WORD! Winter 2025 OMA Newsletter

Obscene and Unseen

By Mr. Hadley Stena Camilus

Associate Dean of Multicultural Affairs

The following is an essay from my personal memoir that I've been writing during my spare time. In it, I recount a racist experience from my youth. The preceding chapters aren't included, so important context is missing. This is one of the chapters that covers my experience in a program called SPES, which stands for Supplemental Program to Educational Skills. It also means "hope" in Latin. I participated in SPES from the fifth through twelfth grade, which was based out of Boston. This recollection is from when I was 11 years old.

I played a lot of basketball through SPES. The Program Director, a white man named John Riccibono, understood how to keep inner-city black kids interested in the program, and its different components, so he did what any conscientious person would do; he put what the targeted audience wanted at the forefront of everything. The reward for good behavior was basketball. In order to play basketball, we had to diligently practice our instrument. He was a talented and trained musician who played multiple instruments and provided lessons to students in the program. I started off playing the saxophone, but never grew comfortable with its weight, or identifying the right keys to play. After a few weeks, John gave me the trombone to try. It was a much better fit, and I was far more at ease with that, but I didn't love practicing. The allure of playing basketball after my lessons was the only reason I put forth any effort. The program was also heavy on academic enrichment. Even though many of the program participants were good students, like me, we didn't love doing homework. Basketball solved that. We could only play, if our assignments were completed. Basketball was the hook, and it worked.

John was a devout Catholic who poured himself into the program. He even took a vow of celibacy in his mid twenties and lived as a single man. With no wife or children at home, John had plenty of time to run the program. It was his life's work. As the Program and Band Director, he was deeply invested in the growth and well-being of every student. John's devotion to the program was reflected in the mileage he put on his car, driving upwards of ten of us home before and after the program on Tuesdays and Saturdays for years even though we were scattered across Boston. He was caring, kind, and smart. I learned about altruism through him and the program's many volunteers. Though he was a white guy from a small town in upstate New York, he easily connected with the students in the program, who were exclusively black. He was endeared by the students' families too, who were all Afro-Caribbean immigrants. My dad loved him, but mom thought it was weird that he was unwed and often praying with his rosary beads while waiting for me in the lobby of our building when he came to pick me up for the program.

John wasn't the sort who switched up to relate to anyone either. He was true to himself at all times. Other than when he played basketball with us, John always wore khakis, a white button-up oxford shirt, and worn down mahogany loafers. When the weather was warm, he just switched to khaki shorts and old boat shoes. Nobody would ever accuse John of having style. The man epitomized simplicity. This was reflected in his outlook on people and general awareness on how others experienced the world. I genuinely don't think he saw or thought about race, or racism. We were just people, not a bunch of black boys living in a world where we had already been racialized.

Knowing that it would be a harder sell to get us to come on Saturdays, John devised an intramural basketball league that ran every Saturday afternoon after band practice and tutoring. It was shrewd on his part. I rarely missed a Saturday session because of this league. If one of the volunteer tutors couldn't pick me up from home, I'd hop on a couple of buses and make the trek alone via public transit from Brighton, then later Brookline, to Dorchester because it offered an opportunity to play basketball competitively against my friends. The hour-long commute was always worth it, regardless of the weather. Every team had different color jerseys and numbers. Stats were kept and team records were posted at the end of every week. Given my fixation with tracking scoring, rebounding, and assist averages when I watched the NBA, I was all in with this league. I even devised game plans for the better opponents that I imposed on my teammates. We were self-guided teams without coaches, so I took it upon myself to get us right on the court and wasn't shy about berating a teammate who was slacking. Winning the league championship became a singular obsession. My maniacal intensity ultimately led to an intervention with John when my teammates complained to him about me privately. They didn't have the courage to tell me to relax directly. It came as a total shock that they weren't also losing sleep over these intramural games. I thought they were on my wavelength.

