Find the shape and tell it!
All Students: Be sure to read the entries for this group --September writers). Everyone is required to comment on at least THREE different pieces of writing. You must submit comments
on Canvas (for each one, include the name of the author and the title
of their piece, and then your positive, specific comment ) by Friday, October 11 on Canvas.
I often asked myself while growing up, 'What’s the difference between prioritizing myself and selfishness?' I still don’t know the answer. Most kids are taught at a young age that, to be a good person, you have to prioritize others. And although being selfless is a good quality, it has landed me in some tough situations. Should I share my favorite colored pencils with them? Should I defend them in an argument? Should I give up a great opportunity for them? Answering these questions becomes more difficult as I grow and become more complex. And I am not ashamed to admit that it is sometimes stressful, and I sometimes ask for help. However, I have encountered a situation that has made me realize that I need to be "selfish" because I'm only living as one person, and I need to prioritize myself.
In 2023, my junior year of high school, I decided to join a new program on Etiwanda High School's campus, the Etiwanda Marching Eagle Regiment. From an outsider's perspective, the marching band has a strong stigma held by many students on campus, and I don't blame them. It is a scary environment to be in as a new member, especially when you don't know anyone. Luckily for me and my outgoing personality, it did not take long before I made connections with my fellow color guards and band members. In such a short time, the MER became my second family. Knowing that I joined as a junior in comparison to my peers who were already three or four-year members, I worked hard in fear of falling behind in comparison. While balancing my role on the volleyball team, I made a strong effort to be at every color guard practice and event. There were times when I was physically and mentally drained, but in that moment, keeping up was all that mattered. Thankfully, my efforts did not go unnoticed, and that same year I made the varsity winterguard team as a first-year member. This news made all my worries seem small and made for a great winter season. As the end of winter guard season approached, there was a new hot topic floating around the MER: leadership auditions. Left and right, every color guard member's conversation was somehow connected to the question of who our next color guard captains would be. From an outsider's perspective, captains are not a big deal, but one thing I learned was that captains were a big deal within the color guard. The thought of auditioning for captain did not entertain my mind because it is rare for a new member like myself to earn a captain position. In addition, I had friends who were auditioning, and I would have hated to see them not get the position if I had gotten it. But shortly after, with some small convincing and peers displaying how much they wanted me to audition, I caved in and auditioned. In the back of my mind, I did want to be captain, but I did not want to entertain the idea because it was a bold thought as a new member. Later that month, my peers and I auditioned for captain and other leadership positions. That night of our auditions, I sat at the dinner table with my family celebrating my grandparent's birthday, unable to get that twisted and sick feeling out of my stomach because of how nervous I was. I was already mentally prepared to find out I did not get the role, but what I wasn't able to prepare myself for was the possibility that I could get the role but not my friend. The bright screen lit up by the notification I received in the dark restaurant where I sat was where my journey began to learn how to prioritize myself. Seeing that list of names who earned leadership positions that night with my name being identified as a captain but not my friends was exactly what I feared in the back of my mind. Looking back, I wish I could have truly celebrated my accomplishment of becoming captain, but I was too focused on the thought that I had just broken my friend’s heart. There was nothing I could do but now fulfill the role I have been given by my coaches. Up until the end of August of my senior year, I felt like I had to walk around eggshells with this person in fear that I would say something insensitive because they didn't get the role. I constantly felt bad for this person and worried about how they viewed me despite them still being my friend. All those feelings stopped when I was told by many people that this “friend” of mine was talking bad about me behind my back. They said how I didn't deserve the role and how I only got on varsity for silly reasons. I confronted this person and told them how it made me feel. I hoped that it gave them the closure they needed, but it also gave me closure. It made me realize that it's ok to want something, especially when you earn it. But in their eyes, I'm probably selfish for taking the opportunity from them. I was so caught up in the thought that this person was hurt because of something that I earned that I did not get to celebrate myself. Little did I know, this person that I put before myself was also the one criticizing me behind my back.
Everyone in life will come to a point where they will choose to put someone before themselves, that is ok. It is human nature to nurture the things we love and care most about, but we cannot get lost in it. Oftentimes people will make the mistake like I did of prioritizing someone or something that doesn't benefit them. If someone calls you selfish, it's most likely because you did something that did not go the way they wanted. Everyone, including myself, needs to learn the difference between being selfish and prioritizing yourself. Everyone can do one thing differently today that will be beneficial to themselves, whether it's something they think or do. Although this was a small moment in my life where I realized that I needed to prioritize myself, it has opened up a way of thinking that will hopefully help me in the future as I continue to grow.
