Cover Photo by Louise Andreeff
"The Unasked Army"
"The Stained Wedding Dress"
"The Correct Definition(s) of
a 'Safe Space"
"My Southern Identity"
"Interview with Mr. Lebrun"
"7.36 x 1022 Kilograms Doesn't Make You Fat, I Swear"
"As a Child..."
"I am a Fall Child"
Caroline Casey, Kaylin Chauvin, and Kate Landry
Photo by Caroline Casey
We are so excited to welcome you to the first issue of the 2016-2017 Troubadour! This is the first time that Troubadour has been published in the fall, and we are thrilled to be expanding the magazine as editors this year.
Given the atypical start to this school year, we find it especially important to have an outlet for student writing and ideas. This issue features writing about the flooding that affected our community this fall, as well as pieces from students across all grades.
It is indicative of the strength of our community, as well as the creativity at the heart of our school, to have so many students involved in this magazine.
This year we decided on the theme of “starting conversations,” because, in the spirit of our idea to promote original student writing, we also wanted to make this publication something that would spark ideas. We hope to inspire and intrigue your minds with original student writing.
If you want to spark a conversation, you can talk to us about becoming a contributor (for writing, art, photos, short films, etc.) in the next edition!!! And, if this isn’t your scene, we want you to still submit any writing, photos, or art you are proud of to our big, cumulative magazine at the end of the year. Submit to firstname.lastname@example.org. We want to make Troubadour by y’all, for y’all, so tell us what you think!
WeLcome to Our first ever fall issue
THE UNASKED ARMY
PHOTO BY ALEX DAVEREDE
The Unasked Army
The water rose, and unwelcomely crept onto people’s doorsteps under their front door and into their houses, like a burglar, disrupting and stealing someone’s things right from the owner’s grasp. Houses completely submerged, families disoriented, children walked in streets just in their diapers, chaos and mayhem roamed our streets in the late heat of the summer in 2016. The Great Flood rushed upon my hometown in a tumultuous uproar and receded leaving little slices of our lives behind. No one could have prepared him or herself for how harsh the storm was going to be; in fact, local news reporters treated it like a thunderstorm, only to find out that the flood of 2016 did more damage to our town than the infamous category five hurricane in 2005. Hard little beads of water slammed against my window slowly drooling down onto the sill only for the water to caress it, I awoke. My Dad stormed into my room and instantly turned on the lights with panic and worry filling his face; he had alarming eyes, tense shoulders, and a restless breath. In out, in out, in out, I hear. I think, “he only climbed one flight of stairs, and he is already out of breath, what an oldie." I stared at him blankly, still not understanding why he was in my room at 3 o’clock in the morning. He noticed my expressionless face and frozen body and with a spiking sting that I will never forget, he told me to get up. that we need to leave; he then walked out of my doorway and entered into the black abyss of my hallway. Instantly, I picked myself up, out of the comfort of my bed starting to... Wait, something is strange I crinkle the toes on my feet feeling them rub against one another along with an unsettling coldness. I look down hoping not to see what I do see, water. The pureness and essence of life, I was once told in my 6th-grade life and science class that all things need water to survive, live and flourish. I never thought that such a beautiful thing would be the very thing that would destroy the essence of my life. My home. The home I learned to walk in, to talk in, how to say Y'all properly. The home I learned how to add, multiply, divide. The home that I learned how to make delicious sweet tea, cheesy grits, and all the delicious recipes that have been passed down generation through generation. The home my dog died in, the home my brother was born in; gone, all gone. I quickly grab my school sweatshirt, that I stole from my friend Lauren in 9th grade because I liked the way it fit, feeling an overwhelming sense of warmness and comfort as I put it on. I then put on my 5 dollars black flip flops that I bought early that June and head downstairs to find a terrifying site. These selfless souls whose virtuous precariousness saved my family and many others from the flood were named after their courage and willingness to help others unasked. My family and I vaulted boisterously onto their boats as we departed our once known home, which is now nothing besides another object that the flood had utterly obstructed. They asked nothing and expected nothing. They saved my family from despair and