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AGAPAE

Oyster Bay High School


2017
AGAPAE 2017
No. 35 Oyster Bay High School June 2017
150 East Main Street
Oyster Bay, New York, 11771
Tel. No. 516-624-6524
Email: agapaelitmag@obenschools.org

MANAGING EDITORS
Special Thanks To:
Gabrielle
Grady
Jodi
Yeh OYSTER BAY HIGH SCHOOL
ENGLISH DEPARTMENT

L
ITERARY EDITOR Dr. Ryan O’Hara, Supervisor of ELA, Reading & Library Media
Giuliana
Rutigliano Ms. Lydia Brady
Mr. Brian Donohue
A
RT AND DESIGN EDITOR
Ms. Karen DiMaggio
Matilde
Catarino-Bechet Ms. Laura Keenan
Ms. Maria Kim
S ECRETARY Ms. Kathleen Reilly
Allison Suttenberg Ms. Nicole Schwartz

Ms. Marjorie Vigliotti

Mr. Christopher Weber
T REASURER

Kate
Devereaux

E
DITORS
Brittany Browner
Jack Casey OYSTER BAY HIGH SCHOOL ART DEPARTMENT
Christopher Colvin
Mikah Covelli Mr. Peter Rufa, Supervisor of Fine Performing Arts
Danielle DiMeo Ms. Jennifer Hagelberg, Fine and Performing Arts Secretary
Steven Keehner Ms. Stephaine Miley
Shania Kuo Ms. Maria Randazzo
Krista Marino
Cassandra Matthews
Danica Roerdan
Jennifer Sanchez
Katherine Usaquen
Jennifer Velasquez

FACULTY ADVISORS
Mr. Scott Boris
Ms. Shannon Murphy

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TABLE OF CONTENTS
ART
Parallelism — photograph
by Allison Suttenberg 1
Disconection — digital image
by Sophie Mejia 2
Disconnecting — digital image
by Sophie Mejia 2
Disconnected — digital image
by Sophie Mejia 3
Stardust — photograph
by Ashley Hertlein 5
Slippery Slopes — digital image
by Cameron McKean 6
Winter Wonderland — digital image
by Malachy Golon 7 Disconnecting - digital image by Sophie Mejia
Masked Fears — multimedia collage
by Sophia Polizzi 8-9 Mirror Image — photograph
Antartica — digital image by Mikayla Cooper 19
by Patrick Conway 10 Sundance — acrylic painting
Not Much to Look At — digital image by Ibania Cardoza 20-21
by Patrick Conway 11 Among the Stars — multimedia collage
Out of the Blue — colored pencil drawing by Matilde Catarino-Bechet 23
by Ashley Kowalczyk 13 Embrace Nos. 1-2— photographs
Candlelight — photograph by Jodi Yeh 24-25
by Kelsey Maldonado 14-15 Into the Woods — photograph
Supernatural — digital image by Jennifer Velasquez 26
by Ashley Kowalczyk 16 Roots — photograph
by Jennifer Velasquez 27
Rush — digital image
by Sabrina Grassi 28-29
Joy — photograph
by Ashley Hertlein 30
Son and Moon — photograph
by Ashley Hertlein 31
Across the Universe — acrylic painting
by Sarah Conway 32
Searching — photograph
by Ashley Hertlein 34
Phoney Phone Calls — digital image
by Sarah Conway 36-37
Break Through — multimedia collage
by April Cerami 38
Tiny Dancer — digital image
by Lauren Suttenberg 38
Disconnection - digital image by Sophie Mejia Belle — acrylic painting
by Sarah Conway 40

