has sprained her ankle, broken her arm, pulled amuscleinherneck,andbrokentwofingers,allin the span of a short cheering career. These are only a few examples of ways our cheer squad has physically suffered amidst the peppy smiles we promise our fans on game day. After being personally injured so many times and continuing to cheer, some people, like my grand-mother, think I’m crazy to keep on cheering, but it’s been a part of my life since I was in third grade. Don’t get me wrong, there have been in-stances when I’ve thought that I have reached the end of my cheer days. But when I look back on those times, I remember just how

supportive and encouraging my friends and family were about me not giving up. Without their encouragement, I would have missed out on so many great experiences because of cheerleading. Cheerleading is more than standing outside on a track or inside a gym yelling, “Let’s go Knights,” or “Here we go big

blue.” Cheering means supporting our school’s athletes and representing our school in a positive way. It also means smil-ing through the pain, even when the pain is excruci-ating. Even today, I write this with my right wrist

splinted and bandaged—just another occupa-tional hazard that, to me, is worth it. Cheerleading is, “Trust, love, and fun in a sport where danger is inevitable,” says Taylor LeBlanc. That moment the summer be-fore fourth grade when a bad handspring left me helpless on the ground, my spirits weren’t broken. Eventually, I stood back up, brushed off the pain, and was right back on the mat, feeling at home and ready to work. Just as each cheerleader does both on and off the sidelines.

By Kathleen Love Photos taken by Mandy Samson

“The National Center for Catastrophic Sports Injury research reports that 65.1 percent of all catastrophic sports injuries are cheer-

leading injuries.”

16 15

Hur ri cane ulture in 3 ActsC

There are three way people prepare for hurricanes:thefight,theflight,ortheparty.Thepeople who stay and take on the hurricane, the people who take off for higher and drier ground, and the people who turn the hurricane into a good time.

Part I: The Fight

The wind whipped my hair around as I stood under the carport staring out at the branch-es bending and swirling. Even as I stood under cover, the water sprayed me. The rain seemed to be coming down in horizontal sheets. I was watching my 15-year-old cousin, Robert, run up and down the street wearing a women’s rain jacket and navy batting helmet. “Nicole! Are you filming?!”hisyellbarelyaudible over the screaming wind. “I have to get views on YouTube!” I followed him with the video camera, watching him through the little screen run down and back up the street, struggling against the wind and rain. All of a sudden my hand froze. As Robert ran off the frame of the little screen my eyes focused on an 80-year-old man. What was Dr. Lindsey doing in his yard in this weather? I watched him fearlessly approach the little oak tree and begin attempting to stabilize it. I ran into the house, grabbed my rain jacket, and was back out-side in a matter of seconds. A thin rope attached to the ground supported the tree on one side, and a piece of plywood that he had just placed did so on the other. I pushed the little tree, while my neighbor secured the board, and Robert bounced around us, desperate to get back to his video.

Once the board was in place, we moved to the other side of the tree. As cold rain stung our faces, my neighbor untied the rope, and I pulled on it as hard as I could. He refashioned it as quickly as he could, secured the board one last time, thanked me for all my help, and we ran off in opposite directions towards our houses.

Part II: The Flight

“Packyourbagwithfivedaysworthofclothes tonight!” my mom called to both my broth-er and me. Her voice sounded nervous, unsure of what to do. I went to my room, grabbed my little red Wilson bag, and threw some clothes and toilet-ries in it. I knew we weren’t actually going to leave. My mom was just getting a little nervous, that’s all. I woke up the next morning to my mom’s

gentle touch. We packed up the Subur-ban quickly and got on the road, of course not before getting Mary Lee’s donuts. We reached the deserted interstate before 7:30 a.m. and headed west towards my grandparents’ house in Shreveport.

As we reached the top of the Mississippi River Bridge,thefirstrainbandofthestormhadjustreached Baton Rouge. The wind gusts rocked the car back and forth on the bridge making it seem much more like a 6 ounce toy car rather than a six-thousand pound block of steel. I watched from the back seat as my mom’s knuckles turned white from her grip on the steering wheel. The thick black clouds moved in getting closer and closer, as if it was a hand reaching for us out of the sky. Thefingerswereattheready,waitingtograbatany second. Time ticked slowly on in the silence of the car. After what had seemed like an eternity, however, we were all able to relax a little in our seatsaswefinallymadeitoverthebridge.Aswedistanced ourselves from those black, gloomy clouds, more cars appeared on the once empty highway, and the sun even came out.