Dirty blonde hair, round hazel eyes, rough tan skin. My brother is everything I'm not in the best ways possible; He’s the epitome of everything I'm not. It’s March of 2015, I'm seven years old and pacing back and forth in the narrow, white-walled hallway upstairs on the dirty tan carpet between mine and my mother’s room. She’s using the pregnancy test my dad bought 20 minutes ago. During childhood, anxiety was constantly a silent issue that hit me like a million bullets at once. It was a struggle not to cry, not to bite my nails, not to scream whenever I got random butterflies in my stomach; Waiting for my mother’s test results was no different. I go into my small purple room to find something to do because my nails are too short to bite, my fingers too raw, and the urge to vomit is too overwhelming. It’s not that I didn’t want a sibling, I had begged my mom for one because of how lonely I had felt all seven years of my life; It was the fear of accepting another in our house and wondering if he would like me or not. I throw up my purple comforter and take out a puzzle I had done a 100 times before from under my twin bed. As I sit on the floor surrounded by the spilled contents of the puzzle box, time feels so slow, and the room feels too stuffy as I pick at the edges of the cardboard puzzle pieces trying to relax. Suddenly my dad calls me from their room to announce I'll be having a sibling soon.
Month by month, day by day I watch and observe as my mother’s stomach grows and my father's workdays get longer. Every day was different with her emotions, I never really knew what to expect. It made me laugh a little bit to see how easily pregnancy can change you, but also showed me the importance of sympathy. While everyone laughed at her or made faces, my job was to understand and be there for her in any way I could. It didn’t matter if she was crying because fish had been baked instead of grilled, or if she wanted to explore every museum in LA to show her excitement for life. Doctors' appointments, lots of food, lots of sleep were repeated monthly until the final week of the 9-month mark. My mothers’ due date is so close that excitement is spilling out of me, I can’t contain it. Finally, the day to welcome my baby brother is here. I wait and pace for my brother to enter the world to be displayed to me. I can’t wait to see him, to meet him. How can you have a connection with something you’ve only touched through layers? How can you love something you don’t even know? But I did know him, I dreamed of him; I have always been ready to love and care for him. A bloody, crying baby enters the room next to my sweaty mother. He's beautiful, he reminds me of the sun bringing a warm feeling of light to me. So small, so magnificent, the true embodiment of innocence.
My moment of amazement is soon interrupted by the baby’s cry. Throughout the months following, the baby would continue to cry all day and all night. My other family would taunt us by saying he had strong vocal cords; My neighbors would laugh at us saying we had strong minds for being able to fight through that soon enough for his nickname to become chucky. The truth is, we didn’t. Too many sleepless nights passed, too many showers filled with tears, nails too bitten down because the baby would not stop crying. My brother was so hard to soothe, so hard to understand that I grew so unsure of myself as a sister or daughter because whatever I did would only make him cry. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t help my parents, was I even fit to help myself and be useful? The constant worry surrounded me for weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking of myself as a burden to everyone around me. Two years have passed, he's about two and a half; He is learning to speak. He still cries but not as often, although that didn’t reduce the hanging feeling of burden from me. One day, he finds me sitting on the floor, crying in my room over trivial things too little to remember. He wobbles over to me, “Why are you crying?” “I don't know” I answered, because I couldn’t find the words to express the emotions gnawing at me. “You don’t have to cry, you are okay” he responds as he sits and hugs me tight enough to smell his easing strawberry shampoo. He said nothing else as he sat and observed the small purple room while comforting me. He had no reason and could've left me, but he didn't. A little boy understood sympathy and lack of judgment so young, it amazed me. It made me feel so loved. As I got older, my sympathy for others or ability to understand people faded while his only grew, and being able to watch that happen pushed me to learn about interactions and people more. Making people happy soon made me happy, learning the best ways to approach people made me feel better about myself because I see how effortlessly he does it for himself. My anxiety soon started to fade as my confidence rose, he changed me.
His easy kindness and welcoming smile at nine years old has always invited people instead of intimidating others into judgment, it is beautiful. I wanted to have that for myself as well, to glisten as brightly as he did in any room. Now with his dirty blonde hair, round hazel eyes, rough tan skin, my brother is everything I'm not in the best ways possible. He is the epitome of everything I wish to learn and become, my sun boy.
I have been afraid of the dark for as long as I can remember. My brothers would tease me for it, push me into the dark closet and hold the door shut. Sometimes I would hit the door relentlessly with my fist, my fist that had not yet learned how to hold a pencil. Sometimes my eyes would well with tears, my eyes that didn’t know how to read yet. Sometimes my mouth would tremble and scream, a mouth that spewed improper vocabulary and sentences; And they found it funny, but my heart, a heart so sensitive and fragile, broke. The sibling teasing never stopped, but as I grew older and my fist, my eyes, my mouth, and my heart a little wiser, I could act brave and fib that I wasn’t afraid. I still ponder whether I was lying to them or myself.
