Wayne High School - Sentry Yearbook (Fort Wayne, IN)

Page 11 text:

we cannot refuse to play anymore than we can refuse to breathe. I ' ve worn the masks and played the roles, taunted by the success of others. I ' ve held masks close when I thought I would suffocate, and I ' ve worn masks ill-fitting but pleas- ing to the eye. I do it, I do it, but not much longer in this theatre. Time is a vic- tor, and to go against it means death and stagnation. I will go on playing but on another stage. I have let the curtain fall, I have let it fall and close behind me. I swear I ' ll not lift it again. — Peri Gruber.

Page 10 text:

a m lu U 0 I will let the curtain fall, I will let it fall and close behind me. Act I has been fin- ished these thirteen years passed, but Act II is not yet closed. It ' s final lines, its ending rhymes, have yet to be written. I have jousted with the others for center stage, stomping and shouting, our pitiful voices amplified and projected through our masks. We prize our masks — well crafted, polished, easily twiched off and replaced with another. Our masks are our servants and yet our masters. We praise ourselves for a role well played, a scene well-turned, and the ease with which we move on to the next character and the next mask. Yet we do not see that each mask we wear leaves its mark when discarded — in the faces of those play- ing opposite us. It appears as a wrinkle of remembrance, a small sign that says, I remember you as you were. Can you prove you are not that now? In playing a role well we type ourselves, bind and lash ourselves forever into that stamp. So we will always appear to the audience of our fellow players. The stage makes actors of us all and

Page 12 text:

Glory be to the mask! My protection! My salvation! The source of my person! The fountain of my soul! Amen, The fates of Prometheus and Sisyphus remind me that none save Zeus is free, and I must wear the mask to shield me from His awesome wrath lest I stray from his way onto a path of my own. I must hide from the ubiquitous eyes which seek to know in what direction I travel. Such was the credo of my life. The facial cloak that I wore was given to me early in life. It was pale and lacking in identity. Mine was the responsibility of painting the mask according to the urg- ing of those who pressed around me. I rejected the screen at first but finally acquiesed because everyone else had one, and they all knew the requirements of living under the terrible judgment of the Great Hurler of Thunderbolts. The first shaping of my personality came when I knew deep personal loss. I pulled down the mask to wipe the tears from my eyes, but the chorus around me chanted the wisdom of the Master, Big boys don ' t cry. I quickly took up my brush and oils and painted broadly and heavily over my life ' s shield to show the world that I was strong and brave. Now, I would surely never be pulled down by any predators of the human spirit for showing the least sign of weakness. As I grew older, I began to wonder about Zeus and how he came to have all of His power, so I took off my mask again to ask, Why? The chorus intoned sternly, Because we said so! The response was so frigntening that I care- fully smoothed over every questioning wrinkle in the pigment of my brow lest I be caught again in the dreadful heresy of challenging the will of Zeus. My introduction to manhood brought me into contact with many different peo- ple; but when I moved too closely toward some who were not members of my group, the chorus warned, But they are M •■p