Part III: The Party

As Facebook became clogged with posts of “Hurication” and “No school,” at my house the candlelightflickeredinthedimlightofthedark-ening sky. The heat radiated from the rectangular wooden table where six candles lay, slowly melting undertheflame.Thefridgestoodemptyexceptfor three lone shelves and a couple of unoccupied drawers.Fouricechestssatstackedonthefloorfilledwiththeentirecontentsofourfridgeandfreezer. That is, what was not already on the grill. The smell of grilled chicken, seasoned with Tony Chachere’s seasoning and Worcestershire Sauce tickled my nose as my mom opened the top of the grill. Below lay anything and everything we could findthatcouldbegrilled.Wehadchicken,sau-sage, asparagus, and potatoes wrapped in tin foil. We even managed to throw chicken quesadillas and ham sandwiches on there. All six of us ate our meals around the candlelit table. The adults sipped ice-chilled white wine while the kidssettled for Gatorade and Capri Sun. It was a calm

and peaceful dinner. There was a little chatterhere and there, but mainly we just watched the sun go down and the house grow dark, lightless exceptforthosesixlittlecandlesflickeringslightlyfrom the breeze of the open door. Just across town, however, the calm that came from the hurricane at my house was not echoed. The mass text was out, “Hurricane party at my house!” As water seeped in under the door and between the sand bags, the crowd of people grewlarger.Brokenglasscoveredtheflooraspeople piled into the cramped kitchen and liv-ing room of the little apartment. Being one of the few complexes with power has a way of drawing people together. The beat of “Levels” by Avicii pulsed through the speakers and could even be heard outside where more people were. Next to theditch,peoplewereslidingandbellyfloppinginthe mud and water, drinks in hand. More people could be seen on top of the levee, the wind and rain swirling all around them. As the sun slipped down below the levee, the sky grew dark, but the party continued to rage on through the night and into the next day.

Article by Nicole NewtonArtwork by Clement Mubungirwa (left) and Colin King (right) 18 17

The McElveenator An eerie sort of silence takes over the classroom. The familiar late bell rings, and as the students sit down, they seem to hesitate as if they are antici-pating some important occasion. Slowly he rises from his teaching chair and paces, guiding the stu-dents’ eyes. The students’ eyes, fixated,followhiseverymove-ment in anticipation or maybe anxiety for the instructions to come. This was nostalgic. It brought me back to just one year ago when I was in this position—when I was scared to say some-thing stupid in his class, when I did not know what to expect. Chadwick McElveen was the name I saw on my sched-ulethefirstdayofjunioryear.Yes, junior year, undoubtedly the most stressful, important, and critical year for all Episco-pal students. I still remember walkingforthefirsttimeintohisclassroom. He welcomed our

“If there’s anything that I know how to do well, it’s testing people’s minds.”

silent group as we made our way toourfirstdayofAPEnglishIII.His steady silence intimidated us. After the general seating, he paced towards the board and quickly asked for a topic. He then scribbled words on the board. The only memory I have was the sound of the squeaking marker hit-ting the board. I still cannot remember what exactly it was that he wrote about, but I distinctly remember him assembling a full, coherent, and, mind you, impressive rhe-torical precise (an introduction to a critique) that introduced the topic we gave. He stated that by the end of the year, we would have to do what he just did. The blob of intricate thoughts, com-plex diction, and carefully placed sentences themselves intimidat-ed me. Fear is only one word to

describe what I felt at the time. Mr. McElveen’s AP English III Language and Composition, quite possibly a hallmark of his teaching approach, has been infamous following my class’ graduation from it. Because of the workload associated with this

class, the idea of a “Mr. McElveen class” implies to many students academic rigor. More impor-tantly, interest in Mr. McElveen’s

