#marymountauthors

by Isabel, Grade 7

In April, the confirmation class went on a retreat to Béziers. The reason we went to Béziers specifically is because it is where the RSHM was founded. While we were there, we learned about Père Gailhac and Mère Saint Jean, and the other founders of the RSHM from a current RSHM sister residing in the motherhouse, Sr. Therese Marie.

On the first day, Friday, we stared out day with a mass at St. Jacques. It was a reflective time, and Father Aidan was extremely kind, asking the whole school to pray for those of us going. After the mass, we proceeded to the train station, where we waited for the train. All of the students had a fun time on the train, talking about what awaited us in Béziers.

When we arrived at the platform, all of us were pleasantly surprised at the beautiful sun in the city. We went to the hotel to drop our bags and see our rooms. After a while, we were called down so that we could go to the RSHM motherhouse. Walking to the motherhouse, we passed through the beautiful city of Béziers. Upon our arrival at the motherhouse, the resident Sister greeted us.

We all made nametags so that Sr could identify us. Next, we started a very interesting presentation on the history of the RSHM and its mission. We ate a delicious dinner with our friends, teachers, and the Sisters.

After that, we watched a movie about a football team guided by faith. The movie was a very important reminder (to all of us, I assume) that we should ‘praise God weather we win or lose’. This also served as a reminder for the Marymount Paris students during the RSHM Sports Festival, which was the next week. By the end of the film, we were all so engrossed that we were all cheering out loud when the thing we wanted to happen, happened.

After the movie, we had a discussion about finding and overcoming the ‘giants’ in our lives, the things that scared us because we could not find a way to beat them. It was a very open and safe space, and we were all grateful to have the experience to bond with our classmates. After that we went home.

On Saturday, early in the morning, we made our way to the motherhouse. We all had high spirits and waited for another good day. In the morning, we toured the motherhouse and saw all of the historical artifacts that it had stored, including objects belonging to Mère Saint Jean and Père Gailhac. The motherhouse was so big and I’m sure all of us were amazed.

During the tour, one of the things I was blown away by was a beautiful mural painted by Sr. Bernadette. It showed people of all different ethnicities and backgrounds coming together. It showed all that Marymount stood for, in our motto, ‘unity through diversity’.

During the tour, we also went to the crypt, which was where the bodies of important RSHM figures were. It was a very moving experience to see everything in the crypt, and we could write specific prayers on papers in the crypt, and pray to Père Gailhac for them. Later, we returned to the crypt and learned about the many miracles for the RSHM, and the canonization of Père Gailhac. We also saw Père’s heart.

After our tour, we went to the room where we had our previous conversations, and talked about the importance of reflection, and being alone with God. We also talked about how silence can help us in our reflection. We were all challenged to a fifteen-minute silent reflection. Before the reflection, we were all doubtful if we could actually do it.

We all went off to different and private parts of the motherhouse to pray and reflect. I ended up in the chapel. It was difficult to keep pulling my attention to what I was supposed to be focusing on, and my mind kept wandering off. However, eventually, I was able to focus and reflect. I could barely believe it when Sr Marion came in and said fifteen-minutes were over.

We discussed our reflections in a group, and I was not alone when I said that it was hard to focus. I was grateful that I was eventually able to focus, because some people were not able to. After this, we ate lunch, which was another delicious meal in the motherhouse.

After lunch, we discussed parables and their significance in the Christian faith. We were each assigned a parable, and then given another silent reflection period, however this time it was thirty minutes. This reflection was relatively similar to my first one, however this time I had more time to think.

Following our reflections, all of us were kind of speechless; we didn’t know what to say. We all felt connected by something; we didn’t know what, but something in the group dynamic had changed. We all had mostly the same reaction to the second reflection.

After that, we had a tour guided by Sr Marion about Béziers. We all learned a lot about the roots of the RSHM from the city, and what role it had in the creation of the organization. The tour was very interesting.