expected no reward, no recognition for their service, just nothing. This is truly something uniquely remarkable about the south, the sense of community, the sense of family, the sense of caring greatly for one another. Seemingly millions of boats lined up along the interstate as the news spread of the devastation that the flood had caused. Eager and anxiousness roamed the air as these heroes helped evacuate every victim that they could reach in the Greater Baton Rouge area. They were from different towns, cities, parishes helping these vulnerable victims and relieving from their despair. They forgot about current day disputes they disregarded the tension that exists amongst the city, the only priority to them was relieving people from their distress; it is truly a beautiful thing to see. Everyone loving one another, everyone caring for one another. In a world that is so hateful and so harsh, compressed moments and minuscule acts of kindness like these go unnoticed. The world that bombs are blown, guns shot and lives ended moments of unasked assistance are marveled at. You will find this nowhere else in the United States. Nowhere else will you see simple acts of kindness, a thank you card, a welcome note, a goodbye party, even people risking their lives to save others for nothing in return. Nowhere else will you see thousands of cars anticipating to get on the interstate trying to help evacuate people without being told to do so; nowhere else will you see people putting others needs in front of their own. It is called the Cajun Navy for a reason. Despite their needs, they put vulnerable others before them they will not linger in their homes like a hermit crab, waiting to be asked for their assistance. The Cajun Navy will take action, initiative, they will dive in head first and give it their all because that is the kind of people that they are, that is the kind of people that make up the south. I am so thankful to the soldiers of the Cajun Navy who rescued me from the life-threatening situation that I found myself in. Thank you. You are an extraordinary facet of the south, and I and many others owe you our lives.
of my doorway and entered into the black abyss of my hallway. Instantly, I picked myself up, out of the comfort of my bed starting to... Wait, something is strange. I crinkle the toes on my feet feeling them rub against one another along with an unsettling coldness. I look down hoping not to see what I do see, water. The pureness and essence of life, I was once told in my 6th-grade life and science class that all things need water to survive, live and flourish. I never thought that such a beautiful thing would be the very thing that would destroy the essence of my life. My home. The home I learned to walk in, to talk in, how to say "Y'all" properly. The home I learned how to add, multiply, divide. The home that I learned how to make delicious sweet tea, cheesy grits, and all the delicious recipes that have been passed down generation through generation. The home my dog died in, the home my brother was born in: gone, all gone. I quickly grab my school sweatshirt, that I stole from my friend Lauren in 9th grade because I liked the way it fit, feeling an overwhelming sense of warmness and comfort as I put it on. I then put on my 5-dollar black flip flops that I bought early that June and head downstairs to find a terrifying sight. These selfless souls whose virtuous precariousness saved my family and many others from the flood were named after their courage and willingness to help others unasked. My family and I vaulted boisterously onto their boats as we departed our once known home, which is now nothing besides another object that the flood had utterly obstructed. They asked nothing and expected nothing. They saved my
family from despair and expected no reward, no recognition for their service, just nothing. This is truly something uniquely remarkable about the South: the sense of community, the sense of family, the sense of caring greatly for one another. Seemingly millions of boats lined up along the interstate as the news spread of the devastation that the flood had caused. Eagerness and anxiousness roamed the air as these heroes helped evacuate every victim that they could reach in the Greater Baton Rouge area. They were from different towns, cities, parishes helping these vulnerable victims from
their despair. They forgot about current day disputes; they disregarded the tension that exists amongst the city; the only priority to them was relieving people from their distress; it is truly a beautiful thing to see. Everyone loving one another, everyone caring for one another. In a world that is so hateful and so harsh, compressed moments and minuscule acts of kindness like these go unnoticed. The world that bombs are blown, guns shot and lives ended moments of unasked assistance are marveled at.