teaching approach and personal-ity have given him quasi-celebrity status in some students’ eyes, in others not. From personal experi-ence, Mr. McElveen is not “ar-rogant, stupid, or mean,” words he claims are stereotypes of him. He is quite the opposite. My time with Mr. McElveen has allowed me to learn about the mysteri-ous persona that surrounds him,

an advantage that many who take his class have. And yes, you should take his class, contrary to popular belief, because while itsoundscliché,hecanmakeyou a better student, thinker, and person. The onerous one page single spaced critiques, in class assignments, and argumentative essays made me a better writer andconsequentlyamoreconfi-dent thinker. There is no doubt regarding that. Personally, I would not be the same person if I had not

taken the class. I believe that I have become a better thinker because of that class and Mr. McElveen’s teaching. He con-tends that the best student should “never be content with what he knows and never fully accept what he believes.” By teaching his English classes, Mr. McElveen hopes to encourage students to apply these skills to life, which I believe is a pur-poseful cause. Nevertheless, the academic rigor of his class can itself cause people to make

“misinterpretations,” as he states, of his personality. Mr. McElveen has the opinion that people overcomplicate him, that he is not some extraordinary person. Debatable as it may be, his complicated, in my opinion, persona does not detract from his teaching and class. “If you take my class, and you do what I ask you to do, you learn a lot about English and a lot about yourself,” Mr. McElveen says. I can attest to the fact per-sonally.

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That fact didn’t explicitly show itself during the class I was sitting in on. But as I looked deeper, I could tell that it was there. Somewhere. “Get out your narratives. You will all be critiquing each oth-er’s pieces for today and tomor-row.” Right then, a silent swell of sighs. Anticipation, anxiety, and the sheer idea of putting one’s work on the chopping block for others to criticize caused the angst many of these students felt.Butfirst,theyhadtowriteacritique, one that is usually one page single-spaced typed. Anxi-ety was more evident as he gave this instruction. The process would be as follows. A volunteer student would go up to the board with either their narrative essay or critique--if the narrative was

too personal—for the class to read a paragraph from. Following this, they would give one positive comment and one question or negative one. No mercy. No leni-ency. They had to be AP graders somehow. The students were busy writing, somehow managing to spit out words and sentences that their peers would judge word-by-word, sentence-by-sen-tence, thought-by-thought. “How long does this have to be?” one asked. “Until you have adequately achieved your purpose,” Mr. McElveen an-swered. “Youhavefiveminutes.”Evident gasps, breaths, shrugs of frustration. Pencils tapping, quickly hitting the pages to do what they can in the short remai-

ning time. “I don’t even have a para-graph!” someone called out. “You may want to hurry up!” he stated in a whimsical, almost satirical tone. Another few minutes passed, each minute, second, and millisecond marked with the gunfireofpenshittingpapertofillthelinesandspaces. “You have 50 seconds. Remember those last words are critical.” As if they didn’t have enough pressure. “Pencils down.”

By Rahul Rao

Election 2012 If you have ever felt un-comfortable discussing politics, you are not alone. Political de-bate usually doesn’t spur excite-ment among non-opinionated high school students. But like many things in life, important events or issues cannot be shel-tered for long. While students may abstain from talking about politics, election season has a way of forcing discussion of the topic. Whether it be post-debate statuses, annoying statuses that have turned into debate forums, or tweets, it seems that we can’t escape the relevance of poli-tics. Yes, I know that “We aren’t eighteen yet,” “It doesn’t even effect me,” “I really don’t have an opinion” are sometimes typi-cal responses to political discus-sion. But in reality some of us are going to turn eighteen by this November, and those people

a few notions promoted by Democrats who, in turn, support President Obama. On the other end of the spectrum, tax-cuts for all earn-ers, reduced government private business regulation, and reduc-tion of the federal bureaucracy are ideas supported by Republi-

cans who, in turn, support Governor Romney in his elec-tion bid. Regardless

of where each of us stands with the different ideologies, this elec-tion is a choice for Americans to make between two very different individuals. The present econo-my, international relations, and debt situations have made this election such an important event for the American people. Whoev-er the majority of people vote for in November, their ideas will be put to the test for providing solu-tions to the growing problems Americans encounter.