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TABLE OF CONTENTS
POETRY ESSAY
Through the Eyes of the Affluent Gravity Slope
by Victoria Carchietta 4 by Keith Cassar 6-7
The Unread Eulogy The Human Spirit
by Matilde Catarino-Bechet 8 by Alex Gelabert 30-31
Indifference Capturing Technology
by David Wiesenfeld and Caleb Archdeacon 11 by Kaela Kilfoil 36-37
The Act of Altruism
by Kayleigh Crawford 14
Ode to the Pen
by Gabrielle Grady 18
Come Together
by Jennifer Velasquez 22
Best Betrayal
by Anonymous 24-25
Running to Reality
by Christopher Drabin 26
Acceptance
by Isabella Pace 33
That Blanket
by Mikayla Cooper 34
Happiness
by Jacqueline Baxter 39
A World Alone
by Gianna Gotti 39
Disconnected - digital image by Sophie Mejia
PROSE Front Cover:
Through the Looking Glass —
His Words Back Cover:
by Cassandra Matthews 12-13 On the Edge —
Safe Haven photographs by Jodi Yeh
by Ashley Hazan 18-19
Artisans At Page Numbers: Gramophone —
by Kimia Khaledi 28-29 pen and ink by Patrick Conway

EDITORS’ MESSAGE
“The beautiful thing about memories is that they are yours; whether they are good, bad, or
indifferent. They belong to you, and no matter where you are now.” — Unknown

Perspective is defined as an impression regarding a subject matter, whether in depth or by


interpretation. The world is perceived through our personal reminiscence--a child solemnly wrapped
up in a blanket, the dispersal of old films, and the reconnection of old friends. Looking back, the
specific manner in which old memories are acknowledged transforms into mixed feelings of joviality
or abhorrence. It is the creation of a new personality, one fabricated through our very own memories.

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THROUGH THE EYES OF THE AFFLUENT
He seemed to be in a state of disbelief,
For he was a man far different from myself.
As I raised my glass, his eyes continued to widen,
As if he were staring at a ghost.

His words trailed off


And one could tell
The feelings of surprise, shock, and revelation
That hit him at sixty miles per hour.

Suddenly, his expression of astonishment


Turned into one of admiration,
As he continued to look up at me
In his un-elaborate suit

— Victoria Carchietta

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Stardust — photograph by Ashley Hertlein

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GRAVITY SLOPE
By Keith Cassar
In a remote part of Pennsylvania sits
a small wooden cabin at the bottom of a
treacherously steep driveway. Aptly named
Gravity Slope. Many a family member had
slipped on the angled path. This cabin was
the site of much of my childhood: frequent
weekend trips, birthdays, family reunions, all
amid the millions of trees, incredible wildlife,
and familiar neighbors that have been a part
of my life for as long as I can remember.
For some of my family, this cabin is a quiet
alternative to a busy life. For me, it is so
much more. This cabin enables me to enjoy
the things that are unattainable in New York:
immersion in nature, a quiet and solitary
place to fish, and uninterrupted family time
without the pressures of technology. The
memories I have made are innumerable,
but the moments of contentment and
tranquility are the ones that will be etched
in my consciousness for the rest of my life.
I can recall my favorite memory of
Gravity Slope as if it happened moments
ago. As I stood at the kitchen sink one
misty morning, I looked outside and saw
a family of deer edging closer to the cabin,
tentatively coming through the edge of the
Slippery Slopes — digital image by Cameron McKean
woods onto the lawn. Silently, I watched
through the small kitchen window and
decided to make my way to the backdoor. I
whispered to my mother to come and look.

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“Wow!” She whispered in awe as she
joined me by the door.
“They are really close!” She quietly
grabbed a handful of corn that was kept on
hand for moments just like that one. I slowly
opened the heavy wooden door, hoping the
inevitable creak wouldn’t scare away the
crowd gathering only feet beyond the wall.
As I looked through the screen door, my
nose pressed close to the mesh; I realized
they had come closer. My mother handed me
some corn, but a few kernels had dropped to
the wooden steps leading to the backyard.
A couple of deer heard the sound and took
small steps towards me. I extended my hand
and stood absolutely still. The deer inched
forward even more. My mother and I spent
what seemed like hours feeding our visitors
until they were seemingly full and trotted off
into the dense woods.
Gravity Slope has seen its fair
share of memorable times. Cousins, aunts,
grandparents, and friends have used this
cabin as a home away from home for many
years. We reminisce on enough stories to fill
hours upon hours of time. It is not uncommon
for us to find ourselves at two in the morning,
Winter Wonderland — digital image by Malachy Golon exhausted but content, just enjoying the
company of others, reminding ourselves why
this place is so special.

