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The work below was written, edited, and selected by high school students under the direction of their teachers Terri Carnell and Elizabeth Jorgensen. Terri teaches English to juniors and seniors in a traditional high school setting, while Elizabeth works with freshmen through seniors at a charter school that emphasizes leadership, career exploration, and global citizenship. Despite their contrasting teaching environments—both within the same Southeastern Wisconsin county—Terri and Elizabeth collaborated to engage their students in authentic writing thanks to Lorette and The Ekphrastic Review. Lorette provided four thought-provoking artworks for students to explore and respond to:
Each teacher’s students focused on specific works:
Following the student ekphrases are student remarks on the process.  Street Dance, by Oscar Garcia Rivera (Cuba) 1940 Whirling Change Yellow skirts whirl, a nation dances and sings, drums recite rhythms, and children laugh down the street. What’s unsettling about the present is knowing the past. None of these happy faces would guess that in the years to come, the yellow turns red, the children become timid and their Cuba becomes a prison. Lenin declares change, Marx demands reform, Castro dictates correction. Human rights, brushed under the rug human beings, flee human victims, 10,723 souls vanished, at the hand of the regime. Yellow skirts whirl, abandoned, in the tense wind. Hannah Aylsworth ** Rhythm of the Street Their feet strike the street like whispers of thunder, echoes rising from the cracked concrete stage. Arms are wide, drawing air into rhythm, a pulse that catches in the city's breath. In twirls, they paint the grit with grace, each spin a mark, each leap a brushstroke, turning shadows into the soft glow of dance. Laughter drifts, blending with the hum of the street, as they move through the dusk, alive in their freedom, bound only by the beat of their bones. Andrea Crivello ** El Calle de Luz The fabric of my skirt swirls around my feet, painted a mix of pear and lime and conchiglie I twirl around the chanting ground, beaming as a rumba hums across my skin The counts of each step echo in my head, a simple four four beat Others do the same around me, just as we practiced, just as we pictured Alvaro drums a beat, as does Luis Little Elena steps to the rhythm, as does Clara, as do I We fill the street with our momentous melodies, onlookers clapping along to the drums The atmosphere filled with nothing but merriment and bliss and ecstasy Lily Puetzer ** Dancing Despite Waking up to the sound of music was not something I expected that day. As I rose from the bed that I shared with my brother in abuelita’s apartment, careful not to stir him awake, I heard faintly the familiar gritas of mariachi, something not common in the 1940’s Havana streets that I knew. I snuck out onto the cobbled streets of the alley, following the enticing voices past the Vasquez Panadería, which was, to my surprise, completely empty. Traditionally, at this time, the family-run bakery was filled with familiar patrons from the nearby plaza, all competing for the chance to get the day’s fresh, sweet, aromatic bread. I checked the door, and realized that they left the bakery completely unlocked. I snuck behind the counter, grabbed a small loaf of pan cubano--Señor Vasquez won’t mind, I convinced myself, and continued my quest to find the intoxicating sounds of music. Havana, Cuba, in the 1940s was alive but troubled, caught in a troublesome era defined by political instability and economic inequality. For most families, like mine, survival depended on scraping together enough to get by as the struggling middle class dwindled. Government corruption ran deep, and American influence was a large shadow, bringing wealth to Havana’s casinos, hotels, and nightlife, but offering little to everyday Cubanos like us, who saw much of their country’s resources and profits slip out of reach. Despite the city’s vibrant culture, these streets were home to a sense of unrest and inequality. The days were often filled with protests, rebellion, and gatherings of citizens hoping for a change that felt out of their control. The neglect, however, gave way for a rise in powerful, fierce resilience. The music, echoing through the streets, was one of the few things that couldn’t be taken away, and it became a powerful expression of identity and unity despite the hardship. As I moved closer to the plaza, the heaviness of the city’s struggles seemed to rise, replaced by the booming heartbeat of drums, guitars, and voices. Voices that seemed unburdened by despair. It was a joy that could not be fogged by hardship; it was pure freedom, even if only for a moment. I started moving faster, bread in hand, allowing my feet to move rhythmically to the sound of the passionate voces, brighttrompetas, and the sharp, resonant guitarra. Joy danced across my face as