Cricket Hill Collection

Artifacts from applications to Bennington College

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Caleb J.’s original film, Blueline Express: “ A young girl leaves her small town in the high desert to reunite a lost dog with his owner in Los Angeles.”

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Elegy for James Booker

Call me in the middle of the night as I pubesce, and ask to speak to my father, the district attorney.

I’ll record our conversation and play it when I’m alone in public places.

Let me have an absence of teeth so when I open my mouth a listener can hear our coast eroding.

Catch my fingers beneath yours. A nutria unearths my home.

Orange teeth cut from the skeleton of the old tree that invented satsumas.

Bring me with you to Japan. My father will give you a job in his office

and I’ll make you a suit brackish water cannot melt. Call it a piano and use my hands if you need them.

--poem by Madeleine L.

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Serenade

Charmed Life

In The Twilight

Present

--digital photography by Addie M.

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Dante G.’s song “Lamium,” recorded as A Boy In His Basement

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Mittie G.’s found footage project, “Women in Television” 

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Saaeda:Look at that guy’s sweatshirt. And that one’s jeans. They don’t even shop for themselves. These are all boys’ size large clothes from the clearance section at T.J. Maxx.

Jennifer: You shop at T.J. Maxx.

Saeeda: Yeah, but I pick everything out. And everything fits me.

Jennifer: That’s true. OK, what else?

Saeeda: Just look at those faces. Those are faces that don’t think for themselves.

Jennifer: You don’t think with your face.

Saeeda: Shut up. You know what I mean. These boys are exactly what I hate about Palestine Day. Just watch, they’re going to come over and talk to you, and your dad’s gonna start making

arrangements before you can get away. Do you have your wedding registry planned out yet?

Jennifer: Shut up! No they won’t. No one our age is getting married. That kind of thinking is so old. Like our parents.

Saeda: Our parents aren’t that old. You know why? Because they all got married as babies.

(from "Curious," a one-act play by Jazelle J.)

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Self-Portrait

Card Player

Bored Library

Classy Kids

--drawings in India ink, felt tip pin, and watercolor by Amelia M.

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photographs from MEATCUTTER: Ftoni Hunter, RJ’s Counter

Untitled (Detroit)

Corso Card, letterpress print of a quote from Gregory Corso

--art by Leander J.

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A look at Maya G.’s work in dance

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Suzi slid on her socks from the dining hall to the kitchen, unapologetically bounding up to Vivian. The kitchen smelled like incense, something that Vivian had recently become obsessed with and constantly burned. There was a pack of sticks next to her bulky calculator and a thin line of smoke rising up from the stand, right next to the smoke detector, which made Suzi wonder if it even worked.

“What are you doin’?” she asked. “Algebra,” said Vivian. “You wouldn’t understand it.” “I know math.” “Negative X plus eight equals three. What’s X?” “You said it was negative.” “But it’s a negative number. Look— see? You have to solve for X.”

Suzi squinted at the small print and recognized a minus sign, the letter X, and some numbers and symbols. “I don’t know how to do that. I’m seven.”

“I know.” “What is it?” “Five.” “I don’t get it.” “Negative five plus eight equals thr— go away, Suzi.” Vivian took a handful of Suzi’s cereal and then shooed her away.

Gray carpet clung to the stairs in intervals; some of it lifted like a bubble in a sticker. Mom kept saying she would get rid of it, but she said that about a lot of things, like the expired food in the cabinets, the clothes that didn’t even fit Suzi anymore, and the cat. Byrne was a large cat with short black fur on his entire body except for his belly, which had patches of white. It was as if he had been burned, which was why Mabel had suggested the name Burn— which Mom decided would be cooler as Byrne. He glided down the stairs, a quiet pitter patter of paws, past Suzi as she ascended.

--from Callie L.’s short story “Girl Parts”

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Tamar J.’s short film Une Danseuse Optimiste, hand-drawn animation over digital video

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Photography by Noah F.

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Works in marker, colored pencil, graphite, paper, paint and pastel by Mariana M.

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In 2002, not long after the September 11 attacks, my father quit his desk job and fled to the far reaches of a remote part of Mexico. This would be the place where I would come to fully know my father as I matured. He lives "off the grid" with no running water or electricity on an old hacienda. Even though the inconveniences of his “home" were difficult for me to visit as a child, the experiences taught me over time a fundamental truth: no matter what happens, wherever you are, you are going to have to cope with hard times if you want to experience life. Even more important is the attitude with which you cope, as losing control only makes overcoming a hardship more difficult for yourself and those around you.

One of my earliest memories of adventures with my father was of an unplanned outing in Florida. We were at the mercy of the snowstorms in New York and could not return there as planned. Our flight had been canceled, leaving us stranded in the Florida wilderness. We were far from hotels and restaurants, and so we were forced to camp. I remember my father and I lying face up in the back of his Ford pickup truck, our sweaty backs aching against the rough surfaces of rusted metal and melted plastic. The air was humid and salty, a mosquito's potpourri. We both stared straight up, peering at the partial beams of moon and stars that flooded gaps between the tall, slender pine trees that sheltered us from light sporadic showers. The insects feasted as we drummed away at bare sections of perspiring skin, attempting to end their siege. I can't remember if we ever slept that night, but what I do recall is how resilient I was to the discomfort of the heat and hunger, the annoyance of the weather and mosquitoes, and the pain of our sleeping arrangements. I considered the situation and realized that I could have had it much worse.

--from an essay by Trevor H.

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On a frigid October day in 2012, my father-- a high school science teacher-- and I joined a group of spectators who had flocked to Rockport, Massachusetts to see the carcass of a dead finback whale. The rotting stench was enough to stun, even from hundreds of feet away, but when the body came into full view, the size of the limp animal left me speechless. My father called me to the water's edge to show me a five-foot-long piece of baleen, which would surely be washed out to sea by the tide. He decided that we had to rescue it, so that it could be used to educate people about this incredible animal. My father began making calls: first, to his former colleagues at the New England Aquarium (NEAq), and then to the National Marine Fisheries Service. Finally we were given the go-ahead to take the baleen to the Aquarium, where he was once the head of teacher resources and I am a teen intern. With legal permission secured, we began to maneuver the baleen and were suddenly swarmed with questions:

"What are you carrying?"

"Where will it go?"

"Why did it die?"

That was when I realized that I had a well of knowledge and resources most people could not imagine. I knew I had the responsibility to share what I knew with the public.

--from an essay by Leah R.

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A good question from Emily R.

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The fundamental problem is that high school is not an exercise in thinking, but an exercise in osmosis. The difference between these two is that thinking requires meditation, conversation, disagreement, catharsis, and a sense of self. All of those things require time, require fewer obligations to fulfill. Schoolhouse osmosis, on the other hand, requires a robust understanding of a very specific set of boundaries. If you understand what those boundaries are, choose to not act on a moral apprehension toward those boundaries (if you have such an apprehension), and you are relatively adept at operating within them, you are golden. You're A plus. You're 100. You're numbers. But not the bad, worthless to society numbers; you're the good, productive numbers. Shit, if that isn't the most relieving feeling in the world until tomorrow's distribution of numbers. So, the antagonism between school and thinking really comes down to a willingness to fulfill obligations.

from an essay by Bennett H.