The next thing we did was go to make a banner for our 2017 Marymount conformandi. We all cut out shapes out of felt for the banner, while one person wrote on it. At the end of designing it, I think we were all very satisfied with the end result, but even more so, fulfilled by the teamwork of the group.

We left the motherhouse and went to get dinner. We got scrumptious margarita pizzas at a restaurant, and we sat down and laughed and bonded about our feeling of the day. There was sadness in the air, knowing that we were leaving the next day, but it had felt like we had only been there for a second. After the pizza, we got frozen yoghurt.

The next day, and unfortunately, the last day, we went to the Béziers cathedral. We were all showing off that we knew how to navigate a cathedral, thanks to Ms. Amy and the religion curriculum. We waited around the cathedral for a while, exploring the grounds and gardens, and eventually went in for eleven o’clock mass. We did not understand much, because the mass was in French, but we respected the spiritual significance of it.

After the mass, it was the sad time of going home. We got on the TGV again and headed back to Paris. On the train back, we all chatted about the fun times we had had in Béziers, and how much we had learned.

Nirali’s story, Not Just Another Brick in the Wall, won 1st place for her grade level in the American Library of Paris’ Young Authors Fiction Festival 2017. 

Not Just Another Brick in the Wall by Nirali, Grade 8

The pair of weathered, dull ankle bells lay still and mute, no more stories to tell. They had travelled the world, performed on countless stages, and received resounding applause. However, after being lovingly passed down over generations, they had run into a wall when they reached me - the black sheep of the family.

It was during our Christmas trip to India that my mother gifted me her treasured ghungroo. Holding the strung metallic bells gingerly, I felt intimidated by their weight - physical and symbolical. She pointed out, “Aisha, these belonged originally to your great-grandmother, a renowned Indian classical dancer in the early 1900s. She called them her lucky charm. Look after them and use them well!”

“Nice try, Mom,” I mumbled. “What makes you think I can do it this time? Dance is not my cup of tea.”

Still convinced that a talent lay latent in my genes, she cheerfully insisted, “Never say never, Aisha! I’ve signed you up for lessons at New Delhi’s best dance school!” My fists clenched in resentment that my holiday dreams of travel photography now lay crumpled like the flight boarding ticket I had just discarded.

After a disturbed night, I woke up to the comforting aroma of masala chai. A petite, unfamiliar figure greeted me in the kitchen. My grandmother, whom we were visiting, introduced us, “Aisha, meet Riya. I tutor her because she loves playing truant from school. Her mother helps me with housework.” Riya grinned unabashedly as she twirled her hair that she wore teased, à la mode. I recognized her green sweater - a castoff from my wardrobe. While she claimed she was thirteen like me, she could have passed off as younger, coming from a poor family that lived with bare necessities.

My grandmother suggested we played outdoors to learn more about each other. We were not too old to dash for the swings! Mid-air, I queried impulsively, “Riya, why do you skip classes?”

She was honest. “Why bother attending school? It’s free but futile for someone like me who won’t ever make use of an education. Besides, my parents are sending me off to work in a brick kiln soon. They depend on me to repay our debts. I’m so eager to earn my living! ”

I came to earth with a thud. Shocked at her naïveté, I blurted, “You don’t have a clue what you’re getting into! Child labor is brutal and illegal. Brick kilns will only signal the end of your education and health - your basic rights, Riya. Please don’t go!” Seeing her unmoved, I changed tack, “What are your hobbies?”

            “I love to dance when I can,” she enthused. “It makes me oblivious to my troubles. I feel graceful as a peacock and in control, as if nothing will ever go wrong!” I understood her completely. I felt that way with my Nikon slung round my neck.

             I spent another agitated night, pondering over my life and Riya’s - so different yet similar. We were both slaves to family expectations. Glancing at the ankle bells, my mother’s words resonated in my head, “Use them well.” I knew what I had to do. 

Making chai for me at breakfast, my grandmother announced, “Riya’s family is sending her to school in their hometown. She will be happier there!” I choked on my tea - my family didn’t know the truth! I had to act quickly.