I turned the corner to the plaza, and saw a mass of people all circled around a group of vibrant dancers and musicians, dancing and singing along to their hearts’ content. As I approached the group, I began to recognize people I knew as tíos and tías, my friends and their parents from primary school, and many more joyous familiar faces. I look to the centre of the circle and see the centre of attention: a group of six or seven beautiful women—all sporting the same vibrant yellow dresses—and a man—dressed in white—leading the women in dance. It was a refreshing sight to see my family and friends, despite all the problems in their lives, gathering together to appreciate and celebrate what is ours. Andy Coraggio ** Through the Yellow Lens Vibrancy of yellow takes me back to a sun-drenched afternoon in my childhood. Summer festivals always excited me, when golden rays illuminated crowded streets, and the air was thick with fried food and lemonade. In my mind’s eye, I see my friends and me, spinning and twirling, our laughter mixed with the music of pop-up bands on the street. We moved with unbothered joy and let the sounds of summer wrap around us. The happiest moments of my life flash back to me during summer, when the temperature is high and everything has a golden reflection. At the lakehouse every July, whether we were tubing or simply diving into the cool water with the dogs, the surface of the lake would shimmer like a treasure chest under the sun’s watchful gaze. Each leap off the dock felt like a celebration, a leap into a world of adventure. The water always glowed, a reassuring signal that it was safe to jump in, to the cool depths of yellow. Wakeboarding on hot days will always be key memories. I remember the feeling of exhilaration as we raced across the water, up and down the waves with the wind whipping through our golden hair, laughter ringing out like music. The yellow of the sun became a protective shield, keeping us safe from any worries that might lurk beyond our carefree bubble. Our days were filled with simple joys–building sandcastles on the shore, soaking in the sun’s rays, and sharing secrets under the reaching branches of old oak trees. The vibrancy of yellow was not just a colour; it became a backdrop for cherished memories, a reminder of the carefree joy that summer brings. It created a sense of belonging, of community, as families and friends came together, united in laughter and celebration. Those sunlit afternoons felt like they were never supposed to end, a fleeting taste of euphoric happiness that still has a place in my heart. I remember those spontaneous evening walks when the golden light of sunset would spill over the neighborhood, casting long shadows and turning the world into a painting–where even the simplest moments, like picking wildflowers or chatting with a neighbor, felt meaningful in the warm embrace of yellow light. Now, whenever I see that vibrant yellow, it takes me back to those sun-drenched moments. It reminds me to seek joy in the everyday, to welcome the simple parts of life. The memories of those summer festivals and lakehouse adventures inspire me to dance through life, to let the warmth of laughter and love shine bright, no matter what challenges may come my way. Each flash of yellow becomes a call to celebrate, to remember the joy that once surrounded me, pushing me to keep that spirit alive. Jaylen Varner ** La Fiesta The rhythm echoes through the village, the beat is catchy but not simple. Women twirl their dresses and dance like it’s the only thing they know how to do. The rhythm picks up, people clap and drum, the lanterns flicker and float, the laughter gets louder and more cheerful, and the memories feel safe and sound. The sound of the townsmen banging on their drums, more of the locals joining in, tapping on windows or pipes, finding creative ways to add to the beat. The whole town is covered in vibrant colors and cultural importance. Around every corner, marigold petals create a path, leading through the lit-up town. Lanterns light up the sky, celebrating the gift of life. Children laugh and play in the street, trying to learn the dance steps. They trip and stumble over their feet but get back up again–they laugh it off and continue twirling and dancing. The Cuban dance is its own work of art. The vibrant laughter and rhythmic beat coming together—it’s the culture’s soul from the start. The energy and passion of the dancers bring a whole new perspective to the dance—the cream-colored dresses that twirl and spin, the flower petals that illuminate the path, the music that makes history. The night unfolds underneath the Cuban sky, and the spirit of the dance won’t ever die. The street dancers paint a vibrant scene, celebrating the cultural dream. Liv Hubbard ** Here’s what students said about the experience:
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January 2025
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