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Masked Tears — multimedia collage by Sophia Polizzi
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THE UNREAD EULOGY
I wanted to say thank you.
Thank you, for letting me realize what I meant.
Thank you, for staying beside me,
Even when I did not want you to.
Thank you, for leaving me a part of you.
Thank you, for believing in me
And giving me that tiny possibility of a future.
Thank you. I know these two words do not mean a lot.
You will always be the definition of extraordinary.
I still hear the sound of stars crying,
Sparkling,
And I know that sounds come from your sealed voice.
The voice that supported me,
That laughed beautifully,
The voice that cried tears of honesty and love…
This made me want to live.

The bumpy road I will walk on


Towards your house will be a reminder
That a friend stays, yet a soul goes.

The hope left is tremendous.


This will not be a tragedy.
This will be a blessing.
Two friends,
One love.
Rachel.
— Matilde Catarino-Bechet

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Antartica — digital image by Patrick Conway

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INDIFFERENCE
Killing the planet,
One of a trillion.
80 years of 8 billion.
A speck on a speck in a sea of black.
Empty, not empty,
Alive or dead.
Alive and dead.
A speck on a speck in a sea of black,
One of an infinite series of combinations.
Infinitely vast and incomprehensibly intricate.
Indifferent.

— David Wiesenfeld & Caleb Archdeacon

Not Much to Look At — digital image by Patrick Conway

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HIS WORDS
By Cassandra Matthews

I first learned about humanity through the power of his words. His emotions were intense,
and they reflected an image of his perspective on life. The way he spoke to me seemed so coherent.
This was the first time somebody could thoroughly explain to me what I was feeling. I was expressing
myself through unintelligible screams and tears. Yet, he could read my mind. It didn’t occur to me how
horrified he was by my behavior, probably more so than I was with myself. However, that didn’t stop
him from trying to help me. Nothing could stop him, ever. And to be honest, that pissed me off at the
time.
Only recently, I realized how important this night was to the both of us. Maybe it was because
of the dramatic scene, or my fourteen-year-old mind that made me detest every second of it. However,
I now realize what he had done for me. He showed me what my life could be rather than the mess I
was making of it. The person who taught me this was not only my best friend, but my brother, Stevie
Matthews.
It was that awkward time between the end of a school year and the beginning of a new one,
which was supposed to feel like a vacation, but felt more like an endless gap. As a result, I isolated
myself in my room with the windows wide open, the humidity fogging my brain, and the hot air
suffocating me like the painful thoughts I clutched inside. As I lay on my bed with the intention of
doing nothing, I stared at the dull white ceiling of my room that prevented my escape. I wondered
what was going on way above that ceiling, and what would’ve happened if that ceiling disappeared
and the sky was exposed so that I could fly away. I let myself sink into the false comfort of my bed,
waiting, waiting, waiting.
Then I heard his charismatic voice, finely tuned with a mixture of concern and awkwardness, call to
me.
“Hey, Cassandra,” Stevie said, surprised by what he had found.
“What’s up? Why are you lying in bed?”
Why aren’t I lying in bed? What else could I do?
“I don’t know,” I responded dully.
I knew that there was bound to be an argument related to my depression and my behavior, and
that the night would somehow end in hysteria. But I was in for a surprise.
Instead of chastising me, Stevie sighed and began to confide in me. Although I kept a secure
distance, I was listening closely. Curled up and avoiding eye contact, my body language was more
obvious than I had thought. He understood it as if it were a language he was fluent in.
He spoke to me as if I were a regular person, not like someone who was mentally disturbed and needed
to be hospitalized.
That night turned out to be revealing and emotional. For the first time in my life, my brother
and I connected. We understood each other. As a result, I have been motivating myself to do what is
right for me and to work toward making my dreams become realities.
On that night, my brother made an opening in that ceiling so that I could escape and find my
way to happiness. That conversation empowered me; he helped me to look beyond that ceiling and
imagine possibilities in life.
Although I wasn’t aware of its significance at the time, I look back on it quite often now. My
brother saved me from falling into an abyss that I might never have escaped. He showed me the beauty
of what being human is, and the beauty of being who I am today.