As I got older the fear didn't leave. I would enjoy my days at school and extracurriculars, but as the hours of the day passed my anxiety of what was to come would heighten. The most dreaded moment for me was bedtime when my family would retire for the night and there I was stuck in my room, contemplating how bright was safe enough. I would lay down and get up to adjust the light, go back into my covers, close my eyes, and again I would get up to adjust the safety of the light, over and over again as if it was compulsive. It was a repetitive cycle that had such a grasp on me.
Many people consider the fears of children to be silly or not worth paying attention to because they too had their fears dismissed as the afflictions of the world corrupted their innocence. This is just the way of the world, disregarding these irrational childhood fears. My parents and many of us too have forgotten what it is to be terrified of something others consider silly. I would always fiddle with the switch of my bedroom light, as I turned it right, brightness would envelope the room and when I turned it left, it brought to light the fears I had not yet faced. As a result of my fear, I would constantly wake my parents throughout the night. In that moment, they would rub their eyes, take a deep breath, praying for a patience I didn't understand, and would ultimately ask me one thing; “What do you want me to do?” Everytime they asked me that question I never knew what to answer. In a perspective of reflection, I now think that deep within the swells of my soul I craved a protection and comfort I could not communicate, nor would it be provided as I had now become a “Big Kid”. So they put me back to bed and leave the light dim, and it was when the light was dim that I concluded my fear of the dark was the fear of being alone. That dim light didn't protect me from the horrors of the night like my Dad would, or comfort me and shield me from the moving shadows as my Step-Mom would. So there I was, trapped in a state of fear. A fear my family recognized as irrational, but still had such a control on me, the lights went out and the thumping of my heart in my ears would become overwhelmingly apparent.
The first time I slept with the light off was because I was grounded, Seven year old me had told a small lie I can’t even remember but I remember the consequence vividly. That night I wasn't allowed to sleep with the light on, with the door cracked, or with my small night light. I begged my step-mom not to shut the door, not to leave me alone in the pitch black of night- but she did. It was there I cried, certain that some monster would come for me. Eventually my pleas for help became gentle snores only a child could exude. When I woke up the next morning, unharmed, and untouched, it became clear that I was in a way my own monster, creating an atmosphere so vast and dark in my mind that it haunted me. I was my fear.
Even now as I sleep with the lights off, my heart still races and my adrenaline rushes as I navigate my way to my bed at night, still irrational and afraid of the monsters that could be there. When the shadows shift I still curl deeper into my covers, I close my eyes in a childish hope that if I don't see it, “it” won’t see me, and instead of praying for patience like my parents did, I pray for courage that is not my own. Albeit, I will be the first to admit that on nights where my sister isn't in her room next to mine and instead she's out growing into a pre-teen and enjoying sleepovers, and she's not there where we both have our doors open and I can hear her silence turn to snores, or her final “I love you sissy! Good night” I’ll sleep with a night light on. I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's because I don't have to be the brave big sister or maybe it is because my fear has always been of being alone. Maybe my fear has always been of being alone, because when I am alone, I am afraid.
Santiago Franco (b. 2007)
The Puzzle of Death, 2024
Inspiration:
The literary work that inspired my piece was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows by J.K. Rowling. This book inspired me to recreate the Deathly Hallows since I was very intrigued by the fairytale feel that the Deathly Hallows had. A tale of three artifacts that were seen as the most powerful in the world and if a single person were to possess and master them at the same time, they would become the master of death.
Meaning:
My artwork represents the journey and meaning of the Deathly Hallows. The artwork illustrates what each one represents as well as how they can be seen as pieces of a puzzle to a much larger goal. This relates to the book since Harry Potter himself was the only person in history to ever master all three of the Deathly Hallows.
Medium:
I made a painting to represent this idea because a painting could capture a big picture with a lot of niche details to represent different aspects of the idea. I added visual descriptions of what each artifact does as well as seven lightning bolts to represent the 7 books of the Harry Potter series. A painting can also be seen as a puzzle itself much like the Deathly Hallows with every stroke of the brush being a piece of the final completed painting.
Message:
The emotion that the painting is intended to convey is curiosity since several aspects of the painting represent puzzles as well as use for the artifacts beyond uniting them. The Deathly Hallows when united make their possessor the “Master of Death” if they have mastered each one and successfully collect them. However each on has its own ability like the Invisibility Cloak gives you the ability to hide from your enemies, the Resurrection Stone allows you to revive the dead, and the Elder Wand grants you the power to defeat any wizard with that wand.
The wheels touched down in Manchester, and a ripple of excitement buzzed through the team. It was the start of something new. A trip that had us, a group of soccer enthusiasts who were teammates, coming together to experience Summer days in Europe. While the purpose of the trip was to train, play, and win, it was difficult to ignore the fact that, for now, we were simply teammates here for this sole purpose. I didn’t know then that the girls around me would soon become my sisters.