           “Aisha, where were you all day? Time for your lesson - quickly get your ghungroo!” my mother admonished me that evening.

“I don’t have them, I’m sorry!” I hung my head.

“Did you leave them somewhere?”

“Ma, I didn’t say I lost them. I just don’t have them any more.” I held out a wad of Indian rupees.

“Aisha, what is this? You owe me an explanation. I told you the ghungroo are precious. How - ”

I interrupted urgently, “Don’t ask questions, please. Just trust me. Take this money to Riya’s family. She is not going to school – she’s going to work as a laborer. Riya told me herself. It’s her family’s only way to survive.”

“If you knew this, why didn’t you tell us? So irresponsible, Aisha, I’m really - ” she paused to answer the doorbell.

“Someone for you,” I heard her call out to me.

“Young lady, I believe these belong to you,” a woman, dressed in a Kathak dancer’s flowing attire, handed me my ankle bells. I gaped, the center of my family’s discomforting censure.

“So, Aisha, you got rid of the ghungroo thinking you could escape dance? You’ve betrayed our trust,” concluded my mother.

“On the contrary, Ma’am, she has proved herself a responsible and generous teenager,” the lady announced. She turned to me. “While browsing the antique shop earlier today, I overheard you selling your heirlooms to save your friend. I retrieved them because I’m an ardent follower of your great-grandmother. These are rightfully yours.”

I felt suffocated. It was now or never. “No, I don’t want them back. I can’t dance either. Please understand me. All I want is for Riya and me to follow our dreams – she is the one who can dance! I just want to capture the world in my camera lens!” 

Sofia’s story was written as part of the eighth grade RSHM Heritage Award. Students who choose to do this have to create five projects, one of each of five RSHM goals. In order to fulfill goal 3, To instill a lifelong love of learning, Sofia decided to write a short story for each month of the school year.

This is her story for March.

The Three Sisters by Elena, Grade 8

Long ago, when things weren’t always changing as they are now, and the world much different than this one, there lived three sisters. They worked on an apple farm, the only property they had been left after their family had left them for the city and never came back.

Elizabeth Smith was the eldest of the three sisters, though only by three years. She had long, shiny dark hair that grew in beautiful ringlets. Her green eyes were attentive and full of cunning behind them, and never seemed to never lack in confidence.

Ethel Smith was the middle of the three. Her pale skin turned rosy with the heat of the sun. Ethel was the bargainer, the deal maker of the three. She reasoned with everyone, and seemed to leave a feeling of contentment everywhere she went.

Clara Smith was the youngest and the sweetest of the three. Three years behind Elizabeth, one behind Ethel, she was the child of the family. Her hair was golden, and her skin lightly touched by its rays. She seemed to have come out of a fairytale book, a princess just waiting to be rescued.

The marketplace was the center of life of the village. All the people would come together to buy and sell, trade and give. The sisters were known for their fruit business. They grew the most vibrant fruits in the city, though they were known specifically for their apples. They would grow them sweet under the sun, and they were the best in the whole village for sure. But the three sisters always saw a factor with which they could never quite come to terms. They simply couldn’t match the apples’ sweet taste with the harsh brown color of their outsides. They envisioned another look to heir beloved fruit, one of liveliness to match the taste. But before the idea could be developed, the harshest winter came.

The sisters, however, were not easily defeated. They had to double their work in order to survive, but they did it without complaint for the first month. But then the cold doubled, freezing the plants, not allowing them to grow higher than a sampling. The sisters come to the conclusion that, because of the change in their environment, the normal plants would never sprout, and they feared they wouldn’t be able to survive for more than a month without the income.

Ethel turned in defeat, leaning against the rough wall. She took her head in her hands and started to cry lightly, turning her pale skin an intense pink as she wept. Elizabeth sat staring blankly at the papers in front of her, frustration blocking out her crying sister’s sobs.

Murmuring under her breath, she threw the papers up into the air and stormed out of the dimly lit room into the night.