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Out of the Blue — digital image by Ashley Kowalczyk

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THE ACT OF ALTRUISM
Oh, how Anna helped mend the soul of others,
Through her works of art.
Though Anna used not a paintbrush,
Even when painting over patients’ hearts.
Oh, how Anna challenged the views of others,
How she helped mend the souls of lovers.
Oh, how Anna changed opinions and gave hope to mothers.
Thou art an ambitious mind,
Yet thou wastes nobody’s time.
Thou mended more than bodies and souls.
Thou replenished life into weakening bones.
Loving members began to sing their song again,
With a chance to live their lives from the start again.

— Kayleigh Crawford

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Candlelight — digital image by Kelsey Maldonado
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Supernatural — digital image by Ashley Kowalczyk

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ODE TO THE PEN
Ode to the voice with no sound
That can move painfully slow
Or at the speed of light
All depending on who utters it

Ode to the dedicated student


Who held the bristleless paintbrush until midnight
Fingers cramped and shaking
Until the essay was finished and perfect

Ode to its terrifying permanence


And the constant sword over your head
Scribbles dark as night fill the page
With every mistake

Ode to those
Who have used the same ink container for a lifetime
Because it’s the only one you have left
Like your days solely depend on this key to survival

And when you lose that pen?


There is an empty black hole in your heart
The realization that you will never find another one like it
You will never feel the same way about ink ever again

But you always end up falling in love all over again


This time, this shade of blue is a little darker
Each word an ocean of intelligence
That will never stop dancing across the paper
— Gabrielle Grady

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SAFE HAVEN
By Ashley Hazan

Many people search for an atmosphere that exudes peace, but I find comfort in chaos. The hustle
of businessmen, blaring horns, blinding poster boards, the thick, demanding accents… My calm lies
in the heart of New York City. The energetic buzz that accelerates under my feet as I wander its streets
dampens all other worries.
My dad was the first person to introduce me to the magic of the city. Manhattan had clenched
his heart and followed him back to his suburban home. The first time I ventured into the city, I traveled
up the sticky, rotten escalators of Penn Station and into the swarm of people. To say I felt overwhelmed
is an understatement. I was whisked away by the city’s imperfect beauty: the litter of soda cans, dirty
water dog stands, and the towering giants overhead. Dirt and scuff surrounded me at every turn,
but that is why I fell in love with it. There was a sickly-sweet feeling about its atmosphere exceeding
amounts of beauty within its cracked framework. I soon learned we, as humans, are bound to have
similar cracks. The city masks human imperfection.
Manhattan taught me lessons that teachers could not. As my dad and I sat against the
spewing fountain in Washington Square Park, I noticed a man slumped against the graffiti splattered
brick. His clothes were patched, his hair was disheveled and in need of a good washing. I watched as
a young woman approached him, sparked a conversation, and handed him a meal. I remember his
gratitude and his smile. I followed her example every time I returned to the city, hoping to put a similar
smile on the face of a different man.
My dad always said to me, “People find ways to express themselves within the confines of
the city. “ I found mine when I was nine years old. Perched on the steps of NYU, I was a hardheaded
kid determined for my music to be heard. I poured my soul into the August Rush soundtrack, the
sounds bending and wrapping around my clarinet as my fingers frantically danced to maintain the
beat. Strangers passed by, dropping compliments or the occasional dollar. The performance anxiety I
normally felt diminished as more and more strangers passed by with engaging smiles and soft-spoken
words of encouragement. For the first time, I had found a safe haven, a place where there was no need
for a comfort zone. New York City forced me to free my imagination.
Tightly holding my dad’s hand, explosions of creativity surrounded me. A man with a dark
braided beard threw his paintbrush along a canvas, wisps of paint splattering my shoes as I walked
past. A woman led a yoga class by the Met, the winds dying down in that one moment for the group
to regain its balance. Traveling across the High Line, the swirls of native tongues spoke to me. I scaled
the enormous rocks of Central Park holding on for dear life, as I didn’t want the lava below to swallow
me. Amidst the chaos of this metropolis, the seeds of creativity blossomed inside of me.

