Wednesday, March 22, 2017

March Sadness

March came like a lion and we hope it will exit like a lamb. Even though March Madness brackets are turning into a bust, hopefully the wonderful March entrees will stop all the fuss. As the snow begins to melt and the basketball comes to a close, read these to settle your woes!

Journey Into Oblivion

We are humans
Who constantly journey into oblivion.
We are unaware,

Everyday we journey
Into a cavern swallowed by darkness,
With no flashlight,
With no knowledge of how to spark a fire
So that we can see.

Our society does not see.
We are too constantly tangled in oblivion and darkness,
And we have come to accept these arms
That wrap around us,
Keeping us from venturing out.

Rarely do we journey outside the caverns,
Into the light,
So we can see,
See past the rock walls conjured by society,
See what is really going on in the world.

However, there are a few people
Who have ripped holes in the oblivion
To see the light,
And journey outside the dark caverns.
These people are immune to oblivion.
They are aware,


by Gemma L., Grade 9

Infographic by Callie C., Grade 9

Works Cited
Boesler, Matthew. "Bottled Water Costs 2000 Times as Much as Tap Water." Business Insider, 12 July 2013, Accessed 1 Mar. 2017.

"Bottled Water Facts." Ban the Bottle, Accessed 27 Feb. 2017.

"Bottle Water Is Wasteful." The Water Project, Water Project, Accessed 27 Feb. 2017.

Goldschein, Eric. "15 Outrageous Facts about the Bottled Water Industry." Business Insider, 27 Oct. 2011, Accessed 27 Feb. 2017.

Schriever, Norm. "Plastic Water Bottles Causing Flood of Harm to Our Environment." The Huffington Post, Huffington Post,

artwork by Morgan D'Angelo, Grade 9

I Bee-gan a Fight

It was a secret I kept for fourteen years. It was something that I prayed they would not tell my mom.
I sat on an uneven, giant, dark blue rug on the floor crissed-crossed-apple-sauced just in front of the light brown cubbies that were coated with a thick layer of shiny plastic. I waited patiently (well as patient as a preschooler could be) playing with my bleach blonde hair, blinking my crystal blue eyes, and laughing with my friends in an oval. We were just about to have craft time. I loved craft time. I was awfully good at it too, if I do say so myself. I spotted frizzy brown hair floating towards me, gently bobbing up and down like a buoy in the ocean. It was Miss Emily bringing over Elmer's white craft glue and yellow construction paper. I became eyelevel with a stack of paper plates and a tube full of googly eyes. I was immediately intrigued.
I guessed loudly to my friends what we were going to make. I distinctly remember saying, “A bee! We are going to make a bee paper plate!" At this time, I heard other guesses from the wild beasts across the room. Each one trying to top the next answer. A snail, a finger painting project, and a ladybug plate were the most notable. The ladybug plate was said by another little girl across the room named Regina.
Miss Emily hushed our eager bodies moving her hands like she was petting an invisible creature and said, "That's right Regina! We are going to be making a bee paper plate!" I was so excited! I really wanted to make that bee. Craft time was my favorite time of the day (besides snack and recess) but I was especially pumped to make this project. But then, reality sunk in. Miss Emily, my own teacher, had betrayed me. She had given MY credit to Regina. Sirens warped in my head, a warning bell dinging. This was wrong.
I sprouted up as fast as Jack's beanstalk and  immediately shouted, "Hey! Wait! I guessed that! I said we were going to make a bee." I drifted slowly down to my knees. I had just used my outdoor voice inside. This was unacceptable. But I knew that I had bigger problems at the moment. My credit, my shining moment, was brutally stolen from right under me. My face was newly tattooed with a small frown.
Regina stood up and pointed, "Miss Emily! Katie is lying. I said that. She said we were going to make a ladybug!" My face became as red as a firetruck even though I had no reason to be. I was never accused of lying by my own friend before. My jaw dropped ten feet.
All of the sudden, Prince Charming came in riding on his royal horse. A little boy with brown eyes, black hair, who was slightly smaller than me named Mark rose from his spot on the rug.
"Miss Emily, I am pretty sure Katie said we were making a bee. Regina is the one who is lying." Mark humbly muttered, his hanging towards the floor playing with his thumbs like one would a video game. My face returned to its natural color. However, my reign was short lived. Regina stormed over to Miss Emily and not using her indoor voice shouted,
"NO! I said that we were going to make the bee! I said it! I said it! I said it! Do I look like a person who would . . . would . . . lie? I mean seriously. I never lie. Ever. Ask my mom. In fact, if you call me a liar, I'll tell her. And you wouldn't want that would you? Because then that could get you in trouble Miss Emily."
"Katie! Get in the corner!" Shouted Miss Emily. "You lied and lying is wrong. You should not gain credit for something that you didn't do."
"But . . . but . . . Miss Emily . . . I . . . I didn't lie. I said that we were making a bee . . ." I mumbled.
"Katie, that is not nice. You are talking back to an adult and lying. Get in the corner. You are not going to be joining us in craft time today." She sternly said. The deed was done. I could do nothing but stand there in disbelief.
I picked up the broken pieces of myself and carried them in a bucket of sorrow. The walk of shame. My fellow classmates, playmates, friends, all bowing their heads to me -- not in respect but in disappointment.
I stood at the wall near the stand of picture books with familiar faces. These were not welcoming. Everything was foreign. So I lowered by body gently to the floor on the grey tile with multi-colored speckles and I looked straight ahead.
What would my mom think of this? She can not know. Ever.
My soft, light hands caressed my head. My feet shrunk in towards my stomach. My head sunk to my knees. My blonde hair became my safety blanket. The pose of shame.
"Katie, you are allowed to read in time out. Here is a newspaper." Miss Emily told me with a forgiving smile that was all unpleasant to me. "Read." she said, "Now."
I took the adult paper and stared at the scribbles. Torture. "This is punishment," I told myself, "Bad Katie. You should have just kept quiet. Now look what you have done. You can't even make the bee anyway."
The paper became blurry. The paper became wet. I was crying. Red eyes, swollen cheeks, and crying. The cry of shame.
Just as fast as it happened, it was over. The crying, the pose, the walk, the craft, the day. I picked up my backpack, wiping away the stale tears and I made sure it didn’t look like I had been crying.
"Miss Emily, please don't tell my mom." I said. She did not respond.
 To this day I do not know if she heard me or if she did not. All I know is that my mom did not know about this incident until about two months ago when I was in the car with my friend and we were telling stories about preschool. When I first told my mom she did not believe me. She told me that she would have done something about it and my teacher would have told her but then I reminded her that she also did not know about the next day when I hit Regina or any of the other times when I was a bad girl and Miss Emily didn't want to share. . .
This experience was tragic for me. However, the whole incident was so important. Not just because of what happened to me in that small preschool room, but what I gained. I did not receive credit for what I said. I realized that if you focus on what you do and do not do it for the credit you will receive, then you can move forward. When you receive credit because the goal was to receive credit, you stay in the same place you were. You do not move back because you still accomplished it but you do not ever get to move forward. I challenge you to move forward. See how it changes you.
Miss Emily, I am sure does not remember anything about this but who is to say that it is not true. Besides, this is only one of the many stories I have to tell about this class and Mark . . .

by Katie Q., Grade 9

This month's recipe is for the Shamrock Shake, compliments of our chef/editor Emily W.  

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