Elizabeth was never one to express her emotions before others. She had always taken on the role of the strong one, never intimidated by anything. She started to walk quickly into the fields, struggling to keep the warmth in her bones. She broke into a run, closing her eyes against the slapping wind. She ran until she couldn’t breathe any longer and looked up at the hill in front of her. Of all of the plants, only three had managed to produce a fruit. The first plant had been old, and it was a miracle the apples still thrived, escpecially during the winter. The second tree was much younger than the first, almost as young as the third. The second tree was resistant to the cold, its leaves never seemed to frost. However, the second tree had a loose grip on the soil around it, and shook violently in response to the slightest gust of wind. The third tree was the youngest. At the beginning it had had lush green leaves, but with the first frost they had fallen off - apart from the blossom which had produced the apple. But before the sisters could pick the fruits, the crows had come to feed themselves. All that remained was a scrap on each plant, dug into the earth.

Elizabeth was only able to find three seeds, one in each apple, but three were enough. She sprinted back into the night, down the hill and into the house, anxious for the morning to come to share the news.

The morning came much quicker than Ethel thought it would. Soon enough, the early morning sun awoke her, though she knew it would be covered once again by clouds in the next hours. She opened the kitchen door to find Elizabeth excitedly talking to Clara, whose smile was widening by the second. She rushed to greet them, and then saw the three small seeds in Elizabeth’s palm. Her jaw tensed, not understanding how three seeds could bring Clara such joy and hope.

“Look at what I found,” Elizabeth started, the three seeds in her strong hands. She explained how she had obtained them.

“I still don’t understand how this will help us make up for a whole harvest,” said Ethel, “And if the apple you found was rotten…isn’t it a bad sign? Isn’t it messing with nature?”

“We could try modifying the seeds. If we make them stronger, more resistant, there’s a chance that we might make it through the season,” Elizabeth explained, not having an answer for Ethel. She averted her eyes. The conversation was closed.

The three sisters set off on an adventure, an adventure of trial and error. Except there was no space for an error. The seeds were three, and no more could be expected. The sisters decided that each seed should take advantage of its plant’s characteristic. Elizabeth picked the old plant’s seed. Her plan was to make an apple which wouldn’t rot easily. This way, it would be fit for the harsher seasons. Ethel, instead, wanted an apple ready to resist the cold. She picked the second seed. She knew that a thicker skin would shield it from the harsh winds and rain. The third seed was left for Clara. She knew that the tree was strong in its structure. She decided that the apple would have to have a hard core, able to keep the seeds together and protect them from pests. The sisters set immediately to work. They used different types of soils they could find on their farm and filtered water with special methods only they knew. In only three days, the saplings started to sprout. The sisters only worked harder. But the hours outside were long, and the winter only became colder.

Elizabeth started noticing Clara’s sneezes after a week of work. She tried to point them out to her, urged her to go rest. But Clara only wanted to work harder. Soon her sneezes turned into small coughs. But in a blink, her coughs rattled her thinning body. Ethel and Elizabeth gave her all their clothes, draping her worn out shawls, urging her to sleep and rest. But Clara wouldn’t hear of it. She continued to develop her small plant. It grew faster than Ethel’s and Elizabeth’s, and after only a few weeks the first saplings had sprung.

Ethel noticed that, as Clara grew weaker, her plant seemed to grow stronger. After only a month’s work, a tiny round fruit hung from the thin branches. It was a vibrant yellow color, almost the same color as Clara’s hair. But with no money for medication, and the cold which never stopped, it was no surprise that Clara left them. As soon as her eyes closed, the apple blossomed into a full fruit, shining even in the sober light.

Clara’s apples were sweet and soft. They reminded the one who bit into them of tender memories. Ethel and Elizabeth grew wealthy enough to afford a life with a bit more food. For ten more years, the remaining two sisters strived, though mourning the loss of their sister. If Elizabeth had been toughened by the loss of her sister, filled with anger at herself, Ethel had become only softer and sad.