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Mirror Image — photograph by Mikayla Cooper

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Sundance — acrylic painting by Ibania Cardoza
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COME TOGETHER
We all survive off the same source of light,
But still we divide ourselves just like day and night.
All of mankind’s knowledge is put to waste
Because we choose to put hatred in its place.

Failing to see that Mother Earth is dying;


Our ears are deaf to her continuous crying.
We wage pointless wars and stain our faces red,
Fighting over insignificant differences
Derived from our heads.

Never knowing when to drop our swords,


We exchange violence instead of peaceful words.
Now more than ever we need to come together
To prevent destruction before it affects us forever.
— Jennifer Velasquez

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Among the Stars — multimedia collage by Matilde Catarino-Bechet
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BEST BETRAYAL
Best friend.
How do you define a “best friend”?
The person you go to when one boy pushes a joke too far
The person who picks you up when the darkness weighs you down
The person whom you aspire to be when you look in the mirror

A best friend is your other half


The person who pushes you to be your best

And yes, you fight


But it only lasts as long as the crack of thunder that rattles your house
Seconds.

I put my heart and soul into friendship


I give part of me away as if tearing skin from bare bone
As if to say thank you
Thank you for being my “best friend”

Embrace No. 1 — photograph by Jodi Yeh

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Embrace No. 2 — photograph by Jodi Yeh
Betrayal.
How do you define betrayal?
To deliver or expose an enemy by treachery or disloyalty
Disloyalty.

Betrayal is when your best friend laughs along with the boy who pushed the joke too far
Betrayal is when that so-called best friend pushes you further into the darkness
Betrayal is watching your knuckles morph into the colors of a dark stormy day
When you look into the mirror and see your other half
All you want is
Peace.

There is a fine line between a best friend and an enemy


Continue to enjoy life for all it offers
But when your new “best friends” are pushing you into the darkness,
I will not show the same disloyalty and betrayal that
You
Showed
Me.
— Anonymous

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RUNNING TO REALITY
There is nothing more dreamlike than the wind scraping against your heated face.
As the icy chill passes, blood in your heart pumps faster and faster.
The wind is just a distraction,
Allowing us to bridge the gap between reality and dream.
Dreams are woven into the fabric of reality;
Everything made was once a dream.
As you run faster and faster, your mind clears.
What may confuse you about life becomes less muddled.
Dreaming allows you to see the future,
And running allows you to make the road less unpredictable.
Take a run, and you may see something that was less obvious.
— Christopher Drabin

Into the Woods — photograph by Jennifer Velasquez

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Roots-— photograph by Jennifer Velasquez

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ARTISANS
By Kimia Khaledi

I am paralyzed, captivated by the waltz of her


fingers through the tapestry. The weaver gracefully
knits the kingdom of thread that lies before her.
Colors of fine wine and crimson red seamlessly bleed
into the ivory cream foundation. My dad gently
taps me on the shoulder, reminding me to keep
walking in the bazaar. But, I can’t. I am mesmerized.
As the weaver catches me staring, I read the wrinkles
under her eyes, each a story of her allegiance to
the tapestry. The individual threads carry their
own value, but when interlocked, they create
a vision much greater. Each strand on its own
simply cannot predict the beauty to which it will
be committed. In that way, every tapestry is its own
discovery, reminding me of my own work in the lab.
As she is an artisan, shaping the fate of the carpet
through the unification of thread, I am a researcher,
synthesizing my findings in the lab. Knot by knot, she
builds her masterpiece. Test by test, I build my own.
I venture into the world of pancreatic cancer research,
a forum for boundless inquiry. The problem in my
project is clear: the rapid spread of the cancer is
immensely difficult to detect at an early stage. But,
what is not so clear is how this spread can be curtailed.
I eagerly run tests and examine DNA samples.