The first few days flew by. We spent our time on the field, running drills and perfecting plays in the crisp English air, as we prepped for games against local teams. Gaining knowledge and tips from the academy coaches. We explored the streets of Manchester, taking in the historic sceneries, along with the atmosphere of a city that breathes fútbol, the proper way of saying Soccer. London was our next stop, with its iconic stadiums and vibrant streets, but it wasn’t until we touched down in Madrid that I felt the real magic of the trip beginning to unfold.
Madrid’s warmth and humidity hit me as soon as I stepped off the plane along with the sun, the energy of the city, and the buzzing language that allowed me to fit right in. I felt alive, after the gloomy days in England where we all had lost our Summer tan. This was the part of the trip I had been waiting for. We were all ready for the heat of real competition following the strict schedule of training and games we had endured in the UK.
The first morning in Madrid, we met down in the hotel lobby to make our way to the training grounds outside the city. Atletico Madrid’s facility stretched out in every direction, the dry Spanish heat radiating off the turf as we ran our warm-ups. For the first time, I noticed how we moved together as a team, no longer just a group of individual players, but a cohesive unit. Every pass, every sprint brought us closer, not just as teammates, but as sisters. After each day on the field, we’d explore the city, walking through the winding streets, marveling at the architecture of the Royal Palace and grabbing churros with hot melted chocolate from a local café. Our conversations shifted from soccer strategies to life stories. Late-night talks in the hotel rooms filled with endless laughter became a ritual. We all would pile into one room, collapsing into laughter over inside jokes that had grown in the few days we’d spent together. It wasn’t long before I realized that these girls had become more than just teammates I shared the field with. They were becoming family.
The moments that stuck with me weren’t only the goals we scored or the stadiums we toured. It was the quiet moments, when someone grabbed my hand to pull me up after a hard tackle, or when we huddled in the back of the bus, leaning on each other, too exhausted to speak but comfortable in each other’s presence. It was a bond that transcended through soccer.
Madrid brought something deeper than just the thrill of competition. After one of our last games there, as we all were about to board the bus, the cheers from our parents started to grow loud. As I entered the bus, I looked up and saw a tunnel forming. A familiar sight from my childhood days of rec league soccer. Back then, after every game, parents would line up, hands held high, creating a tunnel that we would sprint through, all laughter and joy. It was a tradition that marked the end of every game, a small celebration that turned ordinary matches into a core memory. This time, the once familiar tunnel appeared, made up of parents and loved ones cheering us on once again, their hands linked to form a path for us. At that moment, I had a flashback to those early days. The smell of the freshly cut grass, the feel of my oversized jersey, and the sound of my parents calling my name as I sprinted through the tunnel, grinning from ear to ear ready to get my goodie bag. Back then, soccer was pure joy, and not just competition or pressure. It was just a game, something that brought people together, and that feeling had found its way back to me, halfway across the world.
As I ran through the tunnel in Madrid, surrounded by my teammates, I realized that soccer had come back to me in a full circle moment. The tunnel wasn’t just about a game we had played that day. It was about the journey we had all been on, starting as just teammates, unsure of what this trip would hold, and ending as a family, united by a bond deeper than the sport we loved. Madrid wasn’t just another city on the map. It was the place where we became more than a team. It was where we laughed so hard in the hotel rooms that our sides would start to hurt profusely, where we pushed through exhaustion on the field and lifted each other up when one of us had dropped our heads. It was the place where we became one.
That tunnel was a reminder of where I started—those early days of running through tunnels after rec league games, with my family on the sidelines, and the simple joy of being part of something bigger. And now, years later, standing in Madrid, I have found a new family. These girls, who had once been strangers I nervously met at tryouts, were now people I knew I could rely on both on and off the field.
The lesson I learned from this trip is that soccer has always been more than just a game. It’s a bridge between people. It’s the shared sweat and determination on the field, but it’s also the laughs in hotel rooms and the conversations about life. It’s the tunnel of hands that reminds you of where you began and how far you’ve come. Strangers can become family when you open yourself to the shared experiences, the challenges, and the joys that bring you together. For me, soccer was the key that unlocked that connection, and this trip was where that transformation became real.
Europe Video Recap:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1PzxpSIrj_gedod5SszPuvjiGphs0iXnB/view?usp=sharing
This year, during the last two weeks of June, my family and I were fortunate enough to take a vacation to Bali, Indonesia. Upon arrival in Bali, I was pretty clueless about the adventures and lessons to come. We were greeted by our driver and his young son. The driver went to pull up the car and left his son to help us out. This little boy was around 10 years old and even though we had not learnt any Balinese and he did not speak english, he reminded me of the innocence me and my siblings used to once had. We talked through hand gestures we both were all able to understand, and connect even though we had barely met. When we actually started driving to the house we were staying at, there were motorcycles everywhere on the road. Never in my life would I ever imagined being surrounded by motorcycle traffic. It was definitely a mind blowing sight to see. The driver however explained that there's a method to the madness and people respect each other enough to have an organized chaos. Anyways, we ended up getting lost, seeing some cows in a random green field, finally finding the right house, and that is where we met Sophia. Sophia was the name of our first AirBnB host. She seemed to be in her early thirties and she was absolutely amazing at making us all feel welcomed in the new environment. She said she moved to Bali when she was in her twenties and stayed for the people. I didn’t really know what she meant but I soon found out.