When at the beginning of fall a merchant had approached the door of the two girls, lost in the identical looking hills, it was no surprise Ethel had welcomed him in, agreeing to give him shelter from the cold for one night. The next morning the merchant left, leaving a golden penny in exchange for the girls’ kindness. However, it was not all he left.

Ethel’s plant had started to grow faster than before. It was starting to produce a small red fruit. The winter months were coming and the temperature was dropping steadily. However, it seemed that Ethel was sweating more and continuously hot. Only when she collapse did Elizabeth realize Ethel was sick with whatever disease the merchant had left behind. Ethel asked not to be brought to a doctor, or take any medicine, but to remain in her home. Elizabeth was reluctant to agree, but she obeyed her dying sister’s wish. Ethel’s apple blossomed into a bright red fruit, tasting of empathy and compassion.

Elizabeth, however, lived to old age. She turned bitter from the days of cold and the loss of her sisters. She left the old house for the town, where she married and was loved, and grew up to be known as Granny. But she was never really able to love in return. A piece of her had been lost.

Jamiee’s story, “Finals”, earned her first place in the Marymount Writing Contest. Judge Hazel Manuel, author of Kanyakumari and The Geranium Woman, spoke of Jamiee’s ability to create a realistic character and an imaginary world that the reader does not want to leave. Special thanks to teacher Ruth Druart for proposing and organizing the contest.

Extract from Finals (A chapter story in process) by Jamiee, Grade 7

Chapter 1

I pick at the loose nail on my finger. It’s a bad habit of mine. A woman stands behind me tying up my hair.

   “ Stop messing with that nail,” she scolds. I stop. I am an obedient child, most of the time. I shift my weight to my other foot. All this standing still is making me restless. She steps back.

   “ Done,” she remarks.

Finally I think.

   “ May I now look at all your hard work,” I say with sarcasm. She keeps quiet and turns me towards the full-length mirror that leans against our peeling beige wallpaper. I look the same as always at this time of year. My black hair is tied up with a blue silk ribbon; a blue ribbon is a requirement for every family who has a girl. My eyes move to my dress. It’s different to the colour of the ribbon. White cotton with a blue sash going around my waist and is finished in a bow at the back. I finally take a look at my shoes. Black polished pumps with a worn down heel. I wear them every year, since my feet never seem to grow. They stopped when I was ten. I glance back up at my face. My blue eyes are staring back at me and I hold the stare. If the copy of me in the mirror can stare for so long then so can I. But I have to look away. I wipe the tears that were beginning to form from my eyes. It’s difficult to keep your eyes open for so long. I don’t know how frogs make it look so easy.

   The lady moves away from behind me and waltzes to the kitchen.

   “ And remember Rani, I want to see full marks on your exam,” she chimes.

   “ Yes mother,” I reply robotically. Thirteen questions. How hard can that be?

Our society was made before anyone can remember. I think it was after some rebels at a conference assassinated our first mayor. Sherald Far was a man that everyone around the world looked up to. He was inspiration to all by what he did, said and wrote. The conference was a peace treaty between the six bordering countries. They had been battling each other for a while, when they had finally decided it should come to an end. Unfortunately, there was one country that wouldn’t stand down. He was giving refuge to some dangerous rebels and had them murder everyone there. But they only got away with killing one while the others had escaped. Sherald had come with his assistant, Danny Sparks, who was next in line as mayor. He was the person who came up with the idea of building a new sanctuary for our society. And just in time, because after the meeting, a huge war broke out. Our country had the only people left surviving. Over the years, our mayors have made new rules, new spaces, new ways for making life better. I think they made it worse.

She comes back out from the kitchen with a faux fur coat on. She was ripped off for that coat. A lady at a store said that it was genuine arctic fox fur and she had it selling at two hundred gold coins. My mother learned never to trust old ladies selling clothes ever again.

   “ Where’s your father?”

   “ Out back. Chopping wood.”