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One test becomes two; two tests become four.
I take a breath. My answer is unclear. Does one failed
experiment equate to a false hypothesis? Is it time to
quit? That would be the easy choice. But definitely
not my choice.
I can see now that a failed experiment unlocks
truths that a series of successful replications might
have averted. By examining each of my findings
holistically, I recognize that an understanding of the
building blocks does not guarantee an answer to the
problem; it is the ability to synthesize relationships
that leads to a conclusion. The sun showers through
the bazaar, illuminating the loose-hanging threads
that surround her workshop. As I see the glistening
spools of thread that lie beyond the artisan’s
fingertips, my gaze lingers on her leathery hands:
the ruggedness embedded within them bears the
discoveries she has already created on her loom−new
patterns informed by every false start, every happy
mistake, every unexpected bleed of color. Suddenly,
I shake myself out of my reverie. It is no longer my
father’s gentle nudge that moves me; it is a glimpse
at my own hands: the youthfulness embedded within
them bears the promise of the knowledge and lessons
I have yet to absorb−the discoveries I am ready to
make, the new heights to which I am ready to soar. It
is this excitement in my heart that tells me it is time to
go.

Rush — digital image by Sabrina Grassi

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THE HUMAN SPIRIT
By Alex Gelabert

The human spirit. How does one capture such an abstract entity? It hides in plain sight, baiting its
predator to pounce.

But I saw it. I was sure this time.

It is rare to catch it off guard, rare that the lighting, surroundings, and subject merge with ease. I fiddle
hurriedly with the ISO, 100 to 200 in an outdoor setting when the sun is out. I adjust the shutter speed
to 1/15, precise for capturing motion.

It is still there.

I circle my subject until the sun is behind me, perfectly in the foreground. No shadows, no glare. I raise
the lens to the proper height, focusing and refocusing.

But now a whistle from a neighboring field breaks the serenity, and the small college clique naturally
relaxing on the grass is diverted. They gather their belongings and quickly walk towards center, out of
focus.

Joy — photograph by Ashley Hertlein

The hunt was over. The prey too elusive, the predator played.

I was discouraged. Day three of the week-long summer program and I, allegedly among the top
high school journalists, cannot take one good photograph. But that was not what really bothered me.
Photography was supposed to be in my blood. My grandfather, Papa, and his two brothers, Willy and
Edgar, my great uncles, were gifted freelance photographers. Photographs are essential to my mother’s
small business: using meaningful photos to make family-oriented videos. Why was my DNA failing
me? After three days of learning the basics of the Nikon, I forgot, on multiple occasions, to take the lens
cap off before taking pictures. I know, truly gifted.

However, I felt like I had something to live up to, a legacy of some sort. I wanted, needed to prove to
myself that I was not just a writer. I could do more than type away on my laptop.

I was more. I could be more.

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Day six. The final day of the summer program. The last chance I had to produce quality photography
for the digital newspaper. I was assigned to take stills of the film festival, to accompany a written
review of one of the feature films. My make-shift press pass for the week was not convincing enough
for theater security, so I was forced to remain in the lobby. I was forced to think like a professional
photographer, like Papa. I camped out in the corner of the deserted lobby, waiting for a shot that would
be able to do what Papa’s photos could do.

And then I saw it once again.

As festival-goers began exiting the theaters for intermission, bright lights ignited, framing the once
colorless ticket counter sign. Smiles gleamed across faces as an excited energy filled the room. The hunt
commenced.

I gripped the Nikon securely and spun the ISO dial to 1600, appropriate for indoor lighting. I adjusted
the shutter speed and light apparatus dexterously. I needed to capture raw, human emotion because
emotion is what touches hearts. Emotion is the essence of the human spirit.

I angled my camera towards the ticket booth, illuminating the clusters of people in the foreground. A
kaleidoscope of emotions filled the frame, blurred, but perfectly in focus. Families laughed. Couples
kissed. Best friends reconvened. Beauty surrounded me.