Throughout the trip, we met our tour guide Wayan who drove us to all of the sites and temples while sharing the stories of the land. On one of the drives, my mom pointed out how we didn’t see any homeless people during the duration of the trip. Wayan replied saying that it is because in Bali everyone cares for each other and their core values include helping their family and neighbors when needed. It was such a shock since here in California we have one of the biggest homeless populations. We also saw these values of caring for others in person when we went to various restaurants. Every single local we met had the warmest smile, took time to teach us their language, and shared genuine conversations. My brother got sick for a couple of days while we were staying in Ubud. We were all devastated because he had to stay back at the house with one of my parents while my sister and I went with the other into the village. However, the AirBnB staff was so kind and cared for my brother by picking up coconuts for him to hydrate, getting him medicine, and even decorating his room for his birthday since he could not go out. This was so heartwarming to us all because it was just so heartwarming of them to go out of their way to help us out and make his experience more enjoyable.
We also experienced kindness from locals whenever we said we were from California. In Bali, they have many tourists from Australia or Europe but not that many from the United States. However, whenever we said we were from California all their responses were “Oh like Hotel California”. One particular night, my family and I were walking down the dark streets lit up by the restaurants when we passed by this one outdoor restaurant with a live singer. There was nobody else eating at the restaurant and we had already ate but the music called us to go in for some drinks. There, the singer took time to ask us where we were from and sang “Hotel Bali-fornia” for us. This will forever be a core memory for me. Everyone we met was so genuinely curious about our stories as we were theirs. My family and I learned about their culture, offerings, and ceremonies. It was just an amazing two weeks of just appreciating human connection and taking the time to get to know other people.
In all, my experience in Bali is best remembered by the people and stories I got to know. I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to talk to people who spend their lives helping each other out, giving to others, and just being kind. Wayan, the best tour guide in the world, summed it up best by saying “Less drama, more karma”.
Saida Cherradi (b. 2007)
Hidden Compartment, (2024)
Leather Diagram
The aspect of the literary work of the story “The Human Chair” that had inspired me to make my piece is about a chair with a human inside. The reason why it inspired me is because the way the story was starting off is as though the person in the chair was speaking of past experiences of his obsessions through a letter. In the letter the obsessions had soon developed with more twisted thought. And the way the writer had constructed the story makes the audience forget the relevance of the man’s experience in the chair. This caused a creative opening for a big twist, of the man being in the house of the person reading the letter. The meaning of my artwork in comparison to the literary source is the representation of the chair the man lived in. There’s food crumbs and bags showing that he had stayed for so long, as he was able to stay for months in the literary source. The materials used were leather, cardboard, memory foam, wrappers, paper, paint, masking tape, string, and a needle. The techniques I used were to create scaffolding with cardboard, and cover it with memory foam for the bases. And for the arm parts of the chair, I had filled the leather with memory foam and sewed it, then attached it to the base. The message behind the artwork is to put out the ominous feeling as though someone had been there. Just as the looming presence of the man in the chair had in the story.
The book that I decided to review for this writing is Appointment With Death, by Agatha Christie. In this murder mystery, Dr. Sarah King encounters the Boynton family among a party of people during a vacation trip in Cairo, where she and her group tour around the city of Petra. The family, despite their reclusive nature, appears quite normal at first. That is until the sudden death of the Boynton matriarch, Old Lady Emily Boynton. It is only then that it comes to light that everyone within the Boynton family had resentments towards the old woman due to her controlling and abusive nature.
This launches into one of the key themes of the story: the nuance of justice. While the death of Mrs. Boynton is shocking to the family, they are essentially freed of her tyranny and able to pursue the future that they always wanted for themselves; however, justice demands that whoever murdered Mrs. Boynton is still subject to the law, regardless of their intentions, with the current suspect naturally lying within everyone in the tour group, namely those of the Boynton family. Conversely, one could argue that Mrs. Boynton’s cruel nature made her death deserved, leaving whoever killed Mrs. Boynton free of charge. It is through this position that Christie questions the validity of pursuing justice on an ethical scale, where the justification of ends and means dictates the ability of one to maintain their peace and conscience. The idea of moral justice and legal justice has been a long standing argument in terms of which one should precede the other, making this book an excellent portrayal of the dynamic overall. While the Boynton family is seen to be the group that could potentially lose their peace, the contender for justice is found to be Hercule Poirot, a character who famously appears throughout Christie’s works as the detective. He introduces a medium through which both moral and legal justice are appealed to, with him trying to identify the murderer while trying to cause as little damage to the family as possible.