You will find this nowhere else in the United States. Nowhere else will you see simple acts of kindness, a thank you card, a welcome note, a goodbye party, even people risking their lives to save others for nothing in return. Nowhere else will you see thousands of cars anticipating to get on the interstate trying to help evacuate people without being told to do so; nowhere else will you see people putting others' needs in front of their own. It is called the Cajun Navy for a reason. Despite their needs, they put vulnerable
others before them. They will not linger in their homes like hermit crabs, waiting to be asked for their assistance. The Cajun Navy will take action, initiative; they will dive in head-first and give it their all because that is the kind of people that they are; that is the kind of people that make up the South. I am so thankful to the soldiers of the Cajun Navy who rescued me from the life-threatening situation that I found myself in. Thank you. You are an extraordinary facet of the South, and I and many others owe you our lives.
PHOTO BY JACOB DEWITT
THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO: PHOTO BY OMAR AZMEH
PHOTO BY CARSON SAURAGE
PHOTO BY ALYSSA MACALUSO
PARIS: PHOTO BY KATIE CAMPBELL
By Maia Adams
August 14h, 2016, 11 a.m., I open my heavy eyes, stretch, and roll out of bed, onto the unwelcoming floor to plug in my phone, which has completely been drained of life. I take a deep breath and smile, taking in all of my memories from last night. The night before was a night of dancing, loud music, chocolate chip cookies, movie theater popcorn, and special times spent with a friend who is moving to Germany in one week. I let out a yawn and turn on my phone only to realize that I have a number of missed calls and texts from various family members.
Right away I know something is wrong; I can feel the blood in my veins rush, and my heart starts to race up. I call my mom. She picks up the phone right away and tells me that our house had flooded and that she had left last night while the water was seeping in through the doors. I become silent and all I can think about is how she warned me the night before that it may not have been the best idea to go to a friend’s house when all of this mayhem was happening to people around us. She tells me that everything is going to be okay, but she may not be able to get me for a couple of days because all of the roads are submerged under water. As the information drips into my brain, I register that I am very fortunate to be in a sheltered, dry place. I tell her to be safe and I click the red end call button on my phone, returning back to my curious friend.
Yes, this is where it all starts, and yes, my mom is able to retrieve me the following day, but that is not the point because the point is how people deal with these hardships, and how people learn to continue to carry on. So, the story unfolds: a few days after this news, my mom, my brother, and I, along with some friends, head to my house, stepping inside what was once a dry, comforting place of refuge and is now a ruined, wet disaster. My eyes fill with tears as I amble into my bedroom. My books are swollen with water, strewn across my warped floorboards, and my shoes are filled with murky, pungent flood water, along with everything else. But, then I look around and I see all of my friends and family members who traveled here to help us, and my heart is filled with gratitude because I know that we are not alone. The adults begin by taking furniture and smelly, soaked belongings to the curb. Some of us go through clothing and pull apart bleeding pictures that once told a story. Our feet forcefully kick through soft walls, letting out all of the tension that has formed inside of our tired bodies. A home that only a couple days ago was a warm, organized place, is now a house- a house that does not at all feel like a home. After a few days of productive, challenging, work we can look into the house and can see through
the walls that we kicked through; I feel a rush of sadness because what used to be my perfect home is now a few concrete slabs and wooden stakes. All of my life feels scattered just like all of the objects that were once in order, and now have no home. Right when my family is feeling the saddest and most depressed, we find the wedding dress. My mom’s beautiful white, floral, perfectly simple wedding dress. It is in a pile of her other various garments and has a ring of dirty water around the bottom. But she doesn’t get upset; she takes it outside and hangs it out to dry. I know that this probably hurt her a little, but she hid it under a deceiving smile, something that she’s mastered by now. This wedding dress represents a turning point in her life, even if it may not have worked out in the long run.
A few days later, I am scrolling through my Facebook feed, my heart breaking as I step into the shoes of all of the suffering people that appear on my screen, when I see a picture that my mom has uploaded. It is of her standing in the midst of our molding, damaged possessions, in her stained wedding dress, holding my giant artificial red poppy, which once towered in the corner of my room. She looks pretty in a simple kind of way. She is looking down at the ground with a slight grin appearing on her face and the back of the wedding dress spreads perfectly over a blue cushion.