I focused, aimed, and took an uninterrupted photo.

I conquered my prey.

Son and Moon — photograph by Ashley Hertlein

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Across the Universe — acrylic painting by Sarah Conway
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ACCEPTANCE
The fluorescent screen of my phone lights my face.
As I scroll through Twitter, my stomach falls through the floor of my bedroom.
My news app is just as despairing,
And my very bones ache for the oppressed.

That night, I dream of acceptance.


A small Mexican girl clinging to her mother’s hand,
With shaky legs from miles of travel, her only possession is a pink backpack.
Stuffed to the brim with dreams of America, she slowly leaves the horrors of her past behind.

That night, I dream of acceptance.


A Syrian boy, collapsed amongst the rubble of his destroyed house,
With the sounds of war ringing in his ears, and the vision of his parents’ deaths,
His only possession is the fear that makes his body quake.

That night, I dream of acceptance.


A gay teenager, leaning against a high school locker,
With the flurry of fists raining against his face,
His only goal is to get through the day.

That night, I dream of acceptance.


An older me, a woman at her first real job,
I dream that I will receive equal pay,
And I will not have to fight like the brave women who marched when I was seventeen.

That night, I dream of acceptance.


A New York where the Statue of Liberty is permitted
That opens her arms and protects the hundreds of thousands
Who are searching, aching, and craving a better life.
— Isabella Pace

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THAT BLANKET
You’re two years old.
That blanket was a gift.
Covered in teddy bears,
You don’t fully grasp the concept yet,
But all you know
Is that you need a blanket.
You can’t sleep without it;
You can’t eat without it;
You can’t play on the playground without it because
It’s all yours.

Searching — photograph by Ashley Hertlein

Five years old.


That blanket
Gave shelter, warmth, and comfort.
Behold the power to shield you from any monster or any unwanted thoughts.
When the biggest problem in life was someone else using that periwinkle blue crayon that you
wanted during recess,
But there was no question
Because it was there for you,
Attached at the hip.
It went everywhere with you.
Your best friend,
That blanket.

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Eight years old.
That blanket
Hidden away under the bed whenever someone came over because you’re eight now,
You’re not supposed to need that blanket
Even when your mom walks in and sees it lying there on the bed-
It’s immediately tucked away,
Trying to prove that you’re a big kid now.
Supposed to be cool.
Having the coolest toys,
Having the coolest posters,
Having the coolest pencil case in school,
But only you know
That when you had the worst day of fourth grade
You hugged that blanket all night.

Thirteen years old.


That blanket
Now in a secret spot.
To let anyone else know you still have your “blankey”
Is social suicide.

You’re sixteen years old.


You’ve grown incredibly
And the blanket is still there.
It remains in that secret spot without seeing the light of day.
You think about it from time to time
To reminisce or look back on,
And you can’t help but find it a little funny that you still have it,
But you’re up there standing and talking in front of the class telling them about this blankey,
A little unsure but also fulfilled because you know it was a part of you.
You still love that blanket.
You remember every time that blanket was there for you.
Your best friend,
Your secret,
Your last remaining part of childhood,
A diary before you even knew how to write:
That blanket.
— Mikayla Cooper

Agapae 2017 35
CAPTURING TECHNOLOGY
By Kaela Kilfoil

“Smile, Faith!” I capture the confused stare of my best friend; her eyes focus as I assume my
peculiar stance, camera in hand. Faith continues to walk backwards on the flat JFK escalator, prompting
my friend, Dominique, to take a seat, tears streaming down her face at the conditional amusement.
These are the moments in life that matter, the authenticity worth remembering. Technology has allowed
for the capture of these moments when my memory failed. From photography, to videography, to the
simplicity of writing, I can enhance the highlights of my life, and share them with the world.

My parents have taught me the importance of living in the moment. Recognizing this,
I have taken it upon myself to capture memories and create forms that are permanent and
impossibly fleeting. The stories are written, the photos taken, and the videos made; they do not
focus on “me” as the selfie phenomenon has imposed, but rather, the experiences while living.