Throughout this, the family as a whole continues to struggle under the influence of Mrs. Boynton’s oppression even after her death. This is another key theme that Christie imploys into her work: the concept of closure. Although it seems like the family is free following Mrs. Boynton’s death, the disconnect between the limited freedom they were able to enjoy when under Mrs. Boynton and the sudden liberty that the family is faced with leaves them at a loss. It is through this that Christie explores the active and resulting effects of psychological abuse, and how it cannot be simply cut off. This also serves as an underlying reiteration of the fact that every member of the Boynton family had some grounds to murder Mrs. Boynton.
When it comes to the story as a mystery, it excellently incorporates elements throughout the narrative such as red herrings, specifically in the context of unreliable narrators. This helps portray the humanity of the characters through the errors in their judgment along with the appeals they make to their internal biases. This maintains a level of wariness between the reader and characters, making it important for the validity of any and all statements to be scrutinized instead of simply accepting the information as fact.
One of Christie's strongest techniques is the use of omniscient narration and direct language in dialogue to allow the reader to observe several perspectives, and although one might assume solving the mystery becomes trivial with multiple perspectives, this is anything but the case. This narration style serves as a double edged sword since it helps flesh out the characters throughout the story, but it also buries a majority of the important information that leads to the solution. That being said, it goes without saying that a natural interest in mystery is somewhat in order for an individual to enjoy this story as with any mystery novel. A way that writers such as Christie often mitigate this requirement is by employing subplots that appeal to various readers such as romance and the previously mentioned psychological dynamics. However, if the story itself were only valued in terms of these secondhand elements rather than the overall story, enjoyment of the book would certainly wane. Even from the perspective of someone who enjoys mystery, the satisfaction of the solutions to a majority of Christie’s novels can sometimes be blindsided by how obscure the evidence connects together to reveal the culprit. Sometimes the hidden angle that Christie derives her mysteries from is refreshing and enjoyable, but in other cases it comes off as abrupt.
Overall, Appointment With Death is definitely a niche read when it comes to reader enjoyment. If you find yourself unable to sit down and analyze the story and characters, you may find yourself bored with this book. Otherwise, if you enjoy critical thinking and exploring ethical dilemmas then this book may be up your alley.
When did I decide that this was the place I wanted to be, standing here outside the venue, preparing to perform in front of thousands of people? All coming together under the same set of circumstances. All preparing for the same heavy task that may change what our childhoods look like. Whether we like it or not we are all united by knowledge but separated by chance.
Now unpacking my drum out of its case, my mind tries it's hardest to focus on one thing, but no matter how hard I try, the stress floods in. Worries of 'What if I don’t do well?' and 'What if I fall and forget how to get up?' flood my mind, as if it naturally wants me to fail. Even then, I regroup myself and find myself with a green, tacky microfiber towel that sticks to my hand. “Thats right” I think as I grab the simple green and spray it on the now damp towel. I meticulously clean the surface of my five-year-old drum, ensuring every spot is free of dirt, before setting it on its stand to be tuned to perfection.
No more than 5 minutes later, I squeeze into the body tight mixed material costume that makes me look like everyone else. What was that word they said they were looking for? 'Uniformity,' or something like that, I thought, as I finally got the zipper to lock me into this mesh of material. The mixes or yellow, creams, and browns all stitched and collaged together to create what is to be the outfit I wear with pride. “This is the culmination of months of work” I repeat over and over in my head knowing the final result isn't the numbers we receive or the piece of metal we could wear around our necks but instead the experience itself.
Soon after, we get called by our instructor for us to start moving to our zones. My heart starts to beat faster as I pick up my drum and join the line of people, as we fit in tight formation. We start moving together in one cohesive motion, all culminating at the same place in a parking lot. This time things feel different here, while I have competed here before, the air smelled different. The scent of incoming rain brought worry and newfound issues as we now rushed to get tarps to cover our electronics and drums. We eventually settled with the easy option and covered everything that was fragile in plastic trash bags to ensure that there would be no waterlogging. Unfortunately this meant that while we would be blessed still with a warm up area, the chance to have the proper warm up would be near impossible.
We made do with the space we had and got through our warm-up sequence with minimal stress, but bigger issues lay ahead. Now that we are done warming up, here comes the dreaded time. The time where we all huddle together as a group, say our motivational speech, trying not to let our emotions overwhelm us as we still need a sense of self control. We say our final words before silently heading into the arena at the nearby college. As we walk I let the pressure of the year fade away. The pain, the hurt, the stress, the anxiety, it all happened to lead me to where I was then.