She gives an exasperated sigh and storms out at what I said. I look out the front door that she left hanging wide open. Our garden is neat, though there are a few weeds growing here and there. I see my mother clomping in her high heels towards a man dressed it a red plaid shirt with torn brown pants and scuffed sneakers.

   “ Felix, what on earth are you doing?” I hear her yell. He looks up from the piece of wood and lowers his hatchet; he wipes sweat from his forehead. They have a lengthy discussion and soon enough, Felix is coming through the door to get to the bathroom.

   “ Your mother is so picky,” I hear him mutter. Then I hear him turn the shower on. She shouldn’t have shouted at him. It wasn’t his fault that he forgot what today was. Today was the day of our yearly testing. It shows how much knowledge we have gained over our years in life. This is how it goes: we are tested from when we turn one year old. They give us one question. Even if we get it wrong, they see it as the beginning of improvement. When you’re two years old, you get two questions. When you’re three, three questions. Four years, four questions. And so on. Our whole lives practically revolve around tests until we are eighteen. Unfortunately, I still have five years to go. Today, I am officially a teenager. Imagine that? A test on your birthday.

I hate the Wise Men. They were the ones who technically run the place, after our previous mayor died. He hadn’t chosen an assistant; he was very egotistic and said he could do everything by himself. So the ancient Wise Men rose up and took charge. They think knowledge is the greatest power above anything else.  Which of course my dad thinks is ridiculous, but my mother thinks highly of the Wise Men. She practically worships them. My mother walks back in and places her hands on my shoulders ever so gently. It makes me shiver.

   “ Remember, good scores equals a good life,” she says while tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I try to smile the best I can so she can leave me alone. She does and goes to tell my father to hurry it up, which, surprisingly enough, involves shouting at him through the bathroom door. I dig my heel into the floor. It’s squishy from the rain that has seeped into it from the hole in the roof. I might as well go wait outside until they come. I don’t like to be trapped in small spaces for long. That’s why I’m usually outside all the time with Felix…

   “ Don’t let me fall daddy!” I screamed.

   “ Don’t worry strawberry, I got ya,” he said reassuringly. It was a sunny day and our apple tree had ripe fruits on it, ready to pick and be made into pies and jams and other wonderful things. I stood on the tallest step of the wooden ladder, basket filled to the brim with delicious apples. I didn’t want to walk down in case I slipped and fell and broke my head open. I was very cautious when I was six. I looked behind but only for a second. Underneath me was my dad, arms outstretched, ready for anything.

   “ I promise I won’t let you fall. Just lean back and let go,” he said. At that age I never trusted anyone as much as I trusted my dad. I took a deep breath.

   “ Okay daddy, on three,” I said, my voice shaking like a leaf.

   “ One…” he began.

I let my fingers loose.

   “ Two…”

I let go entirely. I was falling through the air while the world spun all around me. I thought I hit the ground; my eyes were still tightly shut. Then I hear a voice and I knew had I landed safely in his arms.

   “ I thought we agreed on three?” He asked. “ Be glad that I have quick reflexes.”

I just hugged him, happy that he would always look out for me. We did many other things, too. We would go fishing in the nearby lake, climb up and down trees, go picking for wild berries. Those were the good times.

I kick a pebble and send it shooting down the gravel path. A clang follows as it hits the metal train tracks. I go over to retrieve it, when a train whizzes past me just missing my nose by a few centimeters. The wind it makes is extremely strong and messes up my hair. Mother won’t be pleased. The train slowly crawls to a halt, making an earsplitting screech in the process. It’s the train that takes us to City Center. I run back inside and I trip as I come through the door, dirtying my snowy stockings on my knees. My mum, obviously hearing the loud crash, comes running to me.

   “ Goodness sakes Rani, what have you done to yourself?” She shrieks and gets me off my hands and knees. She starts to dust me off just as my father walks in in a black shirt and matching boots. She sighs as soon as she sees him.

   “ Is that all you could pull together?” She says in a frustrated tone. He just keeps silent and reaches for my hand, which I instinctively give to him.