Revel Contest 2010
	Kelly McNeil ’10 and Greta Witter ’10 were named first place winners of the first-ever Alex H. Revell III '43 Writing Contest. The contest, which honors the late Alex Revell, former Hill English instructor, included three categories: poetry, short story, and essay. The 107 entries were read and critiqued by professional writers who selected the top three winners for each category. The judges were as follows: poetry: Billy Collins, two-term poet laureate of the United States, who spoke at The Hill in February; short story: Pinckney Benedict ’82, a novelist, short-story writer, and professor of English at Southern Illinois University; and essay: Jeanne McManus, former food editor of The Washington Post.   Congratulations to the following winners! Poetry: 1st place: Greta Witter ’10 2nd place: Erika Andersen ’11 3rd place: Bronwyn Dewey ’13 Short Story: 1st place: Kelly McNeil '10 2nd place: Brie McGuire '10 3rd place- Cheztar Tovar '11 Essay: 1st place- Kelly McNeil ’10 2nd place- Tyler Neafcy ’10 3rd place- Varsha Yerram '11 These students were recognized during a special ceremony held on May 1 during Spring Family Weekend. Cita Revell, wife of Mr. Revell, was present to assist with the award presentations. Special thanks to the following alumni who supported this contest in memory of their former Hill English master: Dr. Daniel Fort ’76 P’12, Mr. Daniel Ojserkis ’76, Mr. John Agather ’78, and Mr. James P. O’Mealia ’76, P’03, ’07, ’08, ’11. The first place submissions for each category are featured below.

	Revell Contest Winner: Poetry
	Knowing Snow by Greta Witter ’10 Met with an awkward mix of joy and panic, the snowstorm is constant for half a quiet, gray day. Porch lights across the backyard show the stalks of summer plants reborn as architecture, coated with snow. The magnolia tree still holds its tough, shiny leaves. They, in turn, hold a crescent-shaped serving of snow. The turquoise wooden slats of an outdoor chair have allowed the snow to fall through, leaving perfect stripes of snow. Tables, benches and railings outside become sculptural -- measuring sticks of sorts, with snow mounded so many inches high. The morning brings bright sun, blowers, shovels, and plows. Man's urge to rearrange what happens naturally prevails. The sunlight makes ink drawings on white paper -- shadows of a tangle of twigs, chair backs and tree trunks. Neighborhood children with sleds make streaks and footprints up the hill beyond the yard. Yet, the garden glistens untouched.

	Revell Contest Winner: Short Story
	At the Movies by Kelly McNeil ’10 “Oh, Helen, isn’t Clark Gable just dreamy?” “Shush now, Ruth! God help you if I don’t hear every single word that comes out of his mouth because of your yammering!” Ruth shoots her sister a playful look, quiets, and leans back into her seat, listening instead to the flickering hum of the film projector. The cinema is packed for a Wednesday night: there are probably only a dozen or so seats not taken, and every once in a while the sound of the recently-released movie is broken by someone shifting posture or shuffling their feet. She can smell the tempting aroma of popcorn and other sweets, and as her stomach grumbles unhappily and turns on itself, she wishes she had given into temptation and bought something at the counter outside. “Rhett, Rhett… Rhett, if you go, where shall I go? What shall I do?” “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Several audience members clap in approval, Helen sighs, and Ruth thinks longingly of a time before her own when sweeping Southern ballads weren’t just fairytales. “No matter how many times I see that film, that ending will always get me!” Helen smiles as she pulls on her white gloves and nestles into her coat. Her sister nods, repositioning her dainty hat as they step outside to wait under the lit up theater sign, sheltered from the frequent gusts of cold wind. “Week Engagement Only: Gone With the Wind!” cuts bluntly through the fog and the rain above them. Helen is talking to her excitedly, gushing on and on about how she expects Eddie, their brother, to propose to his sweetheart any day now, her hopes for Truman’s newly-won presidency, how the two sisters never get enough time together, and since the war is over now they really, really should… But Ruth isn’t there. Ruth is dancing with the Spirit of the City in a sleazy jazz bar around the corner, its music spilling out like the Devil’s wine into the streets. She’s surging with the busy glow of neon, hearing the hiss of water being splashed on concrete by sleek, speeding automobiles, and the laugh of a floozy who’s hanging on the elbow of a man who just flashed his sizable amount of pocket change. Ruth can taste the chocolate cake being eaten as several families gather around a large table for a night of cards; can hear the lyrical crackling of an old standard on a radio. The city breathes deeply the fumes of Fords and Cadillacs and the smoke of industry, laps at spilled alcohol and blood in its alleyways, hangs its hat in homes filled with working families that always seem to scrape by. “Honey, are you okay? I don’t think you’ve been listening to a word I’ve said.” “Hmm? Oh, thank you Helen, I’m quite alright,” Ruth says, tearing her eyes away from the attractive New York nighttime. “Simply daydreaming, is all.” Helen opens her mouth to say something, but they’re both distracted by a gleaming black car that pulls up and rolls down its window. “Why, what pretty ladies! May I offer you two gals a ride home?” The well-dressed man leans over the passenger seat to wink at them and tip his hat through the open window. The older sister breathes in the welcome scent of a familiar cologne that would have identified the stranger immediately had her heart not already become weightless the moment she laid eyes on that face. “Ted!” Ruth exclaims, rushing forwards to embrace him as he steps out of his car and onto the sidewalk. “I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until Friday!” “Surprise,” Ruth’s husband says as he kisses her tenderly on the cheek in welcome. The three exchange more pleasantries before Eddie shows up to give Helen a ride home, and as Ruth sinks down into the plush seat of her husband’s car she turns her head to look at him. Bright eyes, wide nose, childish grin…They’ve come a long way since they met during the war, him especially. He was her patient, an experience from which he still bears a sizable scar. They had started dating while they were in the service together, and it was true love at first kiss. The war seems like another lifetime, Ruth muses as she admires his handsome features. Another lifetime they never talk about; she doubts they ever will. “So, my love, would you like to have dinner out on the town or at home?” Ted waggles his eyebrows, suggesting that he had already made plans for them, whether Ruth liked it or not. She massages her stomach, once again feeling her hunger pangs, and laughs. “I don’t care where we eat, just as long as it’s soon!” There’s a knocking someplace deep in the back of Ruth’s mind. At first she’s confused by it, wondering what on Earth it is and why it is and how come, but then she’s drawn to it, the world around her blurring and swirling together in a mass of color and light and she doesn’t want to leave, she’s happy there, Ted’s there, dear, sweet, darling Ted, can’t she stay for just a little while longer? Can’t she stay? But then she’s gone, and the aching returns to her bones. “Grandma?” a young blonde girl holding a lunch tray says inquisitively. “I knocked, but there was no answer.” Ruth smiles gently, both sadness and love in her eyes as she looks towards her granddaughter. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Once you get to 92, you can’t hear as well as you once used to. Put it on the table over there by my walker. I’ll get to it in a second.” As the girl moves towards the table Ruth notices that her tape playing Gone With the Wind is now presenting static on the television screen in front of her. “Thank you,” she says, reaching up to kiss the girl on the cheek. “I don’t know what made me build up such an appetite, but I’m very hungry.”