The league was called the SPES Basketball Association, or SBA. In my first season, I won Rookie of the Year at the award ceremony to end the school year. I recall the joy of receiving that award. Walking to the front of the auditorium from the back of the room where I was seated with friends at a long banquet table, my face grew numb with excitement as I attempted to play it cool while John beamed as he held the trophy, waiting for me to retrieve it from him. It was a crowning achievement. I was even overdressed for the occasion, donning a snug pair of slacks, a button-up shirt with a tie, and shiny black shoes. It's not what I wanted to wear by any means. True to his Haitian roots, Dad demanded that I look the part for a banquet even though a pair of khakis and a polo would've sufficed. Among Haitians in my community, namely the old school elders like dad, it wasn’t an option to show up in comfortable, casual attire for a banquet or party. Uncomfortable clothing aside, I was anxious about the award ceremony. My eye had been on that prize the entire season. The Rookie of the Year trophy still rests on my home office desk over thirty years later. The following year, I won the award for "Assist Leader" which was also a great honor since one of the players I modeled my game after was Los Angeles Lakers star point guard, Earvin "Magic" Johnson, who retired several months after I started watching basketball due to an unexpected HIV positive diagnosis before the 1991 season. Though I wouldn't get to see Magic play again until he returned to the NBA for two-thirds of the 1995 season, I had seen plenty of him on VHS tapes highlighting his orchestration of the Lakers fastbreak during their "Showtime" era. No other point guard played the game like he did with his amazing array of passes. I'm surprised I never got whiplash from all the unnecessary no-look passes I tossed to teammates as I mimicked Magic's signature wizardry on the court.

In addition to the intramural league, SPES also participated in the Catholic Youth Organization (CYO) basketball league. A bunch of parishes in the Catholic Church coalesced to form this league. It was a rather vast network in the Boston area that included several teams in the archdiocese. The games were played over the course of several months from the late fall through winter months, just like the leagues that ran in schools. As a result of its affiliation with St. Matthew's School, SPES was allowed to partake in this league. That year, I played in the SBA, SPES’ CYO squad, and my middle school team. If I wasn't at school, or home, I was playing basketball on a team or at a park. The games rarely conflicted and I had no problem hooping for hours. I was living my best life until reality struck.

SPES didn't have its own facility, so we were often practicing in different gyms. One day, John took us to South Boston, an area that was exclusively inhabited by white folks, to play ball, but the gym was closed when we arrived. I was familiar with most neighborhoods in Boston from getting around the city with mom, or alone, on public transportation and accompanying dad on car rides. South Boston was an area we didn't frequent. It was a section of Boston where mostly Irish folks lived. I understood why my parents steered clear of “Southie” when my SPES team ventured out that way to play ball one day. As we waited outside to enter the facility, a bus full of white kids started pelting us with eggs while they yelled at us to "get outta here." All we could do was duck for cover and oblige. I was shaken, as were my teammates. We were just there to play basketball, nothing more. In hindsight, the whole thing seems to have been coordinated since kids don't generally board school buses with eggs. That day, John should have learned that some people regarded race in a way that he didn’t, and reacted poorly to having unfamiliar people in their community. The message didn’t register, however.

Months later we traveled to that area again to play a game against a team that was based out of Gate of Heaven church. I was on edge from the outset because of what happened the last time we were in town, but played through my nerves. Cancelling the game, or moving the location wasn’t offered as an option. It didn’t even cross my mind. I saw the game on our schedule and went with the flow like everybody else on the team. We were a good team, and up to the task that day so we came out ready to compete. As the game progressed, our opponent and their parents didn't take kindly to us beating them, however. Things spiraled out of control faster than I would have ever imagined near the end of the game. During a timeout, one of my teammates told John, who was coaching us, that a parent called him a n***er while he was standing along the sideline, close to the bleachers that abutted the court. John exhorted him and the rest of us to play through the nonsense and rise above their antagonism. We finished strong and won the game despite the jeers, but there was no time to celebrate, or even change out of our uniforms. We quickly grabbed our belongings to walk out into the frigid winter weather that awaited us outside. A mob of angry adults lined the exit and shouted at us. I still remember a visibly angry woman looking at us, yelling, "get outta here, ni****s!" My heart pounded vigorously as our team made its way outside.

I vaguely remember being escorted out of the facility by an official, but I distinctly remember the feeling of utter hatred emanating from these total strangers. We walked back to our van briskly and boarded it without saying a word to the hecklers. It was clear that the slightest response could escalate matters significantly. We moved as if we were desegregating a lunch counter in the deep south. John got us out of there fast once we were all accounted for in the van. I was in a trance. Earlier in the day, I was so excited to play another game with my team, yet here we were scurrying off the court because we had the audacity to venture into this neighborhood and win a game, a youth basketball game at that. The van ride back to our predominantly black neighborhood was comforting, yet sobering. One of the guys tried to ease the tension by joking about the ridiculousness of the ordeal. A handful of them laughed, but most of us sat quietly. I was in and out of the exchanges, sometimes following along or just staring out the window. Another player remarked that the taunting began early in the game from one of the Gate of Heaven players who called him a monkey. He responded by landing a stiff forearm to the dude's chest, which I recalled. I just didn't know what precipitated it at the time. Trash talking was a customary part of the game, but being called a monkey crossed the line.