By Rahul Rao

will be eligible to vote. My point is that whether we like it or not, the business of politics will always be relevant to people of all ages, including high school students. But what is happening this November? Why is this election so important? Those are ques-tions students have pertaining to this election. Whatever one’s politi-cal opinions, and there is general con-sensus brew-ing among political observers that this elec-tion is a stark choice between two growingly polarized ideolo-gies. The U.S. economy, military, and budget situations have split two factions, Democrats and Republicans, each promoting their ideology as a solution to the present circumstances. Green-

energy subsidies, government stimulus, entitle-ment apportion-ing, and slight tax increases on the wealthy are just

“Regardless where each of us stands with the dif-

ferent ideologies, this election is a choice”

22 21 Seniors, Alexandra Webre and Nick Leo dressed as Sarah Palin and Mitt Romney for ‘Merica Day during Homecoming week

Just the other day I leisurely strolled into the cafeteria like the big shot senior I am when I noticed a long line. Waiting didn’t seem to be an option, so I nonchalantly stepped right up to the front, and it wasn’t long before I felt I was getting booed off a stage. We are all guilty of skipping long lines simply because humans, and in par-ticular, teenagers, hate waiting. “Patience is a virtue,” they say. “Virtues will bring good things,” they say. All I get from waiting in a long line is a blistering headache and a grumbling stomach that’s dying for some grub. So I decided to skip, and surprisingly it worked. Being a senior is great. I didn’t feel any ounce of guilt. Hate me. Sue me. We’ve all done it before. Skipping doesn’t make you a “hipster” of any sort, but around these parts “you gotta do what ya gotta do” to get the Raising Knight’schickenfingerswhilethey’rehot. Lunch lines aside, the current dining hall is the best it has ever been. Take it from me: I’m a veteran at this school with thirteen years under my belt and a legacy that won’t be forgotten. Sure, maybeItoldalittlefibforsevenormoreyearsregarding why I wore my sunglasses to school, but

that’s only for the old school kids to be concerned about. If you weren’t around here when that hap-pened, then you missed out like Ryan Leaf’s NFL career. I know because I’ve lived it. The dining hall today is vastly improved from years past. You can’t enter the building without noticing the new windowsthatextendfromnearlyfloortoceilingonboth ends, illuminating the new tables and salad bar and radiating off Chef Pat’s white chef coat. Let’s cut to the cheese though. Many students across campus can’t seem to wrap their bacon around how annoying the lunch line truly is. The Lunch Line, no matter where you are, is bound to be the bane of any high schooler’s existence. What was once two lines has merged into one line that splits in what a rocket scientist may refer to as a bifurcation. To some, the system makes sense; toothers,theflowseemsasridiculousaseatingspaghetti with a knife, and we’ve all been there before (hash tag Episcopal lunchroom problems). Now, before I slice into the prime cut of this piece, let me say one thing: Chef Pat Mahon deserves an award of some sort for what he has done so far at Episcopal. I can vouch for the fact that the food from when I was a little, nerdy kindergartner to the food when I became the young stud I currently am is as different as left and right. As a young boy, I would approach the cafe-teria with a grim countenance every day at school. Let’s just say the lunch period was never my fa-vorite part of the day unless it happened to be a glorious Papa John’s pizza day. Oh, how I loved them so. My stubbornness left me with a low blood sugar headache for the majority of my lower and middle school careers. Eventually, I began to sneak granola bars in my booksack. Yes, it was that bad. The only “acceptable” lunch days under my standards were the chicken nugget and ravioli

The Not So Nuetral GroundOpinion Page

Diner Dash What’s cooking inside the cafeteria that’s boiling up the students?