The red poppy in her hands stands out against the white of the dress. A mound of furniture is taking up the space behind her, and her unharmed CRV is parked in the driveway. As I stare at the picture, I instantly have high spirits, if my mom could create beauty and be at peace with such chaos, then so could I.
Many people may call her ignorant or making fun of the situation. But that is not how I see it at all. I see it as her showing that even when everything is going wrong, she can bring back good memories and honor what once made our hearts joyful. This picture became very popular among my mom’s friends and even was included in a newspaper in Germany. People see her as being brave and moving forward, even when she is going through adversity, and this inspired them, just as it has inspired me. This tragedy has created an entire void of uncertainty for me, and I feel as if maybe, just maybe this picture gives me clarity. I can see that I have many parts of my life that need to be repaired and put back together. Also, I have parts that are still standing,
a little broken, but standing, and those things that are still standing can help me get through this, just like my mom is still standing and taking in all that has shaped us and meanwhile we are all still being shaped by what we choose to make of what has affected us.
The stained wedding dress represents my life right now, it is not perfect and it has a noticeable stain over it, but it is still beautiful and still has many things to smile over, and even though many materials are now gone, all
IPHOTO BY MAIA'S AUNT, SIMONE SCHMIDT
of the memories are still there, and in a way they have become clearer than ever before. I now know that I will be able to hold close all of my heartwarming flashbacks that were created in my house, but I also know that new stories will be created, and I will appreciate them and they will bring new meaning to the next chapter of my life.
In recent months, there has been widespread coverage of some colleges’ public declarations that safe spaces are unnecessary and infringe on the ability for people to freely express themselves. One example is the University of Chicago. In a letter to the Class of 2020, John Ellison, the Dean of Students, announced that the university does not approve of safe spaces as they allow students to “retreat from ideas and perspectives at odds with their own.” Ellison’s letter to incoming students quickly went viral; some praised his public decision, and others, such as myself, quickly shook their heads. I’m not sure that Ellison and many others understand what defines a “safe space,” its misconceptions, and its benefits to minority students. Let’s briefly (and correctly) describe what defines a safe space. A safe space, or safe zone, is a “place where all people feel safe, welcome and included.” Is there anything you notice about this definition? It is simple, and therefore may be subject to modifications made by other people. My particular interpretation of a “safe space” for LGBTQ individuals splits into three separate definitions.
Let’s imagine that you are sitting in a Government class (be it secondary or higher education), and you are discussing the achievements and events of several twentieth-century civil rights movements: the 1960s-1970s movement of Blacks, feminist movements (e.g. Roe v. Wade), and LGBTQ movements from Stonewall to the recent Obergefell v. Hodges case. At this moment, your educator is briefly
The Correct Definitions of A Safe Space
By: Harrison Ferachi
PHOTO BY LOUISE ANDREEFF
describing a sore subject in LGBTQ history,
“Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.”
At the end of the presentation, a student raises his hand, asking, “What if it was just obvious that the soldier was homosexual?” The student did not ask this question for the purpose of curiosity, but sardonicism. The teacher does not know how to respond to the person’s comment, as he/she is not aware of the consequences of intervening. If the classroom were explicitly a “safe space,” the chances of this event happening would be slim.
In the previous scenario, we learned that a safe space is a classroom where students can expect that homophobia is not welcome. This first definition only regards homophobia that occurs within the school gates. What about homophobia that occurs within a student’s household? In a 2012 survey, conducted by the Williams Institute and True Colors Fund, it was discovered that 54% of its participants, agents of homeless youth services (who also claimed that 40% of their clients identified as LGBT), cited that familial abuse was an active contributor to LGBT homelessness. These findings suggest that many LGBT students (assuming they’re adolescents) are mistreated because of their sexuality. These results indicate that many LGBT students (assuming they’re adolescents) are mistreated because of their sexuality. As evident in the findings, homes are not safe havens for many LGBT teenagers. However, schools can be. If an LGBT student is experiencing physical or verbal abuse within their household as a result of coming out, the safe space sticker can be a clear sign that they can talk about their situation with the teacher. The teacher can help the student get help with the appropriate resources, which may include a school counselor and local agencies. This scenario showcases the second definition of a safe-space: a place for those experiencing homophobia outside of school to receive assistance.