I was usually the last to be dropped off since I lived further out than the others. John and I rode mostly in silence. That was different. When he reached my apartment building, he told me that I played a good game. Nothing out of the ordinary. I thanked John for the ride and stepped out of the car. Also customary. I rang the bell then waived to him when the buzzer sounded to signal that the door had unlocked. That was standard. I entered into the apartment, or rather, our dining room which was on the other side of the door. Our two-bedroom apartment didn't offer a ton of space. Dad sat at the table with a newspaper in hand per usual waiting for me to get home while mom slept in their bedroom after a long day of work, likely from a sixteen-hour shift. Also, normal. I greeted dad as I had been taught to do from an early age, pressing my left cheek to his right one then repeating the action on the other side of his face. We never shook hands. He always followed this preferred greeting by asking if I did my homework. Dad only inquired about school, nothing else. Basketball and band were just hobbies. Because of that, I never told him or mom what happened that night, nor were they ever notified by John. Dad's questions about homework tended to be general, so I had wiggle room to bend the truth. If it was late in the evening, I told him that I didn’t have a lot of homework instead of saying I hadn’t done it yet. On those days, I planned to just wake up early in the morning to rush through it. I disappeared into my room, which was right next to theirs that I shared with my older brother, Reggie, to watch tv. He wasn't home yet, which was usually the case. His "teen talk" program tended to end late. This was the evening ritual when I returned home from games on weeknights. I changed into my pajamas and watched tv until I fell asleep.

By the time the team came together again to practice a week later, our experience at Gate of Heaven was a mere specter, never to be discussed again until decades later when some of us reconnected on Facebook. We all recalled that event and its aftermath the same. Racist slurs. Angry adults. Chaos. A long ride home, and no apology or acknowledgement.

Ringing in the Year of the Snake

By Ms. Kerrie Tinsley

Asian Students Coordinator

Lunar New Year is one of my favorite times of the year—it’s a moment to pause, reflect, and connect with the traditions that make the holiday special. It is important to note that “Lunar New Year” is a broad term used across many East and Southeast Asian countries for the holidays that mark the beginning of the lunar new year. In South Korea, Seollal is celebrated, while in Vietnam, Tết is celebrated. On campus, our celebration brings together students, families, faculty, and staff to honor a variety of cultural practices.

For many of our students, Lunar New Year is a time to reconnect with their families and participate in the customs that help shape their identities. For those far from home, my hope is that this celebration offers a small reminder of home, helping them feel closer to their families despite the distance. For those who are unfamiliar with the holiday, it’s also a chance to explore something new. This year’s celebration once again highlighted Exeter’s commitment to inclusivity, with the hope that students who celebrate Lunar New Year felt seen and supported.

There was a lot of work behind the scenes to make the event happen. Planning included everything from selecting and finalizing the menu to designing gold coins, stuffing red envelopes, and creating posters. One of the highlights of the preparation was the dumpling-making event organized by Dining Services. A group of parents came to campus a few weeks before the celebration to teach students and faculty how to make dumplings. It was a fun, hands-on experience that felt like a natural way to build community. The dumplings were frozen and served at the dinner, adding an extra personal touch.

As the big day approached, I couldn’t help but look forward to everything coming together. There’s something exciting about walking into the dining halls, festively decorated, that feels energizing. The food, the decorations, and the overall vibe make the dining halls feel full of life. I especially enjoy watching people’s reactions when they see the food and snacks as the dinner service begins.

Dining Services played an essential role in bringing the celebration to life. Their involvement went beyond just preparing the meal; they thoughtfully curated a menu that reflected the cultural significance of the holiday while considering the diverse backgrounds of the students. Many students told me that the dinner was their favorite meal of the year. From the dinner options to the atmosphere they helped create, Dining’s contribution was a key part of the night’s success.