days (although, I was convinced they used the Chef Boyardee ravioli brand), and those only came around once in a blue moon. So, instead of actu-ally eating during the lunch period, I would “use my food” and combine all elements of the meal to create delicious dishes—broccoli and orange juice bisque with a side of spaghetti salad topped with overly hydrated hotdogs (they had veins and warts on them). That’s only the icing on the cake, my friend. Today, you need to look no further than some of the savory dishes we all scarf down to appreciate our cuisine: stir fry, spaghetti and meatballs, brunch for lunch, etc. The list goes on and is only possible thanks to our beloved Chef Pat Mahon. Now that we are done beating around the bush, or beating the eggs, let’s move on to the big-ger problems. Yes, I’m aware, the lunch line isn’t ideal. What’s new? According to juniors Prentice Ferachi, Ben White, and Edward Daniel, the lunch line is not the only problem. I asked the three to give their input on some of the positives and nega-tives of the cafeteria and/or alumni house. “So Prentice, besides the lunch line can you give me some other notable issues that go on with anything food related at school, whether it be inside the cafeteria or outside on the quad?” At that moment, I saw the determined look in his eyes to answer my question. Or was it sar-casm? Prentice is always a hard read for me. He proppedhischinupandspokecalmlyatfirst,thenwith spirit. “It is literally a civil war to make panini breadsandwichesbecauseeveryoneisfightingtomakethesandwiches,andIdon’twanttofightwith my own brothers just to make a sandwich,” heexclaimed.IthinkIfinallygotasixpackfromlaughing that day. Priceless. The three went on to tell me that there needs to be a Kleinpeter ice cream station in the Alumni House and “more options” in general, including ideas like moving the panini sandwich maker to a different location, having a big “boom” lunch at least once a week (a lunch everyone will come to enjoy), and establish-ing which doors to use and when to use them, to name a few. The dining hall is the central hub of our campus—the place that nourishes pre-kinder-garteners through seniors. We are all a part of it, and it is a part of us. So students, under-

stand that we do all have a voice to express our feelings about change here at EHS. But, let’s also remember that patience is key. This may be my last year standing around on this campus acting like a fool and having a good time, but that doesn’t mean I can’t leave behind a legacy of people who want their voices to be heard. So, to the students who are reading this, let your suggestions be known. Do you really want the Grab N’ Go to run out each and every day and end up becoming a Grab N’ Alumni House? Whatever your vision, deliv-ery is key. Senior, Taylor LeBlanc, showed us how it’s done. She felt strongly about the fact that the coffee bar had traditionally only been open in the morning. After respectfully sharing her view with Coach Richard, the coffee bar is now open during tutorial, a change that many students appreciate. “Staying with the cafeteria theme, there have been some gripes and concerns about the or-der of lunch,” comments Coach Richard. “I’ve had numerous students come ask, ‘What’s going on?’ ‘Why are we doing it like this?’ Or ‘This is different.’ I feel like it is my opportunity to take the time and explain it.” You may think that your opinions won’t have a huge outcome, but your voice can be the catalyst for change.

By Logan Roussel

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Artwork by Emily Winters

Quote of the Quarter

“We cling to our own point of view, as though everything depended on it. Yet our opinions have no permanence; like autumn and winter, they gradually pass away.”

-Zhuangzi, Chinese philospher

Artwork by Kelsey Phares 26 25

Iwasfinallyoldenoughtogotothe13thGate haunted house in sixth grade. My parents weren’t too ecstatic about me going downtown. But I was in middle school after all, and that was a big deal. My parents caved, so my friends and I wenttothe13thGatethatyearandwereterrified,just as expected. But there was something exhila-rating in that terror that keeps me coming back year after year. For the most part, we had a great time. (Besides the clown part that they always include. I always lose it there.) Thus began my seven-year-and-counting run with the 13th Gate. For years the 13th Gate in Baton Rouge has been recognized as one of the scariest haunted houses in the nation, according to sev-eral sources including the Travel Channel and MTV. Every year during the fourth weekend of September, the 13th Gate is opened and Saint PhillipStreetinBatonRougebecomesoverflowedwith people. Thrill seekers have a choice to either wait in a line that may take over an hour or do-nate blood in order to skip the line. Giving blood before entering a haunted house seems like a fainting spell waiting to happen, so I’ve always waited in line. The 13th Gate remains open until Novem-ber, so those who wish to attend more than once in a Halloween season have plenty of chances. Many people who go through the house will agree that the smell is unique and unforgettable. It is musty and stale—the kind of smell that only a fog machine mixed with plastic limbs can produce. Thebelieversfindthetwenty-fivedollaradmissionjust right for a night of priceless fun. Though the nonbelievers refuse to shell out cash for an expe-rience they know is fake. Across the street from the 13th Gate, there is a restaurant that people go to before or after they go through the house. Or in one friend’s case, during. As soon as you walk