Finally, similar to the second definition, safe spaces are a way for students to receive one-on-one advice from a teacher in more dire circumstances, especially those that may deal with suicidal ideation, depression, and other mental disorders. The simple action of notifying the school counselor because he or she has witnessed the warning signs of suicide may save a student’s life. Now that we have explored that possible scenario, we now have our third definition of a safe space: a source of assistance in preventing potential crises.
As the controversy regarding safe spaces continues to rise in our society, be sure to keep these definitions in mind; they distinguish what a safe space actually is from the false misconceptions that many people, including Ellison, are spreading about this useful resource.
Photo by Carson Saurage
BY ELLIOT KELLAM
Photo by Kaylin Chauvin
We have conquered the water
New chapters begin
The South is not a perfect place, but I believe in its beauty. Our history is rich and full, though it is not without dark and shameful moments, some of which make appearances today. The story of the South is like a tapestry. A big, beautiful picture woven with threads of beauty, passion, love, strength and perseverance. It would be naive of me, or anyone else for that matter, to believe that our tapestry is free of stains of hate, intolerance, and ignorance from our past, but I still believe that our Southern tapestry is an imperfect masterpiece.
I am a Southern woman. I wear pearls and seersucker; I love fried chicken and football games, and my favorite way to spend the weekend is fishing with my grandfather. The South is a place like no other; nowhere else in the world can one find such passionate, hard-working, selfless people. Here, people sprinkle sweetness like confetti, and they love without limits.
The South has not always been the place it is today. For many people, the South still represents oppression and injustice. There were times when love did have its limits: religion, skin color, sexuality, and societal status, to name a few. People were stripped of the most basic human rights for reasons completely out of their control. People were enslaved because of their race, beaten because of their sexuality, dominated because of their gender, and persecuted because of their religion. The South has come a long way since then, but like everywhere else in the world, we still have work to do. Occasionally, hints of racism and bigotry sneak their way into our Southern lives.
Despite our imperfections, I see the South changing. Even in my short lifetime, I have witnessed major advancements and progress in my beloved home. My gay uncles, who have been a couple for over a decade, are only now able to get married in Louisiana. I love watching the place I call home become a better place for all of its people. The South continues to grow and improve, like a Georgia peach ripening into a smooth and juicy treat, oozing with love and kindness.
My Southern Identity
by Olivia Parker
PHOTO BY KATIE CAMPBELL
PHOTO BY OMAR AZMEH
We are consumers of products advertised by 'social media influencers’, $5 coffee, and priceless internet memes. We are the generation that is a part of the global society which has undergone a loss of innocence.
In my English seminar, Contemporary Conversations and Controversies, my classmates and I began to discuss recent events involving menacing clowns. The clown hysteria that has swept my twitter feed is caused by random fear mongers who dress up as clowns to lure children into the woods and also harass strangers. There have been reports of copy cats in Australia and the UK, and reports of clown sightings are only spreading. The news about these clowns is unavoidable; it’s everywhere. We did readings on the psychological aspects of hysteria, memes (replicators in the brain), and clown culture vs. crazy clowns. My classmates, we’re insistent on speaking about the effect the clowns have had on us, but one of my classmates made a poignant comment about how the clowns reflect us. Something that was once seen as innocent and funny has slowly morphed into something wild and menacing.
In the days following the discussion, I couldn’t stop thinking about this ‘loss of innocence’. Everyone seems so unfeeling towards the horrific events occurring in Syria, and more concerned with threats that terrorist organizations, such as ISIS, have here in the U.S. We’re obsessed with terrorism, yet more people die in car wrecks each year than have ever been the victims of terrorism. Maybe by putting down the phones (which feed us sensationalized news meant to freak us out), we might save lives, doing more good than panicking over clowns ever will.
by Martine Cruz
Interview With Mr. Lebrun
By Omar Azmeh
1. Where are you from?
I am from Cape Cod, Massachusetts, and I spent last 14 years in town 30 miles away from Boston.