This year, we decided to make a small adjustment to the dinner menu. While Seollal usually includes tteokguk (rice cake soup), this year we decided to swap it for tteokbokki (spicy rice cakes). It was a small change, but one that brought a fresh twist to the celebration. Students really seemed to enjoy it, and it felt like a good way to incorporate something new, while still giving a nod to tradition.

The celebration also felt richer thanks to the continued involvement of families. The Korean Parents Association, for example, donated freshly made tteok (rice cakes), adding a personal and meaningful touch to the event. Families also sent in videos wishing their students a Happy New Year, which we shared during the dinner. It was touching to hear the messages, a reminder to students of those who are thinking of them when they’re far from home. The snacks—always a highlight—were generously donated by families, who, once again, sent hundreds of pounds of

treats to share during the dinner. For many students, these snacks were a taste of home, offering comfort in a way that food can. For others, the treats offered an opportunity to try different flavors and discover something new about another culture.

Lunar New Year isn’t just about ringing in a new year—it’s a chance to honor the traditions that shape the experiences of many of our students. For those far from home, it’s a reminder that their culture is valued here, and that their traditions are an important part of what makes our community unique. This year’s celebration was another meaningful reminder of the importance of community and support, at a time when students might feel especially far from their families. With the help of Dining Services, families, and everyone who contributed, this year’s celebration was a success, and one I am already looking forward to next year.

Soul Skate

By Daniel Connelly '25

OMA Proctor

There's nothing that screams Winter Term at Exeter like a skate night in the hockey rinks. I keenly remember having a blast with my friends at an OMA hosted LGBTQ+ themed skate night as a prep, so I was so glad to hear that this term OMA, in collaboration with the Student Activities Office, was going to put a Black History Month spin on the night with a 90s themed R&B and rap music DJ, and delicious Jamaican patties, piping hot Haitian hot chocolate, and cupcakes. The event was a brainchild of Dean Hernandez and Dean Camilus, who then shopped it with the recently formed Black Advisory Group (BAG), which invites black students from every class year to share their thoughts and insights with Dean Camilus about campus life and ideas for programming. They cosigned the event enthusiastically.

On the night of the event my friends and I suited up for the cold, and headed over to rink A. On the way in, we were exuberantly greeted by Dean Camilus who let us know where the food and drinks were, and where to get our rental skates. With the help of some experienced hockey player friends (Shout out to Layla Whitaker '26), we got the right sized skates and got them tied nice and tight. At first, I was terrified to get on the ice, as I have terrible balance and have never ice skated before. Thankfully, I was not alone, and my friends and I were soon stumbling around the rink along with all the other attendees to the beat of Lauryn Hill and other 90s artists.

We ended up staying for nearly the entire event. Periodically, we'd take a break from the action and watch other students try to get a hang of ice skating, oftentimes unsuccessfully. As a senior, I really appreciated the amount of lower classmen attending the event because events like these are so important for creating culture and community on campus. This benefits nobody more than preps and lowers, so I left the night upbeat about the future of our school. Soul Skate was a fun, inventive, and successful way to kick off Black History Month which leaves me looking forward to future OMA-hosted events for the rest of the school year.

MLK Day Workshop Reflection: Recipes for Resistance

By Collin Moore '26

OMA Proctor

During MLK Day, I had the opportunity to partake in a workshop that was facilitated by Dr. (Courtney) Marshall titled “Recipes for Resistance: Food and the Montgomery Bus Boycott.” In this workshop, my peers and I learned about the Civil Right Movement and how participants used sweet potato hand pies to fund their push against Montgomery’s transportation system. As a group, we used an authentic Southern recipe to recreate our lesson, making sweet potato pies.

The Montgomery Bus Boycott was a 13-month movement that didn’t only happen due to the arrest of Rosa Parks. It was also the result of a decades long struggle for equality in the transportation sector. The result of this sustained and organized boycott was a Supreme Court ruling in 1956 which declared Montgomery’s bus segregation laws unconstitutional. Martin Luther King was a prominent leader of the boycott, bringing him to the forefront of the Civil Rights Movement.

The significance of the workshop was that it taught me how people brought their home life to the fight for civil rights. The workshop was full of curious minds who questioned Dr. Marshall and Dr. Samuels about black food traditions that went deeper than the bus boycott. With the 75 minutes we had with each other, we learned about Dr. King’s legacy in leading the Montgomery Bus Boycott while being in community and baking together. The workshop in itself represented a lot of what Dr. King fought for: people of all different backgrounds and identities coming together to learn, to love, and to listen.