into the house, there is usually a man with an with an ax waiting to scare the weakest link. This is where we lost our friend Baylee. Three years in a row. In seventh grade, my friend Baylee joined us after a lot of pressure from me. I should have sensed her apprehension, but my seventh grade perception wasn’t incredibly sharp yet. We still couldn’t drive, so our parents dropped us off in front then headed to the restaurant across the street. We waited in the line that wrapped half way around the building, wired with anticipation and nerves. “I don’t know if I can do it,” Baylee said hesitantly, her voice wavering and unsettled. If the rest of us were thinking the same thing, no one said it. We put on our brave faces and lurched forward toward the front of the line. Once we reached the entrance we each paidthetwenty-fivedollars—nosmallpricetopayfor the pleasure of being scared. We huddled together and radiated energy the way only a group of middle school aged girls could. Little did we know that the more scared you are going in, the more the actors will try to scare you. It’s as if they get some sick pleasure in making you squirm. We walked in noticeably scared—faces winced and brows furrowed, squirming with each step forward. Suddenly,asthefirstactorjumpedoutand we all screamed in unison, we each caught our breath and took a quick inventory of our group. “Where in the world did Baylee go?” we asked each other. Our eyes frantically scanned the dark hallway. A man who worked there, not in costume, was the only person who could have seen her. “Oh your friend? She’s gone,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if even he knew she

13TH GATE

wasboundtobail.Ofcoursesheis.Twenty-fivedollars gone to waste. We later learned that Baylee simply walked across the street and joined her parents for dinner.To this day, Baylee’s side of the story claims that she specificallytoldus,“Keepmeinthemiddle,orIwillrun.”ThoughIdon’trememberthatspecificrequest,I gather that our seventh grade selves weren’t able to uphold our end of the bargain. Now, as a junior, Baylee describes her experi-ence at the 13th Gate as “absolutely terrifying, scar-ring” and that she “will never be the same.” Many people, unlike Baylee are not scared be-cause they know that the experience is an illusion of reality. Those people are like me—a faithful attendee year after year. Eighth grade: Baylee’s second attempt. My aunt was in town from South Carolina and decided she wanted to go through the house with me and my friends. Somehow, we managed to talk Baylee into going again. I guess with my aunt there she felt a little more safe. Not that anyone should feel unsafe inthefirstplace;thepeoplecan’ttouchyou.Likealways, we waited in the long line and paid the twen-ty-fivedollarswhenwegottotheticketbooth.Assoon as we walked in, just as expected, there was the man with the ax and there goes Baylee. Again. But this time, we weren’t so sympathetic. If she left, we all had to leave, and we did. Four people and one-hundred dollars gone. You can only imagine, a group of girls, nerves

running, and then not getting what they want. After tears of anger and an explosion of attitude, let’s just say we vowed not to talk to Baylee for a while. Waiting in line for some people, includ-ing myself, is the worst part. While you wait, you think about everything that could possibly happen inside of the house. Your fear builds up until your stomach feels like you have eaten at an all-you-can-eat buffet and then jumped onatrampolineforfifteenminutes.Onceyoufinallyenterthehouse,thereisthatmanwiththe ax—predictable, yes, but still creepy. You’re not sure what to expect, and your brain has not fully registered what is going on. Once you realize that after every ten strides something is going to scare you, it gets a little better. Maybe there will come a year when I stop visiting the 13th Gate. Life will get busy. I’ll move away for college. But, it won’t be because of fear—there is something exciting about the promise of a jump and a scream. And, the opening of the 13th Gate each September marks the beginning of fall in Baton Rouge. This year on opening night, my best friend and I went to the 13th Gate. Even after many attempts at convincing and begging, Bay-lee still refused to go again. Maybe she really is “scarred for life.” The sky was a deep blue and not yet dark enough for us to feel the full effect. So, we happily waited in the long line, feeling those giddy nerves rise within ourselves in anticipa-tion,justlikethatfirsttimeinsixthgrade.Theman with the ax was waiting for us, just like always. This season of Halloween was upon us.

By Alexandra Webre

Artwork by Nick Leo

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Artwork by Haley Baker