2. Why did you come to Episcopal?
I was drawn to the community, and I wanted to do something different in a different part of country. The values of the school match my values, and the school is great for my children.
3. Why did you pursue a career in education?
Teachers inspired me, and they instilled the value of education in me. Education had made me into a better person. The mentorship between teachers and students was one of the main aspects that drew me.
4. What is your greatest strength?
I am a good listener. People feel comfortable talking to me and sharing their thoughts.
Feelings, as of late, seem to be reserved to ourselves, for ourselves. Is it because we know too much? Have we witnessed too many monstrosities? I often feel like I’m being baited by the internet and the media: “Hey click this!”, “Like me,” “Double tap,” “Download.” We all feel like the world is trying to rip time out of our hands, yet we give in willingly. We’re tempted to spend our time and money on the internet, but the emotions displayed on our social media pages are reserved to fear, happiness, and annoyance. It sounds naive to say, “Everything is fine,” because it is not; look, clowns are roaming about that are a manifestation of our uncontrolled, reactive fear.
We feel comfortable, to an extent, witnessing things through the 5-inch screen on our phones. When the internet convinces us we’re under an immediate threat our first reaction is flight, not fight. We control the invisible internet that we are terrified of. We make the decision to witness the world around us through the small retina windows in our palms.
5. What did you major in college?
6. One word to describe you?
7. What is your favorite part about Baton Rouge?
8. How is Baton Rouge different from the north?
Friendliness; pace of life is slower; more conservative; weather
9. What is your favorite place for lunch?
10. What is your favorite way to spend a Saturday morning?
Tennis on Saturday mornings. I am involved in a league. Yard work; no plans are the best.
11. What is your favorite tv show?
NCIS: Los Angeles; any crime show
12. Way to spend $20?
Waste a lot of money eating out; junk food; Canes
13. Who are your favorite artists?
Matt Nathanson, David Grey, & Tracy Chapman
14. What restaurant do you take your family to?
TJ ribs (one place can agree on)
15. What is your favorite item in your wardrobe?
Sneakers. I take pride in my sneakers.
16. What is your favorite childhood memory?
Sunday afternoon cookouts with family were my favorite growing up.
17. What is your favorite time of the year?
Summer. I get to spend more time with my family.
18. What is your favorite out of town destination?
I love inner Maine, especially lake houses.
PHOTO BY KAYLIN CHAUVIN
by LAURA KURTZ
We have fought over many things besides these, some petty and some serious, and I sometimes wonder how we have managed to remain amiable with one another. But, I suppose that the level of forgiveness we have had to maintain is what defines the friendship that means so much to me. It is a bond that has lasted through more weight than it should have to, and yet it remains stronger than ever. Any other bond would have broken. It is a safety net, of sorts. No matter what happens, I will always know that I have this friend when I need him.
Yes, I do sometimes wonder what will happen if the weight becomes too much for us to bear, and it separates us. But I do not think it will. We know each other far too well. When he is angry, he becomes passive-aggressive and I know to apologize and try and give him some space. When I am angry, I go into conniptions and he knows to let me yell at him and I’ll get over it soon enough. It’s not perfect; it never will be, but I have stopped obsessing over making it so. So we fight more than most friends do. So what? What matters is that we are there for each other, and always will be. It’s simply that we forgive, forgive, forgive. We forgive quickly even when we do not forget quickly.
Forgiveness. That is something I have taken from this friendship that will never go away despite what may happen with the friendship itself. I have learned to let things go. I have learned that I should forgive because sooner or later I will do something that requires forgiveness.
No matter what happens, I must forgive.
"Why do you keep ignoring me?” I scream. My friend and I are alone outside of Foster Hall on a rainy day in April.
“I’m not ignoring you!” he yells back. It’s a situation that can only be described as the ultimate cliché. It could be a movie scene in The Notebook.
“Yes, you are! And it’s always around your other friends! Are you afraid I’m going to embarrass you?” I can’t even tell if I’m crying or if the rain is just falling on my face. “Look, all I’m saying is that you should rethink saying someone is your ‘friend’ when you don’t talk to them.”