A Taste of the World

By Anushka Noori '26

OMA Proctor

With teas from around the world, student performances, henna, craft-making, and a chocolate fondue fountain, this year’s International Tea was one to remember. On February 22nd, the International Student Association (ISA) invited the Phillips Exeter Academy (PEA) community to try a curated selection of loose-leaf teas. The lineup featured Sweet Orange Black Tea, Blue Flower Earl Grey, and Jasmine Da Zhang Organic, among others. Each tea offered a unique flavor profile and was accompanied by a sign detailing its origins, along with instructions on how to brew loose-leaf tea. Mrs. Smith, adviser to ISA, noted that she “selected teas based on previous years for popularity… but also for country [or] continent of origin, type of tea… [and] allergens or caffeine levels.”

Upon arrival, participants received an International Tea Passport to collect stamps from each activity table they visited and answer trivia questions. Attendees who submitted a completed passport at the end of the evening were entered into a raffle to win a prize. Throughout the night, students played board games, decorated masks, created origami, learned how to read their tea leaves, and had their hands dyed with henna. Others gathered inside Grainger Auditorium with friends, enjoying student performances and ballroom dancing instruction. The evening culminated in music and dancing.

Mrs. Smith shared that she hoped attendees gained a deeper appreciation for “the importance of tea around the world… There is an importance of ritual and tradition around tea in many cultures around the entire world… We have all the leftover tea and bags here in OMA, as well as an electric kettle—so anyone is welcome to come in and brew a cup of tea anytime!”

Whether a devoted tea enthusiast or curious attendee, International Tea had something to offer for everyone. (Hi Anushka! Nice job. Please take it a step further and add a few sentences about what this event means to you, and what you learn from it, if anything. Thank you.)

P.S. How many trivia questions could you answer?

Where did Henna originate?

What is the significance of tea?

Name a board game from China.

What did your tea leaves tell you?

A Series of Unfortunate Events and Our Failing Foster Care System: Imagining Hopeful Futures from Childhood Literature

By Erin Chen '25

OMA Proctor

During my parents’ custody battle, I went through the foster care system for a few years as a toddler, along with my two siblings above me closest in age. Although I have six siblings in total, we were torn into different cohorts to make us more palatable for foster parents to select. Although I remember little from this traumatic time, it changed the trajectory of my life, especially for my older siblings as our close-knit family was torn apart by government systems. Although people say you can learn something from every negative event in life, the foster care experience can often be one of those that leave a lasting burden rather than a learning opportunity.

Yet, learning to live with this past and growing from it was something I had to do, and I was empowered to change the trajectory of my life when I read Lemony Snicket’s book series, “A Series of Unfortunate Events." It follows the tragic lives of the three recently orphaned Baudelaire siblings: Violet, Klaus, and Sunny. The 13 book premise follows the kids’ journey through different flawed “homes,” or living spaces, while Count Olaf chases them down for their deceased parents’ fortune. They live with their Uncle Monty who fails to protect them, in a village cult that forces them into child labor, and as submarine crewmates with dangerous tasks. Some of the guardians they encounter have ulterior motives, while some want the best for them but fail to prioritize them over other aspects of their life.

My experience with foster care wasn’t as dramatic in this aspect, but as my siblings went from home to home and even through the care of a church, we were neglected, treated with disdain, or mistakenly mistreated by guardians with different priorities such as money or religious beliefs. Mr. Poe, who acts as the Baudelaire’s social worker forwarding them to different homes, also fails in this regard. In many of the social workers we passed under, I see Mr. Poe, a well-meaning man who sadly neglects what the children have to say if it doesn’t align with his own view of how society should function.

During our foster care stint, my older siblings, Jon and Emily, acted for me like Klaus and Violet did for their baby sister Sunny, protecting me from harmful parents, even when it put them in serious danger. Reading about the three Baudelaire’s unconventional childhood where they took initiative for themselves and each other was the representation I needed at a young age to become the empowered individual I am today. The story’s academic and educational tone inspired me to pursue education as a tool for perseverance. The story is a strong narrative of siblinghood and perseverance and I strongly recommend it to empower kids today regardless of their background.