We are now at the entrance of the tunnel leading into what will be the gymnasium. You can see glimpses of the arena, which is covered in blues, reds, and a slogan across the jumbotron stating ,”go yotes”. I put my drum down on the floor and as everyone else gathers together to listen to the group performing in front of us I separate myself. I find myself on the floor next to my drum with one focus, calm your nerves. I end up doing my pre competition ritual of meditation which helps me focus on our show and my nerves seemingly disappear. When I arose from this peaceful trance, the curtains opened and we rushed into the gym, putting our drums down in neat lines and then pulling out our show floor for all to see. This was our moment to display to the people and the judges what we have prepared for their eyes and ears.
As the set starts, I hold myself in a fetal position on the floor and begin the choreography I've been given for this piece. Executed flawlessly with every move I find myself becoming more and more embedded in this show. Feeling the rhythmic alterations made by the front ensemble, the emotions of the show overtake me. I found myself not just performing the show but becoming part of it. Now it is my time to show everyone what I have been given. As my solo starts I feel the nerves kick in, and while some of our group jumble notes together trying to be coercive we find eachother again and push back into the normality we would have in rehearsals.
After many seamless transitions between our many soloists and large ensemble impacts, we found the pressure back in my hands but now the stakes were much higher. My group was the closing solo before the great closing impact. While this provided stress and a large amount of nerves, I found myself on my own two feet lifting the music to the judges. Feeling the happiness that I've been a part of this great thing that shows not only the culmination of time and efforts but the culmination of humanity.
As the last notes play, we sit with tears in our eyes, smiles on our faces, and heavy hearts, knowing our efforts are fading away and the stress is now a distant memory. I run out of the gymnasium with excitement, criticism, and comradery as the group puts our drums down. We know not of the score or the judge’s opinions but to us, it doesn't matter. We were on top of the world and as a collective group didn't care about the scores as the friends we made along the way, the memories shared, and the goofy scenarios we have experienced have now meant much more to us than anything “some old people” had to say about us.
Awards came later that night with all of us in our costumes standing in lines by age and experience where the oldest people were in the front of the group leading us and protecting us from the impending anxiety of what the judges thought. As they called out “In fourth place, with a score of 90.525… Etiwanda High School” we applauded knowing that we were the forth best drumline in Southern California. What did this mean in reality though, that we worked hard and performed somewhat good? My takeaway was that the judges thought we were the fourth best not for the show or the music or the choreography but instead for the comradery and the ability to be so cohesive that we were undeniable.
This thought blossomed into a core memory and a worthwhile lesson that I never fully understood until now. So many have said that the moment is there until it's gone and then it's left in your memory forever. This has taught me that living in the moment is what truly has brought me closer to success than many others. The cohesiveness of friendship and the uplifting of spirits when times were rough, all lead to success, not the suffering of a group that only wanted the highest score of them all. Life is moments of a picture that you may never get back so while you may sit in them and stress about the future, that may never change the outcome, but blur the journey leading up to it.
Chapter 1: A Hopeful Capture
The sky was dark and corus. As fear ran through my body almost like a drug. Bullets pierced through the bodies of men who meant to protect the lives of their wives, just like my Father once did. I knew that if this was the way my Father died, I would suffer the same fate. As we were pushing through ISIS territory, to raid their base, the sun started to rise but then we were captured, outnumbered, killing some, taking the rest hostage.
Chapter 2: Razors disguised as Flowers
I woke up, the rest of my team strapped in chains to a chair, just like myself. The only thing I could think about was my Father, in the end I was just like him, a man who died with honor but at the same time with a forgotten presence. When the ISIS general walked into the room, he killed every single one but me. “I see the courage in you, almost like the strength of a man, who can’t die without seeing a sunrise.” I was then strapped to a chair, with needles struck through me, giving me electric charges. The pain was unbearable knowing I’d die alone, just like a man I’d once loved
Chapter 3: Resurgence
I awoke in a bed strapped down my chains, but I broke through. I left my cell, fighting every guard in sight with no problem. With other inmates begging me to let them free but I decided not to, I left them almost with a feeling of regret knowing my Father perished the same way. I kept fighting every guard in sight with ease until I saw the ISIS general in sight. The look of fear in his eyes and I walked towards him, stuck in the corner with fear in his eyes, knowing what he had created, as I
walked forward him, “you know how this ends” I said, and now I realized the man I’ve become. A man who kills for sport. Everything my father has said not to become, I have.
Chapter 4: A hopeful arc
I dropped to my knees, realizing I've become the man my Father never taught me to be. I realized now I can let go of my Father and become
the man he taught me to be, the embodiment of hope through these new abilities. A US helicopter landed and took all survivors and took the members
of ISIS in custody. As I got back to the US, blood samples were taken and I was told, “Mr Right, you're not human. Your cells are encoded with some type of enhancer never seen before. In theory, anything is possible for you.”