And then I storm off, shaking with anger. The next day, I see him outside of English. Staring at his feet, he says, “I know I haven’t treated you right. But I want to try and fix this. I’m really sorry, Laura.”
And I say, “It’s okay.”
It’s not okay, but I’ll forgive him anyway.
Then, a summer later, we’re outside of Foster Hall after school again. It’s raining again, but this time, he is angry instead of me. Now it’s a scene from The Best of Me. I can’t even tell if he’s crying or if it’s just the rain falling on his face. “Laura, you lied! I trusted you with everything and you said you trusted me but you didn’t! You should rethink calling people your ‘friend’ when you don’t trust them.”
And so he storms off, shaking with anger. The next day, I find him outside of English. Staring at my feet, I say, “I know I lied, but I want to try rebuild our friendship. I’m really sorry.”
And he says, “It’s okay.”
Even though it’s not okay, he forgave me anyway.
I want to apologize. Every evening, I looked to you but never did I think that you had feelings, too. Like I, you might be heartbroken, or worse, the text you took twenty minutes to write was read but did not receive a response. All the while, long-distance couples look to you to find their lover in the sky. I can’t imagine how much pressure that must be. You are the symbol keeping everybody together and rarely can you take a break. In addition to everything going on, I feel required tell you I heard Soleil was illuminating other moons. It is probably just a rumor, but I believe it to be this girl Janus who hangs around Saturn. I don’t want you to get upset because I don’t even know if it’s true. But how that is how it goes. First it’s illumination. Illumination turns into dinner. Dinner leads to moving in. The next thing you know, you’re seeing little sun babies every 365 days and wondering if four and a half billion years meant anything at all.
I understand how you must be feeling, which is why I feel the need to say I am sorry for putting so much undue pressure on you. If you weren’t lactose intolerant, I would send you some chocolates because out of everything in existence, you deserve them the most. I mean when was the last Soleil sent you something? I’m sure he could at least manage flowers around the summer solstice.
I know I have no place expressing this, but you’re a strong celestial object, and you don’t need the sun. There are plenty of fish in the solar system. If I’m not mistaken, Pluto is a planet again, and I’m sure no one would judge you for getting coffee with a dwarf planet. Heck, girls on Earth don’t even consider dating a guy unless he has protruding abdominal muscles or a bank account that puts Bill Gates to shame. I would tell you to dip your feet in and test out the waters, but I’m afraid immersing all 7.36 x 1022 kilograms of you into the oceans would devastate Earth.
I hope you can forgive me and that I haven’t complicated issues further. Mars always tells me to stay out of the cosmic drama, but you know I can’t help it!
Love Your Favorite Gal Pal,
By Kirby Phares
7.36 x 1022 Kilograms Doesn’t
Make You Fat, I Swear
By Lundyn Herring
I like to think of people as times of the day.
She was an early sunrise,
Covered in morning dew,
She smelled of the earth
And hopeful wanderers.
He was a neon lit truck stop at 1:42 A.M.
Gas station hotdogs have a scent like no other.
Spare change litters the floors,
A dirty place of forgotten lovers and cigarette butts.
Her name was Cordelia.
She liked herbal tea and cardigans.
Her favorite color was plum.
She was forgotten on April 15th.
His name was Dez.
It was short for Desmond but he hated it.
He liked leather bound notebooks and strawberry ice cream.
He was forgotten on May 19th.
Taking a dark turn down a well lit path,
Both of these beautiful beings were
Gone like the wind.
“I am a fall child”
By morgan bernard
I am a fall child
and it is evident in every aspect of my Self.
It is there in the warmth I feel
when I see deep reds
and burnt golds.
It is there in my hobby of yarn work.
It is there in my love of sweaters
and pumpkin flavored sweets.
It is there in the deep gold fleck of my otherwise blue eye.
It is there in my obsession with warm drinks.
It is there in my simultaneous heat and chilliness.
It is there quite literally
in my tendency to fall.