A smile emerges.
The smile fades.
I reflect.

Agapae 2017 36
I’m watching a video I made during a trip to Ireland for my family reunion. In the background
you can see cliffs, their heavenly appearance yet deathly downfall, and my dad, his back to the rare
sun’s rays. His inevitable eye rolls appear irritated at the sight of my cellphone again. I brush it off as
he begins to complain, questioning what happened to the old days of enjoying moments and sending a
written postcard. I explain to not only my father, but many, how documentation can be in multiple forms.
I, too, appreciate classical writing. I still treasure the first diary I kept as a 2nd grader. Those thoughts
and experiences would never be remembered if I hadn’t composed them into written form. What my
father failed to realize, however, was how that power developed into something greater. Through
technology, our memories could now be seen; they were no longer just thoughts scratched on paper.

Phoney Phone Calls — digital image by Sarah Conway

Pictures are worth a thousand words, and videos are worth a million. I always knew the true beauty
of technology, even when others couldn’t see it. The days turn to months, and the months turn to years.
Those times appear so distant and faded until we look back at the documentation of the past. The laughs
and quirky behaviors flood black, filling our minds and hearts with the happiness of those moments.

I want to thank my second grade diary from the Book Fair, my first smartphone my mom ever
bought me, and the first YouTube video I ever made. I will never forget who I was at those times, and I
am glad, for they make me who I am.

Agapae 2017 37
Tiny Dancer — digital media by Lauren Suttenberg
Break Through — multimedia collage by April Cerami

Agapae 2017 38
HAPPINESS
Happiness is two small hands
Reaching towards the sky,
Seeing a rainbow for the first time,
Pretending you can fly,

Finger paint and baby dolls,


Sand castles at the beach,
The first sign of summer,
Tasting a juicy peach,

Smiling from ear to ear,


Imagination running wild.
There is no sweeter sound
Than the laughter of a child.

— Jacqueline Baxter

A WORLD ALONE
I dream of a world with peace,
One where the sky is clear and
no worries are near,
And one does not have to protest to
prove a point.
A world that accepts everyone with open arms
and loves one another for one and not one’s worth.
I dream of a world with vibrancy,
a world with undaunted citizens like Martin Luther King Jr.
when he dreamed a dream.
A world with lionhearted people who have no fears.
I dream of a world without fault,
and a world without imperfection.
Because a world without flaws,
is not a world for me.

— Gianna Gotti

Agapae 2017 39
AGAPAE is the official literary-art magazine of Oyster Bay High School: Ms. Sharon Lasher, Principal;
Ms. Lara Gonzalez, Assistant Principal; Mr. Tim McCarthy, Assistant Principal. It is published by
the authority of the Board of Education once a year and distributed free of charge. Entries may be
submitted to our editors; judgments are made blindly and based solely on merit. We would like to
thank all the writers and artists for submitting their work, as there were so many excellent pieces.

We heartily thank the Board of Education and the Administration


for making it possible to publish our magazine.

BOARD OF EDUCATION
SUPERINTENDENT OF SCHOOLS

Jennifer Romeo, President
Laura
Seinfeld, Ed. D.
John McEvoy, Vice President
ASSISTANT SUPERINTENDENT FOR
Michael
Castellano,
MD CURRICULUM, INSTRUCTION, AND ASSESSMENT
Todd Cronin
Lisa Mulhall, Ed. D.
Robin Dando

Laurie Kowalsky
ASSISTANT SUPERINTENDENT FOR
FINANCE AND OPERATIONS
Ann Marie Longo
Michael Cipriani

ASSISTANT BUSINESS OFFICIAL
Ryan Butler

Belle — acrylic painting by Sarah Conway

This magazine was printed by William Charles Printing using a Palatino font on 70lb. Paperfect
opaque smooth stock. Cover produced on an 80 lb. gloss cover. Macintosh computers were used in
the production of the manuscript as well as for the photographs of the art. Four hundred copies were
printed for this edition.

Agapae 2017 40