Reflections from Locker #14
By MEGAN GANNON

This next post is about the pain, the growing pains of high school, you grow a few inches in height, in years, and in experience. Between the ages of 14 and 18, you stumble a few times, acquire some new scars, and rediscover old ones. You’re at that age where you’re still too young to understand the gravity of some situations but old enough to realize when something goes wrong. 

Before I begin, I’d like to dedicate this post to all the people who have been told “you’re lucky because it didn’t go further, because you screamed, because you cried, because he apologized.”Stop feeling lucky and start feeling those invisible scars before they consume you. You are stronger than the Apollos and through Bernini’s work I hope you begin to see your strength. 

Apollo, you wrap your arms around me, weaving your way into my soul, slowly taking the breath from my lungs. You move quietly amongst the trees, almost indistinguishable. My feet will only carry me so far, I run and run only to feel you around the next corner. Your fingerprints linger far after my skins return to its normal complexion. You’ve left your mark on me and despite my efforts I cannot wash it off. 

You took away my safety, made me shudder when people stepped too close, but I am not giving up. You haven’t won Apollo. I am not your Daphne. 

Despite the fact that Bernini crafted his sculpture in the 15th century, the twisting and turning of Apollo and Daphne transcends time. For if you take away their names, Apollo and Daphne, represent any woman and man who has ever felt violated. The look on Daphne’s face does not project her majesty, but her humanity. With her emotional facial features, Bernini captures the pure terror that washes you over as you feel someone close in with no hope of escape, the act of screaming without a sound. Her eyes cast downward in disbelief, “Could this really be happening?”According to the mythological tale, the Gods save Daphne by turning her into a tree. Although little girls don’t turn into trees. Bark doesn’t protect them from the prying hands of Apollo and his sweeping cape. 

In high school, you’ll meet your first Apollo. It doesn’t matter what you say, or your body language, he will not see it. He will make you feel as if you are nothing, but a sum of parts. Apollos come in all shapes and sizes, yet share the same goal. 

You’ll feel paralyzed, the world will orbit around but you will stay stagnant, cemented in the roots at your feet. You might want to become a tree, to escape it all, but you can’t. 

Bernini could have sculpted Apollo holding a tree, cherishing his prize, but he doesn’t. Instead he opts to show the moment of intensity, the culmination of terror, power, and matter colliding into one another, creating a still chaos. With stone, Bernini manages to mimic the fluidity of a wind blown forest, consuming a girl. Her hands morphing into the branches that safeguard her. 

Today we have trees, trees that bear scars but that stand tall, who wave their branches, and rock their roots. Little girls deserve good watering, and care, to grow strong and green, to bloom when they’re ready. 

Apollo will not vanish, he will try again, but this time your branches will be ready. For your roots have formed with those around you, creating a system that cannot be uprooted with an ax for you are stronger than a single piece of artillery.