It is there in my bookshelves
which are filled beyond maximum capacity --
in the books I read under trees
instead of swimming
or playing sports.
I am a fall child.
“As a Child…”
By Alyssa Macaluso
I dreamed dreams of many things.
I dreamed of love, that first blossom in the chest that signals something special, the swoop and soar of both heart and stomach, the love that grows deeper each day.
I dreamed of flying, gliding like a fish in water, speeding like an ad on the back of an airplane, the wind fresh on my face.
I dreamed of home, the nest a baby bird can always return to, the horizon that is always there in the distance, a place I’d always be welcome.
I dreamed of all the pets I’d have, scattered and mixed like a handful of jellybeans you would dump into your bag, each as different as the cells in your body.
I dreamed of a time when there would be no homework, no notes, my caged hands free of the pen to sculpt, create, play.
I dreamed of wishes being answered, success beyond measures, like all of the stars in the sky were granting me my deepest desires.
I dreamed of complete understanding, like my brain was a book with all of the answers to life.
I dreamed of making a difference, leading a revolution, sparking a tidal wave of rebellions against the injustices in the world.
I dreamed, but little did I know the only way I could do all of these things was in my dreams.
By Louise Andreeff
Ghosts dance in my shadows
They prance around my spirit to their tribal tune
Urging me to sway with them
Their whispered pressures of doom
Wooing me towards sin
Like swallowing the moon
I stay solid, soak in my values
Refusing to prune
But at midnight
I think about their silk runes
Maybe I could be a loon
Just for a night
I could croon with their tribal tune
PHOTO BY MAGGIE EWING
By Carson Saurage
Tuesdays had always been relatively stale days for Harold, but this one was more distasteful than most. His idea browser crashed, the conference room urged on his input, but he could contribute nothing. He was unable to stop thinking about the girl he'd met at the funeral earlier that morning, the way she gazed at his mother's memorial slideshow as if she watched her own life play out. The inconvenience the funeral put on his previous diet of home-cooked meals left his stomach hungry and uneasy. He escaped the pushy florescent lights around noon and hunted down his next meal.
His mind dusted from beautifully morbid slumber, and his eyes sat crusted from their inky lids. They saw a disappointing event that certainly occurred before his breakfast got made; his stomach growled to remind him of its lack of fuel. As he sat at his table for two, buffering at an empty seat, he marveled over the cualacino of his water left on the chestnut surface. Its wedding band was contained so perfectly, reminding him of the noose of the brass windchimes that rang as she begged for her last breath. The water-girdle made his mouth water for a Caprese salad, which he decided to request for his first course of the meal.
Letter from the editors
For some, it is continually brought into their consciousness. Whether it is through announcements or emails, students constantly hear demands to submit pieces of work to email@example.com, but just like that, it leaves their consciousness once again. For others, it is a hobby, a contest, a goal that gives purpose and meaning to each piece that a student submits to be published. For us editors, Troubadour is a beautiful marathon that has no 26-mile end. It regularly sees changes and improvements. We run relentlessly to the finish line, making sure our technique and pace thrive with perfection. However, this is not a marathon we want to be over; we enjoy the journey but we dread the end. Every time a paper, poem, or photo finds its way into our Google inbox, happiness consumes us, as we realize another student is brave enough to share their work with the entire school, that our platform has a spotlight for anyone and everyone who is willing to step in center stage. We know as editors Troubadour is a task that is apathetic towards the number of minutes, hours, and even days we spend on it. However, we are okay with this because to us we see Troubadour as a source of enjoyment and entertainment that the students, teachers, and parents come back to look at as something great, something they are proud to call theirs.
The editors of Troubadour would like to thank you for spending your time reading and observing this student magazine. We appreciate the time you took out of your day to view work that the upper school students are so proud to share with you. We are excited to continue to share the journey of Episcopal’s literary and artistic talent with you.
Caroline Casey, Kaylin Chauvin, and Kate Landry
Live & Create
2016-2017: ISSUE #I
Special thanks to Dr. deGravelles, Omar Azmeh, Dr. MacDonald, and all of our contributors.