	Revell Contest Winner: Essay/Non-Fiction
	The Women of Renoir by Kelly McNeil Whether it’s voluptuous, curvy, well-rounded, or whatever politically correct term is being used today, I’m it. I’m not stick-thin, nor do I look good in skinny jeans, and for the longest time I was of the opinion that I was undeniably ugly. I crash dieted, ate and drank nothing but celery, apples, and water, but still I didn’t feel comfortable in my own body. Surrounded by high-fashion images of waif-like creatures with tall figures and delicate features, I was convinced that since I couldn’t look like them I could never be beautiful. It wasn’t until I discovered Pierre-Auguste Renoir that all of that began to change. Once I hit puberty I stopped growing upwards and started growing in other ways. Like most people at that age, I became undeniably awkward and confused about what was happening to me. I started getting strange things like hips and breasts while other girls around me remained skinny and small-chested. Since I was just on the very border of becoming a teenager, I didn’t particularly care a whole lot. People are different, I reasoned in all of my naïve, Disney-raised idealism. It doesn’t matter what you look like, all that counts is what’s on the inside. How wrong I was. Even though I exercised regularly and ate moderately well, I just couldn’t keep the weight off. The older I got, the more miserable I felt about it and the more people made fun of me. Going into high school I was shy, wore baggy clothes, and tried desperately to not call attention to myself. In 10th grade I “met” the woman that would change my life. For my birthday my mom got me tickets to a Renoir exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I loved Impressionism, but was too caught up in the waterlillies of Monet and the mountains of Cezanne to know much about Renoir past his landscapes and city scenes. But, as I rounded that fateful corner in the exhibit, it was Renoir that rocked my world to the core. Before me were paintings of women whose beauty I have yet to see the equal of in reality. Women bathing, women caring for their children, women talking and dancing with dashing men: women with rounded figures and hips and breasts and long flowing hair who glowed with an inner light of confidence. Physically, these women looked like me. Renoir painted them with gentle, smooth strokes, with warm light, and with something that I interpreted as loving reverence. Even better, people in the exhibit weren’t looking at them with repulsion. They looked, pointed to the women, talked about the paintings with others around them; they thought they were beautiful too. And as I looked at Renoir’s women before me, I began to cry. I know that I am not be everyone’s ideal of beauty. There may be people out there who think I am a fat, odd-looking midget. But I don’t care about them anymore. Seeing those Renoir paintings made me realize that beauty is relative and that if you have confidence in yourself and love yourself then you are beautiful no matter what. So what if the current fashions only work well on skinny people? I’ve always been more of a vintage girl anyways. Would I like a slice of cake? Sure, mom! Since I saw those paintings I’ve stopped caring what other people think about me, and I don’t like to limit myself based off of other people’s opinions. Because, in the long run, there are precious few whose opinions actually matter. And for me, those people have to be able to see the beauty in everything, just like I imagine Pierre-Auguste Renoir did.