I was given a black and blue suit to enhance my powers. I knew there’s others out there. And I will find them. I now know my place in the world, as not only David Right but the name given to me, Arcidian.
Arcidian flew into the sky. Ready to be the embodiment of hope, just like one man taught him.
“Emmett has a heart disease.”, I still remember where I was when my dad said these words to me on a seemingly bright July day back in 2022. How could that be? He must have been lying, as I sat on the arm of the couch in my living room, right in front of my eyes was a happy 13 year old chocolate lab lying on the ground with a newly adopted translucent purple cone around his neck. Dad had taken him to the vet to investigate a growth on his ear, we didn’t assume it to be life-threatening, just something that Emmet probably got from rolling around in the backyard. I suddenly looked away from Emmett to see my other dog, Emily, looking at us as if to say that she also understood what my dad had said. Here was the dog I had grew up with, the one that my mom said I used to sleep on as a pillow when I was little to watch TV, one of the two reasons I learned that I wanted to be a veterinarian, to be suddenly be ripped away from me in a mere couple of weeks due to an invisible disease we saw too late.
According to my phones recollection, Emmett’s final goodbyes to his favorite tree in front of our house was on August 1, 2022. I still remember filming that video, trying to be as far away from the camera as possible while still looking out my bedroom window so that you couldn’t hear the sniffles of my nose or the tears running down my cheeks. It was ultimately fruitless though as you can clearly hear these things as you watch Emmett circle and circle his favorite tree, sniffing it, then peeing on it for good measure, being the only one to not know he wasn’t coming back to his home again.
I remember asking what's for dinner, and my mom had said “Baked potatoes”. I had always hated the blandness of the dish and in a moment of childish ignorance for sympathy I protested. Then my mom said to me words that I can still hear to this day, and for the exact reason I can’t say why, “Dad saw it happen, Dad wanted baked potatoes, so we are having them for dinner”. I remember that dinner being in absolute silence, being even afraid to move as Emily was still looking around to see where Emmett was, in between forcing her head into our laps to beg for food she knew she had no chance of getting.
The next morning I woke up to a notification on my phone by a woman named Mrs.Marin, our band director for the MER. It was an ad for a pizza place we had a fundraiser for that night, blaze or MOD I don’t really remember. The one thing I do remember though was being mad at the notification, as if the notification was trying to get me back into the reality of death and how we must move on. Of course I have had people die in my family before this, but they were all great great aunts in their 80s or so who could only speak Spanish, something a 13 year old me could not do. In this moment on August 2nd, I realized that although death is a part of life, we cannot do anything but celebrate the life they led, the influence they had, and will continue to have after their passing (which, in all realness, was going to be “too soon” no matter how long they might end up living for).
In November of that
very same year, it must have been a few days after MER’s sad defeat at citrus
college on the 18th, my dad went to have Emily checked by the vet for an
overall checkup, as well as a swelling she had by her tail that she had
developed. Whenever my dad brought the appointment up in the weeks prior, I
would start crying with him comforting me saying, “We don’t know what's going
to happen”, over and over again, “We don’t know what's going to happen” that's
all he would ever say. We all knew what was going to happen, we just didn’t
want to face the reality yet where we lost two important parts in our life
around the same time. My father came back home with nothing but a collar that
day, and I do not recall anything else about that other than the look on my
dads face. This man who rarely shows negative emotions, especially sadness, had
a face of somberness. He looked as if he was going to cry, something I had
never seen him do before or after this event. Emily’s passing was somewhat
easier since the blow had been softened by Emmett a few months prior. We also
all thought she was going to go first, but ne
ver said that to her face. The one
day I can remember about Emily’s death was when I went to go get the mail a
week later. We had gotten a letter from the vet and I opened it up out of sheer
curiosity. To my surprise, it was a poem. A poem about meeting your dog in the
afterlife, playing with them and their new friends they made while they were
waiting for you to come be with them again. I think that's the most I’ve ever
cried in my life. I couldn’t even get a word out even an hour later.
Eventually, as we all must do, I moved on from the passing of my childhood
dogs, never forgetting who they were, what they did, and what they meant to me
and my family. Even to this day, whenever I hear the song “Euthanasia” by Will
Wood, it brings me right back to where I was on August 1st, even the title
being a lyric from the song. A sunny day where I could do nothing but
appreciate the sun coming back as it did the day before, and wishing loved ones
could do the same. Thank you Emmett and Emily, you might have been trouble at
times, but we could never stay mad at you for long because of all the joy you
brought to us every single day.
Emmett on july 30, 2022
“Over the rainbow, can I stop by and say hello?”
- Euthanasia by Will Wood